The Devil's Tide (12 page)

Think. He is distracted.

Her right hand was firmly secured, so she looked to her left. She saw his cutlass sticking from the sand, but it was well out of reach. The torch had landed too far away, and the shovel even further.

Think. What can you use?

He was halfway through the laces of his breeches, hand working quickly. His tongue darted out to lick her blood from his lips. She wondered how badly the rock had mangled her cheek.

The rock!

"You fancy yourself a pirate?" Hornigold growled through clenched teeth. "You think yourself equal to a man? Then why do you crumble so easily beneath me? You haven't the strength, that's why. You're only a woman. You think yourself so smart, but in the end, all that matters is strength."

He struggled with the stubborn laces, cursing. Kate lifted her head and scooped up the rock with her left hand. She smashed it against Hornigold's nose, and blood squirted from his nostrils into her eyes. He loosed a warbled shriek that was almost feminine as he tumbled off her, slapping at his face.

Kate scrambled to her feet, blinking blood out of her eyes. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and the white cloth came away streaked in red. She couldn't be sure how much of it was her blood or Hornigold's. Her face was on fire, her forehead and cheek throbbing. When her sight merged from indistinct blurs to somewhat distinct blurs, she perused her options: A shovel, a torch, and a cutlass.

She went for the cutlass.

Hornigold howled like an animal. Every ounce of chivalrous tact spilled out of him in a murderous fury, along with the blood oozing from his nose, until there was nothing left but a disgraced fiend thrashing about in the sand. "My nose!" he screamed. "You cunt! You cunt! You fucking cunt! You've ravaged my nose!"

Kate returned to him, cutlass in hand. "Such language does not become you, Benjamin."

"Fuck you, cunt!"

She set the tip of the blade under his chin, lifting his head. "Look at me, you swine, or I'll put this through your jugular." He glared up at her through the ruin of his face, barely discernible as the handsome man he had been only moments ago. His crooked nose was already turning a shade of purple, dribbling blood all over his mustache.

Kate opened her other hand, showing him the rock she had bashed him with. "I found my strength," she said, smiling through the pain.

"Your hair is uneven," Dillahunt scowled, fingering a dark lock of Calloway's hair that was distressingly longer than the rest.

The last candle had burned out in the captain's cabin, and their naked figures were swathed in nothing more than the monotone light of the waning moon, spilling through the murky aft windows. She was on top of him, her fingers interlocked over his chest with her chin resting upon her knuckles. The two of them were drenched in sweat, and the room smelled of sex. They had been at it three times over, yet Dillahunt found his manhood already rising against her belly.

"You're the one who cut it," Calloway replied with a weary smile. She shook her head briskly, and the lock vanished somewhere within the short tresses, but Dillahunt knew the wayward strands were still in there somewhere.

"I did a terrible job of it," he murmured bitterly. "A rapier is a poor shear. It finds better use impaling a man's belly."

"Something of yours threatens to impale
my
belly," she grinned naughtily, freckles bunching together. "And it's not a sword."

"The thing is inexhaustible," he sighed.

"So am I," said Calloway, but her heavy eyelids told otherwise.

"I think you're finished," Dillahunt countered.

She slid closer, freeing a hand and slipping it downward. "I've got one more in me. How 'bout you?"

Her hand slid under him, fingers tickling his ass. He snatched her wrist before she could probe him. "My step is still ajar from the last time you did that."

"Just one finger this time," she grinned. "I promise to be gentle."

"Stop it," he said, tightening his grip. "As you can see, I require no encouragement."

"No fun," she said, seizing his cock instead. Her piercing blue eyes held his as she guided him inside her and began slowly swaying her hips. He was too tired to do any more work, so he let her do it for him. She had lost much of her fervor, but the slow motion was a welcome massage for his aching loins. She nibbled his lower lip, moaning softly through her teeth. She continued writhing until he released, every muscle in his body tensing at once. She opened her mouth, freeing his lip, and sank her head beside his.

He stared at the low ceiling. He preferred the dark, which made details indistinct. There were too many patterns in the wood, too many irregularities that played havoc with his mind. His mother told him he had a "condition." The word had been meant to comfort, but it had terrified him instead. In those days he would wake screaming from repetitious dreams that shouldn't have frightened him at all. Sometimes, he would dream he was painting a wall, desperately trying to match the previous color, but it was always a shade too bright or too dim. He would mix the paint with a lighter or darker color to find the right shade, but it never worked. It was always off, sometimes elusively so, glimpsed only in a shift of the light. Sometimes, he found himself trying to make structures out of blocks, but he never had enough blocks to finish. He would attempt to build a pyramid and only make it halfway to the top. Usually, he would realize he was dreaming, but was unable to jar himself into consciousness. This was the most frustrating part, and he realized that in order to wake, he would have to finish the menial task placed before him. When he was unable to finish, he swelled with panic and would finally wake thrashing in his sheets, doused in sweat.

The dreams grew fewer as he grew older, but his attention to trivial details had not dwindled, and even the dark offered less comfort than it once did. Lack of light did not change the fact that the patterns were still there, in the ceiling, swirling this way and that, intermingling and dispersing, with no sense to be made out of any of it. He shuddered, struggling to push all thoughts from his mind or to focus on something else entirely. Sex was always a welcome distraction; otherwise, he never would have allowed Jacqueline Calloway to steal aboard his ship. He was not regretting the decision. She made his nights much easier. But sex only lasted so long, and the evil patterns were once again prodding at his thoughts.

Sounds
, he reminded himself. Focusing on various sounds always helped.

He listened to the footsteps shuffling around up there. It was probably Jones Thompson, the navigator, scouting the horizon with his long silver telescope. Or maybe it was Nathan Adams, pacing about the quarterdeck as he so often did. That young man seemed never to sleep.

"Do you fancy Adams?" Dillahunt blurted in Calloway's ear. The question had been on his mind all day, eating away at him much like the patterns on the ceiling. She had casually informed him how easily Nathan had uncovered her ruse, inadvertently planting a seed of suspicion in Dillahunt. Or maybe she had meant to do just that. Women were funny that way. Either way, Calloway was already a little too familiar with Adams.

"You're ruining the mood," she whispered in his ear, eyes closed.

At least she has the sense not to feign surprise.

"He is young and handsome after all," he said. "Though, the missing arm is vexing. If it were my own, I would hack off the other to even both sides."

"I believe you would," she giggled, "but how would you cut off your arm with only one arm?"

Dillahunt paused. He hadn't thought of that. "Don't be daft. I would have someone else do it, of course. And your repeated attempts at breaching the subject have not gone unnoticed."

"Oh no," she yawned. "I'm in trouble."

"Do not make light of my concern," he grumbled.

She lifted her head and stared at him, lips parting in a wicked grin. "You are concerned?"

He blinked in frustration. "I find myself in . . . " He struggled to find the words. "I find myself in a vexed bewilderment."

She frowned. "A vexed be-what?"

"A vexed bewilderment."

"There's a twist of the tongue."

"My emotions run high. A mouthful of words is required to relay them."

She rolled her tired eyes. "The boy is dashing, but I am yours, Captain Dillahunt. If I've been a bad girl for merely speaking to him, you must punish me accordingly."

"Punish you?"

She plopped her head alongside his, exhaling her words into his ear. "Mayhap a good spanking would set . . . me . . . straight . . . " Her voice trailed to a murmur, and then she was breathing heavily against his cheek.

Another perplexing pattern
, Dillahunt thought as he stared at her naked form. Trying to get a handle on her was as elusive as trying to catch a trout in a flowing stream with nothing but bare hands for a net.
Young people are perplexing. They do not yet know who they are. They could be anybody. So many patterns running through their minds. So many possibilities laid out before them. They are everything and nothing.

"I shouldn't have let you come," he thought aloud.

"Not this again," she murmured. "I was promised death and blood. Where is it?"

"You'll see too much of both before the end, I fear."

Nearly every night he asked her what she was doing here, and she always eluded the question. She would always reply with a query about the various ways a man could die. She certainly had an unhealthy preoccupation with gore. Sometimes she would turn the question back on him, asking him why
he
first took to sea. He honestly could not remember. It had seemed the only option at the time. His father had been a captain before him.

Perhaps not even she knows why she's here,
he realized. His obsession with detail often precluded the randomness of human nature.
Not everyone has a good cause for doing the things they do.

The footsteps above grew heavier and more frenetic. Far too much commotion for this late hour. He guessed it was somewhere around midnight. He glanced at Calloway, and when he was sure she was fast asleep, he slipped out from under her. She rolled onto her side, mumbling something about sand and water. He threw on his black breeches and red shirt, leaving it unlaced at the neck, and started for the door.

The night air was warm, with only a slight breeze. Stars filled the clear sky, and the moon shone brightly even in its diminished state. Dillahunt had no trouble seeing where he was going, despite the lack of lanterns on deck.

That's odd
, he realized with a double take. All the lanterns were extinguished.

"Captain," came a throaty voice from above.

Dillahunt turned and looked up. Ogle, one of the gunners, was looking down on him from the quarterdeck. He was an imposingly tall bald man with a massive gut, but he was powerfully muscled. His scalp shined in the moonlight. Nic Lawsome joked that Ogle had plucked every single hair from his body in accordance with his head. "What is it, sailor?" Dillahunt called up.

Ogle pointed forward. "Just off the starboard bow, captain."

Dillahunt turned, but he couldn't see anything from this low vantage. He ascended to the quarterdeck. Nathan, Thompson, and Phillip Candler were up there too. Dillahunt looked across the ship to see what they were all staring at. The island was distant and black, but the height of its sharp peak made it hard to miss, like a pyramid in the sea. "Already?" Dillahunt asked.

"We made good time," Candler answered.

"Good thinking dousing the lights," Dillahunt said, setting a hand atop Candler's shoulder. Candler had been his friend for three years and had loyally served him as first mate for nearly the same length of time. Candler was a few years younger, with thin blonde hair and a sharp blonde goatee that sloped to a point beneath his chin. He wore a long navy-blue coat and white breeches. He was thoroughly British, but due to his vast knowledge of the Americas, the crew had nicknamed him 'Americandler.'

"Wish I could take credit," Candler said, and he shifted his gaze to Nathan.

Dillahunt fixed Nathan with a glare. "Your idea?"

Nathan withered sheepishly, but Dillahunt thought the young man's modesty seemed a touch overstated. "I didn't mean to go over your head, captain."

"You did well," Dillahunt said, unable to deny it. He returned his gaze to Candler. "We will approach with caution. As soon as you catch sight of Hornigold's sloop, move around the island and slip from his view. I would catch the villain by surprise, if at all possible. They have no idea we're coming, so it's unlikely they are watching for us at this hour."

"And if they are?" said Thompson.

Ogle cackled. "Our guns will make lettuce of them."

Dillahunt nodded. "My only worry is Hornigold will turn tail and run. His sloop has the advantage of speed, but that is all. He would be a fool to face us in open combat, and Benjamin Hornigold is no fool."

"Hornigold may be no fool," Nathan put in cautiously, "but he's grown sloppy. He abandoned his post on the promise of a
woman
. I'd wager he's scouring that island with his men, and only a small complement remains to man his ship. Even if they did spot us, Hornigold is cornered."

Dillahunt hated to admit it, but Adams was probably right. He was starting to like this young man, in spite of himself. "Given that he has no reason to expect our arrival, that's likely. Still, I will take no chances. We must take
Ranger
quickly, on the off chance Hornigold is aboard. Once
Ranger
is secured, we will we set upon the island and capture our prey."

"Secured?" said Ogle with a puzzled look. "Does that mean I get to use my guns?"

"Only if they use theirs first," Dillahunt replied.

Ogle's shoulders sagged, and he nodded solemnly. "Aye."

Dillahunt smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, we will find something for you to shoot. These waters are still ripe with pirates."

Ogle's face brightened like a child entering a candy shop.