A Kiss in the Wind (18 page)

Perhaps they shared a rotten secret together, as well.

If she had a hand in what happened to his men on board the
Gloria,
may God have mercy on her, for he’d have none.

He clenched the smooth neck of his wine bottle harder and savored more of the wine.

One thing didn’t make sense. The attacks on Carrion were fruitless, wasteful of ammunition at best. Marisol wouldn’t be a part of that deadly skirmish, would she? Family meant a good deal to her. It seemed uncharacteristic for her to turn on her kin.

He recalled her lackluster readiness to stay on the
Sablewing
and how she spat when she spoke her father’s name. Perhaps she fostered retaliation for his abusive hand. Would that have been enough to destroy his ship and sentence his crew to death? Men whom she worked alongside?

Aye, a good actress, indeed.

Yet, it didn’t change the fact when her brother Luc met his end on the gallows, she had been near inconsolable. Her grief, that had been real.

It all puzzled him.

Blade growled. Too many unanswered questions. Too many happenstances.

He brought the bottle back to his lips but stopped. The smell of the wine, sweet and rich, filled his head. Closing his eyes, he resisted another drink. He needed to be sober. A captain should not be roaring drunk before he attacks his enemy.

Blade was no fool. There would be no element of surprise. The captain of the
Sugar Lady
knew he was coming. The sooner, the better. Under cover of darkness, the
Rissa
might be able to get close enough to prevent escape. With
Sablewing
sitting at the bottom of the bay, Blade wouldn’t underestimate
Sugar Lady
’s guns, either. The
Rissa
would need to position herself to her advantage. Aye, it was all about the timing.

Shoving away from the window, he corked the wine and set it on the table.
Save the rest for a victory toast.
He shrugged into his bandolier, securing each of the six primed and loaded pistols in the brace. His sash tied at his waist proudly displayed his cutlass.

The weight of his weapons satisfied him, reminding him of the thrill of combat. The power to tip the scales of life and death with the pull of a trigger or the swipe of a sword intoxicated him more than any liquor. Power, the sheer force of it bubbling in his gut and rising to the surface, had to be contained, suppressed until ready to be wielded. An enemy deserving his judgment needed only to know death would come quick. But this morn, he couldn’t be so sure. It had been a very long time since he’d felt this betrayed.

Blade knotted his scarf around his head. He felt angry and worn. Distant.

Ready to go topside, he gave his jacket a tug. A small lump in his pocket distracted him. Reaching in, he pulled out his shell cameo. He gazed upon its raised relief, its delicate features, and his demons reared up to haunt him. But instead of bludgeoning visions of the bloodied, mangled body of the young boy whose life he took, a raven-haired beauty appeared. She beckoned him, reaching for him. What did she clutch behind her back? What did she hide? A gully knife?

Bloody hell. She’s even invaded my damnation.

His cameo held his thickened mire of suffering. The source of his hell made no difference.

With a disgusted grunt, he shoved the cameo back into his pocket and left his cabin.

Daylight outside approached in commanding fashion. The deep indigo of the sky waned into lighter hues of blue. In minutes, the light would crown the horizon. Crisp breezes cleansed Blade’s muddied mind, rinsing away the bleary stupor of Marisol-tainted Madeira. Not that he was drunk. Not that it was of consequence. He drew in greedy breaths until his cunning tenacity returned sharper than before.

The order to clear for quarters had been given and everything not used in battle had been removed from the deck. Sand crunched under his boots. Buckets of it had been thrown on the floor to keep the men from slipping during battle. His crew stood in clusters near their posts, their dogged faces pinched with grit and their movements strained, eager for bloodshed. Carrion’s lads, too, stood poised for action. He nodded in turn to each group, ready as he for a mighty good fight, and made his way to the quarterdeck.

Henri stood atop his crate next to a young helmsman at the wheel, barking commands in his unique placid way. “Watch it now as ya bring her in.”

The leads-man at the ship’s bow called out the water’s depth. “By the mark thirteen.”

The small Frenchman moved his thick hands around, steering an invisible wheel. Blade patted Henri on the back.

“How’re we doing?” Blade asked.

“Damn pilot is greener than a milkmaid.”

“By the deep ten,” the leads-man hollered.

“Criminy, boy. You’re bringing us in shallow. Not too close. Not too close, I say!”

The evidence of disappointment and frustration burrowed in the lad’s frown, but he kept his eyes forward and listened to the men calling out the areas of reefs that came into view.

“We all have to start somewhere, Henri. Not everyone was born in a wheelhouse.”

The helmsman cast him a glance and Blade winked.

“Well, they oughta,” Henri said. “Careful! Yer too close, I tell ya! These reefs will rip
Rissa
’s belly open, ya knothead.”

The vessel cleared a neck of land and a large bay opened up ahead of the bow. Mona’s morning shadow blanketed the inlet. Birds took flight from the island’s interior in search of a fishy meal, squawking the dawn awake.

On the other side, a lone ship crept toward the open sea. Her sails had not been fully unfurled. A twitch yanked upon Blade’s smile. They would be on the vessel soon and his excitement unchained from his glum cynicism.

He nodded to the helmsman. “Let’s go get our silver, lad.”

In two strides, Blade stood at the quarterdeck rail overlooking the ship’s waist and her crew. “We got her, boys!”

The crew erupted in cheer, taking their places ready for the oncoming battle.

“Whaddabout the lass, Capt’n?”

Blade looked back over his shoulder at Henri. His beard had been combed, the red ribbons neatly tied. His shabby vest was gone, replaced by a less tattered one. He stood tall on his crate, even as the young helmsman at his side dwarfed him. It had been a ritual for Henri to present himself dapper in the face of combat. “Gotta be well-groomed if’n today’s the day I meet me maker,” he would say.

Henri’s usual tetchy disposition held a look of concern.

“The lass? A regrettable casualty.” Blade turned away, avoiding that judgmental scowl his short mate gave him each time Henri disagreed. Better to skirt that argument altogether.

Henri grunted.

Blade closed his eyes and willed himself not to respond. Responding would only have him defending himself. But when Henri grunted again, jeering Blade’s words, he lost the fight.

“Do you wish to say something, Henri?”

“Never pegged ya for a blind man.”

Glancing at the helmsman who wisely kept his focus ahead, Blade tipped his head to the side, motioning for Henri to follow him out of earshot.

“And what are you implying?”

“Just that I ’member a time when ya could see things as they are.”

“I don’t have time for your riddles.”

“Ain’t givin’ ya riddles, Blade,” Henri said. “I’ve known ya fer most of yer life. Always able to put things in their proper place. Never failin’ no one. ’Specially yer friends. Now this lass comes along an yer as blind and foolhardy as a live goose in the galley.”

“She betrayed me…us.” Blade made a monumental effort to keep his voice down.

“Did she, now?”

“Aye.” He took on a defensive posture and crossed his arms. Damn.

“Can ya be certain? I know how ya really feel ’bout her, can see it in yer eyes when ya look at her. Ya fallen fer the girl right hard. An’ she gone an’ done the same. Are ya blisterin’ the two of ya without knowin’ fer sure what be goin’ on? Have ya found the truth?”

“Don’t question me, old man. Friends we may be, but I’m not above retiring your meddling arse at the next port. Marisol is a lying, thieving bitch. She’s on that ship with her turncoat brother and our pay. I’d say that’s truth enough.”

“Stubborn fool.”

“Likewise.”

Blade left Henri to take up an authoritative stance next to the wheel. He stewed over Henri’s claims that he was in love. Sure he was. He loved
all
women. Didn’t he? Marisol was just another flower to be plucked. It was too bad she crossed him.

“Capt’n.” Willie called him from below, drawing Blade from his thoughts.

“We’re almost upon her. Your orders, sir?”

The
Rissa
gained within two boat lengths from the
Sugar Lady.
The lack of frenzied activity on the other vessel did not surprise him. While most crews would be scampering to get into defensive positions, these men had expected him. Perhaps they looked forward to a consummate match, a battle easily won.

Splendid.

“Fire a warning shot over her bow. Careful not to hit her. We don’t want to sink her with our silver.”

Willie gave the order to his master gunner. Four fellows prepared, loaded and rammed a gun for firing. Ready to light the slow match, they waited for a favorable shot.

Blade turned to Henri and the helmsman. “After the warning, bring her astern. We want to remain at a safe angle from behind to avoid the guns, and then swing us around. He won’t have his gun ports open on the other side. We’ll position ourselves to disable her rudder should he try something foolish.”

“Aye, Capt’n.”

The time had come. Soon he would get what was his, the silver and revenge. “It’s time to pay the hangman.”

* * *

Marisol stood alone on the deck of the
Sugar Lady. Or was that the Huntress?
Not one of the crewmen spoke to her as she sought out answers. Most wouldn’t even cast a passing glance at her. Exhausted, she found a looped stack of rope to sit upon. It had been a long day and a longer night. Her tired body protested each movement, aching for a spot of rest. She had just closed her eyes when the gentle jerk of the ship knocked Marisol off her perch.

She caught sight of Monte and raced to him. She would get her answers, damn it.

“Monte. Tell me what’s going on. I demand to know.”

But he didn’t stop. He descended down the ladder. “Not now, Marisol.”

“Now, Monte. You’ve avoided me long enough. If you are the captain of this ship, why the secret? Why were you picked up in the middle of the ocean while the
Sugar Lady
sat docked in Puerto Plata? Why did you agree to sail the
Gloria?
What is going on?”

He stared at her with cold dead eyes, eyes she didn’t recognize. Where had her little brother gone?

Someone above called out. “Ship ho!”

Together, she and Monte looked in the direction the man pointed.

A majestic ship curled around the rocky outcrop of land. The rousing deep gold of first light traced the fine vessel in a brass haze. A true testament to her glory.

“Blade.” Marisol whispered his name under her breath. Her heart lurched and quite unexpectedly she was scared. Extreme foreboding iced her muscles. She froze to the planks, unable to move. Yet her heart raced so fast, it throbbed in her chest, beating so she felt as if she might empty her stomach into the sea.

She—they—were in big trouble.

“Fast bugger,” said Monte.

Oh God, this is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Blade has probably given the order of no quarter. How am I going to get out of this one?

“Are you coming?” Monte stood several feet away, smiling.

She hadn’t noticed he had moved away.

“You’d be smart not to stand too close to the side, lest you become a popinjay to shoot.”

He was right. At the speed with which
Rissa
crossed the mouth of the inlet, Blade would be in range momentarily. No way would she be what he aimed for.

Moving away from the edge, she joined Monte. He seemed unaffected by the pirate ship heading their way, but the perils Blade would wreak ratcheted her nerves. She couldn’t bear putting Monte in any more danger at her expense.

“It’s me he’s after, Monte. Put me in a longboat and I’m sure he’ll spare you and your ship.”

His boisterous laughter mocked her and his face crinkled up in ridicule. “Sister, dear, pitiful sister. Do you really believe he’s coming just for you?”

He circled around Marisol, shaking his head. “How quickly you forget that he’s been chasing the
Sugar Lady
all along hoping to cross the mystery ship, my
Huntress,
and find his silver. I’d say I pulled off a damn good hoax, eh? I led the great Captain Blade Tyburn to think there were two ships instead of just one.”

The pieces still were not coming together. Marisol couldn’t quite make the connection. She struggled to understand why he would go to such lengths to fool everyone, including her. Why didn’t he just confide in her?

Monte laughed again. “This masquerade turned out to be more than I could have hoped for. But you’re right, Marisol. Tyburn is after you.” His smile disappeared and his countenance turned serious. “By now, the honorable pirate knows his silver is in this ship’s cargo hold.”

“What?
You
have the silver?”

“And he thinks you are behind stealing it.”

The blow of his statement pelted her like a swarm of yellow-jackets.
Sink me! He
is
after me.

A deafening boom shook the suddenly thick air. A cannonball plunked into the sea in front of the
Huntress,
and a spray of water rose high over the bow.

She was as good as dead.

“Have all hands prepare for attack, Grimshaw.”

Assessing his enemy, Monte gave his orders to a burly fellow, wild-eyed and thick of beard. Ripe for warfare—and a good lathering with lye soap—he stepped in front of Marisol, expecting her to step out of his way. She arched her eyebrow, daring him to make her move. The brute growled low and brusquely jostled Marisol aside to bark out the command.

That well-known flush of exhilaration perforated through her. She mustn’t smile. She would settle on the satisfaction of her nimble fingers. The coarse handle of Grimshaw’s gully knife warmed in her hand and she quickly slid it under her waistband at her back, fluffing her tunic out to conceal it. Armed again, she relaxed, but only a degree.

“I’d ration you a pistol and ask you to join in the fun,” Monte said, returning his regard to her, “but I suppose you’d prefer to stay neutral. Wouldn’t want to fight against the man who keeps you as his pet, would you?”

“What’s wrong with you? Why does your tongue speak with such spite?” This side of Monte troubled her. He acted as he did as a young man when Marie, the girl he had been smitten on, took a liking to Luc. And then again when Alain passed him over and made Luc his first mate. Envy drove Monte’s nastiness. It hadn’t mattered that Luc turned down Marie’s advances and tried to get her interested in his little brother. Or that Luc, the eldest son of Alain and the most probable choice, suggested to their father that Monte deserved the position because Monte wanted it more and had worked very hard to be Alain’s right-hand man. Monte still spat out the hateful lines.

He ignored Marisol’s questions. “Honestly, it’s a sad pity. You used to beg Alain to fight in close combat. Now’s your chance to go up against the oh-so formidable Blade Tyburn.”

“Are you insane? You intend to engage Tyburn?”

“Bless me, if it doesn’t tickle my fancy.” He cast a ghastly smirk.

“That’s suicide.”

“For most, I would agree. But I’m not most. I’m smarter.” He granted himself a self-satisfied nod.

“You’ve not the experience of seasoned men, Monte. Tyburn has been doing this since you were in nurse strings.” She tossed a glance to the approaching
Rissa.
Damn! Blade drew close. Maybe she should jump overboard.

“I’ve learned to listen to the brotherhood winds.” Monte moved to the gunwale, casually watching his enemy. “I’ve heard the fears from the coastal peoples willing to give whatever goods they could to stave off raiding parties, and I thought, why not me. Why shouldn’t I take what is my due?”

“But we did that. On the
Sablewing.
”

He spun around, eyes alight in acrimony. “And just where was the
Sablewing,
Marisol? Answer me that.”

She turned away. “You know better than to ask me that.”

“No matter,” he said. “There’s some advantage to being a pirate’s son. Since Matanzas, I worked up the ranks quickly. I gathered me a crew of cutthroats and hell hounds, handpicked from the cesspools of Port Royal. Made off with a merchantman and raided a few seaside towns in a space of months. Then I met Charles Windham. The fool had no idea who I was. It wasn’t long before I learned of the
Gloria
and of Tyburn’s escort.”

“So you meant to stir up trouble.” No surprise. ’Twas what Monte did best.

He shrugged. “I saw a chance I couldn’t let pass. I hatched out a plan. Me and a few mates signed on to Windham’s crew. The lads had thought I had windmills in my head. Perhaps I had. But my crazy designs were quite simple. Take the silver.”

“A fool’s crusade.”

“Perhaps not. I know a fat cull in San Juan who’d pay generously for Windham’s wealth. While I’m at it, I’d undermine the brethren’s golden prince. Why do the spineless brethren bow to Tyburn and let him monopolize the Caribbean? He’s no king. He’s a crowing mutton-monger.”

She couldn’t blame him for capitalizing on his circumstances. Marisol would have done the same. But she would think twice about challenging Blade.

“Tyburn is more dangerous than you perceive him to be. He’s legendary.”

“Among virgins and whores.”

Marisol bristled under his evident implication.

“The rest are dawcocks telling tales over yarn twisting.” He chuckled dismissively. “I’ve confirmed it by outwitting him, taking his silver and keeping it right underneath his nose. If he’s legendary, then I’m immortal for taking him down.”

“You’ve not defeated him.”

“Yet.”

“Your arrogance is staggering. So much like Alain.”

“Ha! Alain. I’m nothing like that worthless piece of shit.”

Monte snapped his fingers. Grimshaw reappeared and went to the hatch door. He whistled through the opening and within moments two men emerged, heaving a prisoner between them.

The man hung at the shoulders, his head down and his boots dragging behind him. Blood matted his hair in long stalks and soaked through his soiled tunic. Dark bruises had formed along his bound wrists. They hustled him across the deck. For a brief instant, he lifted his battered face.

“Alain!”

Monte grabbed Marisol before she could reach her father. He was so badly beaten, she hardly recognized him. Swelling sealed his eyes in splotches of blues and greens, and blood caked his crooked nose and split lips. It jarred her to see him that way. The fiendish pirate had been reduced to rubble.

“You did this? But why?”

“He needed to learn what it’s like to be on the other side of torture.”

“Alain never tortured you. You were treated just as any other crewman on the
Sablewing.
” Though Alain could dole out the punishment, he didn’t treat anyone on board unjustly.

“Torture can be more than flesh deep, sister.”

His lips scarcely moved as he snarled out the words.

“String him up!” Monte said.

Towing Alain to the main mast, Grimshaw threaded the mast rope through those wrapped around Alain’s bindings. Grimshaw put his entire bulk into hauling the rope down. A gruesome dolor exploded from Alain’s twisted mouth when his arms yanked upward and the rope lifted him off the planks some thirty feet. He thrashed his legs about, screeching under the stretch of his weight, his face distorting with the pain.

Marisol struggled against Monte’s hold. “Let him down!”

“No, I don’t think I will. He’ll protect my ship from having her mast blown apart by Tyburn. Then again, Tyburn might decide the bastard’s not worth it. Either way, I’m content with him floundering up there.”

“Do you harbor that much hate for him?”

“Is there any other feeling I should have?”

“Monte, I know this is about Matanzas but you’ve got to understand. Matanzas was a mistake. Alain had no way of knowing soldiers were marching in from the inland when we attacked.”

Marisol had not been allowed to join in the sacking of Matanzas. She never saw the pillage and plundering of any raid other than what she could witness from the ship’s stern. She only knew that she missed out on the adventure. Or that was what she thought. From an alcove hidden in the back of her mind, a string of words, Blade’s words, paraded out.
My mates and I take advantage of opportunity. We’re not greedy, bloodthirsty hellions.
Was it possible to be a person of fortune without sacking the innocent? Was it indeed more honorable to rob riches from the pompous gluttons dotting the Caribbean Isles? Intriguing. Her view of piracy had been all wrong.

Her mother was right. Desperate men would seek desperate fortunes. She made no excuses for her husband, the roving adventurer. But she made it understood no easy riches, no sparkling jewels, no fine drink, full gullet or bawdy ladybird was reason to prey upon the innocent and lay waste to the lives of good people. Alain was also right. Don’t presume decency would protect the righteous and see to happiness. The world was unjust. Strike first and enjoy the spoils, for the guarantee of tomorrow was a lie. Marisol never imagined there could be a betwixt and between.

“They weren’t soldiers,” Monte said. “They were mercenaries.”

She remembered the large company of men rushing out to strike against
Sablewing
’s marauders. Her gut had clutched into a vicious, burning knot. Men fought, men died. Many were able to retreat before the band of militia flanked around the remaining pirates, trapping them on the wharf. Monte had not escaped. Marisol, on no account, would forget the look of terror that congealed on Monte’s face. Even at her safe distance on shipboard, she could see her brother’s petrified expression. He was being left behind, to die.

As the
Sablewing
set sail away from Matanzas, a brawl broke out. Shots were fired, several men went down. Marisol never knew for sure if Monte had been among those who had died that night, but deep inside she knew he survived. Her guilt for not convincing Alain to rescue Monte had been monstrous.

Just as her guilt was now.

“If there had been a way to save you, Monte…” She trailed off. In spite of her remorse, the fact remained. “You must know we all would’ve been hung. Turning back had been too dangerous. Even Luc said—”

“Bah! Luc was no better a man than Alain.” He shoved her away. “It was almost too easy disposing of that prick.”

The air rushed from her lungs. Quite by surprise, a sinister chill skittered up her spine. “What do you mean?”

Annoyed, he huffed. “Must I break it down for you?” He rolled his head back in mockery. “Oh, very well. Tyburn is upon us so I’ll be brief.”

His nonchalant attitude belied just how close Tyburn drew. And though she could almost reach out and touch the
Rissa
’s gun ports, Monte had her full attention.

“Once I heard the
Sablewing
was docked in Puerto Plata, I couldn’t believe my luck. I had the silver, I had Tyburn by the nose with my ruse, and then you, Luc and Alain dropped into my lap like a gift from Neptune.” Monte paced back and forth in front of Marisol, his back to his oncoming enemy. “I staged the raid, made sure to have a few of my men stir up Luc and others from the
Sablewing
with rumors of the invasion. The men following Luc said they found him in the mercantile shop buying a pair of amber hair sticks.”

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the hair sticks for her to see. The entire length of each stick gleamed of glossed wood, tapering down into pointy tips. Filigreed gold encased perfect round amber stones.

“Luc always did pamper you with ridiculous gifts.”

Marisol reached for them, so lovely, so feminine.

“Ah, ah, ah. You can’t have them. They’re much too sharp.” He replaced the hair sticks in his coat.

“You were supposed to be caught during the riot, too,” he continued. “With that itch of yours to become a bona fide pirate and your unfailing knack for getting into trouble, you should have been up on that gallows tree with Luc. Instead, you got tangled up with Tyburn.”

Dumbstruck by his loathing, paralyzed by his cold stare, the pain growing inside her grieved her more than believing she had lost him. Her little brother, whom she loved deeply, whom she desperately searched for, wanted her dead. It couldn’t be.

“Ah, dare and be damned, I got to see Luc hang. Had a good view of that, I did. What a jolly good time that was.”

Alain roared from his suspended crucifixion. “You fucking bastard!”

Monte pivoted, drawing his flintlock pistol, and fired at Alain. The bullet tore through his father’s arm, missing his head by mere inches. His weight pulled at the rupture and blood poured from the splitting gash.

Alain’s agonizing howls sparked an inferno of rage in Marisol. Monte wasn’t her brother. He was a monster. Cut from the same cloth as their father, he took his cruelty further by killing and torturing his own family.

“Shut the hell up, old man!” Monte drew another pistol and shot at Alain again, ripping a hole in his thigh near his knee.

Little raced through her mind other than to get Alain down and end his awful thrashing. She snatched the knife at the small of her back. With a determination of the knife’s size and a quick eye, she flung the dagger, embedding the blade into the rope just above where it had been tied off at the mast. It sliced through much of the cord and the final hempen threads holding together the rope unraveled and ripped under the pressure. Alain fell the distance. The crack of bones ruptured over the thud of his body crumpling to the wooden planks.

Monte’s astonishment at her audacity shifted to infuriation. His lips curled back as his gaze scraped over Grimshaw, then Marisol. Grimshaw patted around his waistband before settling on Marisol in disbelief. She smugly grinned. Monte tossed his spent pistols to his foul subordinate and planted a murderous foot forward.

“You bitch!” He raised his hand to her.

Marisol cringed, awaiting the stinging blow. Did he hold as much hate in his heart for her as he did Alain? Would he beat her as he did their father? Would she survive? Aye, she would. And she would fight back. She would fight him until she could fight no more. For Luc.

“Montenegro Castellan!”

Blade’s booming voice resonated across the ship in a burst of feral aggression.

Marisol peeled her eyes open. The
Rissa
sailed a stone’s throw away alongside the
Huntress.
Her captain, ferocious and mighty, had a boot anchored in a rung of the mast’s rope tackle. Holding on with one fisted hand, he pointed his cutlass at Monte. Her knees quaked under Blade’s sheer domination, ruling over all and sundry.

Monte lowered his open palm and wheeled around to face the sea king. Risking Grimshaw’s nasty clutches, Marisol raced over to where Alain lay heaped.

“Alain.” She cradled his head in her lap. The sharp stench of sweat stole her breath. “Alain,” she said again.

The pit of her stomach curdled at the sight of his eyes once they fluttered open. No white shone under his swollen lids, only redness blended with animosity and retribution.

“Papa.”

“Ma chérie.”
His mouth crept into a nefarious smile. “Do you—” He coughed and wetted his dry lips. “Do you want to make your
père
proud?”