Capture The Wind (36 page)

It wasn’t just debris he’d stumbled over, but one of his crew lying in a tangle of canvas tent and splintered wood. Hauling himself upright, he glanced at the man. Dane. It was the big blond man who had distracted the tavern whore for him—and lying close beside him, half-nude and with her frowsy brown hair covering her face, laid Kate. She was dead, her body a twisted, bloody mess, but Dane was still breathing. There was only a shredded stump where his right arm had been, and his intestines oozed onto the sand in a pink, glistening coil.

Sweat beaded his forehead as Kit took a step back, swearing softly. Dane’s eyelids fluttered. He looked up at him, his eyes unfocused. “Cap’n,” he muttered in a wheezy breath, “help me
 . . .
”

There was nothing he could do, and Kit knew it. Still, he took a moment to kneel beside his fallen crewman. Smoke swirled around them in heavy shrouds, smelling of sulphur and death and making his lungs ache.

A sword was clutched in Dane’s left hand, and his fingers curled around it tightly. “Never
 . . .
saw ’em comin’,” he wheezed. “Too
 . . .
much
 . . .
rum, I guess.”

Kit put a hand on Dane’s shoulder, holding him quiet with no effort. “Rest, Dane. I’ll send a man back to help you.”

The blond crewman’s mouth twisted. “No
 . . .
need. Wish I hadn’t
 . . .
drank so
 . . .
much. But Reed said
 . . .
”

“Never mind.” Kit looked up and saw Mr. Buttons nearby, his face as red as his hair. He beckoned to him. “Charley, get a man here to pull Dane to safety and tend his wounds.”

Mr. Buttons lifted a brow, glancing at the fatally wounded crewman, but nodded without hesitation. He had to know as well as Kit that Dane would not survive.

“Certainly, Captain. You’re needed on the south rampart. We think the
Justice
is hit below her water line, and the men want to know what we should do next.”

Kit turned, surveying the government sloop. It listed badly on the port side, and he could hear the shouts and confusion aboard her top deck. He smiled grimly.

“Good. If I know Turk, he’ll be pouring on the chain shot and cannonballs. If we can’t send her to Glory now, we don’t have a prayer of escape.”

Surging to his feet, Kit left the dying Dane with Mr. Buttons and raced toward the rampart several yards away. There was still a chance they might get away
 . . .

Angela trembled so badly
she could hardly stand. She knelt in the bushes at the water’s edge, anxiously gazing up at the small bluff. Just beyond lay the beach. It had taken her a great deal of effort to fight her way through the trees and find the camp, but now that she was here, she wondered if she should have remained with the boat.

It was just that she’d been so terrified, listening to the heavy thunder of cannon and pistol fire and hearing the clang of swords, and screams and shouts
 . . .
dear God, she had covered her ears with both hands and still been able to hear it. Not knowing what was happening, who was winning and whether Kit and Emily were still alive, had finally prompted her to action. She could no longer just sit and wait to be found. She had to see for herself.

Parting the brush with both hands, she peered at the stretch of beach that curved toward what had once been their camp. Now it was a shambles, canvas tents shredded and poles splintered, provisions scattered haphazardly over the sand or still burning. Thick gray clouds of smoke hung over the beach in billowing shrouds, the wind occasionally blowing it high enough so that she could see the tops of the trees. Her fingers curled tightly around a slender limb as she saw bodies dotting the ground. Nothing had ever prepared her for this, certainly not her sheltered life in London, and not even the brief skirmishes on the open sea when the pirates had taken a ship.

Then, though there had been the reverberating thunder of heavy guns, few ships had dared return fire, and not once had the
Sea Tiger’s
crew engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Now, she realized just how fortunate she had been not to witness a battle.

Fear clogged her throat, not just for herself but for Kit, Turk, Emily, and Dylan. She thought of crew members who had teased her, or fetched things from the hold for her, always polite, and sometimes asking shy questions that revealed their longing for home and the gentler sex. Her stay aboard the ship had not been all bad.

Rising from her knees, she brushed sand from her hands, palms scraping against her still-damp skirt in an absent motion as she judged her next move. Fighting raged closer to the water now, where boats from the man-o’-war had beached. Men swarmed over them in waves, cutlasses clanging. It looked as if the enemy was attempting to return to their ship, and her hope flared. Perhaps this would end soon.

Her bare feet sank into sand littered with shells and debris as she made her way cautiously through the line of bushes toward the rampart that held one of the
Sea Tiger’s
cannons. The smell of gunpowder and smoke was sharp and acrid, burning her nose and stinging her eyes. It hung so thickly in the air that she began to cough.

Putting one hand over her mouth to stifle the sound—rather pointless, she thought, as there was so much noise no one could possibly hear her—she fought her way through the bushes toward the rocky foot of the rampart. Limbs snagged her skirt, and she fell once and scraped her knee against a rock half-hidden in the sandy dirt. With the sun rising higher in the sky and giving the beach a hellish cast, the heat began to press down. Beads of sweat trickled down her face and neck, and her damp hair clung to her face. Insects buzzed around her in persistent swarms.

She slapped at a huge insect on her arm and missed. Dreadful creatures. Why had God even made them, when they were so annoying? Sand fleas nipped at her bare feet and legs, making her stop to scratch and mutter more imprecations against the thoughtlessness of Creation.

A strange, whistling sound came from somewhere alarmingly close, and she looked up, stifling a cry when a cannonball landed only a few yards away with a thundering roar. Dirt shot into the air, and she fell to her knees and put her arms over her head as sand rained down in heavy thuds around her. A rock struck her arm, making it bleed, and a scratch on her cheek seemed to attract more insects. She huddled beneath a bush, terrified. For several moments she could hear nothing except a distinct, pulsing crackle in her ears. Panicked, she clapped her hands to test her hearing and still heard nothing.

God, she was deaf
 . . .
what would she do? Sitting back on her heels, she drew a deep breath. Then there was a pop and a faint sizzle, and a muted roar. Relief flooded her as sound surged back in waves. Beyond the bushes, men shouted, and she leaned forward to peer through tangled branches. There was the noise of fighting as pirates pushed their attackers back to the sea. The crippled man-o’-war listed badly, and looked as if it had somehow run aground.

Stumbling to her feet again, she began to run. A sense of urgency filled her, driving her toward the rampart. She wanted to see a familiar face again. Oddly, she felt no desire to flee to the governor’s men. Only a few months ago, she would have thought there would be no question of choosing between pirates and government officials. But now she feared the pirates would leave her behind. Had she been forgotten in all the confusion?

Rocks tore at her palms and bare feet when she began to climb the rampart, intent upon reaching the big gun manned by some of the crew. With the hot sun beating down and the blast of shells around her, Angela focused only upon her goal. It loomed overhead. The ground shook each time the cannon was fired, the heavy
boom
assaulting her ears. As she drew closer, her ears began to buzz again.

Perhaps that was why she didn’t hear her name called. It was only when a hand grabbed her arm and jerked that she realized anyone was near. Panic-stricken, she twisted, lashing out at the same time. She was screaming, yet she heard nothing. There was a blur of motion and color, but nothing defined into recognizable form until she was finally pinned to the side of the boulder. Sharp rocks pressed painfully into her back, and she writhed in panting fear and fury as someone held her down.

Shifting aside the thick waves of hair that obscured her vision, her assailant peered down at her with a worried frown. She could see Charley Buttons mouth words at her, and knew that he was expressing concern. Slowly, the fear that pumped through her body began to ebb, and she sagged wearily.

After a moment, he seemed to understand that she could not hear him, and some of his tension eased. Angela managed a quivering smile, and he returned it. Stepping back, Mr. Buttons raked a hand through his red hair. It was coated with ash and soot, and black marks streaked the side of his flushed face. He looked distraught.

Pointing at her, he mouthed, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and saw his relief. He helped her to her feet, and indicated that she should come with him. More grateful than he probably knew, Angela clung to his arm as he led her up the steep rock, assisting her when she stumbled.

By the time they reached the top, most of her hearing had returned. The big gun sat silent, and crew members scurried to gather necessary ammunition and provisions.

Mr. Buttons paused, one hand still on her arm, and said, “I was sent to find you. We need to hurry. Are you up to it?”

She nodded. “I can manage. Is Emily all right? Where’s Kit?”

“Miss Emily was taken to safety as soon as we received the warning. Captain Saber is quite safe, but concerned about you.” He glanced around, anxiety marking his face as he took a deep breath. “Now we must get you to safety as well. Though it seems as if the
Justice
is floundering badly, they are determined to take as many prisoners as they can. I would rather face a hangman’s noose than Captain Saber if I allowed anything to happen to you.”

Shivering, she allowed Mr. Buttons to lead her down the steep embankment. Smoke still hung in heavy shrouds over the beach, but the noise of battle had dimmed. Her throat closed as she saw people lying in tangled heaps of clothing and blood on the sandy shores. Moans drifted up from some of them, and she stared in horror when she saw the unmistakable form of a woman sprawled lifelessly in the sand next to another body. She jerked to a halt, her heart pounding.

“Mr. Buttons—” Her throat closed on the words. Emily was the only other woman in camp. Freeing herself from Mr. Buttons’ grasp, she went to kneel beside the woman. Brown hair curled in dirty tangles over the face, and Angela put out a shaking hand to brush it away. No, no, not Emily, with her bright eyes and sweet nature . . . dear God, don’t let it be . . .

Blood smeared her fingertips as Angela pushed away the hair to reveal female features that were almost unrecognizable. Then relief flooded her. Not Emily. Though there was a gaping hole where the nose and mouth had been, she saw enough to know it was not Emily.

Feeling sick, she looked away as Mr. Buttons put a hand on her shoulder. “At least death was swift for her,” he said softly. “It is not always so kind to others.”

Angela’s stunned gaze fell upon the man lying next to the woman, and saw his eyes on her. He was alive, even though the open, brutal wounds on his body should have killed him instantly. One arm had been torn away, and there was a huge slash across his middle. Charred flesh still smoldered. Nausea rose in her throat, and she put a hand over her mouth.

The man’s lips twisted in a grimace. “Ain’t
 . . .
pretty, is it? At least Kate
 . . .
died
 . . .
quick.”

For a moment, Angela didn’t comprehend. Then it hit her, and her gaze shifted back to the woman. Kate. The girl from the tavern. God. She wouldn’t have known her. It didn’t help to recall that she’d disliked her. She was dead now, and the waste of life seemed so pointless.

“Dane,” Mr. Buttons was saying, “we have to move quickly. I need to get Miss Angela to safety”

Nodding, Dane’s eyes registered his fate. He knew he was dying, and only awaited the end. “Go
 . . .
on,” he wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips and into his beard. “Ain’t
 . . .
nothing
 . . .
you can do for
 . . .
me now”

“No,” Angela said, pulling away as Mr. Buttons pulled her to her feet. “We have to help.” She felt a compulsion to stay, to somehow ease the suffering the pirate must be enduring. But Charley Buttons did not listen to her protests, and resorted to literally dragging her down the beach.

“Listen to me,” he said sharply, exasperation in his features when she still resisted. “There is nothing to be done for that man. And if you persist in delaying, you may very well end up like Kate. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Shocked, and angry at the needless waste of life, Angela snapped, “Perhaps I am not as inured to death as you seem to be, Mr. Buttons!”

He put a hand briefly over his eyes, then looked at her. “One never grows accustomed to death, Miss Angela. But one must still strive to survive. If you will not be sensible, I must be.”

Survival. She remembered Kit once telling her that when faced with death, people would do whatever it took to stay alive. Maybe he was right. It certainly didn’t ease her conscience to think of how blithely she had once announced that death was preferable to dishonor. Faced with the harsh, ugly reality of dying, she realized that he was right. She didn’t want to die like Kate had, nor as the blond pirate was dying, slowly and painfully. She wanted to live, and the fear that had been temporarily replaced with horror made her tremble.