My Seaswept Heart (18 page)

“All’s ready with the guns,” came the holler
from Keena, and Jamie waved his arm in response. The
French
Whore
, her black hull knifing through the turquoise water like
a dagger from hell, was nearly alongside. Jamie expected to hear
the thunderous roar of her swivel guns at any moment.

“Fire at your discretion, Master Keena,”
Jamie yelled down, lifting his hand in a smart salute. The
blackamoor responded in kind, then turned on his bare feet. He
tramped up and down the sandy deck, stopping at each of the four
pounders, giving a word of advice here, a friendly nod there.

Jamie took a breath of salty air, letting it
fill his lungs, and felt a quickening of excitement. What was he
worried about? Luck still sat firmly upon his shoulder, as it had
since the day he escaped the hangman’s noose in London. Perhaps
there had been a foul-up at the watch, but d’Porteau would need
more than a favorable position to win the day.

The sloop heeled with the wind as they
jockeyed for position, doing their best to keep the French pirate
from crossing their stern.

“She’s almost upon us, Cap’n.”

Jamie gave Farley one more quick word before
striding over to the rail. Deacon was right. There was no longer a
need to look through the glass to see the
French Whore
’s
shape looming to the east. Her tars were everywhere, mirroring the
efforts of his own crew. Some monkeyed their way through the
rigging, muskets slung over their shoulders. Others stood watch
over their cannon, waiting as Jamie’s men did, for the word to
touch linstock to the powder in the base ring.

Jamie clutched the rail, watching the hated
d’Porteau creep up his side. Counting the seconds by the pounding
of his heart. Spray glistened like diamonds in the sunlight. The
same wind that tangled his hair filled the sails giving them life,
giving the
Lost Cause
life. Throwing back his head Jamie
raised his face to the heavens. The moment was at hand.

His lips parted to signal the gunners but
before a sound uttered, Jamie heard the order bellowed by Keena.
Quicker than he could think how proud he was of his chief gunner’s
instincts, the thunderous roar of cannons shattered the peaceful
paradise. His legs spread instinctively against the ship’s recoil.
Clouds of puffy smoke billowed from the guns, and filtered away to
nothingness on the wind, but Jamie had eyes only for the
French
Whore
. He watched for the fall of the shot, giving a whoop when
he spotted the shattering wood on the Frenchman’s deck.

But his joy was short-lived.

The answering salvo spewed from the facing
black muzzles in a billow of orange-tongued fire. The
Lost
Cause
trembled, beneath the onslaught of bar and rope shot.
Jamie peered through the smoke, trying to appraise the damage to
the web of spars and rigging. The canvas still groaned, taut
bellied against the wind, keeping the
Lost Cause
on pace
with the French ship.

The firing was constant now, a steady
pounding that shook the ship and turned the water between them into
a boiling cauldron. Whenever the wind tore a curtain in the
brimstone and saltpeter-laden smoke Jamie could see the gunners,
grime covered and sweating, swabbing out the cannons’ bores. They
moved quickly, ramming the powder cartridge and ball home, before
priming the touchhole.

“Take us closer, Farley!” Jamie shouted the
command toward the helmsman, then turned back to watch the ever
narrowing length of sea between the two vessels.

“Ye sure ’tis what ye want?” Deacon cupped
his hands to be heard. “Moving closer to those guns...” He let the
rest trail off. It was obvious what the consequences could be. On
deck tars scurried around tossing buckets of water and sand on the
myriad fires erupting there.

The pummeling was brutal.

Men screamed as splintered wood tore through
the air. If there was a hell on earth, this was it. The smells, the
sounds, the heat that seemed to cling to skin. And Jamie was
pushing them closer into the jaws of Hades.

“Cap’n.” Deacon turned toward Jamie
tight-lipped, his good eye rolling wildly. “We be point-blank
now.”

“And holding our own.” Twisting around, Jamie
yelled to the helmsman. “Forward now. Steady.” Looking back to
Deacon Jamie latched on to his arm. “Prepare the men to board.” His
sweat- and grime-stained face split in a wide grin. “He missed his
chance, Deacon. The Frenchman missed it.”

“I don’t under—” Deacon’s words were cut off
by the tearing of wood as the mizzenmast crumbled to the deck.

“He’s after our spars.” Jamie shook hair from
his face.

“’Twould have been easy to tear open our
belly, while we were heeled over in the wind.” Jamie sucked in air.
“But he went for our canvas. Now we’re going to board her. Teach
the lot of them how real pirates fight. Off with ye now.”

As Deacon hurried down the ladder Jamie
leaned over the rail, judging the distance, then calling back over
his shoulder. “Farley, get us in hard alongside. That’s it. Now hit
the French bitch?”

The jolt sent tremors through the sloop. But
before Jamie could give the order two pirates sprang from crouching
to toss the multiclawed grappling over the side. The metal fingers
caught in the shrouds, and more men leaped forward to tie off the
ropes.

Yanking out his pistol Jamie vaulted off the
quarterdeck. He was over the side before the smoke had cleared from
the last sally. A tide of pirates swelled forward, following him
onto the French vessel.

But there were those who held back... staying
on board the
Lost Cause
and biding their time.

Jamie’s saber arced, the sun gleaming off the
steel as he slashed his way toward the quarterdeck and d’Porteau.
He’d waited years for this without even realizing it, and the taste
of victory was sweet on his lips.

All around him the battle surged, men
screamed obscenities, but Jamie paid them no heed. His focus was
fixed on the giant of a man standing by the wheel. He leaped over
bodies and feinted from assaults. And all the while d’Porteau
seemed to be drawing him forward.

When the blow struck his head, Jamie swerved,
then turned to meet his assailant. The saber fight was short and
bloody, the French pirate falling to his knees, before he toppled
over.

Whirling around Jamie looked for d’Porteau,
but the Frenchman no longer stood on the quarterdeck. Jamie scanned
the deck and for the first time noticed what was happening. His
men, what there were of them, were faring poorly. Bounding forward,
Jamie emptied his pistol into a pirate lunging at Deacon with a
boarding pike.

And then there were three sabers vying to
cross his. Jamie never fought so hard... or was so overwhelmed. His
gaze flew to Deacon, to Keena, to any of his men who might help
him. But they were all as busy as he. Each fighting more men than
they could handle.

What had happened? The question danced
through his head as he thrust and parried. Thrust and parried.
First one opponent, then another. Steel grazed off his shoulder but
Jamie barely felt the sting. Where in the hell were all his men?
Had they all been killed, or—

“They’re striking colors!”

The heavily accented words penetrated his
mind as none others could. Unbidden his gaze was drawn to the
yardarm high above the
Lost Cause
. His flag was gone.

“What the hell?” Jamie whirled around in time
to see d’Porteau aiming a pistol at his stomach. Then something
exploded over his head and he hit the blood-smeared deck.

Anne slowly lifted her tearstained face from
the hard pillow of her bent knees and listened. The quiet was eerie
after the insufferable pounding. And the motion of the ship had
calmed to a gentle sway. No more violent jerks, some so strong they
threatened to toss her from the corner of the captain’s bunk where
she took refuge during the battle.

It was over.

And all she could do was wait.

Her hands tightened around her breech-covered
legs, drawing her more tightly into herself. And she tried to fight
the memories.

There had been quiet on the island, too.
After d’Porteau’s guns ceased their deadly pounding. Actually not
quiet, Anne thought. Just not the noise of the cannons. The screams
and crying had continued.

They still rang in her head.

But there was none of that now. Anne tilted
her head, straining to hear. The timbers groaned, the sea slapped
against the hull, but no other sound filtered down to her. It was
as if she were drifting upon a ghost ship. A sliver of hysterical
laughter slipped from her lips before she could clamp them
together. She was going mad.

D’Porteau started the process when he dragged
her down on the beach, and now alone in the middle of the ocean she
would—

Heavy footfalls in the passageway proved her
wrong. She wasn’t alone. Her fingers tightened painfully about her
legs, her eyes widened as she waited for the sound to come closer.
Part of her mind screamed for her to do something... anything. Find
a weapon. Hide.

But she couldn’t make herself move.

When the door burst open revealing a
half-naked savage she couldn’t even scream.

~ ~ ~

Consciousness exploded upon him as water
slapped his face. And with it came the realization of what
happened. Jerking up, coughing, Jamie came face to face with
d’Porteau. The Frenchman squatted in front of him on the deck,
grinning his horrible gap-toothed grin.

“Well, we meet again,
mon ami
.” He
just stood there, staring down at where Jamie sat. “But this time I
think the circumstances are different,
oui
?”

“Ye damned son of the devil. I’ll—” Jamie
tried pushing to his feet, only to have someone jerk him down from
behind. The slam he took to the wooden deck contained a painful
reminder of the bleeding slash across his shoulder.

“You’ll what, Jamie MacQuaid?”

D’Porteau’s heeled boot stomped hard onto his
gut, bringing Jamie waves of nausea.

“What? Nothing to say,
mon ami
?” He
ground his foot. “But you always have something to say.”

With every reserve of strength he had Jamie
grabbed hold of d’Porteau’s ankle and yanked. Caught off guard the
hulk of a pirate faltered, then landed hard on his back. If it was
the last thing he did on this earth, Jamie wanted to follow through
with his attack. To wrap his fingers around that whisker-covered
neck and drag d’Porteau screaming and gasping for breath to hell
with him. But the rough arms holding him down denied him the
chance.

And when d’Porteau fumbled to his feet, his
face contorted in a mask of rage, a pistol aimed at Jamie’s chest,
he knew he’d lost his opportunity.

The gun was cocked, and Jamie prepared to
take his last breath. He expected hate and revenge to fill his
mind, but it was Anne he thought of. Anne coming to him for help.
Anne’s sweet body. Annie in his cabin.

His head jerked toward the side where the
Lost Cause
was bound to the Frenchman’s schooner. He
couldn’t tell what had become of his crew. What had become of Anne.
Were they all dead? Was she dead?

An unexpected sadness engulfed him, and he
shut his eyes, only to jerk them open when he heard the raucous
laughter above him.

“A coward at the end,” d’Porteau said, his
voice full of contempt. “I always thought as much. You never came
after me. And now...” He spit on the deck. “You must hide your eyes
like a woman when I kill you.”

Jamie strained against the arms that pinioned
him down. “Get your scurvy crew off me.” That earned him a twist of
his wounded shoulder, but Jamie didn’t care. “And I’ll show you
which of us is a coward.”

D’Porteau snorted. “You had your chance,
Jamie MacQuaid. And you have failed. I...” He pounded his
gold-braided velvet waistcoat. “... am the victor today. I am the
one to decide your fate.” He released the hammer, sliding the
pistol into one of the leather straps that crisscrossed his chest.
“And I decree that a pistol shot is too fast and easy for the likes
of you. You shall suffer as I did.”

~ ~ ~

“Looky what I found snivelin’ in the
captain’s cabin.”

Anne stumbled onto the sand-strewn deck as
the burly pirate shoved her forward. She blinked against the
blinding light. Lifting her arm to shade her eyes she stared up at
the figure looming over her. The sun radiated behind him, making
his face indistinguishable.

But she knew who it was.

Spasms of terror clutched at her stomach and
she wanted to just curl herself into a ball.

“Put him with the others,” came the rough
command and Anne grimaced when her arm was grabbed and she was
hauled to her feet.

She looked around frantically trying to
understand what had happened. There was obviously a battle, and
judging by d’Porteau’s presence it appeared the
Lost Cause
was defeated. Anne didn’t even want to imagine what that meant to
her. But she couldn’t help wondering about Jamie MacQuaid. Where
was he?