Capture The Wind (37 page)

As if sensing her appreciation of their danger, Mr. Buttons said more kindly, “Just trust me to help you. I’ll do my best.”

Angela looked back and saw that Dane was already dead.

She allowed Buttons to pull her across the beach, ignoring the dead and dying, thinking only of reaching safety. She had thought he intended to take her to a shelter in the trees, but instead, he led her to the very edge of the beach. A boat bobbed in the curling surf, and she saw Emily seated on a thwart in the stern, her round face terrified. At her feet, a wooden cage held a squawking Rollo. His wings beat against the slats, red feathers flying.

“Emily. Oh God—you’re alive. Are you all right?”

Stumbling, Angela splashed into the shallows. Water wet the hem of her skirts and reached her knees. She gripped the sides of the boat when Emily held out a hand.

“Oh! Oh, I was so frightened for you, Miss Angela
 . . .
”

The little boat rocked wildly when Emily stood up, and a pirate standing guard barked at her to sit back down or they’d all be in the water. Mr. Buttons came up behind Angela.

“Get in quickly. There’s no time to waste.”

“But where—”

A muffled roar smothered her words and Angela screamed. She heard Mr. Buttons curse, heard the other pirate shouting and Emily crying. Above the din, Rollo screeched obscenities.

Angela turned, watching in horror as a half-dozen uniformed men swarmed toward them brandishing cutlasses and pistols. More shots rang out, and the acrid bite of sulphur filled the air. Everything was a blur; as if seen through leagues of water, Angela saw Mr. Buttons and two other pirates engage the militia in a flurry of steel. She stood in the water, paralyzed with fright and terror as the skirmish surged toward her.

Over the chaos, she heard Emily’s screams rise to a new level. Turning, she saw a man clamber over the side of the boat and reach for Emily. Sunlight glittered from the length of steel in his hand. Without pausing to think, Angela put both hands on the rail of the small boat and put all her weight into it. The craft tilted, catching the man off-balance.

When he scrambled to regain his balance, she pushed again, this time succeeding in tilting the boat. Emily screamed as it capsized and she plunged into the water. She stood up, sputtering and coughing, but Angela had no time to help. Debris from the boat floated around her, and she could see Rollo’s cage bobbing in the waves. She made a grab for it and missed, then realized she had a bigger problem. Their attacker stood up in the water right beside her, coughing and cursing.

Then he saw Angela and lifted his dripping sword with a snarl. “Bloody bitch—d’ye think ye can drown me?”

Angela tried to step back, but the water surging around her knees tangled her skirt between her legs and she went down hard. Jarred by the fall, she tried to scoot back in the chest-high water, fumbling for something to use in defense. The man laughed and lifted his sword higher.

Her hand brushed against an object in the sand, and in desperation, Angela grabbed it from the water. The carved hilt of a sword fit her palm, and she swung it up and out just as the man stepped forward to bring down his sword. A numbing thud sent shock waves down her arm as the sword caught her assailant in the middle. He folded over the blade in a curiously slow motion, his eyes widening with shock.

Releasing the hilt of the sword, Angela fought a wave of revulsion when he fell atop her, one arm flopping limply over her shoulder. She screamed, then screamed again, kicking at him so wildly that water drenched her. His weight pushed her deeper into the sand, so that in a very few moments, waves were washing over her face and filling her nose.

Then Mr. Buttons was there, pushing the dead man off, calmly saying that she’d done well and they must hurry. He lifted her from the water, and Angela saw with shivering horror that there were bloodstains on her dress. The body bobbed in the water, bumping against her legs.

“I must
 . . .
wash,” she murmured, but Mr. Buttons was lifting her and putting her into the righted boat, telling her that there was no time. She huddled next to Emily, who held Rollo’s cage tightly in her lap.

“Get them to the ship,” Mr. Buttons told the pirate at the oars. “I’ll join you as soon as possible.”

Vaguely aware of Emily’s coughing sobs and the very wet Rollo’s sputtering imprecations, Angela huddled in the front of the boat in numb misery. She had killed a man. She had taken another life. She looked down at the brownish stains on her dress. Marks of murder. And it had been so easy. There had been no question of morality, only the driving need to survive. She was, as Kit had once told her, capable of doing anything to live.

It was not a pleasant realization.

Pandemonium reigned aboard the
Sea Tiger
when Kit boarded with Turk right behind him. Charley Buttons waited at the rail, his face tight with concern.

“We’ve sustained two hits, none serious,” Mr. Buttons announced. “Three of our guns remain on shore, the thirty-four and twenty-four pounder still situated atop the bluffs. As our chief gunner is dead, I’ve taken the liberty of appointing another to take his place, sir.”

“And the women?” Kit snapped. “Did you find Angela?”

“Both are safe.” Mr. Buttons hesitated, then added quickly, “I had a bit of trouble finding her at first, and she suffered a bit of an
 . . .
an upset, but she’s aboard.”

“An upset. What the devil—wasn’t she where I said she’d be?” Kit paused, judging from Mr. Buttons’ face that that was not the case. Well, he didn’t have time to deal with it now. “Good work,” he said instead. “Females are a deuced inconvenience aboard ship, and a bloody disaster in a battle. You did well.”

When he turned, he saw Angela staring at him from behind a bulwark. Her hair and clothes were drenched, and her eyes were a wide, vivid green that bore traces of shock. At her side, Emily sobbed loudly, clutching Rollo’s cage with white-knuckled fingers.

“Get below,” he said curtly. “Now is not the time for female hysterics.”

“I’ll escort them,” Mr. Buttons offered hastily, and rushed forward to take Angela by one arm and Emily by the other.

“Well done, Mr. Buttons,” Turk said gravely. Immediately, the quartermaster rapped out orders, and men scurried to obey.

Kit turned his attention to urgent matters. With the
Justice
grounded on a sand bar, they had a chance to escape. Despite their grim situation, however, the crew aboard the grounded ship were still firing lethal volleys at the
Sea Tiger.
A ball landed much too close, spattering water and wood splinters over the deck.

“Turk,” Kit said, gesturing at the man-o’-war, “I think those gentlemen have too much time on their hands. What do you think our chance is of giving them something else to do other than fire those guns?”

“What did you have in mind?”

Kit smiled. “Fighting fire with—fire.”

At first Turk looked faintly perplexed, then he smiled. He turned to look at the huge ship. “I understand completely.”

“I thought you would.”

It took a very short time to load a small dinghy with two barrels of gunpowder. Lengths of tight rope stretched between the two barrels, with one end set afire. If he had judged right, Kit mused, the barrels should ignite and explode just as the dinghy floated past the
Justice.
If he erred, it should at least provide a short diversion in which the
Sea Tiger
might be able to work past the man-o’-war.

“Are all our men aboard?” he asked, watching tensely as the small boat was set afloat in the current. Waves lifted it briefly, taking it closer to the man-o’-war.

Dylan stepped close to the rail beside Kit. “All that aren’t too badly wounded or dead are aboard. Those left ashore won’t survive long enough to be hanged.”

It was the best a pirate could ask for, Kit thought, to die in battle. Not many pirates died of old age. The nature of the profession provided a high mortality rate, as evidenced by the day’s battle.

“Look,” Dylan said, and Kit turned his attention to the man-o’-war. Someone aboard had spied the small dinghy wafting toward them on the current, and sounded an alarm. Men scurried to divert it before it reached them. He saw several crewmen dive overboard and swim toward the craft.

But luck was with the pirates that day, because a huge breaker lifted the small dinghy high and swept it just out of the men’s reach, sending it careening into the side of the man-o’-war. Shouts were heard, and someone leaned over the rail with a long grappling hook to push it away.

It was too late. There was a blinding flash and deafening roar as the man-o’-war exploded. A series of explosions erupted in shattering chains, and the sky was filled with thick black smoke and hot ash. Wreckage shot high into the air, then splashed into the water. Bits of wood and debris struck the decks of the
Sea Tiger.

“Bloody hell,” Dylan said softly, “we hit their powder magazine.”

A beatific smile spread over Turk’s face. “How propitious.”

“It is if that’s the only man-o’-war in the area,” Kit observed. “That explosion can be seen for miles. If it doesn’t draw attention, we might get away.”

Dylan snapped into action. In short order, sails shimmied up the mainmast and caught a good wind. Driven by the punch of the wind, the ship glided out into the open sea.

It wasn’t until the island of St. Thomas was only a faint dark line against the horizon that Kit drew an easy breath. No pursuers. By the grace of God and a miracle, they had avoided certain capture and death. It had been a narrow escape. Much too narrow. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened to Angela and Emily if they had been taken. The pirates’ fates were a foregone conclusion; not so with the women.

Standing on the quarterdeck, with a stiff wind blowing them farther and farther from the island, Kit came to a decision. He had to get Angela to safety. He could no longer risk her well-being for admittedly selfish reasons. Damn. He should have sent her home to London from New Orleans, but he hadn’t. No, he had been—as Turk surmised—unable to give her up. It certainly didn’t help to realize it now, and he could only hope that she would understand his reasons.

If he could ever understand them himself
 . . .

Heartsick, Angela clung
to the rail with both hands. She couldn’t look at Kit, and fought the pressing desire to put both hands over her ears. Relentlessly, he continued, his voice calm and pragmatic, as if he was discussing the weather instead of her life.

“Once back in London,” he said, “I will ensure that you are taken to your parents as soon as possible. Turk has concocted a tale that will explain your circumstances satisfactorily to those interested. Your association with a pirate, of course, will not be discussed. It will be as if you had never met Kit Saber.”

She turned to look at him finally, avoiding his eyes. There was nothing in his expression to indicate that he felt anything more than a desire to be rid of her as diplomatically as possible. She had the fleeting thought that he looked more relieved than concerned. Not once had he mentioned regret, or love, or what had happened between them. It would have been gratifying to match his insouciance, but her tone was less indifferent than she would have liked.

“Very well, Captain. Emily must also be advised of the proper explanation, of course. Once I would have doubted her ability to acquit herself without giving it all away, but she has changed a great deal in these past weeks.”

“As we all have.”

Meeting his eyes at last, she was jolted by the intensity in his gaze. For a moment she said nothing, then managed in a soft, thick whisper, “Yes, some of us have changed a great deal.”

Her throat closing, she found more speech too difficult. Instead, she focused on soft pink shreds of cloud on the far horizon that veiled the sun as it sank below the water. The ship’s noises were familiar and comfortable—the snap of wind in the sails and humming lines, men talking in low baritones or toying with a fiddle or flute. Kit stood with his back to the spectacular sunset, his face in shadow, diffused light a bronze halo around his dark head.