Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance (3 page)

“Keep her steady. I’ll ready a party to go over.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Steele reloaded his pistol and ensured he had plenty of extra shots as well as two dirks and a sword. He chose a fistful of men and waited for the grapple hooks to be thrown over. The churning sea made lowering a plank impossible, so they used ropes and swung over onto the barque.

The deck of the other ship appeared as something a dog had chewed and spat out. Twisted and torn sails lay ravished among the clutter of timbers which used to be the mainmast. Two-dozen men stood motionless, their hands in the air, their countenance distrustful. He didn’t blame them; he’d be leery in their position as well.

“Gather and secure the prisoners.”

Wounded sailors shuffled and limped as they were herded toward the bow. They were tied to the base of the fore and mizzenmast while Steele kept a wary eye to ensure knives weren’t pulled from sashes or boots.

“Check the injured,” he said once the others were secured.

Because it was a plot he’d seen—and used—too often not to be guarded, he waited until the men lying bleeding amidst the devastation were accounted for.

“Dead.”

“Dead, Captain.”

Only when all had been checked—fifteen corpses in total—and the threat above deck was gone, did he lower his pistol and step to the gunwale. The fog remained thick. Even so, he saw the longboat fade into the gray as it made its escape. Counting the shadows, three men had escaped. He didn’t give them another moment’s thought.

Maneuvering through the wreckage, Steele made his way to where the main hatch should be. It was completely hidden underneath the thick heavy canvas that had once been the foresail. He tucked his pistol into his waist. His men, seeing what needed to be done, stepped to help. Other than some heaving and grunting, the task was accomplished without sound.

With the hatch now accessible, Steele nodded. Two of his crew lifted the access while their captain once again ensured his pistol was at the ready. With the weapon firmly in his palm, he signaled his men to follow him down.

The hold was equally as battered as what they’d seen above decks. Holes in the hull let in sickly light, allowing them to see without benefit of lanterns. The walls of the hold had been decimated and barrels which had once been secured now bobbed and rolled on the water covering Steele’s boots. The smell of burned gunpowder and seared flesh shoved its way to the back of Steele’s throat. A few cadavers floated in the brackish water, their skin unusually pale in the dim light. But there was too much clutter; too many dark shadows to be certain if there were any survivors. With weapons in hand, they fanned out.

Wet air crept through the gun ports. The smell of death, the silence—other than the water splashing as he and his men walked through it—added an eeriness to the scene. Normally, Steele didn’t pay much heed to that sort of rubbish. If he found a ship, he plundered it, sank it, and moved on. Yet, as he walked around the barrels, as he poked the floating bodies with his boot, he couldn’t escape the uneasiness sliding around his mouth like soured wine. Glancing behind him, he saw nothing but the three men he’d brought along doing the same thing he was. Turning round, he noticed the brig ahead, its door gaping open. It didn’t mean a prisoner was loose. He had no way of knowing whether they’d even had a prisoner. But Steele wasn’t taking any chances. His finger curled a little tighter on the trigger. Inching toward the door of the cell, he raised his weapon.

And heard someone humming behind him.

He whipped around, dropped into a crouch and aimed the pistol. He’d expected a ragged sailor, a no-good pirate clinging to what was left of his sorry, wretched life. He’d never expected this.

The gun went slack in his palm. Holy Mother of God.

“H
elp me,” she
said, her voice croaking as she reached out a blood-soaked hand. “I don’t want to die.”

Cale hadn’t had to bear witness to his wife bleeding. In fact, when he’d come home fifteen years earlier to find his wife and son gone, he’d had no way of knowing if the blood smeared onto the floor was Catherine’s or Caden’s. It hadn’t stopped him, however, from envisioning the worst over the years and while the visions never happened in battle, he’d never come upon a bleeding woman in one before.

Surely that had to be why an image of a lifeless and beaten Catherine formed so vividly in his mind. There was no other explanation as it was the only similarity he could see between this woman, whose hair was as black as his own, and Catherine, who’d been as fair as their son. Where Catherine had been a mother and wife, this one, with her plunging bodice, appeared to be no more than a common whore. But for the moment, trollop or not, she was alive.

It was up to him if she were to stay that way.

“Please,” she begged from where she lay slumped against the bulkhead. “I beg you, help me.”

Her accent, despite the rawness of her voice, was unmistakably Irish. Her hair hung in wet strands over her shoulders. Her face was pale and bore the marks of a blooming bruise on her cheek while an angry red mark slashed across her neck. He saw no life-threatening injuries and no reason for the blood on her hand until his eyes fell lower to the crimson stain on the right side of her stomach. She pressed both hands to the wound, whimpering as she did. Despite her attempts to stanch the flow, blood seeped continuously through her fingers.

“No survivors down here, Captain.”

“I’ve got one here.” He called over his shoulder, already knowing what he was going to do.

Stomach wounds were often deadly and time was of the essence. He needed to get her aboard his ship and in front of Jacques, his ship’s doctor, as soon as possible. If she died because of her injury, so be it, but she wouldn’t die because he refused to help. Securing his pistol into his waistband, he stepped to her side.

She shrunk back as he neared.

He hesitated. “You wanted help, did you not?”

She nodded but the wariness remained. Given her situation, and the way her eyes darted to his pistol, he couldn’t blame her.

“I’ll help you.” It was more than he’d been able to do for his wife. Snarling, he slammed the door on Cale and his blasted memories. It had been fifteen years for the love of God. When would this godforsaken guilt ever ease?

He knelt and she flinched, her whole body shuddered.

Dammit, he hated to think what she’d been through to react in such a way.

“I won’t hurt you”—he hurried to reassure—“but we need to move.” Then, ignoring her reactions, he lifted her into his arms.

Despite sodden clothing, she weighed next to nothing. He turned, saw the surprise on his crewmen’s faces. They said nothing, however, as he splashed loudly and headed for the stairs.

“Gather weapons, supplies, anything you can,” he said as he passed them. “I’m going back to the
Revenge
.”

He gave the identical order above deck. They were to take the bounty, salvage anything useful and once it was on board the
Revenge
, they were to light the other ship afire. He was always well out of range when the flames reached the powder room and the ship blew to pieces.

“And the prisoners?” Smoky asked.

He felt the stare of the captives latching onto his coat with desperate hope. Since he hadn’t seen the captain of this vessel among either the dead or those tied to the remaining masts, he assumed the man had made his escape in the longboat. A crew without a captain was always much easier to bring to heel.

Despite the unusual circumstance of having a woman in his arms, Steele gave the usual orders. Once the other ship was picked clean the prisoners were to be cut loose. They could go down with the ship he intended to burn or they could jump and take their chances swimming. It didn’t matter which to Steele.

He killed to protect himself and his crew. But he wouldn’t slaughter unarmed men. He wouldn’t have that kind of blood on his hands.

Not when he already had more than enough innocent blood on his hands.

His wife’s and his son’s.

*

Feeling someone watching
her, Grace came awake with a start.

She recognized the bearded man leaning over her as the man who’d agreed to help her and who’d taken her from Roche’s ship, tossed over his shoulder as he’d swung over to his own. It was the last thing she remembered.

What had he done to her? While she remained dressed, she was very aware she was lying in a bed, likely in his cabin, and he’d yet to tell her what he was doing looming over her.

Roche was a fierce opponent. If she were here, it meant Roche had lost the battle, which meant this man was even more dangerous.

She scrambled back. Pain bit into her side and she winced.

“Stop it.” His voice was rough as rocks under a carriage. He grabbed her shoulders. “You’ll reopen the sutures.”

The breadth of his shoulders was much wider than Roche’s. His grip, equally as strong, pressed her shoulders into the mattress. The silence in the cabin revealed all she needed to know; there was nobody around to help her. Despair threatened to wash over her. Had she simply escaped one prison to land herself in another? Frustration and hopelessness threatened to consume her but she willed them back. She would escape. Her eyes darted about the cabin looking for a weapon, hoping to find a way.

“Don’t bother constructing a plan of escape. You’ve nothing to fear on this ship.”

She’d be a fool to take him at his word but, rather than argue and risk antagonizing him, she kept her thoughts to herself.

“You don’t believe me,” he stated.

“No, as you’ve yet to release me.”

He raised his hands, stepped away from the berth. Grace drew a deep breath and felt her fear recede.

“Why would I bother saving you and seeing your wound tended if I wanted to hurt you?”

’Twas sound reasoning but perhaps he’d only helped her as he intended to use her the way Roche had. Grace pulled the blanket to her chin. A bolt of pain pierced where Roche had stabbed her and she gasped.

Her captor sighed, a heavy one filled with impatience. “I told you to settle down, did I not? You’ve a nasty gash and it doesn’t need to be reopened.”

A nasty gash, as though she’d fallen and scraped her knee rather than being almost being murdered. If Roche had had his way he’d have killed her and—

Her hands pressed against her belly, lightly this time. “Did you—” she swallowed. “Was it you who closed the wound?”

He stepped to the rectangular table and leaned against it. Corded forearms crossed over a broad chest.

“No, it was Jacques,” he answered.

“Did Jacques know what he was about?”

“You’re alive, are you not?”

Aye, she was, though she had no way of knowing if it were through luck or skill. What she did know was she didn’t seem to be suffering from a fever. Surely it meant the man had known what he was doing. Still, she wouldn’t be able to rest until she spoke to this Jacques.

“May I speak with him?”

He regarded her silently, his cool, blue eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts. His black-as-night hair was pulled back into a tail. The length and thickness of his beard suggested he hadn’t shaved in years. His clothes weren’t the fancy trappings Roche had worn. He wore a simple red shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a black, unbuttoned vest, faded, black trousers trimmed with a sash around his waist. Despite his long hair and beard, his clothing appeared clean, and he hadn’t smelled vile when he’d loomed above her. He wore no weapons, but she saw two pistols within easy reach on the table behind him.

“I don’t make it a habit to shoot women.”

Neither his face nor his eyes gave away anything. The lack of emotion was unnerving. As was the fact he could guess her thoughts so accurately.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Grace.”

“You’re a long way from Ireland, Grace.”

Truer words had never been spoken and were a wound that refused to heal. She’d had months, however, on Roche’s ship where she’d learned to bury her emotions, where she’d learned to hold her tongue. It remained silent now.

“What of your family?”

Her parents were in Montserrat, though she had as little intention of telling him as she did of returning to them. Her da’s decision had led to the horrors she’d faced, first as an indentured servant then as Roche’s trollop. There was no going back and pretending all was forgiven, as she knew, until the day she died, she’d never forgive him.

“Me family is in Ireland.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve nobody closer?”

“No.”

Lips pursed, he contemplated her words for long moments then nodded, as though he’d come to a decision. “I’m heading to Santo Domingo. I’ll take you there, see to it you’ve a place to stay.”

“And how far would we be from Santo Domingo?”

“Five days’ sail.”

Five days? She had no intention of being on this ship for so long. He could inflict all kinds of shame on her in that amount of time, him and his crew.

“I thought we were near Cartegena. Surely ’tis closer to take me there.”

“It is, but we’ve already changed our heading.”