The Winds of Fate (27 page)

Claire’s nails had dug into her palms where she had clenched them. She barely noticed, her mind crowded with nightmarish thoughts and unspeakable dread. The captain of the
Golden Gull
shouted an order. A prompt and unmistakable barrage fired from the guns lined along the deck. The French ship returned volley. The
Golden Gull
rattled. Confusion broke loose and men fell, spouting blood on the deck from great, black gashes, and screams of agony sounded chillingly amid the din of repeated gunfire. Claire stared with horror-filled eyes. Five paces away a sailor crumpled in a heap of twisted limbs. Claire shuddered. Burning gunpowder choked her. Fresh blood filled her nostrils. Welded to the wall, she stood a silent witness to a spectacle of violence.

“Get below!” thundered the captain, his eyes murderous upon her.

She scrambled down the companionway. Lily yanked her into the cabin, her eyes wide. Claire slid the bolt, a silly gesture. If the pirates won the battle raging above, no door, no bolt, however strong, could protect them. The pirates would take all who survived as prisoners. They would be worth more to them alive as objects of their lust. Claire shuddered.

They huddled on the lower bunk, listening to the tumult of battle. They flinched at every sound, the clamor of feet overhead, the explosion of pistols, and terrible cries of men cut down. Claire’s muscles tensed, an unbearable painful tension built upon the fear of not knowing their fate. The battle raged−an endless struggle. If only, it would
end. What was happening? She yearned for a hint, but could detect nothing. She derived no comfort.

She moved to the door. Lily and Cookie held her back. “I cannot bear the suspense any longer. I must see−” Then all fell eerily quiet. Claire strained her ears. No shouts, no gunfire, nothing.

She waited, hands clenched. Boots stamped down the stairs, French accented curses. The doorknob rattled. An ax chopped through the heavy oak of their locked door. Cookie moaned. Lily stayed glued to her side.

The bolt splintered and with a shout of triumph, the pirates kicked open the door. Grotesque faces leered, a tangle of arms grabbed at them, pulling them onto the deck. Death and mayhem lay spread before them, coupled with the agonizing moans of maimed and wounded men. Smoke hung in the air like a miasma from fire and pistols. Sailors from their ship cried for mercy before they were thrown into the sea. Malevolent laughter followed their plight. Their gallant captain killed and half their number destroyed with him, the ship yawing and rocking in a crippled state. Pirates were everywhere, plundering the merchantman before it sank.

On board the
Sea Scorpion
Ames cried out. “Dear God! Lily is on deck. I cannot forsake Lily to Le Trompeur’s vileness. I beg you, Devon to intercede! We must save Lily.”

Devon swore. Wherever Lily was, Claire would be. He snapped up the scope from Ames. Lily stood next to Cookie. Claire struggled in Le Trompeur’s grasp. Near the mizzenmast, her uncle and Sir Teakle cowered. He lowered the scope. When he turned, his eyes were lit with a fury. Ames stepped back. “Set a course for the
Mer Un Serpent
!”

Devon swung to life. “Douse all lights. Move with stealth, lads,” he barked out a myriad of orders. The sails were let out. Darkness cloaked the
Sea Scorpion’s
swift motion through the water.

Their progress took too long. Every muscle in his body strained. “Pull up alongside. Take your time. Ease in men. I never knew speed made by over-haste to accomplish what we are about.”

“Too much speed,” complained Ames. “We’ll destroy both ships at this rate.”

“Don’t think with your brain, Ames. Think with your gut when things are not as smooth as a convent’s dining-table. We ride on the element of surprise.”

Bloodsmythe, his gunner came up alongside, his eyes taking on the glittering of an old hound picking up a familiar spoor. “Cannons are ready, when you needin’ them Captain.”

“Aye,” said Devon. “It will be good seeing our old friend, Le Trompeur.”

Removed to the deck of the
Mer Un Serpent
, Claire forced down the irrational fear swelling in her throat. Le Trompeur, the captain of the French pirates, his eyes by nature appeared violent and wild. He posed a figure that even the imagination could not begin to fathom, a fury from the bowels of hell.

He crooked his finger to Claire with the tolerance of a god for the mortal to whom he condescended. “Come here Mademoiselle. I wish to see you in better light.”

To remain calm was to remain in control. “Sir, if you will let me go−”

“Ah,
demoiselle
. A fantastic creature to lay eyes on after a long and risky voyage. Perhaps you have risen from the depths of the sea as a gift from Poseidon. My beautiful lady, who are you?”

His words, flattering enough, spoken with the grace of an experienced courtier, yet his platitudes sickened her. His eyes darted over her in hungry and mocking approval. Claire gritted her teeth, not with fear, but with impatience. She lifted her chin, her immediate disdain for him evident. That look in his eyes, his well-groomed mustache, slender build and angular facial features were nothing to recommend. This scourge of the Caribbean represented himself as nobility with his smooth talk. Claire shivered. His aura evoked a greasy reptilian in black boots.

“Captain, we need your attention−” broke off his lieutenant.

“Do not ever interrupt me,” he swore at the pirate, his eyes never leaving Claire.

“But Captain, Sir, we need your attention.”

“Do not bother me again, or I will slit your throat.” Le Trompeur waited for her answer.

“No, sir,” she told him, “I am not a gift from the gods for your entertainment. Now if you would let me go−”

He clutched her arms, pushing her back against the taffrail, his strength surprising her, as did his boldness. Sir Jarvis and Sir Teakle watched the tableau. There would be no help or objection from them.

“Ah, but I am in love, I think, smitten the very second I laid eyes on you,” he cried, his French accent thick and languorous, his eyes hooded.

Claire pushed at him. To her distress, it made him laugh and try to kiss her. Rum, cheap cologne and fish nauseated her. More pirates gathered around to laugh and jeer at the vulgar display. She would not beg. She would not scream. It would only fuel their excitement, and her powerlessness angered her. She drew back her knee and brought it up hard against the French Captain’s groin.

The harshness of pirate laughter drowned out the pained sound that escaped Le Trompeur. He spoke through clenched teeth, his lips gone white and thin.

“You will rue the day you dared to injure me−” he began in raw fury and turned his glare upon his comrades. Silence snapped the air. His fingers tightened vise-like around her arms. “Know when you’re beaten, you little fool. You are a flower bud that must be forced into the advent of summer.” He thrust his hand down her bodice and pawed her breasts. She heard the material tear, and the ribald laughter of pirates ringing in her ears. Over his shoulder, Cookie and Lily were held back from assisting her.
Was it to be a public rape?

A cannon blast split the air. Everyone jumped. Le Trompeur swiveled to see what havoc was about. From out of nowhere, a large ship came at them. It equaled the Frenchman’s and barreled alongside, furling tops and mainsail, stripping to mizzen and sprit. The ship swept up at such a speed the hulls rammed in an explosion. Claire fell
to the deck, half stunned as gun-rails collided, splintering and shattering. The clunk of metal dug into wood, grappling hooks cast over the
Mer Un Serpent’s
side. Pirates! Dozens of them, swarmed onto the deck from the other ship.

“Why did you not warn me!” said Le Trompeur.

“If you weren’t so busy with the woman,” spat his officer.

And then, from out of a rough-cut mob of feral beasts, slipped a tall muscular man with green eyes in a tawny face, eyes that gleamed the light of wicked determination.

Devon.

Claire thought she would faint, a picture of the netherworld could not be more complete. On one side she had Mephistopheles, and on the other side, she had Satan. He had a sword, he had pistols, and he had her full attention.

“The Black Devil,” His name reverberated from the crew. Sailor’s crossed themselves, buckling under the worst of their fears, the reality of the Black Devil.

Claire nervously clutched her bodice together. Did she conjure up the image of him? She drank in the sight of his face−a face that aroused deep and profound memories. There was no humble slave or merciful doctor about him now. With his fine tailored shirt open at the throat and exposing his sun-burnished skin, and his tightfitting black pants, he looked a mix of raw predatory instinct, and undeniable power. His black hair was ruffled by the wind, the expressive sweep of his dark brows, and the sensuous bow of his lips−lips she remembered only too well. Even now, she could remember their texture, taste and feel.

His right hand rested on the pummel of his sword, the easy grace of long habit. He spoke to them in the most eloquent French. “You will save yourselves pain and trouble by handing over your prisoners, and the merchant ship you have commandeered, suffering no losses to your ship, or to yourselves, of course.”

“Mordieu!” swore Le Trompeur, his expression beyond astonishment. “How dare you come aboard my ship and make such demands. You are lucky, I allow you to live.”

Devon swaggered to within inches of the French pirate. “Be aware, I ask politely only once, after that, I’ll not be called a fool. I’ll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my exercising what is necessary and proper.” He made a broad sweep of his arm. “You have many of my crew as invited guests aboard your ship with forty guns from the
Sea Scorpion
pointed at your broadside and anxious to fire. So you see, prudence suggests that we make amends, steel our soft hearts to the inevitable, and invite you to be so obliging as to hand over the prisoners.”

“I see,” said the French Captain, planting his sword-tip firmly into the deck of his ship. With mock-urbanity and suave detachment, he took his measure of the Black Devil. “I confess there is much force in what you say.”

“It’s with good cheer, you lighten my sentiments,” said Captain Blackmon. “I would not seem bothersome, especially since I and my friends owe you, due to our partnership. I am glad that you agree.”

“But my friend, I did not agree so much.”

“If there is any alternative that you can suggest…” Devon waited.

The Frenchman’s eyes played over him like points of steel. “I have thought of an alternative, Captain Blackmon. It depends on your mettle.” He slashed his sword through the air.

Claire gasped. Did not her uncle say Le Trompeur was the deadliest of swordsmen?

“You are not afraid to die, Le Trompeur?”

The Frenchman threw back his head and chortled. “Your inquiry, I find offensive.”

Devon smiled back at the Frenchman with a distinctly vulpine curve to his lips. “Then allow me to put it another way−perhaps more indulgent. You do not wish to live?”

“Is it over this woman you dare to breach our friendship?” Le Trompeur guessed.

“Maybe I’ll remark on your intelligence, but she is insignificant.”

Devon never looked at her. An ache in her chest lay like an iron weight

“There is the fact you breached our articles, Le Trompeur, signed and agreed by your own hand. Is it not?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Le Trompeur looked aghast.

“The matter of your raid on the
Santa Luga
. I did not receive my half of the rewards.”

“You dare to call me a cheat.” Le Trompeur glowered.

“I dare to call you worse. I call you a liar and a cheat.”

Brandishing cutlasses and pistols, Le Trompeur’s crew gathered menacingly opposed by numbers of Devon’s men. To Claire’s mind, Devon seemed not the least bit ruffled. Instead he addressed the pirates over his shoulder. “Did your Captain inform you of the hefty profit he made in Tortuga? Sixty thousand pounds to be exact. Has he compensated you for your trouble?”

“You told us you made a measly eight thousand pounds,” one of Le Trompeur’s pirates snarled. “Where is the rest of our share?” Murmurs of angry protest mounted from his crew.