Heartless (43 page)

“Of course,” mocked Derringer. He would kill him. If he dared to lay a hand on Leandra, he’d torture him first. “What sort of entertainment do you want? I’d be happy to beat you to a pulp. I don’t suppose you’d volunteer?”

Martin’s thin smile was devoid of any real mirth. “D’Arcy will have that pleasure, cousin.”

“I would be pleased to render the English duke—dead, I think.”

Derringer glanced toward the door, his expression shuttering. “D’Arcy. As usual, it is not a pleasure to see you. It will be, however, a pleasure to best you yet again.” The confidence in his tone rang out clearly and he saw the wiry Frenchman’s face darken with anger.

“I will see you dead this night, Heartless,” he bit out.

“Then I will see you in hell!”

D’Arcy turned and stalked out.

“I fear you have made him angry,” remarked Martin as he cast a bored expression at the closed door. “You will probably die now, Hart.”

“Indeed? You’re all attics to let.” He smirked. “I have bested that slimy frog before. I’ll do so again.”

Martin turned from the door, facing the duke once again. “I shall enjoy watching you die, cousin,” he said in a soft, reassuring tone. Then he walked out as well.

Derringer leaned back in the bunk, weary and afraid he just might die in the coming confrontation. D’Arcy lacked Derringer’s height and breadth but the Frenchman more than made up for that with his speed and willingness to use whatever dishonorable tactics were at his disposal. Derringer also knew in his own weakened state, he really didn’t stand much of a chance.

Closing his eyes, he settled his mind into what he was about to do, determined to come out of it alive. He knew, deep down, that Martin could never allow him to survive, but his only chance of escape would come when he was actually loosed from his bonds.

And so, for the first time in decades, the Duke of Derringer prayed.

Martin paid a visit to the duke again that night. The man stood just beyond Derringer’s reach. Another man stood in the shadows, his features hidden but his size declaring his identity. The man was too broad, too tall, and too quiet to be anyone other than Tiny Boy, a man Derringer often hired to act as protection. A man whose services could be bought, who would do what was asked of him if the price was right.

Who hired him and why? What did they want him to do?

A groan rose in the duke’s throat. If he was expected to fight Tiny, he’d lose. Years ago Derringer and Tiny met, Tiny having been hired to kill Derringer. And Derringer barely survived that encounter. Now, in his weakened physical state, it was unlikely he’d survive, or even last very long.

On the other hand, perhaps Tiny’s loyalty to Derringer would supersede whatever amount Martin paid him. One could hope.

Regardless, Derringer could make no assumptions. So he watched. He watched Martin and he watched Tiny.

He still had a part to play and never one to pass up an opportunity to vex an enemy, Derringer smiled, a patronizing smirk that brought a scowl fluttering over Martin’s pale face. He pushed himself up to sit, cursing how slow he was to do so, then pushed himself to his feet, no easy feat with his hands tied behind his back.

“What do you want, cousin?” Derringer asked.

Martin St. Clair studied the duke for a long moment, pale blue eyes skimming over Derringer’s tall, emaciated form. Then he smiled. “You really should be thanking me, you know,” he finally uttered.

Derringer’s face went as blank as a slate wiped clean. “Why?”

“Well, you should be thanking my father,” Martin clarified. “It was he who made you duke.”

His expression still revealing nothing, Derringer replied, “Indeed?” in an attempt to draw his cousin out on the subject. Although, he really didn’t care what the man said. Derringer intended to kill him anyway.

“Yes, it was my father who damaged your father’s boat.” Pride crossed Martin’s features, further supporting Derringer’s doubts as to the man’s sanity.

“I would ask why he would do such a thing, but I realize he wanted to be duke, so I will refrain.” Derringer smiled grimly. “That would also explain why I’ve been fighting for my life since I was seven.”

Martin took a step closer and the duke saw Tiny move behind the blond man. Interesting. What was Tiny’s plan?

“Do you want to know another secret, Hart?” taunted Martin. “Your wife thinks you’re dead.”

“Is that supposed to surprise me? Or anger me?”

Martin lurched back. “You truly are heartless, cousin, if you care so little for the misery of your bride.”

“She’s a wife, Martin. Where I got her, there are a dozen more. Did you think I would get attached?”

“Only so much as you consider her your property,” Martin smirked, leaning in again, allowing Derringer to feel his breath fan his cheek. “How will you feel, Hart, when I peel her gown from her breasts? When I expose her white thighs, sink myself—”

Derringer’s head slammed forward, cracking into Martin’s. They both stumbled back, the duke falling on the bunk while Martin landed on his backside at Tiny’s feet. Derringer shook the dizziness away, his hair flopping over his eyes. He didn’t see what happened next, but he heard it.

The sound of flesh striking flesh, a grunt, and silence.

Whipping his hair back, Derringer struggled to sit up, flailing about like a landed fish. He managed to uncover one eye, enough to see Tiny standing over Martin.

Blood pooled under Martin’s head. A lot of blood. His cousin’s eyes were open, staring at nothing.

Derringer’s eyes met Tiny’s. “You killed him.”

“He needed to die,” the other man answered, his voice oddly high for one so large.

“But I wanted to kill him. It was my right,” Derringer complained, his vision swimming, his voice coming out like a plaintive child.

Tiny grunted, shoving Martin’s body from his path in the small cabin. “If you want to whine, Heartless, do it at a later time. Now we leave.” He strode forward as he talked, extracting a knife and making short work of the rope binding the duke’s wrists.

Derringer flexed his fingers and shook his head. Black rimmed his vision, dizziness threatening to send him sprawling. “I don’t whine.” He raised his hands, gazing at the burns and scrapes marring his wrists. “Bloody hell, that stings!”

“Whiner.”

“What are you doing here?” Derringer asked, ignoring the insult that would have gotten many a man injured, if not killed. “How did you know? How did you get on board?”

“Why are they keeping you on your own yacht, with your own captain?” Tiny countered, stooping next to Martin’s body. “Rather short-sighted of them, is it not?” He rifled through the dead man’s pockets.

Derringer stopped stretching his cramped muscles, eyes glued to Tiny. “What in hell are you doing now?”

“Taking his money.”

“You have no need of money.”

“He hired me to kill you. Well, D’Arcy did but I don’t see him honoring that agreement.” He glanced up. “Do you?”

The duke shrugged. “Not bloody likely. Take what you will, then. I care not.” He gazed about, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. “D’Arcy hired you to kill me? When?”

“Months ago. I think this one” —gesturing to Martin’s body— “told him to hire someone. They were together often and I laid low when this one was about. Couldn’t take the chance he’s seen me before.” He stood, shoving a bulging purse into his pocket. He held out his closed fist.

“What is it?” The duke accepted the object. It weighed little, though it was large, like most objects of its like. “My ring. Not sure I want it back,” he muttered, staring down at the signet ring, contempt curling his lip.  

He strode to the door, barely noticing the uneven movement of the floor. He did, however, adhere to the dizziness, putting out a hand. Tiny took his arm and kept him upright.

“What news from home?” Derringer asked before his companion could open the door.

“Your wife is pregnant,” Tiny informed him, “if the rumor mill is to be believed.” He paused, a funny, crooked grin curving his lips. “Congratulations, Heartless.”

The duke stared. “Merri’s pregnant?”

32

“Gerard, my most faithful! You have brought the prisoner to me.”

Derringer glanced at Tiny, stifling the smirk that threatened. Tiny shrugged, the motion jarring Derringer and reminding him of his weakened state. He stumbled, drawing a laugh from Fraser D’Arcy.

Derringer focused his eyes on the man, willing himself to stand on his own. His black eyes narrowed. D’Arcy was stripped to the waist, flexing his upper body in anticipation.

The duke looked over the man’s sinewy torso and prayed he would be able to last long enough to give Tiny the opportunity to take care of the other men on deck. He had no hope of besting the man in the weakened state he currently suffered.

Captain Taverner stood off to one side, a blank expression on his face. Several sailors were laying bets. Derringer was relieved to note they were not any of his men. Martin and D’Arcy must have hired their own crew. What had become of his own men? Had they suffered the same fate as Gabriel? How had they gotten Captain Taverner over to their side?

Tiny let him stand and Derringer flexed his shoulders. He needed to focus, ready himself for the extreme pain he was about to experience. He met Tiny’s eye and the man nodded imperceptibly. All was set then.

Derringer turned his black gaze on his opponent, stripping off his tattered black shirt. The light was fading fast and a chill wind kicked up from the north giving him goose flesh. The loss of weight made his ribs stand out, giving him the look of a weak, enfeebled vagrant—a misleading image to anyone who didn’t know him. Cuts and welts crisscrossed his torso, front and back, some of them seeping blood as he moved.