My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter 24

Anne’s muscles ached, her face was swollen, and she had scrapes and bruises along her thighs and forearms. She bit down on her raw and bloodied lip, sure it still bled from the constant pressure she placed on it with her teeth while trying not to cry out. Her captor had slapped her hard a number of times.

From the moment, he’d returned on that first evening, Jericho Dobison had advanced on her, towered over her, and attempted to frighten her. The first time, he’d merely kicked her in the side while she sat upon the chair in the small cabin.

While she refused to be cowered by his tactics, his kick, and the following slap to the side of her cheek had hurt nonetheless. The lack of emotion on her face, and no display of fear angered him. She spat on the floor at his feet and called him every foul name she had in her colorful arsenal.

Jericho chewed on a large wad of tobacco, spat in a cylindrical copper pot near the table, and smiled in such a way Anne’s stomach roiled and sickened. He turned to a chest near the far wall, retrieved a hammock from inside, and threw it at her, growling at her to figure out where it went if she wanted to sleep.

He’d shucked his boots, breeches, and shirt right before her eyes, and then plopped onto the mattress upon the floor. Knowing he eyed her from the bed, she’d ignored the hammock and sat awake in the chair until she could hear his even breathing while he slept.

Only then did she allow herself to sleep fitfully, her head resting upon the table before her. When next she woke, Jericho had already left the cabin. She took the time to hang the hammock by the nails that had been placed in one corner of the cabin just for that purpose. Perhaps the bos’n used the contraption.

A lad entered the cabin twice a day to provide her sustenance. Although typical bland fodder for a sailing vessel, she’d wolfed down the stale bread and some type of meat stew each time. She’d not missed the meals on a ship. But, she knew her body would need all the strength she could provide to survive until arriving in Port Royal. Jericho’s greasy smile warned her the voyage would be long and not to her liking.

His second attack on the next evening nearly used up all the energy she’d accumulated during the day. He’d talked of her ‘whelps’ and how they’d never survive because they had the blood of Jack Rackham, and they were weak like the mother.

She’d spat every despicable name in his direction. But, this time, instead of smiling, he’d come forward and yanked her from the chair. Anne kicked at him with her boots, but he’d merely laughed at her attempts and pulled her roughly against him. He’d pressed his cold lips against hers. She’d been able to keep her mouth pinned firmly closed as he licked at her lips, the wetness of his tongue and the bitter smell of the tobacco making her gag. Jericho had fondled her breasts through her gown until she’d scratched the tops of his hands, drawing blood.

Growling, he’d backhanded her, landing her on the floor. Jericho threatened her, then stripped down and fell into bed. She’d sat in the chair awake all night, thinking of her children, Addison, and even Raphael and the slaves she’d met to keep her spirits high. By the time he rose in the morning and left the cabin, she was dead on her feet. Then, she’d dragged herself into the hammock and allowed herself sleep.

Each night the attacks became more forceful and violent. Her breasts, upper arms, and thighs were purple with bruises. She knew her face must look as terrible as the rest of her body, swollen and bruised.

Anne did not know if she could fight for another week. Being at sea for so long, she knew the routes and how long the voyages generally lasted. She’d been on the
Swallow
going on fifteen days if she’d counted correctly. They would be at sea at least another seven or eight days until they reached Jamaica.

Jericho had weakened her enough the previous evening, and had been able to hold her down while he pushed down her gown and slobbered upon her breast. He’d held her hands in one fist, and sat upon her legs. He’d then released the part of him she’d vowed would never touch her. Dobison had then forced one of his legs between hers, threw up her skirts, and tried to force his way into her. Panicking, and with some otherworldly bout of strength she’d gathered in that moment, she was able to twist her hips, dislodge his lower body before his flesh touched her, then kneed him in the groin.

Despair rose high in her chest and hope dwindled. At times she wondered why she fought so hard to keep him from her, other than the obvious; that he was vile, he was the last creature on earth she’d allow to touch her willingly. She’d resigned herself to a life behind bars once she’d set foot on the vessel, but she would keep her dignity as long as her tired body would hold out.

She sat now, eating stale bread and stew from the lad with the sorrowful eyes. He’d even brought her fresh cloths and water to dab at her open wounds. Just when she was about to clean up, Jericho burst into the cabin. He scanned the room until his glittering, sapphire eyes found her.

She continued to chew on her bread, determined to keep the fear from showing on her face. She stared down at the wooden bowl instead of lifting her eyes to where he stood at the door. She was bone-tired and she’d be damned if she’d give him the attention he craved. The cabin door slammed, and she sensed his arrogant stroll into the room. He sucked air through the gaps in his teeth, a now-familiar noise, as if to clear food from between them.

“No excitement to see me, wench? I fear you’re becoming bored.”

Ignoring him, she took another bite of the bread.

“You’re much too feisty, even after our little . . . play matches.” His boots clopped across the wooden floor as he moved closer. “I find it quite stimulating, the fight. You’re quite strong for a woman. Quite unwilling, however, which I find surprising. I know you’re not a virtuous woman. I’ve heard all the stories.”

His long, tanned fingers caressed her bare shoulder, the dress having been torn on one of his many attacks on her. Bile rose in her throat.

She shook his hand off.

A biting grip squeezed the back of her neck.

“You’ll accept me, wench.”

“Unhand me, coward.” Pain seared into her skin and she grit her teeth to keep from crying out.

He squeezed harder, his fingers biting into her flesh.

“Come on, Anne, we both know you have serviced every sailor you’ve ever sailed with. What has changed?”

Bits of black dots danced before her eyes the tighter his grip became.

“No matter, you
will
feel my rod buried deep inside you. I hear there’s treasure in that red bush.” He chuckled as he shoved her forward, releasing her neck.

Blinking back tears, she clenched her teeth. “Never. You’ll never touch me again.” She meant it. She’d rather throw herself from the ship than suffer any more of his treatment. “If you were a true man—which we know you are not—you’d give me a cutlass and fight me like a man.”

She lifted her chin, glaring at him and allowing all the hatred she felt pour out through her eyes.

The smile that pulled his lips apart bore his contempt for her as a female, the strings of tobacco and tobacco juice stained his teeth, reminding her of a vulture just about to enjoy the spoils of the kill.

“A cutlass? A duel is what you’re after, then?” A long finger tapped his chin where it dripped with tobacco spittle. “Aye. What a grand idea. You’ve given me hope, Anne. Real hope.”

Her gaze followed his hand as it rubbed the protrusion in his breeches. Acid churned in her belly, but she wouldn’t let him see the sudden fear building in her.

“Don’t tell me you think that thing is adequate for a duel?” She forced a laugh. “If that is your determinant for a true man, you are surely lacking.”

The anger that erupted from him should not have surprised her, but she gasped as he jerked her up from the table by her arm. It felt as if the arm bone had been pulled from its socket. Froth appeared in the corners of his mouth as he pulled her to him.

Punching him in the shoulder with her free hand, she tried to stop his momentum by stiffening her legs. He dug into her arm, dragging her along by tangling his other hand in the hair at the nape of her neck.

She screeched at the top of her lungs, “Release me!”

He yanked her to the door, ripping bits of her hair out by the roots.

“Oh, aye, I’ll release you once we’re up on deck. You’re going to learn a few lessons about fighting men, wench. And then we’ll see how well you duel with my prick.”

She fought and kicked, but her body had been beaten down over the past days. The strength in her legs had diminished.

The bright light of the fading sun burned her eyes as they burst through the doors leading to the deck. Panting, still clutching his hand where it fisted in her hair, she cursed him and anyone else within shouting distance in both English and her native Irish tongue.

“Oliver. Creech. Come here!” He yelled into the air, drowning out the curses she spewed in every direction.

“Aye, cap’n.”

“Yes, sir.”

The voices boomed from the front of the ship. Boots tramped on the deck, becoming louder and louder as they neared them.

Jericho threw her down at his feet, releasing her hair. She spat on his boots.

“Have a look at Oliver and Creech here, wench.”

He squeezed her chin in a vice-like grip, forcing her to look at the crewmen he’d ordered about. Anne’s fear returned. The two men standing above her might well give Raphael a good go-around, so large were they.

Oliver and Creech, she knew not which was which, were no doubt as tall as her bodyguard, and just as stout, burly, and sturdy. One man’s bald head shone with the light from the sun, while the other’s was black as a crow’s feather, and cropped above his ears. Both were tanned and weathered by the sun, and had hairy, meaty forearms, and long, powerful legs.

Should those two hold her down, she’d have no ability to stop anyone from raping her.

“I see you understand. These two,” he pointed at their chests, “will have you ready for me in no time.”

Anne’s heart thumped against her breast and a cavern opened in the bottom of her stomach. She just might vomit.

Jericho’s lips spread wide with his greasy smile. “Mates, I’m going to give Anne here a cutlass—”

“But, she’s a—” one man began in disbelief.

“—and Oliver, you will be first. She’s wantin’ a fight, and we’re going to give it to her. When you disarm her, I want you to do whatever is necessary, and then you can take her. Right here on the deck.”

Anne swallowed the knot in her throat. She’d fought men for the past three years, and some as big as the bald one now grinning, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. The element of surprise and quickness aided her before. She had to hope they would help with her now, even with her tired limbs.

“And, Creech, when Oliver here has finished with her, I’m going to give her the cutlass again. Then, you can do the same.”

A glob of tobacco juice splattered the deck beside her hand as she remained sprawled there.

“What say you, Anne? We could just dispense with this nastiness if you’d like. You can just stand now, and return to our cabin and undress yourself. Your choice.”

She could see clearly in the smug grin he gave her that he thought she’d take the easy route and allow him to ravish her instead of taking on two of his burliest shipmates. His lined face as he looked about at the rest of the watching crew made her so angry, she was sure she could kill everyone on the ship without a backward glance, if it were possible.

“I think you know my answer.” Proud of the steadiness of her voice, she smiled through the swelling in her face.

Jericho sighed, reaching down a long arm to her. “That is what I suspected. I don’t know why you have to make it so difficult.”

Anne swatted his hand away and pulled herself, aching legs and all and raising her chin, to stand before all three men. “I’ll fight these two buffoons.” She gave each of them a narrowed glare. “And, if I best you, I shall be left in peace the remainder of this voyage.”

Surprise registered on their faces, Oliver and Creech gave her wide-eyed stares. At any other time in her life, she would have laughed, but she was too tired, angry, and disheartened to do so. Visions of her children’s faces appeared in her mind. She thought of Holt with his cheeky dimples and bright emerald eyes, Garret with the mop of dark curls and chubby cheeks, and Frederica with the stubborn set to her little chin and tree-bark colored eyes. A pair of silvery eyes lined with dark green, a smile that could still make her stomach flutter appeared in her mind, too. All the people who she held fast to her heart.

“You think to disarm my two best fighters?”

“I’m going to die trying, yes.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Now, where is that cutlass? Or, shall we use pistols?”

The captain clenched his jaw, his lips thinning with displeasure. “Very well. Although, I would have liked to bed you first . . .” He shrugged, yelling to a sailor to bring each of them a cutlass from the hold.

Oliver and Creech sized her up, snickering at the differences in not only her strength to theirs, but the slightness of her weight against their stocky muscle.

A sailor clambered up onto the deck moments later carrying three long, curved blades with wide, black guards surrounding the handle. Anne felt a moment’s hope as a blade was handed to her, and she curled her right hand around the hilt. Memories assailed her, and energy flowed through her. She’d been known for her skill with a sword, and pistols.

Lowering the blade and looking down its length, she felt its weight and examined its sharpness. She raised it slightly and pointed it in Dobison’s direction. “There will be a matching scar along your throat to that on your arm before this day is over.”

“Oliver, go, bury yourself in this bitch.” He fluttered his hand in Oliver’s direction. Apparently, Oliver was the sturdier of the two, and bald.

His dark eyes held hers for a moment before his gaze traveled down to rest on her breasts. He licked his lips.