The Devil's Fire (24 page)

Thatcher screamed something unintelligible and rolled over.

Katherine cocked the pistol. Livingston smiled at her. "Go ahead. Assuming a stroke of luck befalls that shot, I'll die gladly." He extended a hand to the crowd and yelled, "After she’s done with me, stick a spit up her cunt. Your next meal is on me!"

The crowd did not cheer. No one uttered a word. Livingston gave them a foul look. "What is this?" he cried. "A pack of cowardly whores is what I see! Have you never seen a man's guts before?" With that, he leaned over and spit into Thatcher's face.

Katherine stepped closer and aimed the pistol at Livingston's head. He moved back. "It's only got one shot," he warned. "You'd best not miss."

"I won't," she said. She turned, pointed the pistol at Thatcher and fired. His head snapped back and his brains sprayed across the sand. The echoing report was lost in the crash of a tremendous wave. The water washed up along the beach until it touched the trickling streams of Thatcher's blood.

"You bloody cunt!" Livingston bellowed in outrage. He lunged for her, but Griffith was on him before he could get very far. "You cunt! You bloody cunt! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"

Griffith wrestled Livingston to the ground. He threw a wary glance at Katherine. She lowered the gun and turned away. Pirates in the crowd started to mutter to one another; she heard her name over and over. Whether their comments were good or bad, she could not say, and she did not care.

She met the stern gaze of the tallest of the Seven. He acknowledged her with a slight nod of his bulky chin.

"That fat, foul bastard shot me!" screamed Livingston from behind her. "Someone pry this cursed ball from out me bloody shoulder!"

"Best talk to Henry about that," Griffith replied unsympathetically. "The surgeon is dead."

Before noonday, Griffith spirited Katherine back to
Harbinger
, offering no words of dismay or comfort. She suspected that he was angry with her beyond his ability to articulate, but she cared little for his feelings. All that mattered was that Thatcher was out of his misery.

If she'd been gifted with two shots, the second would have found Livingston's forehead. Even so, the quartermaster had done himself in. The silent reactions of the crew spoke volumes. Though they were disgusted with Thatcher's stink, no man deserved such an end.

She doubted that Griffith condoned Livingston's actions. Griffith was a killer, but he was not a man to deal out an excess of cruelty unless it furthered his benefit.

When they returned to
Harbinger
, there were but a few pirates aboard who had not been present for the duel. Griffith rushed Katherine into the cabin and slammed the door behind him.

And then he unleashed his fury upon her.

He smashed her so powerfully with the back of his hand that she was knocked against the table in the center of the room. He moved in for another blow and she momentarily fended him off with a thrust of her legs. He seized one of her ankles and pulled her away from the table. She landed hard on her back. He sat on top of her, straddling her.

"You stupid bitch!" he shouted. For all his anger, there was no hatred in his eyes. He dropped his forehead onto her breast, as though exhausted. When he lifted his head there were tears in his eyes. He shook his head. "He'll kill you."

She ran her fingers through his hair. "You won't let him."

He chuckled sardonically. "I can't be everywhere at once, Katherine. Jesus, what have you done?"

"Thatcher was dead already."

"Yes! He was! And you might've let nature take its course rather than wake Edward Livingston’s wrath!"

"That man’s wrath never sleeps. I could only quicken it. The world is his enemy, and he will kill it one person at a time until someone does the same for him. Are you blind to that?"

"He is my friend."

"The longer you protect me, the closer you are to becoming his enemy. He will murder you if he deems it necessary. He may have tears in his eyes when he does it."

Griffith sighed. "You did right by Thatcher. And I'd wager not a man on that beach, except perhaps Livingston, would disagree."

"Thank you," she said.

He gingerly touched the cheek he had slapped. "I'm sorry," he said. "You make me unwise, Lady Katherine."

She nearly gasped, but stopped herself.
Lady Katherine. Thomas never told you my name; he merely told you the name of his ship. You guessed my name from that.
When first he had uttered the name ‘Katherine,’ her surprise revealed it to be true.
The only thing more disconcerting than this revelation was that she had known it all along.
Stupid. So very stupid.

Instead of slipping out from under him and running as fast as her feet would carry her, she remained under the pirate captain's impenetrable gaze. Instead of spitting hateful curses and clawing his face, as she so intensely desired . . . she smiled.

His fingers found the buttons of her shirt and slowly undid them. He slid off her trousers.

The door was kicked open. Livingston entered. His entire right side was soaked in the blood that had poured out of the wound in his shoulder. He licked his lips when he saw Katherine, who was naked save for the unbuttoned shirt. He had a dull look in his eyes, as if drunk, but Katherine guessed that it was due to loss of blood.
Please die.

"What's the meaning of this?" said Griffith as he stood.

"I fancy a go with your pretty lass," he growled. "She took from me the privilege of Thatcher's screams. For that I'll take me share of her cunnie. She’s good and ready, from the look of her."

Griffith blocked Livingston's path. "That's not going to happen, friend."

"Friend? Are we still?"

"I would hope."

Livingston sighed. His eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Please. Just die.

Griffith moved forward and set a hand on Livingston’s shoulder. "The shot is still in you?"

"Never you mind!" Livingston snapped, shoving away his hand. He glanced down, staggering drunkenly. The cat was at his feet, rubbing against him and purring. Livingston bent down and snatched the animal by the scruff of her neck. The cat moaned.

"You’re hurting her!" Katherine protested.

"Aye," said Livingston. "Maybe I’ll take her as me toll for what you done to Thatcher."

"What I did to Thatcher?" she said, appalled. "I spared his pain."

Livingston’s face contorted in disgust. "Spared his pain?"

"Edward," Griffith protested, "it's only a cat."

Livingston smiled darkly. He turned and walked out with the cat in his arms. Katherine brushed past Griffith in pursuit, heading outdoors in nothing but an open shirt.

Livingston was waiting for her at the bulwark, gently stroking the cat. "She's a feisty one," he laughed. "Got a bit of her mommy in her, she does."

"Hand her back," Katherine insisted. She was dimly aware of several pirates ogling her, but she paid them no heed.

"She's gotten big," Livingston said. "But still frail, I fear. You give her a name yet?"

"No," she said, praying that conversation would keep him from doing anything rash.

"Good." He swung the cat by the neck in a great arc and smashed its little body against the bulwark. The animal's screech was cut short as her bones shattered. Livingston discarded the corpse over the edge of the ship and clapped the fur from his hands.

On Jack Cunningham's coattails rode a chaotic torrent of churning gray clouds that had chased him since his parting with Governor Woodes Rogers at Nassau. The storm was ever-present on the eastern horizon, taunting the little ship with the threat of thunderous fury from every direction save westward. Even as the storm gained, Cunningham was not afraid; he felt as though the storm was aiding him in his newly assigned quest; pushing him toward victory.

Abettor
was a two-masted schooner with a slight compliment of thirty-two men. Cunningham set out from Nassau's harbor with a crew half as large as when he had entered. All of the crew had been pardoned of their acts of piracy along with Cunningham, and half agreed to help seek out pirates that were unaware of the pardon, or arrest those who were strictly defying it, thus acting as officers of Woodes Rogers. The others, while content to accept pardon, openly abhorred Cunningham's willingness to help Rogers, cursing him for a coward as they departed. "Like a dog," one of them called him. "An eager little pup what licks his new master's boots for want of affection." Cunningham inwardly acknowledged the truth in their bitter words.

He had watched from the balcony atop Sassy Sally's tavern as Rogers arrived in Nassau on the Delicia, flanked by the HMS Rose, HMS Milford, and a pair of sloops. Only one pirate and his crew offered defiance. Charles Vane, a man Cunningham thought more despicable than Blackbeard, made an impressive display by setting alight a French ship he had captured. The fires touched the ships store of powder magazines and the blinding blast lit the harbor as though the sun had risen prematurely. A small cheer went up from several pirates who on the following day would surrender to Rogers alongside Cunningham. Rogers failed in withholding a smirk as a few pirates introduced themselves with flippant titles; one man even claimed presidency over a council that Cunningham had never heard of.

Cunningham offered Rogers the firmest of handshakes and his true title: "Captain of the
Abettor
, sir. A fine pirate sloop she was, and now she's whatever you would wish of her." Rogers seemed refreshed by this introduction, for there had been none so honest. As he moved on to the others, many of them adopted Cunningham's honesty, and their plagiarism filled him with resent.
What more should I expect of pirates? They thieve everything, even words.

Despite a horrifically mangled jaw wrought from a gunshot wound in a past adventure, Rogers was an impressive man to behold. He wore a long jacket, breeches, buckled shoes, a cloak, and a full white wig. But his stout and unchallenged eyes were his most stunning characteristic. Instantly Cunningham knew that all the fantastic stories heralded of this man were true.

And so he found himself outrunning a storm that snapped at the
Abettor
's stern with teeth of lightning. Ahead he faced the western horizon, as yet untouched by clouds, and within that opening was a dark green island with a jagged peak at its middle, reaching for the heavens.

A familiar brigantine was moored off the eastern beach.

The clouds followed Cunningham in and swathed the island in their impenetrable murkiness. He moored
Abettor
and took a boat to the larger vessel. As he came aboard and shook the hand of his old friend, lightning flashed far above.

"You bring a storm," said Griffith with a welcoming smile.

"Seems it finally caught up with me," Cunningham replied. A crashing report of thunder buckled the knees of everyone on deck, save for the two seasoned captains.

"Best we get inside," Griffith chuckled, "before lightning strikes us dead for our sins."

"It’s had many an opportunity," Cunningham laughed. "Thus far we remain un-killed."

On the way to the cabin, Cunningham glimpsed
Harbinger
's broken deck and bulwark. "Your deck looks affright!" he exclaimed. He had also noticed far less crew than was customary. "And your crew is scant! Have they all gone ashore?"

"Over a third of them dead and still they're twice as large as yours," Griffith shot back cheerfully.

Cunningham laughed through clenched teeth. There were times when he wanted to strangle Jonathon Griffith for his blithe arrogance, and this was one of those times. Still, his affection for his friend always got the better of him. He let the underhanded remark and the emotions that it inflicted pass through him.

"Not a plague, I should hope," he said of the absent crewmen.

"God no!" Griffith sneered. "I would not have them die so tamely."

The warmly lit cabin was a stark contrast to the dark grays of the outside world, and so was the beautiful woman sprawled across Griffith's bed like a strumpet in a painting. She sat up with a lingering expression of shock. Apparently she was not accustomed to company.

"Katherine," said Griffith, "this is my dear friend, Jack Cunningham."

"Pleasure," she said with a brusque smile. She tossed a terse glance at Griffith and then whipped the sheets over her impressive mane of curly red hair.

Griffith shrugged. "She won't bother us."

"You've been very busy," Cunningham said. He tried to ignore nagging whispers in his head that stressed the significance of the woman’s red hair, the British accent that was evident with just one spoken word, and even her name.
What is so familiar about her?

"So," said Griffith. The suddenness of his voice cut Cunningham's thoughts in half like a knife through melted butter. "What brings you to this island, of all places?"

"The wind," he answered with a grin.

Griffith moved to the circular table at the center of the room and slid out a chair for Cunningham. They took seats opposite each other and crossed their legs. "I must confess," Griffith said, laying a hand carelessly atop the table, "I thought you might never leave Nassau."

Cunningham ran both hands through his curly blonde hair. He interlocked his fingers at the back of his neck and sunk into a cavalier recline. "And yet here I am."

"Here you are," said Griffith with narrowing eyes. "I’m wondering as to why."

Cunningham suddenly felt unwelcome. "Have I interrupted anything?"

Griffith raised his hand, balled it into a fist, and slammed it back down. "Dammit, Jack, I know what's happened in Nassau! Come out with it already."

Cunningham's heart fluttered.
Does he know of my surrender to Rogers?
How could he find out so quickly? Cunningham had set out from Nassau immediately after Rogers made him an officer, and
Abettor
was no slouch in the area of speed. He could not have been outrun.

The beat of his heart slowed as he realized he was jumping to conclusions. The most logical answer was that Griffith had probably heard the news from a pirate that escaped shortly after the HMS Rose was spotted on the horizon. There were more than a few of them.