My Fallen Angel (15 page)

“’Ere now,” Tully warned. Prinny shifted on his shoulder.

“I’d
enjoy
tying a sock around that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“And I’d enjoy stuffing my foot into
yours.”

“You seem to be good at doing that to your
own
mouth.”

Beth sprang up from the chair. “I would never have said what I said if you’d not dragged me onto the dance floor in such an ignominious fashion!”

Lucien took a step closer to her. “And I would never have done so if you had behaved like a
lady
in the first place.”

“Why,
you!”
Beth fingers all but curled into claws.

“Silence!”
Tully roared. Prinny squawked, shaking his wings in admonishment.

Beth jumped in fright.

“Sit down!” Tully ordered.

Beth sat.

“Yer Grace, if ya want the wench, ya have me blessings. No interest in ‘er, anyway.”

Ravenwood quirked a sardonic brow in Beth’s direction before saying, “Rest assured, my friend. Much as I would love to teach her a lesson for calling me a …” He pasted a politely questioning look on his face, a look which was anything but gentlemanlike. “What was it you called me?”

“Murdering whoremonger,” Beth announced proudly.

“Ahh, yes. How could I have forgotten? A murdering whoremonger. I’d far rather leave her to her own charming devices.”

“It turned out to be true,” Beth snapped.

“Did it?” he asked, leveling her with a freezing glare.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a man murderin’ his brother if’n he finds ‘im in the arms of ‘is mistress,” Tully said into the silence which followed. “I’d do the same.” He shot Lucy a look of warning which was all the more chilling for its implied meaning.

“Sink your pisser, get a blister,” Prinny announced.

Lucy stiffened. Tully did, too, but then he opened his big, cavernous mouth and let out a guffaw. In vain she tried to keep the revulsion from her eyes as she spied his rotted teeth, but apparently she was unsuccessful, for Tully’s laughter died.

His eyelid lowered ominously as he came forward, Prinny fluttering his wings as he tried to keep his balance. When the pirate rounded the end of the table, Lucy looked at him head-on. Not once did she flinch, not even when he was close enough to reach out and give her hair a painful tug.

His smile grew possessed by pure, unadulterated evil, exposing huge gaps in his teeth nearly as black as his soul. “Yer gonna enjoy it when I sinks it inta ya.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she’d sink a knife into him before she allowed him to touch her when, suddenly, Prinny lifted his tail. Her eyes widened. The bird hunched his back. She groaned.

A huge, white-and-green piece of excrement landed on the pirate’s shoulder.

The duke gave a snort of laughter. Beth choked. Lucy covered her mouth with her hand.

“Arrrgh,” Tully bellowed, clutching for the bird. Prinny launched himself off the pirate’s shoulder and landed on the back of a chair near the duke and the servant.

“Ahhhh, ha ha ha ha ha ha,” the bird cried out, his human-sounding laughter filling the cabin. Lucy groaned again. “Ahhhhhh, ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Mousad!”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Kill that damn bird.”

“No,” Lucy cried, shooting up from her chair.

Tully pushed her back down. “Tell cook ta stuff it fer dinner tonight.”

“You tell him that and I’ll have
you
for dinner,” Lucy snapped.

“That can be arranged,” the pirate leered.

But the servant didn’t move. He stood, his black eyes unblinking as he stared at his master.

Tully turned back to him with an impatient stare. “Well, what are ya waitin’ fer? Grab the damn bird.”

The dark-skinned man’s gaze didn’t waver. “Perhaps sahib has forgotten?”

Tully stiffened in anger. “Fergotten? Fergotten what?”

“The cook is dead, sahib.”

“Dead?” Tully roared. “Whadda ya mean dead?”

“I believe,” the duke interjected, “what Mousad is referring to is your order to have the cook fed to the sharks last night, in the hopes that he would … let’s see, how did you put it? Ahh, yes, I have it. In the hopes that he would make a better meal than those he served.”

Ravenwood turned toward the black servant. “Am I correct, Mousad?”

Lucy’s brows rose, her eyes darting from the servant, to Prinny, to the duke, to Tully, then back to Mousad again, who bowed to his master. “His Grace is most correct.”

Her gaze swung back to Tully, who scratched his head in a monkeylike confusion. “I did?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Hmph,” Tully mused, his brow knitted in confusion. “Seems maybe I recall now, though the drink clouds me memory a bit. The soup were cold, weren’t it?”

“Yes, sahib.”

Tully shrugged, then turned toward the duke and winked at him. “Guess that’ll teach ‘im, eh?”

He started guffawing again, the duke looking him up and down as if he were a rare and bizarre species of animal.

Tully’s laughter faded when the duke failed to find as much amusement in the situation as he apparently did. He turned back to his servant. “Find another crew member to take his place,
then
cook the bird.”

“You’ll not cook my bird,” Lucy huffed, rising from her chair again. Tully shoved her back down. She landed on her rear with a teeth-thunking clunk.

Mousad didn’t meet his master’s eyes as he replied, “I have tried, sahib, but no one will take the job.”

“Won’t take the job! Why in Blackbeard’s name not?”

“If I may interject again?” the duke asked as he fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeve; he looked … well, bored. “Perhaps their reluctance has something to do with the fate of your last three cooks?”

Tully considered his words, his one brow lifting into an arch. “Aye. Could be yer right.” But his consternation faded. “No matter. The women ‘ere can cook fer us till we get inta port.”

“I’ll not cook my own pet!”

Tully reached out a grubby, scarred paw to tilt her chin up. “You’ll cook whatever I tell ya to, lassie.”

“No, I will not.”

His grip tightened, painfully so. “If ya please me, I may take it easier on ya tonight, and if ya don’t, I’ll make sure ya makes it up ta me in other ways instead o’ throwin’ ya overboard.”

He chuckled softly, one of his fingers stroking her chin, his skin so callous it felt like stone.

Lucy was not amused.

As it turned out, Mousad was never able to catch Prinny, Tully having pulled out his pistol to shoot the bird before the duke stopped him and offered to buy Lucy’s pet from him. Lucy had no time to be grateful, for in the next instant she and Beth had been hauled off to cook for the hungry crew. The result was that now they both stood over a boiling pot of … something.

She could see nothing beyond the yellow-orange glow, the deck of the
Revenger so
dark the inky blackness was broken only by the light of the fire. But she could feel the crew’s lecherous and lascivious glances as they went about their work. It made her feel as if she were standing in a pit of snakes.

Both she and Beth stood near the center of the ship loosely termed the “galley.” Really, the only thing which gave it the appearance of such was the stove brought up from below. Certainly the smells hanging in the air didn’t give rise to the notion. No, the combined odor of beef broth and dank timbers brought to mindthe smell of Tully’s breath and cow pastures instead of fine dining.

“Are you almost done?”

Lucy turned to Beth, ignoring the hulking presence of Mousad, whose dark skin was nearly indistinguishable from the night air surrounding him. She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure. Would you like to taste it and find out?”

Beth shook her head emphatically. “No.”

Lucy looked back at the pot of stew, surveying it with a dubious glare. “I don’t blame you.” She sighed, then dipped her wooden spoon into the boiling contents. A moment later she grimaced in distaste. It was horrible. Worse than horrible, it was ghastly.

“H-how does it taste?”

Lucy frowned. “Like the insides of Garrick’s boots.” The mention of Garrick’s name made her heart thump painfully. Where was he? Was he all right? And what about Tom? Was he alive?

“Perhaps if sahib adds some vegetables?”

The voice, coming unexpectedly out of the darkness, startled both girls. Lucy swung around to face Mousad.

“I … ? Vegetables?” she asked.

“It is common to add such things, is it not?”

Beth took a small step in Lucy’s direction, then leaned toward her ear. “He’s correct, Lucy,” she whispered. “I distinctly recall seeing vegetables in soup before.”

Lucy pushed her lips out in thought, considering for a moment. “And where would I get such items?”

“From the hold below, sahib. They were loaded from your ship to ours.”

That must have been before they’d sunk it, Lucy thought, a depression settling over her nearly as black as the cloudless sky above. Images of Garrick’s bruised and battered face flashed through her mind. As best she could, she shoved them aside. “Will you show me?”

“As you wish, sahib,” the giant answered. He turned, grabbing a lantern hooked conveniently to the side of the stove and headed toward a dark rectangle which obviously led below.

Less then five minutes later they stood in a room so black the darkness outside the glow of the lantern was like a physical presence, thick and heavy. The acrid stench of moldering vegetation rose up around them, that and stagnant seawater; the smell nearly gagged her. Bags and an odd assortment of bric-a-brac lay about, the ribs of the ship curving around them like the skeleton of a whale long since stripped of its flesh. Lucy shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, though it was far from cold in the humid hold.

“I’m scared.” Beth murmured softly.

“I know, Beth. But we’ll be all right. I’ll think of something.”

A pause, and then, “I’m not sure if that reassures me or terrifies me.”

“It better reassure you because I’m your only hope.”

“Now
that
terrifies me.”

Lucy shook her head. If Beth was up to sarcasm, she must not be
that
scared. She watched her friend head toward bags of produce with narrowed eyes, all the while reviewing her options. She needed a plan, she thought desperately, and a good one if she were to succeed.

Think, Lucy,
she ordered her sluggish mind.
There has to be a way out of this.

She had just thrown out the notion of pummeling Mousad with some well-aimed potatoes when the subject of her thought said, “Not that one, sahib,” in a deep rumble.

Lucy started, Mousad’s voice erupting so suddenly out of the darkness she dropped what she had just blindly grabbed from one of the bags. A quick survey revealed the strangest vegetable she’d ever seen. It looked like a carrot, but it was white and far longer than an average carrot. At least she thought it was white, but it was hard to tell in the darkened hold.

“What is it?” The words escaped her mouth before she realized how ridiculous it was to ask one’s captor what kind of vegetation one had held in one’s hand, especially when one was contemplating how to knock that same captor senseless with said vegetation.

Mousad seemed impervious. “That is dandelion root, sahib.”

Her brows drew together in surprise. “Is it edible?” She caught Beth’s glance. Her friend was shaking her head at her in an obvious attempt to tell her, without words, that she should keep quiet.

Mousad nodded. “Though I would not recommend it, sahib.”

“Why not?” she asked, ignoring Beth’s frown, the servant having piqued her curiosity.

“It is for loosening one’s bowels, sahib.”

“Bowels?”

“Yes. A herb of great power.”

Lucy’s eyebrows rose.
Good heavens,
she thought. She’d nearly brought new meaning to the term “poopdeck.” Her breath caught, the import of what she held in her hand suddenly sinking in.

Mousad merely eyed her with an unfathomable look. She darted a glance down at the root, then back at Mousad again before reluctantly turning away.

Telling herself to be patient, she busied herself grabbing assorted vegetables from other bags, all the while peeking sideways glances at Mousad. But it was fully five minutes later before he turned away from her. Not wasting a second, she quickly scooped up some dandelion root, then grabbed a few more in the off chance she didn’t have enough.

“You will need many more than that if you wish to infect the entire crew, sahib.”

Lucy jumped, dread causing her stomach to clench as if she’d eaten some of the root herself; fear sent her pulse rate skittering out of control. Slowly she turned and faced her captor. “I … I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing in my pouch but carrots and … and onions and such.”

The servant’s lips tilted into an ever so patient smile. Lucy wondered at it for half a second before he said, “I am speaking of the root you put in your pouch, sahib.”

“What root?” Lucy asked, giving him what she hoped was an innocent grin. “I didn’t put any root in here.”

Still, she was unable to keep her eyes from widening as Mousad strode forward, reached into her pouch, and pulled out a long, thin, white object.

“Ohhh, that root.”

Mousad smiled, though Lucy didn’t find the situation the least bit funny. Not the least little bit.

“Yes, sahib. That root.”

They stared at each other for a long, endless moment until Lucy couldn’t take it a moment longer. “Please,” she said frantically, her shoulders slumping. “Please don’t tell Tully.”

“Lucy, what have you done?” Beth asked, fear sharpening her voice into a shrill yell.

Lucy ignored her as she stared up at Mousad.

“Sahib misunderstands. I have no intention of telling my master.”

Lucy couldn’t believe her ears. And when Mousad’s hulking form moved alongside of her, and then he began to scoop more of the root into her pouch, her mouth dropped open. She glanced at Beth, who looked equally incredulous.

“W-what are you doing?” she finally managed to choke out.

“I am helping you, sahib.”

“But … why?”

He straightened from his task and held out his wrists; the metal bands gleaming around them were almost as bright as his smile. “I have much to gain by your success, sahib.”

Lucy watched with apprehensive eyes as Tully took a hesitant sip of the brownish liquid.

They all sat around the table, a parody of a dinner party. Beth sat to her left, the duke across from her. Tully hunched over in his chair like an old crone directly opposite Lucy.

The knob of the pirate’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. A ghostly trace of steam cycloned up from the bowl and toward the skull archway above, almost as if pulled by invisible, evil forces.

Lucy had to blink, she stared at the pirate captain so hard, then clenched her hands in her lap in an effort to contain her nervousness. Forcing her expression to be blank as possible, she watched Tully take another slurping sip. Her own throat swallowed reflexively along with him.

Tully looked up, catching her staring at him intently. “It’ll do,” he announced in a gravely voice.

That was the cue for Mousad to begin serving. The duke, who sat at Tully’s left, was the first, his presence the only thing in the room that didn’t clash with the elegance of the table setting Tully had managed to unearth from God knows where. Mousad served her next, then Beth, who looked as if she were about to expire on the spot; her black hair had escaped in long hanks from her chignon, and her blue eyes were filled with fear.

Lucy gave her a tentative smile before glancing down at her food. When she looked back up at Tully, he smacked his lips together.

She tried not to gag as she made a great pretense of eating.

“Pour some wine, Mousad,” Tully ordered, startling Lucy into dropping her spoon. It clattered into her bowl, sending a shower of brown spots onto her dress.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled.

“Quite all right, Miss Hartford,” the duke announced. Lucy looked up, surprised at the reassuring smile the duke sent her. “The stew is excellent.”

Her mouth dropped open, no sound escaping until she mustered the courage to say, “Thank you,” in a small voice. For the first time she wondered if perhaps he wasn’t such a villain. Indeed, he’d saved her bird, too, though she had no idea where her pet had gone. But at least he wasn’t floating belly-up in a cauldron of stew, she thought.

They continued to eat in silence, or in Lucy and Beth’s case, pretend to eat, but much to Lucy’s frustration there was no sign the root was working. Tully still looked as healthy as a horse on its way to Newmarket. When he was done, all he did was lean back in his chair in an attitude of extreme relaxation, pat his over-large belly, then open his mouth to release a great gale of a belch. Lucy concealed her revulsion only with the grimmest restraint.

“Well, Yer Grace,” he said, “now that we’ve had our evenin’ victuals, I fancy watching Wolf hang from the gallows fer entertainment. Whadda ya say?”

Lucy gasped.

Tully darted her a glance, then smirked. “Don’t ya like me idea, me lady?”

No, she did not. Furious, she stiffened in her chair, knowing she should probably keep control of her temper, but she was tired of feeling helpless, of Tully’s taunts, and of trying to ignore his lecherous stares. “I’ll kill you first.”

Tully merely opened his nightmare of a mouth and guffawed. “Will ya now?” he chortled, spit and chunks ofsoup flying out like a miniature hailstorm. “I’d thought ya’d be glad ta be rid o’ him. I’d wager a little mite like you fair gets crushed every time ‘e pumps ya.” He looked at the duke, paused for a moment, then let out another burst of cackling laughter, slapping the table for added effect.

Lucy watched his evil, complacent face for half a second before something inside her snapped. Everything converged on her at once: their capture, Garrick’s beating, the fear of what was to become of them. Enraged, she picked up her soup bowl and flung it at his stupid, crater-filled face.

She had the satisfaction of seeing his expression change to one of surprise just before the soup connected with a satisfying
splat,
the bowl clattering to the floor.

For seconds the pirate just sat there, bits of potatoes, carrots, and beef clinging to his face like mud. But then he gave an earsplitting bellow of rage, swiped one grubby paw over his face, and charged to his feet.

Lucy froze, torn between throwing something else at him and darting for the door. She glanced at the room’s other two occupants. Beth stared at her in horror, the duke looked amused.

Lucy glanced back in time to see Tully’s hand whip out to capture her chin in a hard, punishing grip, forcing her gaze upward.

“Let her go,” Beth cried.

Tully leaned toward Lucy. His black eye gleamed evilly as he brought his nose within inches of hers. His rank-smelling breath filled the air in a putrid cloud and made her gag.

“Ya’ll pay fer that,” he said softly.

Lucy’s heart beat so loudly, she almost missed his words. “I … I think not.”

His grip tightened. He pushed his mashed nose closer to hers. “I’ll enjoy tamin’ ya in bed.”

“Never,” she squeaked.

He released a bark of laughter.

Lucy jerked her chin out of Tully’s grasp and turned her head away, trying hard not to breathe. “Too much onion,” she wheezed.

Abruptly, Tully’s laughter faded; his hand streaked out to capture her chin again, jerking her face toward his. “I’m lookin’ forward to tamin’ that tongue o’ yers, too.” As if in anticipation, his tongue snaked out to wet his lips.