A Pirate's Possession (26 page)

“Ay, you! Step a—”

Claire spun in time to see one of the men who'd slept by the fire's last words gurgle out of his throat. Nate pulled his sword free, his worried gaze meeting hers for the briefest of moments before the other two men leapt to their feet, weapons drawn.

All Claire could think of was that the men couldn't be given the opportunity to fire their pistols. If shots rang out, the sound would send James and his crew running, and she and Nate not only would miss the chance to start the fire that would signal Vincent but would also likely wind up dead.

Claire tossed her sword into her right hand and charged the man closest to her, the one who'd been sleeping on the bed she'd made. Since the camp wasn't large, she didn't have far to run. He laughed, dropped his pistol, and reached down for his own sword. When he lunged upright, Claire was upon him, her blade coming down.

The swords rang out as he parried her attack. Vibrations spilled into her hand and up her arm. He immediately riposted, his aim straight for her heart. Claire jumped back to avoid being pierced.

“Think you can best me, boy?” the man taunted.

He lunged, coming in fast and hard. The tip of his weapon rippled with the fire's reflection. With both hands on the grip, Claire caught the attack with her blade, swept her sword down in an arc, and brought it up, nearly cutting the man's ear off.

He snarled, bent his knees, and came at her even harder. Prepared, she leapt out of the way then swung her sword at his back, catching it with the end of her blade. He raged, spun, and came at her like a bullet. Their swords met over her head in a position that left Claire at a disadvantage. He pushed down on the weapons, a snarl twisting on his lips. Her back arched. Claire planted her feet, leaning her much slighter weight toward her adversary. Her arm shook from the effort to keep the position. Sweat, both from effort and from fear, ran in rivers down her neck.

Despite keeping her feet on the ground, she knew she was losing the battle of keeping her balance. She had to do something. If she lost her footing, he could easily sweep his sword across her throat. Metal clashing upon metal filled the camp, telling Claire that Nate was busy with his own opponent.

The man's rancid breath spilled onto Claire's face. “Ain't nobody helping you, boy.”

He laughed, leaned in with all his weight, and shoved hard on the blades. Claire's arm flew back. The sword slipped from her sweaty palm and she stumbled back. He caught her easily, lifted her up by the shirt front, and tossed her like a sack of sand. She hit the ground hard, taking the brunt of the fall on her hip. He was there before she could move. His fist caught her on the chin. Claire's head jerked, her teeth snapped shut. The pain nearly blinded her. She fell onto her side and curled into a ball. Her hands wrapped around her knees. One slipped into her boot.

“Get up, boy,” he said as he grabbed her hair and hoisted her to her feet.

White stars impaired her vision, but Claire didn't need to see his face for what she had in mind. He pulled his arm back, intent on hitting her again. His feral smile died on his lips when Claire's knife plunged into his chest. He dropped her and she scrambled away the moment he released her. He looked down at the expanding stain on his shirt, at the knife that remained plunged to the hilt into his chest, and stumbled back. He fell, dead, on the very bed he'd been sleeping on only minutes ago.

Claire wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The trembling didn't surprise her. She'd killed before, out of necessity, and it never failed to leave her shaken. She looked up, saw Nate engaged in his own battle. Claire grabbed her pistol. She had nothing left to help him in a sword fight, but she could pull a trigger if needed.

Nate's opponent wasn't as tall but his arms were equally thick. Though the man had a gash along his cheek and another angry one down his forearm, it didn't appear to be slowing him any. Nate threw a look her way and some of the tension went out of his shoulders when his eyes met hers. He immediately shifted his attention back to his adversary.

Across the low-burning flames their swords battled in flashes of silver in a constant rhythm that, if a person wasn't watching, could be mistaken for the steady beat of someone hammering on an anvil. Claire's muscles ached simply watching them duel. Both men's faces gleamed with sweat. Their feet shuffled back and forth with each attack and parry. She didn't see either of them blink.

Suddenly Nate's opponent lunged to the side, swept his foot through the still burning coals, and kicked the red-glowing pieces at Nate. Claire gasped as they pelted Nate's pants and shirt. He didn't seem to notice. Other than a narrowing of his eyes, Nate gave no sign that he felt anything.

“That's enough playing,” he said.

In a move that was little more than a blur to Claire, Nate grabbed his pistol and hurled it. The metal connected with the man's face with a sickening crunch. Claire shuddered. The man dropped his sword, pressed both hands to his nose, and groaned in agony. Blood poured from between his fingers and underneath his palms. Claire almost felt sorry for him.

Nate, apparently, didn't. He simply strolled over, grabbed his pistol, and tucked it back into his pants. Then, using his sword, he pierced the man's belly and simply watched him fall. He'd barely hit the ground when Nate turned his back and strode for Claire.

“Do you have the flint?”

She gaped at Nate for a moment, disconcerted that he could walk away so easily, without so much as a hitch in his stride or a hint of remorse in his eyes.

“I, um, no. It's over there.” She pointed to the wood pile.

“Get it. I'll get their weapons.”

She nodded. Once she had the cool metal in her hand, she glanced at Nate. He'd gathered their pistols and at some point had also taken her bag from the crates because he shoved them in there now. Then he walked to the man Claire had killed and stood over him a moment. With a wet, slurring noise, he pulled her knife from the man's chest. He wiped it clean and came to her again.

“This is yours?”

She nodded and took it back when he held it for her. She tucked it back in her boot, knowing the first chance she had she'd wash it properly in water. With soap.

“He didn't hurt you?” Nate asked, lifting her chin with his fingers.

Claire flinched. Now that she had a moment to think on it, the throbbing in her jaw came back with a vengeance. Nate's eyes narrowed.

“He hit me in the jaw.” Claire wiggled it, then pressed her hand to it when a bolt of pain coursed up her face.

His gaze softened. “And you'd finally gotten ridden of Sid's bruise.”

He moved her hand, kissed the area tenderly. It was such a contrast to the man who'd killed so easily a moment ago. She'd known before he could be cold. Hadn't she watched him leave James in the street after knocking him unconscious? Hadn't she witnessed how cutting his words could be? But this, the easy way he'd killed, wasn't anything like what she'd seen him do before and it made Claire uneasy.

What had Nate done since the orphanage to enable him to take a life and walk away without remorse?

 

 

Where the devil is it?” James muttered. He jammed the shovel into the ground, rested his arm on the end of the shaft, and dropped his head on his arm. His back was in agony. Standing straight was no longer a possibility. He feared he'd be forever stooped like an old man.

Around him piles of freshly turned dirt were everywhere. The constant scrape of shoveling continued, though the pace was much slower than what they'd begun at. The scoops of soil that flew out of the holes his men were working in were getting smaller and smaller as the night wore on. Lanterns flickered near each open pit, but the only thing found thus far were wooden boxes filled with bones. He knew because he'd looked. After a while, they'd stopped opening them and simply lifted the caskets. The weightlessness of them was enough to tell them they didn't contain anything of value.

He shook his head dejectedly and swallowed. He grimaced at the taste of dirt in his mouth. Leaving his shovel piercing the ground, James shuffled to where he'd had the fresh water brought. He didn't take much, just enough to get the grittiness out of his mouth. He turned as two of his men ran forward. They'd been sent to the ship for more candles. If they were going to dig all night, they'd run out of light before much longer. It surprised James that they hadn't found it yet. It was a substantial treasure; they should have found some of it by now.

“Sir!”

A boy who'd only been on James's ship for near a year and was eager to please held out a fistful of candles as he ran. He'd nearly reached James when he tripped and fell. The candles went sprawling and the thinner, taller ones broke into pieces.

James never went without his weapon, and he drew it now, pointed the tip of it until it nearly touched the end of the boy's nose. Tired and frustrated, he was more than ready to pull the trigger. The boy knew it as well as his eyes went large enough to swallow the rest of his face. James drew the hammer.

The boy closed his eyes and turned his head. James chuckled and pressed the weapon hard against the boy's cheek.

He saw it then, just a breath away from the boy's nose. A rock with what appeared to be markings on it.

“Get out of my way,” he growled as he lowered the hammer and put away his weapon. The lad didn't have to be told twice. He leapt to his feet and began gathering the candles, muttering his apologies the entire time.

“Blast it, shut your damn mouth!” James roared. “And somebody bring me more light!”

Within moments three lanterns lit up what James wanted to see. His fingers traced the letters on the rock.
SF
. The
Santa Francesca
. Relief poured through him like a cooling rain. He'd done it! He'd finally done it.

“Two of you go fetch the men from camp. We're going to need everyone for this.”

“Alone at peace.”
Well
, James thought, looking at the rock,
not any longer
.

They'd already begun digging when the same two men that had run for camp returned, alone and pale.

“Well? Where are they?”

“Dead, sir.”

James steeled his mouth. He didn't need to ask how. He knew. Nate. “All of them?”

“Aye.”

“Dammit!” James spun around. “Horace, post some guards. Four of our men are dead and I won't have any more die while we dig this up.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time the sky was lightening with the approach of dawn, they'd unearthed the treasure. Other than stopping to catch their breath, James and his men had worked relentlessly. No man felt his tired muscles any longer. With each chest found, they became more spirited and gained more energy. Whoops of joy filled the night as piece after piece was lifted out of the ground. They used ropes and the sturdy trunks of calabash trees as leverage to heave the heavier trunks and barrels from the hole. These were set next to everything else they'd found thus far.

There were dirt-smeared metal chests and strong boxes, wooden crates with frayed ropes tied around them, and what must have been hundreds of bulging leather satchels. And there were barrels. Loads of barrels filled with glittering coins.

Better still, there'd been no trouble from Nate and the boy.

James took a deep, satisfied breath.
What the devil?
Turning, he saw the smoke and glow of flames that seemed to encompass the whole of the beach where they'd found the other three chests. It hadn't been dawn lighting the sky, it was fire.

“Holy hell,” he muttered.

“Captain!” Horace came running, his dirty hands pointing.

“I've seen it.”

“They're signaling their ship, sir.”

James studied the orange glow. “Yes, but to what purpose, Horace? To lead their ship to that beach or to steer them away from it?”

“Captain?”

James took a deep, contemplative breath. “The fire could be a trap. If we panic and sail our ship out, is Nate going to be waiting to attack us? We know his ship isn't here, we sailed around to be sure, but there are other islands nearby. They could be within easy hailing distance. On the other hand, if we run toward the fire, it's possible his men have already arrived and are laying in wait for us.”

He looked at the rows of treasure, at the casks and barrels, and cursed. Here it had been he—James—that had thought to let Nate lead him to the treasure. He'd had visions of Nate doing all the work so that he could sweep in and take it. But what if that had been Nate's plan, to let James think he'd won when all along he'd been led into a trap?

After all, it wasn't Nate that was weary from digging all night, it was James and his crew. He cursed again. Some of the treasure would need to be carried with the aid of a travois, of which there was no time to build. And if, by some miracle, they could load the treasure before Nate's ship arrived, they had no hope of outsailing it, not with the extra weight impeding their speed.

If he took his crew to the fire, was Nate simply going to slip into the opposite bay and blast his ship, which wasn't heavily guarded? Or was his crew already hidden in the trees, waiting to execute James and his men the minute they came into view? Nate had already killed four of James's men; killing more wouldn't matter to him.

But if James ignored the fire and tried to load the treasure, there was every possibility Nate could be there, or arrive shortly, and catch them with their hands full, unable to return fire. If he split his men, sent some toward the fire while the rest dealt with the gold, all he'd accomplish would be to cut his firepower in half, thus diminishing any odds of winning. If James took all his men to his ship to wait there, Nate could slip in, load the treasure from the other beach, and James would be none the wiser.