A Kiss in the Wind (4 page)

“What?”

Without removing her hands, she said, “I was just thinking you look as if you fell in a vat of King Louis’s makeup.”

Lansky began to chuckle, as well.

Blade looked at them. They were as white as bleached sails. Flour clung to their clothing, matted to their skin and dusted their hair. What a sight. He reached for a sprinkled strand of Marisol’s wayward hair. Smudges of white smirched across her high cheeks from where she rubbed at her watery eyes. Her smiling lips were rosy from licking them wet and clean. “And you could pass for a tasty tart.” He couldn’t resist the tease. She looked good enough to eat when she laughed.

“But I assure you, I’m sour on the inside.” She winked.

“You couldn’t be any worse than Lansky,” Blade replied. “He looks like a battered chicken leg.”

“Aye, and a skinny one at that,” the baker retorted, making Marisol burst into more laughter. Blade couldn’t help but join in.

Turning to Sam, their laughter died. His stern, annoyed countenance bore no indication that he shared in their humor. The white powder starkly contrasted with his dark skin. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth grossly outlined his features. The flour stuck in the dark hairs of his beard served to bring to mind terrible table manners and accentuated his deepening frown.

“You got a little something right there.” Blade pointed to Sam’s chin.

“Humph.”

Blade clapped him on his back and Sam broke his caked mask, smiling and joining in the mirth. Fine mists of flour billowed all around them.

A quick shift in Marisol’s movement during the distraction alerted Blade to her attempt to flee. He snatched a broom leaning nearby on the wall, smashed it across his knee breaking it in two, and threw it at her feet. Her legs tangled upon the dowel causing her to crash to the ground in a most ungainly fashion. Skin and skirts lay exposed. Glory be! If she wasn’t tantalizing off her feet.

“A courageous effort, chit.” He didn’t hide his amusement as he pulled her up, even as she glared at him.

A bloodcurdling scream pealed from down the street. A bullet ricocheted off the wall behind them. Blade threw up a protective arm and pushed Marisol back into the shadows. Chaos rampaged, pouring from doorways and darkened crevices. Running, screaming villagers barreled toward them, and clashing armed men made their way out into the open. Fires flared, destroying buildings and plunderers carted off armloads of goods and valuables.

“A raid.” Marisol voiced the obvious on a breath of excitement.

“Aye,” Blade replied. “Carrion.”

Her brow knitted. “Huh?”

A crackling pop diverted her attention. But not before Blade caught the expression of perplexity skip across her face.

Flames burned from the roof of the bakery beside them, licking down the walls and closing in on the alley in which they stood.

“I’m sorry about your place, Lansky.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Lansky stared at his burning livelihood, his eyes heavy with grief. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll see to it that the bakery will be rebuilt. On my honor.”

And he would. Having any dealings with the ship would likely result in a date with the executioner. Blade and the
Rissa
crew made sure those who precariously allied themselves with their ship reaped protection and a tidy compensation. It was an unspoken gift in exchange for whatever services her captain and crew might require from loyal friends. For Lansky, it would mean keeping him from homelessness and starvation.

Lansky turned sharply to him, smiling, shaking his hand. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.”

Blade nodded. “Go see Kate down at The Harpy Wineskin. Tell her I sent you.”

“Yes, sir.” Lansky bowed, not letting go of Blade’s hand. “Yes, sir.”

“We’d best be on our way, then.” Blade looked toward the docks and the concentration of billowing smoke smothering the night sky. “Before one of us takes a wayward bullet.” He pulled on Marisol’s wrist.

“I’ll take my chances,” she contended.

“Aye, you will. With me. Come.”

She pulled back, releasing herself from his grip. “No.”

This woman made no bones about testing his temperament. She must have coughed up her scruples from the caustic mixture of smoke and flour if she thought he would allow her to merely leave. “You have stolen not one, but several items that belong to me. You wounded one of my men. And…” He stepped in close to her, close enough that her breath fell on his face. “You tried to kill me. I don’t believe you are in a position to argue.”

“Maim you.”

“What?”

The tips of her lips curved up into an impish grin. “I tried to maim you.”

What a devil of a woman. Cloaked in beauty, she was wicked. Wicked and deceptive and, oh so close to finding herself naked beneath him. He groaned inwardly. He wanted her, despite the urge to strangle her. And that peeved him.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have aimed higher.”

Blade smiled at that. “Not likely, love.” He grabbed her again by her wrist and her other arm. “Whatever it is that you’ve gotten yourself into has ensured that you belong to me.”

She struggled against his hold. A new fire raged. It fumed in her eyes, her expression. “I belong to no one.” She swung her free fist but their closeness kept her from hitting anywhere but his shoulder.

“Aye, keep fighting me, chit.” His skin prickled with both anger and arousal. “Make it easy for me.” He enjoyed the control over her, enjoyed letting the ire course through him. “You gave up your freedom the moment you chose to steal from me.” He enjoyed feeling her strength slacken upon his words. Never had he let iniquity obscure his mind. He was a better man than that. Yet he was beginning to see how weaker, evil men could lose their temper, their morality on a witch of a woman like Marisol.

He laughed. “Aye, your freedom is mine.”

She stopped squirming. Her jaw set rigid and her expression turned cross. “Never.”

Wooden crossbeams moaned and cracked as fire ate away at the bakery roof. It collapsed a moment later. The heat from the flames grew in its intensity and Blade knew the four of them would have to vacate the relative safety of the alley.

He drew his pistol. “Let’s go.”

Marisol gave him no resistance and he pulled her along, hurrying to his ship. His crew would be waiting for his return, ready to move out of the bay, and armed for anyone anxious enough to lose their life trying to board her unwelcomed.

In and out of side streets and alleys, they hurried. The closer they came to the docks, the more the melee thickened. Thieves ransacked homes and businesses, laying waste to everything in their paths, taking anything they desired or could turn a coin on. He held Marisol tightly by his side, pulling her through the clumps of men fighting in the streets, drawing fists and drawing blood. Women dashed in directions of safety, fleeing from the horrors of rape and death, cradling their children and meager possessions to their breasts. Shouts and screams carried over the crackling, hissing sounds of burning wooden buildings, dying in the bright orange glow.

Blade had to extinguish the urge to join in the affray. ’Twas hard to turn his back on a chance for a good fight. But he had other dogs to whip. Although he now had the information to continue his mission, he still was without his cameo. He figured he would be long tired of whipping before that wench stopped toying with him and returned it. Enough. When he got her back to his ship, he would spare no time stripping her for it. No more distractions. He would get his cameo back.

They crossed the square, Blade heading them to the long street leading to the quay. The raid was at its densest here.

This had to be Carrion’s doing, no doubt. But why would he choose Puerto Plata for a raid? This port served little more than to replenish ship provisions and perhaps dally in amber trade. Carrion wouldn’t be interested in amber—there was simply not enough profit. Something didn’t make sense. It didn’t feel right. He cursed to himself. Searching for Marisol instead of meeting with Carrion like he had intended had cost him time. If not for her…He ground his teeth.

He stopped them at the other end of the square and clapped Lansky’s shoulder. “Good luck to you, my friend.”

Lansky nodded and hurried away into the night toward The Harpy Wineskin on the other side of the bay, a flour cloud swirling behind him. If he made it, Kate would take care of him.

Beside them, glass burst and a chair crashed through a nearby mercantile storefront window. They needed to keep moving. Blade pulled at Marisol to follow, but she stood steadfast, staring at the broken window. He pulled again and she refused to move. She kept staring at the window, beyond the window. Her eyes seemed sad, and the look of pain unexpectedly moved him like a glancing blow.

A tall, young man stepped over the broken pane, his boot crunching on tiny shards of thin glass. He clutched a sack full of stolen goods in his hand. Curly brown hair just covered his eyes as they met Marisol’s in stunned silence. He took a crushing step forward onto the glass-littered sidewalk.

“No,” Marisol mouthed.

That was all Blade needed. He tugged her along as she continued to look over her shoulder at the man beginning to follow.

Blade shoved Marisol’s arm to Sam. “Take her on board,” he ordered. He only just caught the look of trepidation flitter in Sam’s ever-deepening frown. He swung around with his pistol raised to meet the man following them.

“I think it unwise to come any farther,” he warned.

The young looter stopped dead in his path. His brow knitted in anguish when he spoke. “But…but that’s my sister.”

“Well, well.” Blade snorted. “It seems thievery is a family affair.”

“You have my sister.” He dropped his sack, reaching for his rapier.

“Do you wish to engage me, son?” Blade glared at him. The man’s fingers twitched over the sword’s handle as much as the indecision flickered in his eyes. He must be handy with the weapon to think he could incapacitate Blade while staring down the barrel of his gun. Either that, or he was extremely stupid.

He watched Blade’s trigger finger for a moment then met his stare. “What do you want with Marisol?” he asked.

The way the young man pronounced her name caused a lurch within Blade’s chest. He said it with such love and it sounded so musical. Ugh. He hated having a conscience. Made it hard to be ruthless. More so since it involved a woman. He was not used to acting fierce with the fairer sex. Unless, of course, it involved a bit of play acting between the sheets.

Blasted wench.

He shook his head. “You can have her back as soon as she returns what she took from me,” he replied.

The man sighed heavily and looked away. “On your word, Captain Tyburn?”

Blade tilted his head at the man’s recognition of him.

“Aye. I know you. Any sailor worth his salt knows of the legendary Captain Blade Tyburn and the brigantine
Rissa.
And I know I cannot fight you for my sister and win. Not this time.”

Not so stupid after all. Blade especially liked the way the young cunning shaver subtly predicted a future confrontation with him. Strong will and courage, another family trait. “On my word, son.”

“When?”

Blade shrugged. “’Tis up to her how soon I will release her.” He lowered his pistol. “The sooner, the better,” he said as he turned and walked away.

* * *

Marisol watched from the deck of Tyburn’s ship as Luc grabbed his loot and ran off into the midst of the pandemonium. So, this was why Luc wanted her in her cabin. For her safety. Bah. Rioting—his important business. Damn it. Oh, she hoped Alain wouldn’t find out. He would not tolerate it. Her brother would be lucky to survive their captain’s wrath for violating his command. She lowered her head with a weighty realization.

“What ye got there, Sam?”

She turned to the sound of the gruff voice behind her, but nobody was there. Crewmen milled about the ship deck, checking lines and climbing up the masts to the crosstrees, preparing to sail.

“Capt’n ain’t got time for a lass t’night.”

Marisol lowered her gaze to a stocky stump of a man. He wore his gray beard decorated with tiny red bows that framed a viciously foul scowl. His trousers were bright green and his red beaded vest reminded her of the crowded streets of India. She found the man a ridiculous parody of a play actor in women’s fashion on the losing side of a drunken bet. She stifled a grin.

Beady eyes upon his weathered face scanned her suspiciously. “And he don’t tend to want ’em on board, no how.”

“Followin’ me orders, Henri.” Sam shadowed the little man. They were like a mountain and a molehill.

“Criminy, tar. What the bloody hell happened to ya?” Henri’s missing teeth notched his nasty grin. “Ya git the color scared outta ya?”

“Careful, squatty. Ye may find yerself scrapin’ t’e bottom of me shoe.”

“Whaddya call me?” Henri came forward, his chest puffed outward.

Sam stared directly down at Henri. “Squatty.”

Marisol took a step back. She didn’t think there would be much of a fight between a giant and a tiny troll, but she didn’t want to find out firsthand by standing too close.

“Name callin’, eh?” She didn’t think it possible for Henri’s jowls to frown any lower. “That makes me mad.” He wagged his finger. “Why, I oughta ration ya rum.”

“No, sir. M’ apologies, to ya, Henri.” One corner of Sam’s mouth curled up as if he enjoyed the scold.

Henri reached up and patted Sam on his forearm. “Let that be a lesson to ya, mate.”

What just happened? Where’s the fighting? They just insulted each other. If that happened on her ship, there would be an obnoxious scuffle to break up and Luc would have to carry on with lashings. But these two men acted as if they were…
friends.
How very strange.

“Miss Castellan.” Captain Tyburn called out to her.

He took the gangway in long hurried strides. As he approached, she noticed the determination etched across his austere face. His bearing, his movements, they were powerful and fluid, but precise. He carried the posture of a man who commanded the world around him. Confident, fearless. And most maddening—arrogant. It was no wonder she felt the pull of his allure.

Accustomed to men snarling at her, Marisol expected his disappointment when she did not shrink under his harsh tone. But none came.

“This is your last chance. Hand over the cameo and you will be free to go.”

She was in no hurry to leave his brig. She knew well enough he would not steer his ship out of port solely because of some riot. He’d set his course straight for the
Gloria
and her shipment of silver. Exactly where Marisol wanted to go. If Alain didn’t see fit to load himself down with the riches, she’d use the roguish Tyburn’s beloved bauble as bait and let him take her to the vessel. He would lead her to her brother. She just knew Monte would be among the
Gloria
’s crew. She felt it in her gut.

As it were, she would trade her freedom for the boat passage. Once reunited with Monte, she simply would stay with him. Tyburn couldn’t keep her.

“Then I am your captive, Captain Tyburn, as I shall not hand over your cameo.” She had to buy herself enough time to make him keep her on his ship. She must delay him from getting his embossed stone and ridding himself of her. “I cannot.”

“What have you done with it?” His snarl bit with venom.

“Do you fear that I profited from it already? Aye, it is a pretty piece. The detail on the shell is remarkable. A fine price it would bring.” The workings of his jaw reined in her taunt. She didn’t want to push him to the point where he tossed her into the bay. But she did like to make him uneasy. Empowering, it was, to have a man squirm. “Not to worry, sir. I still claim it.”

“Then hand it over.” Each articulated word marked his growing impatience.

“What? Here? Come now, Captain. I thought you a gentleman. You know from your initial hunt I don’t have easy access to it. I require privacy.”

The captain’s frown disappeared and consideration lifted his eyebrows. “Privacy,” he repeated. She could swear she caught the glimmer of a grin as his eyes raked over her.

She wondered if she led him to think about his exploration. And what inquisitive hands he had. He’d come close to rendering her as helpless as a virginal bride on her wedding night under his unabashed heated touch. His strong hands rubbing her body, cupping her breasts, had sent blazing chills from her fingertips to her toes. She thought a rousing game of hide-and-seek with the captain would be more fun than she could handle.

“Very well.” A cruel, rascally smile curled with those words. “If it is privacy you require then it is privacy you shall have. So much so that I’m afraid you will miss the
Egeria
’s departure. You are now in custody of the
Rissa.
”

She was not pleased with the manner in which he phrased her temporary circumstance. Just what did he have planned for her? Nonetheless, she
had
manipulated her way on his ship and it
was
to be temporary. Tyburn would have to shackle her in the pit of his ship to prevent her from leaving, and even then she was clever enough to escape.

“Willie!” he barked. Tyburn walked to stand in the middle of the ship, waiting for a sea dog, not much older than the captain himself, to descend the ladder from the deck above.

Marisol recognized the man who came forward. Not that she knew him at all—she didn’t. But she saw him as a man born of the sea. A man seasoned to a life on the back of the vast ocean. Someone who probably would die by it, too. Cropped brown hair topped his square face, making his crooked nose and long chin the focus of his tough visage.

“Miss Castellan has graciously taken the place of our missing messenger,” Tyburn said. “We need to shove off immediately.”

Willie glanced at her. The helmsman’s unpleasant scrutiny made him appear hardened, but his small eyes belied a softer side of him, sympathy perhaps. “Aye, Capt’n.” Willie wheeled around and made his way back to the quarterdeck shouting orders. “Fetch up your hook! Man all canvas! We set sail!”

The weak breeze drifted the
Rissa
away from the quay. Marisol stood at the rail to watch the docks slip by. Pockets of yellow balefires lit up the night, casting the flickering light upon plumes of blackened smoke.

Alain marched down the pier. A pang of regret cramped within her chest. Even from the distance she could make out Alain’s anger in the workings of his posture. There would be hell to pay when she got back. She turned away, not wanting to change her mind and spare herself his fury later. Besides, the damage had been done.

Captain Tyburn joined her at the edge. “A friend of yours, I presume?” He jutted his chin toward the man she had given her back to.

“No.” The truth would only complicate her plans further.

“Uh-huh. No need for concern, then.”

“Concern?”

Tyburn stopped a passing sailor to give more orders and then strode away.

What does he mean?

Shouting and the popping of gunfire spun her back around. She gripped the railing as she helplessly watched Spanish soldiers storm in to corner Alain and Luc, who’d just joined him, on the pier. Alain walked in an eerie calm toward the firing line, squeezing off shots from the pistols he held in each hand. Whilst Luc charged forward at the line with his sword drawn, a boat docked alongside the landing blocked her view of the combat. Desperate to see what was going on, she stood on her tiptoes then ran down the rail to catch a glimpse of the fight, with no luck.

What was going on? Where were Ben and Knuckles and the rest of Alain’s men? Surely Alain and Luc would overcome the soldiers. They’d make it out. They always did.

Still, she watched until the wharf was too far to make any distinction. She could no longer smell the putrid fishy scent mixed with the heavy odor of burnt timber. A hefty dose of guilt replaced her regret. Aye, hell to pay, indeed.

“Set an easterly heading, Willie.” Tyburn’s command traveled to her ears, recapturing her attention. “We should meet our mark by sunrise.”

“East?” Marisol made her way to the middle of the ship where the captain stood shouting his directions. East? If he sailed east, the
Gloria
might already be past a point of intersection. He was sending them in the wrong direction.

“You should take a westerly course,” she said as she reached him.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted with an incredulous look. He rested his arm on the hilt of his sword at his hip. “By what reason?”

“The letter said seven miles out from the east.”

“For a lass who pretends to know nothing, you sure have an opinion.”

“You didn’t ask me if I knew what the letter said. You only asked me who sent me for it.” She gave him a dismissive look of her own. “If you go east, you’ll miss her. For a captain of the fabled
Rissa,
you surprise me by your lack of knowledge in this matter.”

He must have been using a heroic effort to control himself. She sensed it in his wrathful smirk. “And if I listened to the twaddle of a meddling woman, then I don’t deserve to captain a jolly boat.” He leaned forward, as if to impart a prized secret. “The code meant for
me
sends me east to the noble waters. Tell me, chit, do you know of the noble waters?”

That part of the code she could not make sense of, she had to admit. “Well, no.” She crossed her arms.

“Of course not.” He straightened. “The noble waters refers to the Mona Passage, the treacherous waters which lie between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. So you see, Miss Castellan, if we go west as you suggest, we might as well be skipjack fishing. You will be merely wasting my time. We go east.”

Was that her pride she heard deflating? A nod seemed the only response she could muster.

“Henri.” Tyburn waved over the small sailor. “Take Miss Castellan to the guest quarters. She needs her
privacy.
”

“Uh.” Henri groaned. “Not again.” He exaggerated his apparent dislike of the order with an eye roll.

“See to it that she makes herself presentable to me before I come to her cabin.” He scanned her dusty clothing and with his heated expression she swore he could see right through her dress. “You
will
make yourself presentable to me.”

“Perhaps you should do the same for me.” Though, she imagined, if the circumstances were different, she wouldn’t even mind if he were covered in fish scales.

“Perhaps I shall.” He circled around her. “But not because I find it necessary.” He leaned over her shoulder to let the last of his words drip into her ear. “Nor would you, I think.” His breath sent shivers of desire to her most coveted sweet spots.
Think smelly crusty fish scales.

“Half an hour.” He dismissed them both and walked away.

Marisol followed Henri below deck, listening to him grumble the entire way. He favored one leg as he hobbled along and she wondered what hazard had befallen him to result in his limp. He couldn’t be much help as a pirate with such impairment.

“You’re kind of old to be a cabin boy,” she said.

“Cabin boy?” He jerked around. “Watch your tongue, lass. I’m not above cutting it out.”

“Hmm. I think you’d have a hard time catching me.” She smiled.

“Aye. But I can poison ya.”