Devil's Mistress (18 page)

“Come!” Robin urged her.

His arm was about her and she followed his lead to the gangplank, but twisted to look behind her. Sloan was hurrying his men along, and shouting orders. “Slash her ties, men! Raise the sails!”

And beyond him the king’s troops were coming, Matthews at the lead.

“Robin!” Brianna shrieked as she saw an arrow sail through the air. She dragged him down with her, in time to save them each from a mortal blow, but too late to avoid a hit, as evidenced by Robin’s agonized screech as the arrow tore into his thigh.

“Leave me!” he commanded Brianna, gritting out his words painfully between clenched teeth.

“Nay, I cannot!” she cried in horror, locking her jaw together for strength as, placing her hands beneath his arms, she dragged along. The task was almost beyond her and she was moving terribly slowly.

“Brianna!” Robin hissed. “Go—seek shelter.”

Salt sweat fell from her forehead in slender rivulets into her eyes, and she gasped for breath and tensed again to pull his weight along. “We shall make it, Robin.”

But they wouldn’t. The king’s men were almost upon the
Sea Hawk.
A cannon suddenly boomed from the deck of the ship, slowing the tide that swarmed upon them, but not ceasing it. There were still more men.

The thundering repercussion sent Brianna sprawling to the gangplank, coughing and choking from the powder that filled the air. She struggled to her feet, tears falling as she reached desperately for Robin’s arms again. She would not make it. Already soldiers were engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the sailors upon the gangplank. They drew nearer. And nearer. She stared with horror, then screamed aloud as a bearded soldier bore down upon them, his sword gleaming as it caught the golden rays of the brilliant sun.

“This way, gent!”

It was Sloan’s voice, and his cutlass teased the steel armor upon the man’s back and forced him to turn with a growl. “Soldiers should fight armed men, not defenseless girls and wounded boys!”

The soldier bellowed and charged at Sloan, who sidestepped him with agility, swiftly parrying the assault with a slash of his cutlass. The man let out a hideous shriek and careened over the plank to the water below.

Then Sloan was sheathing his bloodied cutlass and hunching down beside Brianna. “Get aboard!” he ordered her, ducking to take Robin himself. He grunted, and hefted the heavy seaman over his shoulder. Brianna coughed and whirled to obey Sloan. He followed behind her, shouting as they leapt to the deck, “The gangplank—drop the gangplank!” The men were all aboard, but so were more than two score of the soldiers. The bow of the
Sea Hawk
was alive with the curses and screams of battle, the clash of swords, the thud of steel.

Sloan propelled Brianna before him as he hurriedly carried Robin to the shelter of the forward companionway and deposited him there.

“How is it, lad?”

Robin grinned through his pain. “Not so bad, Captain. Not so bad.”

Sloan nodded grimly and patted Robin on the shoulder. He glanced briefly at Brianna. “Get yourself to safety, girl! Into the cabin, now!” he railed.

She could not seek out the cabin—not with Robin upon the stairs and the men who had so valiantly fought to save her locked in mortal combat. Sloan, assuming she would obey him under the circumstances, had already turned from them to join the fighting.

If he dies I shall not be able to bear it,
she thought.

A groan from Robin reminded her of his presence—and of the tearing wound within his thigh. She dropped down beside him, ripping shreds of material from her dress. “Robin!” she whispered to him. “I’m going to take the arrow out.”

“No.” He groaned. “The blood …”

“I can stanch it,” she assured him, trying to smile her assurance even as she heard the groans of the men fighting just feet away. “Trust me, Robin,” she encouraged him. “I swear I’ll not let you die.”

She clenched her teeth and studied the arrow. Fortunately, the shaft had not fully penetrated the flesh. Brianna breathed a sigh of relief. No major blood vessels had been severed, she was certain. She placed her left hand upon his thigh and her right upon the arrow shaft, tensing with her determined effort to bring forth all her strength. The arrow stubbornly refused to give; she just as stubbornly refused to allow it to remain.

It gave so suddenly that she keeled backward. Robin screamed, and she scrambled back to her knees swiftly to wrap the wound in the fabric from her dress, pressing upon his thigh firmly and pulling her bandage tight to stanch the flow of blood.

Robin opened his pain-glazed eyes. “I’m the one who called you ‘whore’ ” he confessed with whispered shame.

Crimson splashed over her cheeks and she lowered her eyes, then raised them quickly to smile at him. “It does not matter,” she said softly, “and you must not try to talk.”

He gripped her fingers with hot, dry hands. “It does matter,” he whispered. “It matters, for I wronged you. You are not a whore, but an angel.”

She was stunned. Witch, whore—and now angel. The pity of it was that she was just a woman, a terrified woman now as the hand-to-hand combat continued just steps away upon the deck.

A scream caught in her throat at the sight of Sloan. As he engaged in swordplay with a soldier, a black-clad figure was creeping toward his unwary back.

“Sloan!”

Her horrified scream rose above the din of steel and men.

Sloan ducked and spun just in time to allow Matthews’s blade to find its mark in one of his own men. With a stunned gurgle the soldier gasped, gripped his gut, and fell to the deck. Matthews’s eyes lifted from the dead man he had accidentally killed, and fell upon Brianna, who hovered within the shelter of the companionway. She returned his stare with wide, mesmerized eyes. She saw the mad hate in his eyes and she knew he would readily sacrifice his own life to take hers.

Sloan shouted the witchfinder’s name from his perch upon the boom of the mainmast. “If you would face me, witchfinder, do so now!”

Matthews’s eyes turned to the man who hovered near him with catlike agility, ready to pounce between him and his intended victim. “Son of Satan!” Matthews raged. But he spoke no more, for Sloan Treveryan bounded from the rigging to land before him, his deadly cutlass raised.

Transfixed, Brianna watched the swordplay. Her heart seemed to rise to her throat and constrict her breath as the two men parried one another again … and again.

And then she saw that Sloan’s grim features held a lethal grin. His eyes were narrowed and hard … glittering with deadly vengeance. He had been playing with the man all along.

The cutlass made a high sweep into the air—and then descended.

Matthews—the witchfinder—stood still for an instant. An instant in which he stared incredulously at Sloan, and at the stream of blood that stained the white of his shirt beneath his black coat. Again his eyes fell upon Sloan.

And then he fell to the deck.

Brianna let out a shriek. Forgetting Robin, she stumbled to the deck. He was dead. She felt waves of heat engulf her, then a rampaging cold that tore like ragged ice against her spine. By God’s grace, was it decent to feel such a joy at a man’s death? No longer could he hunt her; no more could he aim a finger at the innocent and bring down agony and death. He was dead—and with or without God’s forgiveness, Brianna was so grateful and glad that she felt she could die herself with the shuddering power of her relief.

And Sloan … Sloan was still alive!

There truly was a God. Justice had come at last.

But the battle was not yet over. Even as Brianna stood at the top of the stairs, she heard a whoosh of sound, and instinctively ducked. A sword, caked with blood, had swerved unnervingly near her throat. With glazed eyes she looked around her. Sloan was engaged in a deadly duel again, and right next to her George was fencing with a very young, frightened soldier. Both of them, so young, the fear of death in their eyes.

She thought that she would scream again. Scream and scream and scream because she was the cause of it. So much bloodshed!

“Surrender, Darton!” Sloan shouted, and the king’s man paused. She thought she had seen him before, but she was too dazed to remember when.

All action aboard the ship ceased. There were no more sounds of the clash of steel. Only the ocean could be heard, the waves lapping peacefully, lullingly, against the hull. All the men stood still, breathlessly waiting as Sloan and Darton stared at each other.

At last, at very long last, Darton lowered his sword. He held it out before him; then, lowering himself with an unassuming grace, he laid it at Sloan’s feet. Still there was silence, and as the two men stared at one another, it was obvious that they had met before—as friends. Sloan’s voice was low when he spoke again.

“Lord Darton, in surrendering to me, you surrender to William of Orange, and cast yourself into the midst of what—with God’s grace—will be a peaceful revolution.”

Darton sighed. “I’ve heard it said you were an Orangeman, Treveryan. So shall it be. I ask that any of my men not willing to serve in such an army be sent back to shore.”

“Agreed,” Sloan said, and with his words it seemed that the others were given leave to breathe once again. The clatter of fallen swords could be heard all about the planking, and a subdued murmur arose.

“So be it,” said Darton.

Brianna vaguely understood that these king’s men were about to swear allegiance to another lord, but it mattered very little to her. All that she could comprehend was the state of the ship: the decks had been washed with blood. Men had fallen everywhere.

She brought the back of her hand to her mouth and bit down, totally unaware as she did so that she had begun to take small, jerky steps toward the mast. How many dead? Her mind raged in silent, agonized reproach. Bodies were tangled everywhere. She paused, ready to scream in mindless grief as she looked down at the body of the
Sea Hawk’s
cook, fallen arm-in-arm over the rail with a uniformed graybeard. So many …

Men were beginning to move, to tend to the dead and the moaning wounded. Brianna’s eyes swam with blinding tears. Through a thick haze she saw Sloan. His eyes were on her. She stood in blood, was covered with it, and she felt a horror that far surpassed any threat or pain inflicted on her by Matthews.

She
had brought it all about. Dear God, not by malice or intent. But simply by her existence. She had crossed Sloan Treveryan’s life, and because of it his brave, fine men lay dead and dying all around her.

A sob welled in her throat, choking her. The breeze swept by her and the sun was shining fiercely upon her with all its warmth, all its brilliant life …

But her scream was not one that could be released; it was within her, and would stay with her forever. It was too much; she could assimilate no more of the pain. The breeze, the gentle balmy breeze, swept all around her, embracing her. She could see nothing but mist, and the mist darkened and darkened.

She saw Sloan’s eyes again for just a moment, then that striking jade, too, blended with the gray. Merciful, merciful succor came to her. She slid to the deck, unaware that she had fallen, unaware of the day or the sun—or the death about her. She fell like death itself; consciousness deserting her at last, bringing her to a peace she might never find again.

She awoke alone—and mercy was gone, for she immediately recalled her image of the deck with its bloody carnage. A low wail escaped her; she struggled to sit, but as soon as she raised her head, pain seared through it and her stomach twisted in a miserable heave. Her fingers clutched the sheets to fight off the pain, and she looked down at her hands, and at the bed. Sloan’s bed. She was back in his cabin.

Brianna closed her eyes again; but then she heard a sound and struggled fiercely to raise herself to the window. There was nothing but the sea, but she did hear men’s voices and slowly realized that they were chanting in prayer. Then there was a flash of white going past her, and a startling splash upon the water. For a moment she frowned, puzzled, then what color had returned to her face fled once again. She had awakened only to witness the burial detail. Voices rose again; another white-shrouded body fell, to be accepted by the sea.

Brianna fell back onto her pillow, praying that God would strip her of consciousness again. Mercifully, he did. But dreams tormented her, dreams in which the dead came to her, their wounds bleeding, and accused her of taking their lives to preserve her own.

It was Paddy’s dear and grizzled face she saw when next she opened her eyes.

“Paddy?”

“Aye, lass, ’tis me.”

“Thank God that you are well.”

Gruff Paddy discovered that he had to swallow fiercely; he felt her pain and the overwhelming vastness of her depression.

“Girl, ye’ve not been well. I’ve broth, and ye must drink it, lest we lose you too.”

“Oh, Paddy,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should have died, should die …” Her eyes had closed again, as if she were willing them to remain that way.

He took a deep breath. “Would ye have it, lass, that their lives were given in vain?”

“Nay, nay, but—”

“The lads we lost were fighters. ’Twas their choice to do battle. ’Twas their right as men to rage against such foul injustice. They died with their honor.”