Looking for a Hero (2 page)

What a beautiful woman like that was doing on his island was hard to fathom.

Unless she was a gift from the gods.

Or an outcast. He looked around the room where she and the child huddled and saw nothing to sustain them. There were no baskets filled with cheese and bread, no flasks of water, beer, or rum. They had nothing with them save the few scraps of fabric they were clothed in.

Perhaps someone evil had left them alone on the island to die. Perhaps they'd had the misfortune of meeting someone as vile as Thomas Low.

A sudden attack of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him, and he doubled over to thwart the worst of the sickness. Blood rushed to his head, to the gash across his skull. He forgot all about
the woman's perfect body, about the child's angelic looks and her devilish lies. The incessant howl of wind and rain battered his eardrums, sending most thoughts from his mind.

Weakness overcame his muscles as a thousand pinpricks of pain jabbed at his skin. His fingers turned cold and numb. His shoulders drooped, and he felt as if they could no longer bear the weight of his neck and head.

He needed to sleep, to let his body heal. Perhaps when he woke he'd realize that the woman, the child, and the destruction of his home were nothing but a dream. Life would return to normal.
Satan's Revenge
would be anchored in the harbor. His fortress would be whole again and his riches would be in their rightful places.

Thomas Low would be in shackles.

And the godforsaken pain would be gone.

He prayed for oblivion, and smiled when a bolt of lightning flashed in the sky and thunder shook the ground. Slowly he crumpled to his knees. For one moment he thought he was going to die, and he clutched at the chains he wore about his neck, touching, one more time, his mother's ring and his sister's cross, before the blessed darkness enveloped him and the hard, sandy floor rushed up to meet his face.

“A
re you okay, mister?”

The child's words were but a whisper against Black Heart's ear. Too many years had passed since he'd wakened to something so sweet, and the voice of the little girl he'd seen earlier pleased him more than fair winds ruffling the sails on
Satan's Revenge
or the lap of gentle waves against her hull.

“Can you hear me?”

Aye
, he tried to say, but his mouth was much too dry for speech to come. It seemed as if he'd swallowed half the sand his face was resting in. Opening his eyes proved an impossibility, too, and the mere thought of nodding his head brought back the pain, as strong and relentless as
the hurricane that had attempted to take his life.

“Wake up, mister.”

He managed to groan, a horrendous, guttural noise that to his ears sounded like the wail of a cow.

“Did you say something?” the child asked. He could feel her warm breath against his cheek, her tiny fingers lightly prodding his shoulder. She was a brave bit of a thing to come so close, especially when she imagined him to be a man who ate babies for breakfast.

“Are you dead?”

“I'm…not…quite…sure,” he mumbled. With great effort he rolled over on the rocky floor, and somehow he worked open the eyelid that wasn't covered with a patch. Blond ringlets bounced before his nose, and two frowning blue eyes studied his scar.

“Are you a pirate?”

He didn't respond. Instead, he asked, “Are you a castaway?”

“No. I'm Casey Cameron. But you didn't answer my question. Are you a pirate?”

“Aye.” The word slipped from his lips with no thought of their consequence. He should have answered, “Nay,” and told her some far-fetched story, but it was too late now.

Her eyes widened, followed by her smile. “I knew you'd come,” she whispered, and then her voice rose with excitement. “I knew it! Mommy's never going to believe this. Not in a million years.”

She started to run.

Bloody hell!
He had to stop her before she brought back her mother and any others who might be on the island with thoughts of collecting the bounty on his head. He jerked up, and the dizziness once more overwhelmed him.

“Wait,” he called out to her, his voice just as unsteady as his body, his throat as scratchy as the sand embedded in his skin.

The child stopped in the doorway and twisted around. “I'll be right back.” But she didn't leave. Instead, she frowned, her gaze traveling to the cutlass lying on the floor, then upward, pausing just long enough to study the pistol and dagger tucked under his belt.

She bit the corner of her lip, then met him eye to eye. “You
are
real, aren't you?”

“Aye.”

The angelic smile returned to her face. “Then don't go anywhere. Please.”

She disappeared into the sunlight outside, and for one brief moment, he contemplated honoring her plea. But he couldn't stick around—not for her, not for anyone. Hiding was a way of life, one he practiced well.

Drawing in a deep breath, he struggled to stand. The room spun around him as if he'd been on a week-long drunk and was just now regaining his senses.

With a faltering sweep of his hand, he retrieved his cutlass from the ground, shoved it into its scabbard, and willed himself to move.

One foot dragged across the sand, and then the next. He was gasping for breath by the time he reached the doorway, and for just an instant, he rested his cheek against the craggy stone wall. Then he pushed on, forcing himself to go faster, skirting the palms that rustled in the waning wind.

The storm had calmed, but it had left its mark upon the land, making it even more difficult for him to maneuver. He trudged through puddles of water and over uprooted trees and finally collapsed behind a pile of storm-tossed vegetation that had mounded against a tall drift of sand.

A cool breeze brought some relief from the heat and humidity of the day, and carried with it the child's voice. She was close. Much too close. How could he possibly have run toward her—when he'd meant to run away?

“I knew he'd come, Mommy. I knew it!”

“Calm down, Case. What are you talking about?”

“The pirate. When I said my prayers last night, I asked God to send me a pirate—and He did.”

Ah, the woman's laughter again. If only he could capture that sound as it drifted through the air, and keep it with him always.

“It's not funny, Mommy. He's not funny, either.”

“Is he mean?”

“I don't think so, but he's not the kind of pirate I wanted.”

“You had something specific in mind?” the woman asked.

“Well, I wanted a nice-looking pirate. One you might like, but this one's ugly. Really big and really ugly, and he has a big red scar down the whole side of his face. I guess that means he must be mean.”

“You can't always judge someone by his appearance. It's what's inside that counts.”

“Oh, I know all that. But if you saw this guy, you'd probably be really scared.”

“Were you afraid of him?”

“Heck, no. I think he was asleep, and when I touched him, he just sort of grunted, then he kept saying, ‘Aye'…‘Aye,' you know, like real pirates say.”

The woman was silent for too long a time. He imagined her eyes scanning the island, looking for an evil buccaneer, wringing her hands in dismay, anxiously hoping that her own man would soon return.

And then her sweet, melodious voice touched his ears again.

“You're sure you didn't imagine the pirate, Case?”

“No, Mommy, you've got to believe me.”

He remembered the child's words.
Mommy's never going to believe this. Not in a million years
. He wondered why his presence should seem such an impossibility, when a multitude of brigands roamed up and down this coast.

Then a thought crossed his mind. Perhaps
they'd been in search of a pirate, desperately needing to collect the bounty on his head. It seemed a foolhardy venture for a woman and child, but the price for capturing Black Heart was enough to tempt anyone.

Claiming the reward, however, would prove most difficult. As soon as nightfall came, he'd find a way to escape the island. Until then, he'd rest quietly on the dune, and listen to the woman, the child, and keep an ear out for others.

“Tell me more about the pirate, Case. Did he have a peg leg?”

“No, just a patch. I bet he doesn't even have an eye behind it. Somebody probably cut it out when they were fighting.”

A laugh rumbled deep in Black Heart's chest as he reached under the patch and rubbed his right eye. Perfectly intact, just as it had always been. He readjusted the piece of black satin he'd worn—or not worn—to confuse his pursuers, then traced his index finger lightly down the length of the scar that ran from the outer corner of his right eye, over his cheek, and curled just under his lower lip. It wasn't all that big and it wasn't all that ugly, simply a razor-fine slice left by the tip of a very sharp blade.

Thomas Low's blade
. Damn him to hell! The blackguard hadn't been satisfied with carving a deep scar on his soul; he'd maimed his body, too.

He shoved memories of Low away. He was confused enough by what he'd found on his island without clouding his thoughts with the deeds of
that murderer. There were other things to think of now—like the unprotected woman and child, and the possibility that there might be others stalking the island, looking for him.

Climbing to the top of the sand dune, he caught sight of the curly-haired child.

And the woman.

She was on her knees in the sand, her hands on the child's shoulders. Behind her was the sleekest sailing vessel he'd ever seen, lying like a beached whale on the shore.

The ship was finely built, but it was the woman who caught his fancy. She was far and away the most winsome female who'd ever come into his line of vision. Definitely a woman to be gazed upon with two good eyes, he decided, flipping up his patch.

He imagined her age to be close to a score and four, perhaps as much as a score and six. She had the creamy skin of a girl not long out of the nursery, but the lusciously rounded body of a goddess—Tethys, maybe, the beautiful queen of the seas, the titaness he'd often asked to protect him as he and
Satan's Revenge
sailed the oceans.

Bloody hell! She was not a goddess, she was merely a woman, a petite bit of perfection who'd have to stand on her toes just so the top of her head could reach his chin.

A woman who could easily tempt a man to wish for a wife, and babes, and a permanent home, if he was foolish enough to contemplate leaving the sea.

A thought that would never cross his own mind.

“We have to go to him, Mommy,” the child cried, tearing Black Heart's attention away from sentimental thoughts, and turning it back again to the child, and the beautiful woman shaking her head quite adamantly.

The child shoved her fists into her hips. “But he could be dying.”

“He could be dangerous, too,” the woman stated flatly. “No, Case, we're better off staying here in the open. That way we can keep an eye out for him.”

“You don't believe there's a pirate, do you?” the child asked. “Daddy would have believed me.”

The woman turned her head, looking out to sea. “Daddy was a dreamer, Case. He believed in a lot of things….” Her words drifted away, just as the child drifted from her touch.

“I wish Daddy was here. I would have prayed for him to come instead of a pirate, but I've tried before and it doesn't work.”

The woman reached out to touch the child, but she jerked away. He could sense the woman's hurt, the rejection she felt, as she looked at the back of her daughter's head. God knows he'd seen his own mother look that way many a time.

In spite of her daughter's withdrawal, the woman approached her again, wrapped her arms around the girl, and rested her cheek against her curls.

“Daddy's not coming back,” she said gently.
“As much as we want him to, he can't. It's just you and me, Case.”

He watched a tender smile transform her face from sad to wistful. “If Daddy were here….” Even from the distance he could hear her sigh. “If Daddy were here, the blasted boat wouldn't be lying on the beach and we'd be home by now.”

Slowly the woman ran her fingers down her daughter's sides, and with a sudden change of mood, she tickled her waist. She laughed as the little girl erupted into giggles.

For long minutes they chased each other around the beach, and as Black Heart watched their gaiety, he sensed they were alone, that there were no men on the island. He could easily make himself known to them, but then he'd no longer be able to watch their play, and it did his heart good to know that there was still great happiness in the world he'd abandoned.

He watched while they scampered through the water, kicking at waves, diving into their depths, then coming out at last to lie on the beach.

“Do you think we're going to be stranded here forever?” the child asked. “Like Robinson Crusoe?”

“Of course not. The storm just shoved the boat a little too far up on the sand, but as soon as the tide comes back in, we should be able to get it back out to sea.”

The child looked inland, toward Black Heart's stronghold. “My pirate might help, if we ask him nicely.”

Frowning, Casey's mother sighed as she looked toward the center of the island. He imagined she was wondering how much truth there was to her daughter's words about a pirate being in the fortress. She scanned the groves of palm and the deserted beach, and her gaze swept right over the dune where he hid. Finally she turned back to the child.

“Pirates aren't very trustworthy, Case. I know how much you'd like to have one for a friend, but this time I think we'd better take care of ourselves, and right now that means we try pushing the boat.”

The woman shoved up from the ground, brushed sand from her hands, and moved gracefully toward the vessel. She was a beauty, parading about in only that bright blue corset and some sort of pantaloon. Her slender thighs, her rounded hips, and her blessed bottom swayed when she walked, and when she applied that part of her anatomy to the side of the boat and pushed, her glorious breasts nearly spilled from the small bit of fabric she was wearing.

Ah, but she made his body ache.

“Come on, Case,” the woman pleaded to the child who stubbornly sat on the beach. “I really do need your help.”

Black Heart could hear the child's frustrated sigh all the way across the beach, sounding so much like his own beloved sister who'd often sighed when she couldn't have what she wanted.

The old familiar pain stabbed at his heart. God,
how he missed Melody's little-girl giggles, her bouncing black curls, the way dimples formed at the corners of her lips when she smiled.

He'd never see those smiles again. Never hear her laughter, or wrap a curl around his finger as he bounced her on his knee.

He'd never again hear her say, “I love you.”

Thomas Low would pay for what he'd done, but, bloody hell, he could do nothing until he got off this island.

He looked at the boat the woman was struggling to move. 'Twas just what he needed in order to find
Satan's Revenge
, and it appeared it was not going to leave the island until the tide came in. 'Twould be nearly impossible, even then, for the woman to get the boat off the sand. 'Twould be difficult enough for him, but he'd deal with that problem when darkness fell and the ocean rolled high on the beach. The woman and child would be asleep by then, and he would take the boat unbeknownst to either of them.

An ounce of guilt tugged at his heart. Perhaps he should take them with him, but he had more important matters to concern himself with now, and he didn't need either of them in his way—or under his skin. He had no doubt that they'd be safe on the island and, being a gentleman by nature, he would send someone back to rescue them.