Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1) (5 page)

I threw my arms around his waist, then turned and ran down the gangway steps. When I closed my cabin door I started to bolt it, then changed my mind. A bolted door would suggest there was something worth hiding behind it, and could be easily kicked in anyway. I gathered up my things, hiding them under the berth so none would see a woman was onboard, then crawled into the primitive wardrobe built into the wall.

For the next hour I heard the
Sophie
being annihilated. Though I had no fear of water, my stomach was in knots when I realized the probability that we could go to the bottom, and that I would die there, trapped in the airless cabinet. Then the planked walls around me shuddered as their ship closed alongside ours, preparing to board us.

I could hear it all. I heard the men fighting on the deck above, the shots and the screams, then, far worse, the silence that descended over the decks. Finally the sounds drifted down the gangway, the thud of boots, voices in a language I didn't recognize.

I knew, of course, who had won the day, but I did as my uncle told me, for what seemed an eternity. They were all over the ship, and my heart lurched violently when I heard them enter my cabin. I kept still, aware they were searching, knowing what was bound to happen.

After so long a time in darkness, when the door swung open the light blinded me, and rough hands reached in, two men shouting with undisguised glee, though I fought and kicked with everything that was in me. I struck my head as I was hauled out, and my knees buckled. I heard their laughter, my heart plummeting into my stomach.

There was excited chattering in the gangway, and I knew it was over their discovery. More of them came crowding into the little cabin. I'd been stunned by the blow, my head throbbing, and it was like a kaleidoscope, a broken series of eager and ugly male faces, coarse and excited voices, all in a language unknown to me. And laughter. The laughter was burned into my mind, branded there, as the hands began to explore, grasping my breasts and stomach, even pulling at my skirts.

Dazed, I realized another man entered, and the air shifted. Everyone turned, and my eyes followed theirs. He looked like a European, despite the tanned skin. He wore no particular sign of rank, but when he appeared, they fell silent. He was dressed as the others, loose breeches tucked into heavy boots and a linen shirt with a leather vest, a brace of pistols in his belt. Thick strands of dark brown hair hung loose from the leather queue that bound the rest, hair so long it looked as though he had never cut it, like Samson, as if he had no scissors or blade, which I could see was not the case. The curved, razor-sharp cutlass was sheaved, but still hung at his side.

I didn't notice the crude bottle in his hand, until he raised it up, saying something that made them all laugh. He set it on the table, smiling, his eyes glancing over me. Then he snapped something in a low voice that sounded like
get out
in any language, jerking his head toward the door. The room began to clear, the mass of unwashed villainy shuffling out, obviously disappointed. Only two remained, as if they had the right, one seemingly a European as well, the other darker, like a Turk.

Only three now. Small comfort. The pain was passing, and for good or ill, my head was beginning to clear. The darker one had my arm, and he took my shoulders to pull me back against his chest. I realized he was offering me for inspection to this man so obviously in charge standing before us.

I was startled to hear my own tongue from him. He sauntered back to the table and picked up my book, examining the spine curiously as he said, "I was told there was a woman. I thought it would be the captain's fat wife."

As soon as he spoke I knew him for a Frenchman. The tall man near him laughed, and I assumed he was French, as well.

He tossed the book aside, then stepped closer. His hand swept through my hair that had tumbled down in the fray, then brazenly over my breast, murmuring, "A face like an angel." I pretended not to understand. I didn't want to understand him, or communicate in any way, feeling it the best tactic. He smiled pleasantly, as if we were taking tea.

"A delightful surprise. I didn't expect such good fortune."

I said nothing, staring though him.

"I've been in your captain's cabin. My cabin now. This ship is outbound from Martinique. You speak French, do you not, Mademoiselle?"

I refused him a reply, avoiding his eyes.

"Mademoiselle, I repeat, do you speak French?"

My heart racing, I clung to my defiant silence.

He leaned forward, as if imparting a secret, and said, "I think that you do. And it would be most unwise to lie to me."

I bit my lip, terrified by his silken tone. With cat-like speed, he yanked me away from the man holding me, taking one of my wrists in his hand, twisting it behind me and upward, his voice brutal as I was slammed against his chest.

"Parle-tu Francais? Dites-moi!
Maintenant
!"

"Yes!" I cried in our now shared language, defeated.

He softened at once, releasing me, and I stood before him, sullenly rubbing my arm. As if in apology, he passed his hand so gently over my cheek I barely felt anything but the air. It was then I met his eyes, and wished I hadn't. Set in the perfect symmetry of his face, hard lines and angled planes, they were dark green eyes, glowing with a burst of amber at the center, looking almost feral. It was a devilish, compelling feature, and a disturbing one. His voice was low and throaty, as if set in a permanent whisper, and a thin veneer of false civility.

"You remind me of someone I saw, long ago. Before I came to Salé. I'd been broken, and was only a mate. We were transporting a great lady to Le Havre. I was on my knees, swabbing the deck, and I looked up into the sunlight and watched her come aboard. It was as if an angel had descended from above."

He paused, with a bitter smile. "But apparently I looked too long at the sun. The light was not for me. One of her escort said I had no right to stare. He gave me this," he added, running his thumb along a slim scar that ran the length of his cheek. "He laid my face open with a horsewhip."

He reached out now for my own unscarred cheek, smoothing his hand over it. In the deep, rasping voice, the soothing sounds he made were insinuating. It was as if he were trying to gentle me, like a skittish pet.

"I have never forgotten it. And you,
ma chère
, are far more beautiful."

My mind raced. I knew that in wartime, any ship was a potential prize, and battles could go on for years in the prize courts over the ownership of vessel and cargo. I also knew my father would pay a ransom to have me returned. But I could take no hope in either, for this was not the Indies, and he was not a privateer. In Barbary and the Maghreb, with the most vicious pirates on earth, such etiquette was forsaken. These men took what they wanted, from anyone who had not hired them, and sometimes even then.

He alone would have been bad enough, but the fact that there were three of them was ratcheting up my fear into panic. The one near him looked much like his captain, long brown hair that sported a braid, though he was tall and lanky. The Turk had a shaved head, with a strange tattoo snaking down his cheek. Still standing just behind me, he smelled like a goat.

The captain stepped to the table and uncorked the large bottle, running it beneath his nose, as if he'd expected the finest cognac. His eyes scanned the room, finding the crude metal cup overturned on the table. Then he did a strange thing, the ominous reason behind it not yet clear. He poured from the bottle and brought the cup to me. When I turned my face away, he forced it to my lips, his hand at the back of my head.

"
Boire
,
chérie
." The eyes darkened. "Drink it.  It will make it easier."

I'd never had anything but wine at table, laced with water. When the cup came to my lips, I recognized it at once; black lightening, obviously carried from Martinique by one of the crew with a taste for it. It burned like fire, and I choked, but still managed to get most of it down, the rest running out either side of my mouth onto my clothes. To my dismay he poured another to the brim.

The stinging tears welled, and I shook my head, but he was unimpressed, ordering me to drink. It went down a little easier, since I knew what to expect. But the effects, unlike wine, were sudden and potent. I was already feeling it, making my blood warm and my legs weak, my head spinning.

Perhaps it gave me the courage to push out the question haunting me.

"What have you done with my uncle?"

Surprised, he asked, "The captain of this vessel is your blood?"

"Yes," I hissed. "And a better man than you could ever hope to be!"

He studied me once more, with an expression that seemed nearly indulgent.

"Wait here, my sweet." Glancing at the other two, he snapped, "Watch her. I'll be back." At the door he turned and repeated, with a note of warning, "I said wait."

I found, for some insane reason, I felt even less safe once he'd gone, as if such an animal could ever be a protector. The Turk sat me down none too gently in the same hard chair where I took my meals, before the long table that somehow still held most of my breakfast things, some overturned, the rest on the floor.

They murmured to each other in their strange tongue, all the while drinking from the bottle, handing it off to one another. The time stretched, expanding, and my nerves were drawn ever tauter. The Frenchman seemed as if a hot wire ran through him, tormenting his flesh, and I sensed his blood was still up from battle. Every pull from the bottle was a longer one, yet it didn't seem to settle him, but rather had the opposite effect. He began to pace the little cabin, his eyes continually drawn back to me where I sat absolutely still, trying to make myself invisible.

At last something within him, that hot, coiled wire, seemed to snap. He shouted an order to the Turk, who was obviously lower in rank, though he didn't leap to obey, until the same words were shouted again.

Without warning they took me, one by the hands and the other by the feet. Though I struggled and kicked, shouting every profanity I knew at the top of my lungs, I was no match for them, and was, in fact, nothing more than a mild annoyance. I felt myself lifted and then slammed onto the table, what was left of the crockery knocked out of their way, crashing to the floor. The Turk holding my arms bundled them into one hand and then shoved the other down my gown, groping for my breasts. When he found one, he squeezed it triumphantly, then gripped both my hands once more. They were in tight fists, and he brought them farther down, rubbing them against the front of his canvas breeches, leaning against me and making a low, keening moan.

The Frenchman let go and walked away, and I began to kick even harder, trying to swing my legs off the table. The Turk swore, pulling my arms, as the other returned, carrying a piece of leather that was hanging from a nearby hook. It had been used around my largest trunk. Unhurriedly, he pulled the knife from his boot and cut it in half, tossing the pieces to the Turk with a curt command that was obeyed with a chilling grin. As the Frenchman held me down, pawing and tearing at my skirts, the straps were tied with a slip knot to my wrists, one bound to each table leg.

I continued to fight, as if by instinct, testing the bonds that were cruelly effective, for despite the slack in them, the more I pulled, the tighter they were drawn around my wrists. I began to kick again as I heard the sound of his sword belt dropping to the floor, then loosed a piercing scream. I knew he was already unbuttoning his breeches.

I drew breath for another scream, leaving only a moment of silence. Into it spilled a gravelly voice, drifting from the doorway, deceptively smooth. In French.

"I ordered you to wait."

His hands still gripping my legs, his countryman answered without even turning.

"Why? Did you have something else in mind for her?"

Tied helplessly to the table, I could see little. But just enough, with what I heard, to know what happened. The Frenchman was snatched from my sight, and I heard the sound of the blow, heard him hit the wall, then the cabin floor.

"When I give you an order, you don't ask why!"

The Turk behind me stepped back, and I could smell the fear, the uncertainty.

"Get out. Both of you."

From the floor came the outraged shout, "We led the boarders! You promised us a reward!"

"I promised a reward. I did not say what it would be."

"
I
have decided what it will be. Her." Ominously, he added, "We're not going anywhere. She is our prize."

I sensed the Turk watching, unmoving. He clearly understood enough French to realize what was being said. Somehow I sensed that these two men had clashed before. Their hatred was palpable, and I realized I was only a pawn in this, the scrap lying on the ground between two snarling dogs.

"No. I might have shared her. But only with men who know how to obey. Now, get up, you worthless bastard, and get out."

The Frenchman stood, staring his captain down.

"If you take her, no man will trust you again. I'll make certain of that."

"Is this a challenge, Baptiste?"

After a heavy silence, he spat, "Yes."

The reply was remarkably relaxed.

"The Code Duello is sacred. This is not. You have no right to a challenge. I have not broken my word. I will give you and Rashid five times your share from the cargo. And the two of you will split the specie that was in the captain's cabin. That is more than enough for what you have done. If you're tired of your own whores, use it to buy another. It's far more than the value of the woman."