Romancing the Pirate 01.5 - Beneath The Water's Edge (10 page)

Blackthorn jumped over a stack of crates and followed the wooden dock until it ended. His boots sunk into the soft sand slowing his progress. Only once he reached the rocky barrier did he stop. His lungs burned from the exertion and he needed to catch his breath, to harness his sensibility. He could not be undisciplined. Elyssa’s life depended on it. He had to hunt down Rathbone, assess the situation, and save his bonny lass. There was no other option.

Voices carried over the embankment, Blackthorn had to move.

To get around the wall, Blackthorn would have to wade out into the surf. That was not favorable, as he would likely be seen. He’d have to find a way around through the dense tropical jungle. Vines and mangroves were thick. Aggravation at having to tramp through the leafy tangle unfurled his prudence.
Burn this!
He began to climb the rugged wall. The jagged stones cut into his fingers and stabbed his palms and his waistcoat hindered his hand over hand ascent. His boots scraped against the rock, slipping until a toehold could be found. By God, he would get to the top.

The breeze on the ridge cooled the sweat trickling down his temple. He dusted off the pebbles stuck into his palms onto his trousers and looked for any sign of Elyssa or that bilge rat, Rathbone. Sunlight skimmed across the gentle waves lapping the shore. Black boulders lined the crusty sand. Blackthorn searched along the rim of the inlet. Below, almost out of his line of sight, he caught a glimpse of movement. He scaled down the embankment, careful not to dislodge loose rocks. Closer, a stone’s cast away, Elyssa and Rathbone came into view.

Elyssa’s wrists were bound and bloodied by a length of rope and the wretch was having a devil of a time tying her to a tree. He tried to secure her hugging the tree, undoubtedly to defile her with ease, but she fought, twisted and writhed with all her might. Rathbone pressed his body into hers to minimize her struggles. Blackthorn clenched his fists.
Keep calm. Keep fucking calm.

“I’ll gut ya now if ya don’t stop.” Rathbone’s knife glinted in the sunlight as he pulled it from his waist and flashed it before her eyes.

Blackthorn got a clear look of Elyssa’s tear-stained face. Rage boiled up, heat singed his neck. He held his breath, his jaw aching from grinding his teeth. An unsightly bruise had formed under her eye. He was going to kill that maggot, spit on his worthless carcass for harming her.

Rathbone threw the rope over a branch and yanked her arms over her head. Pain shot from her raw wrists down to her shoulder blades. She stomped on his foot.

“Ow!” Rathbone slapped her. “Keep fightin’ me, chit. I’m gonna watch ya bleed.”

He flattened his slovenly body in closer, his scarred, blotched face an inch from hers. The edge of his dagger pricked the skin under her chin and all but guaranteed she wouldn’t move again.

“I finally get to bury m’self in ya.” His putrid breath stung her nose. She swallowed back the bile burning at the back of her throat. “Make ya scream. Make ya beg me not to hurt ya no more. But I’m not gonna show mercy on ya. No. I like my doxies to suffer.” He dragged his slimy tongue up her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Elyssa could think of no way to escape this madman. No way but death. He planned to kill her anyway. Could she talk her way through this? Perhaps tell him lies, become a willing participant, gain his trust until he untied her and flee at the first chance? Was he that stupid? Nay, she would rather welcome a quick death than submit to the atrocities Rathbone intended. If only he would turn his dagger a little more, she could impale her own throat.

She would not make this easy for him. The sooner she angered him, the sooner she’d find peace.

Rathbone smashed his lips to her mouth. It took every particle of her being not to vomit. She bit his lip instead—hard—and wouldn’t let go. He jerked away, but not before she tasted the metallic tang of his blood.

“Bitch!”

He struck her with the back of her hand.

Her head whipped to the side, tears snipped from her eyes at the smarting on her cheek.
Anger him more
. Elyssa slowly leveled an icy stare at him and spat in his face. “Flog off.”

She braced herself as he raised his hand to strike her again.

“Does striking a woman make you feel like more of a man, Rathbone?”

Bran?

Rathbone spun around. “You.” Spite dripped from his tone.

Elyssa’s heart did a flip. He’d come for her. Her wicked pirate had come for her.
Hold on, Elyssa. He came for you to collect a ransom. Not because he has the same feelings for you as you do for him.

Bran hopped down from a boulder and strode near with menacing ease. Even in the bright morning rays, the captain commanded the shadows. The rocks, the deep green foliage, even the water seemed to darken around him.

“See, I think you’re a lily-livered coward,” Bran said. “You prey on women and ambush men too drunk to put up a real fight.”

“I ain’t never seen ya in a brawl.” Rathbone cocked his head with a contentious sneer. “Some capt’n, always lettin’ that lackey of yers, Kipp, do all the scufflin’.”

“A good leader is a tactical one,” Bran retorted. “Shame you don’t know more about me. ’Tis a regret you’ll learn soon enough.”

“Save yer cowing. Ya don’t scare me.”

Rathbone was a fool not to be intimidated by Bran. If Elyssa were the wretch, her knees would be knocking with fear.

“I’ve no intention to scare you, just kill you.”

The blade of Bran’s cutlass scraped against metal as Bran withdrew his sword from its scabbard. In a blur of speed, he swung the sword. Rathbone ducked away and the blade sliced through Elyssa’s binds. She collapsed to the ground. Her arm muscles cricked from the release of being extended, but her wrists still chafed in their fetters.

A subtle grin broke across Bran’s calm visage. “But first, are you man enough to fight me?”

“I’ve no sword. You’ve an advantage. Wouldn’t be
honorable
of ya, now would it, Capt’n?”

Bran chuckled. “Honor has nothing to do with it. But I do like my opponent to be a mite challenging.” His smile faded. “No weapons, Rathbone. We fight fist to fist. Or are you a coward?”

Rathbone clucked. “I’ve wanted to plug ya in the face since joinin’ yer worthless crew.”

The men threw their weapons aside and shed out of their jackets and tunics. Rathbone was a stocky man with a good build. No doubt he could dominate in a fracas. But Bran, his expansive muscular arms were impressive. Not because of how firm they felt under her fingertips. Not because her heart had been laid open to him. But because brawn such as his harnessed mighty power. Trails of embossed veins traced down his arms as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Elyssa scrambled to her feet, putting the tree between her and them. Rathbone circled Bran, as if he were stalking prey. Bran moved only his eyes, watching his foe. Chills swept across Elyssa’s flesh. Dear Lord, these men were going to pummel one another.

Rathbone swung first, but Bran deflected with his arm and delivered a blow under the cur’s chin. Elyssa cringed at the sound of teeth crunching. Rathbone spat out a tooth and swung again, this time hitting his mark. Bran worked his jaw back and forth. Was…was he…smiling? He returned with another cracking blow. More strikes were traded. Solid jabs coming one after the other. How did they continue to throw punches unaffected by the bashing each took? Grunts tallied growls. Sand kicked up from their macabre dance. Won’t they ever tire?

Rathbone veered away from Bran’s swing and grappled him. They struggled, arms intertwined, wrestling, as Rathbone tried to bring Bran down. Bran plowed his knuckles into the exposed part of Rathbone’s neck, crumpling him to the ground. Rathbone scampered away on all fours, sand flurrying up from his heels. Clambering to his feet, he snatched up a piece of driftwood and whacked Bran. Bran blocked but stumbled back, giving Rathbone just enough time to retrieve his gulley knife.

“Bran! Watch out!”
Oh God! No!

Bran looked up too late. Rathbone charged him, locking into Bran in another powerful struggle. They grunted, arms trembling, from the exertion. Neither gained purchase. Elyssa’s heart stopped. Blood wept from a gash in Bran’s gut. The knife in Rathbone’s clutch dripped red.

Mother of heaven!
He’s been stabbed.
She must do something to help Bran. Anything! But what could she do with her wrists still bound? Bran’s sword lay in the sand out of reach. Alack! She wouldn’t be able to get around the fighting men to retrieve it. She looked all around her, nothing but rocks. Rocks everywhere.
Think, Elyssa, think!
She picked up a stone, round like a cannonball, but not quite as heavy. Running up behind them, she smacked the rock over Rathbone’s head as hard as she could. ’Twasn’t hard enough. The thud to his head stunned Rathbone, and he slipped away from Bran. Bran staggered backwards, his face drawn and blanched, looking down at his wound.

Rathbone sulked around. Malice kindled in his sneer. He kneaded the handle of his knife. “Ya shouldn’t have done that, puss.”

“You didn’t fight fair.”

“Ain’t no rules in killin’.”

Bran’s eyes closed. His tense body swayed. He couldn’t be dying, could he? Elyssa prayed it wasn’t so.

Rathbone crept closer. “Now it’s yer turn.” He raised his blade. Elyssa chunked the rock at him as he lunged.

A shot rang out, echoing off the walls on the inlet. Rathbone froze, dagger in midair, eyes wide. He folded to his knees.

Smoke from the pistol Bran held dissipated in the breeze. “I told you I’d kill you.” He strode over to the fiend and snatched the blade from his grip. Rathbone slumped to the ground.

Elyssa raced to Bran. He pulled her into an embrace and she held him tight, not minding the blood and sweat of his skin sticking to her.

“Elyssa.” Her name on his lips, raspy yet tender, sounded of pure music. For one moment she allowed herself to soak into him, to move with him as he breathed heavily, thankful she was alive—thankful
he
was alive.

He’d done a treacherous thing to her, toying with her affections, using her for money and for her body. The hurt, she’d never experienced anything like it. She had cried until she had no more tears, felt her heart wither and die. If it hadn’t been for Mac keeping close, she’d have walked into the sea and let the pull of the tides wash her away. She had wanted to hate Bran. Desperately. But she couldn’t. Instead, she forgave him. Even if she was his pawn.

Her captivity at the mercy of a pirate could have been far worse. Quite frankly, she doubted lying beneath another man could ever make her feel the way he did. She had to believe she was fortunate. By all accounts, she should be dead thrice over. Now she could face her life unafraid to take risks. She would see Lord Montgomery’s officer and build her shipping business, for she had nothing else to lose. In the meantime, she must guard her heart from Bran.

She pried out of his cradle. “We need to get you to a doctor.” Blood coursed down the cut of his flank, staining the waist of his trousers.

Bran paid her no mind. He sliced through the rope at her wrists with Rathbone’s dagger. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” He gingerly inspected her wrists.

“I’m fine. Please, Bran. You’re bleeding badly.”

“Capt’n!” Kipp climbed down the ragged wall jutting out into the surf. Mac followed on his heels.

A Royal Navy officer and another man stood atop the peninsula. This other man was impeccably dressed in flashy cream and yellow finery, dripping in jewelry, and wearing a full-bodied white wig with three masses of curls. Despite the wig had fallen out of fashion years ago, there was something else about him that held Elyssa’s attention. He seemed familiar in some way. The distance between them kept her from distinguishing why.

Kipp and Mac jumped into the surf and waded the rest of the way to the beach.

“Elysen!” Mac said. “You all right, lass?”