The buccaneer who arrived topped Rory’s height and breadth,
undoubtedly accounting for his leadership among his smaller crew. The scars of
hard living marred one side of his face, and the thin line of his lips gave
evidence of a cruelty their other tormentors had not exhibited. Rory abandoned
all hope of reasonable compromise, but fate had left him little choice. One
bullet would put an end to him, and the French captain wore a pistol in his
belt.
“The lady is an heiress whose fortune lies in my hands,”
Rory announced in his lamentable French. “We are worth more to you alive than
dead. But understand this: harm one hair of her head, and I will not give the
order that would release your ransom. Kill me, and there will be none to sign
the order. Do you understand?” His French was poor, but not so poor that the
man did not understand. The greed leaping to his eyes was unmistakable.
Rory thanked the heavens that Alyson had no understanding of
French. The lewd noises and whistles were understandable in any language,
however, and she clung to his arm as they walked the gauntlet of the main deck
to the plank that served as access to the other vessel.
Rory wrapped his arm around her and pulled her head against
his chest when he saw Margoulis and his officers tied to the mainmast. Undoubtedly
the remainder of the crew had decided to side with the pirates. In these
waters, it wasn’t unusual. The men lived from day to day, hand to mouth,
heeding no loyalty. Any leader would do. But the officers would be a subversive
quality and thus expendable. There was nothing Rory could do for them, even
when he saw the pile of debris set afire at their feet.
He relinquished sword and dagger, and in return his captors
allowed his hands to go unbound as they walked past the bound crew. He had to
use this limited freedom in Alyson’s behalf. She was the injured party here.
Margoulis had risked her life. Rory offered him no sympathy.
Rory feared his own actions were little better than the same
gamble, but he could not have drawn the sword across Alyson’s throat any more
than he could have placed it to his own. Should he lose as Margoulis had done,
he was throwing away both her life and honor.
They were led down into a dank, unlit hold and shoved into
the narrow confines of a cell, which was luckily unoccupied by the usual
drunken or insubordinate sailors. The door slammed behind them with only a
minimum of speculation on who would have the lady first. The dividing of spoils
was already going on overhead.
Alyson retreated to the far corner of the smelly space and
stared at him with wild-eyed fear. For someone who had once been inclined to
show no emotion, she had made amazing progress, Rory thought wryly. All thanks
to him, he imagined.
“What did they say?” she demanded.
Although terrified, she still turned to him with some
semblance of trust, a trust he did not deserve. She could have no idea of what
lay ahead of them, and Rory had no words to tell her. The depressing stink
smelled of a prison for condemned men. He belonged here. She didn’t.
“They are holding us for ransom,” he answered curtly.
Wisely, she did not ask of the others. The smoke of a
burning ship would penetrate even these depths before long. The rain was
holding off, and the wind would sweep the flames through Margoulis’ vessel as
quickly as the wave that battered it earlier. With the storm approaching, the
pirates would not even attempt to carry the captured vessel to shore. If they
had any intelligence at all, they would be sailing for the nearest protected
cove.
That the pirate ship was under way, Rory could tell, but the
argument above did not bode well. The giant of a captain might argue in favor
of ransom, but his younger, more hot-blooded crew would have other ideas. Women
were few and far apart; ones like Alyson were nearly nonexistent. Only the
captain’s prowess in commanding order would stand between Alyson and certain
rape.
Alyson crossed her arms and shivered as if she had read his
thoughts. Pale eyes turned beseechingly to him, trusting him, pleading to him
for reassurance, and something inside Rory snapped. He should have killed her
while he had the chance. His guilt had brought her to this, and his indecision
would destroy her innocence. The thought of Alyson’s trusting innocence given
up to the repeated debauchery of the filthy swine above broke the few remaining
threads of sanity.
When he heard shots fired above and footsteps on the ladder,
he swung around, and with the force of his body behind the blow, hit Alyson
squarely under the chin.
Like a wounded dog, Rory crouched beside Alyson’s body. The
footsteps in the gangway had retreated. They had been anchored offshore for
some time, and no one had come for them. There had been more shots, and he no
longer heard the angry commands of Courvais. If there had been a mutiny, he had
no hope. Raw anguish tore at him. He should have killed Alyson when he had the
chance.
The blast of cannon broke through the brawl, followed by
howls of fury. He had noted cannon on deck, but it did not make sense that the
mutineers would fire on empty sea or their own ship. Margoulis couldn’t
possibly have cut himself free and sailed after them. Rory could think of no
other mad enough to brave the storm.
Heavy anchor chains rattled in the hold. Surely the madmen
didn’t mean to set sail? The ship heaved wildly even in this protected bay, and
the timbers shook and squealed in the wind. Had they been fired upon from
shore?
The cannon roared again. This time Rory felt the shudder of
the ship as a ball veered off the stern. They were being fired upon!
Rory dragged an unconscious Alyson into his arms. Sinking
would be preferable to the fate that otherwise awaited them. He tried to
imagine what a life with Alyson would have been like, but he had no experience
in his adult life to compare it with, and his imagination failed him.
Alyson moaned and stirred, and Rory held her tighter. Would
she hate him in heaven, or would she understand and forgive? An angel would
forgive, but Alyson was a very human angel. If he could not forgive himself, he
could scarcely expect her to. He had wanted too much, and as a consequence, he
had lost all.
The firing above was sporadic as ships fought each other and
the wind. Chaos apparently commanded the buccaneers. Whoever fired upon them
had picked the perfect time to attack. Unfortunately, they seemed to be
shooting very badly.
Weary in body and soul, Rory wrapped Alyson in his arms and
buried his face against her hair. He waited for death, no longer certain if God
existed or if it mattered. He had been wrong about everything he had done since
he had first met Alyson. Possibly he had been wrong about everything he had
ever done in his life. He had never been meant to be a white knight to rescue
fair maidens. If they did not sink this ship soon, he would take leave of what
remained of his senses.
By the time the firing stopped, Rory had no surprise left in
him. Fate or God had made him the puppet of a giant joke. His strings were
being pulled by an invisible hand, guided by a cruel mind. When he realized the
pirate ship was being boarded, he merely waited to see what would happen next.
The sight of the blue and white-braided coats of His Majesty’s
Royal Navy on the seamen bashing through the locked door seemed only fitting.
Rory brushed a stand of ebony hair from Alyson’s forehead,
then rose to his feet, holding her draped across his arms. Those strands that
had come loose from their combs hung nearly to the floor, but he was aware only
of her shallow breathing. He had accomplished nothing but his own destruction.
Perhaps that would be best for Alyson in the end.
The officer looked at the defiant stance of the half-naked
auburn-haired man clutching the lady in his arms and hesitated. There was something
mad behind those dark eyes. Just as he would not attempt to remove a bone from
a mad dog’s grip, he made no attempt to remove the man’s burden.
“Captain Rory Maclean?” the officer inquired. At Rory’s nod,
he added, “I have orders to place you under arrest, sir. If you would come with
me . . .” To his relief, the madman followed without protest.
On deck, a civilian broke away from the troops securing the
ship. The wind howled through the masts, but his roar of rage could be heard
over the storm. “He’s killed her! The scoundrel’s killed her! I want him
hanged! I want his head right here and now!”
Rory halted where his guard indicated and awaited his fate.
His gaze moved with disinterest over Cranville’s less than immaculate
appearance. The man appeared to have undergone a dramatic change in the last
few months. Gone were the fashionable wig and expensive silk coat, replaced by
the earl’s thick dark hair and a more practical broadcloth coat with no
adornment but a cravat. The lazy, bored expression of a spoiled dandy had
hardened into the fury of a tormented man. Overall, Rory rather approved of the
difference.
“Call the surgeon! Get her to a bunk. She’s still alive.”
The officer wearing a captain’s insignia shouted his commands.
He ignored Rory until the physician arrived. When Rory
relinquished his burden without protest, the captain yelled over the voice of
the storm, “Well, Maclean, it looks like we’re well met, wouldn’t you agree?
You have your lucky stars to thank that we spotted that fire.”
“Don’t welcome the bastard,” Cranville snarled. “Hang him.”
The captain shot the earl a mild look of reproof. “He must
be brought up on charges and tried. If he is guilty, he will be hanged with all
due process.” Turning to Rory, he emphasized, “I’m certain once the lady
recovers, she will be willing to testify against him.”
Rory met the man’s gaze without flinching. “My wife will do
as she thinks best, but I believe legally she cannot be made to do any such
thing.”
“Wife! You scum! If you think you’ll pass off some heathen
ceremony as a marriage . . .”
Rory’s impassive glare halted the earl’s tirade. “The
governor sent the marriage papers to London in his official packet. Signed and
witnessed copies are aboard the
Sea Witch.
You may verify it directly in
Barbados if you intend returning there. The lady is my wife. I will recommend
her into your care, Captain, not to this scoundrel’s.”
Since the prisoner was behaving with more gentlemanly aplomb
than the irate nobleman, the captain nodded agreement.
As the wind raged about them and the waves threatened to
toss the two ships into the black sea, Rory’s hands were tied behind his back
and the small party returned to the navy frigate.
***
Alyson stirred and groaned. Her head pounded, her stomach
felt queasy, and her throat was parched. Her jaw ached, and she settled back
against a welcoming softness with a whimper.
A rustle indicated she was not alone, but she could not wake
to any desire to discover the person’s identity. A moment later, she heard
voices at the door, and a second presence entered, a much larger presence, but
she was too tired to care. She sank once more into a deep, protective sleep.
“Well, how is she? Can she talk?” Cranville searched
anxiously past the surgeon’s shoulder to the discolored face lying unconscious
against the pillows. “Wake her, Buscombe. I cannot bear it any longer.”
The surgeon turned away to lay his hand across the patient’s
cool brow. “Neither can she, my lord.”
Cranville stared at his cousin’s delicate features with
anguish. This was the result of his unthinking actions, and he hated it. He
didn’t like himself very much either. She had been little more than a child
when he had all but driven her from her home and into the arms of a scoundrel.
His poor attempts to right that wrong had failed.
For the rest of his life he must learn to live with the
torment he had caused her. He had to find a way of rectifying his mistakes, and
he would begin by making the man in the hold pay for what he had done.
The next time Alyson woke, she felt darkness and silence.
Not a real silence. Rigging creaked, canvas flapped, but she heard no voices.
Sighing with relief, she opened her eyes.
The dim starlight from the porthole only illuminated
shadows. The lurch and sway of a ship at sea told her where she was to some
extent, but the cabin did not seem familiar.
She lay still, summing up the various aches and pains. None of
them equaled the savage pain ripping at her heart.
She had known Rory would bring her pain from the very start,
but she had persisted in her fantasy of love. She doubted if love existed.
Survival seemed to be the main purpose of life. Well, she had survived. What
now?
By morning she was aware that someone sat guard outside the
cabin door. Desperate for water, she attempted to speak but only a hoarse croak
emerged. Lifting herself on one elbow, she gazed down at her chemise-clad body.
Somebody had removed her skirts, but not her petticoats, and the blanket had
been pulled up to her neck. Her captors were obviously modest people, but she
would prefer to see if she were still in one piece.
Swinging her legs over the side, she decided on the whole it
might be better if she were not in one piece. The parts she discovered ached
abominably, and her stomach seemed prepared to heave its meager contents. A
water pitcher sat in a hole carved for it on the wooden table, and she reached
for the tin mug dangling beside it.
By the time she sipped, someone was questioning her guard.
At a rap on her door, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. She suspected she
looked a fright, but she could think of no reason to worry about it.
At her reply, the door swung open to admit the surgeon. He
regarded her sitting position with approval. Checking and finding no fever, he
bowed formally.
“Good morning, Mrs. Maclean. It is a pleasure to see you
awake this time. Shall I have them send up some broth and tea?”