Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (4 page)

He leaned her head back until only she could hear him. “Whatever you do, trust no one but
me
.”

She focused on the woodwork above her head. Did he honestly expect
her
to trust
him
? Ridiculous! Captain Collins and Lieutenant Guffald were risking their lives or were perhaps even now lying on deck, dead. They deserved her loyalty, her trust.

“I trust no one,” she admitted, “especially pirates. Kill me now and be done with it!”

“What a loss that would be,” the pirate aggrieved.

Constance suddenly grew bolder. “A loss of your sport!”

“Aye. But no one else will help you. You'd best figure that out soon. If you want to get off this ship alive, you'll do what I say.”

“It's time, bos'un!”

The demon growled, an ominous sound belying his vow of protection. He peered over her shoulder at the man in the doorway. Hard, lean, there was no escaping the tight rein on her shoulders.

“We stand to lose everything if we don't appear on deck,” the harassing man continued.

Constance's captor turned her around to face him. She barely reached his shoulder and had to tilt her face up to meet his. “Remember what I said. You'll be safe with me. Stay by my side. And whatever you do, do not look the captain in the eyes.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Would you trust Simon Danbury?” he asked.

Of course, she thought. But that was — impossible! “How do you know that name?”

“It doesn't matter. Would you trust him?” he gritted between his teeth.

“With my life,” she vowed.

His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Then trust
me
.”

“I'm afraid,” she confessed, choking back a sob.

“You have no other choice. Or would you prefer taking your petition to Captain Frink? I guarantee you'll not find him as accommodating.”

She had no time to answer. The man tugged her bound hands, then dragged her along behind him. His strides were sure, lengthy, and quick. It took every ounce of her strength to maintain her footing as they left the cabin and thread their way through the companionway up onto the deck. Along the way, she stumbled here and there in the darkness, trying to keep up with his strides. Once, she lost contact with the man and, reaching down to right herself, came into contact with a large form coated with something warm and wet. She wiped her sticky hand on her shift hastily and kept her eyes trained upon first the ceiling, then the night sky, after realizing, with horror, her error.

“Keep up,” he shouted, grabbing her hands when she lagged behind, looking back at her more than once. “If you want freedom, you must earn it.”

All Constance had ever wanted was her freedom, freedom from her father's overprotection, the pressures to increase his coffers, not to mention an unsuitable forced marriage. Now, as she ascended the steps that lead to her certain execution, once again she clung to a pirate's hand with vigorous zeal, unwilling to be parted.

“Don't kill me,” she pleaded.

He turned, his eye narrowing, anger marring his features. “If you trust
me
, you shall have your freedom.”

Gunfire sparked the night. She screamed. Her actions drew men with crazed expressions toward her.

“Stay calm,” he warned. “That'll keep you alive.”

Her eyes roamed over the once pristine ship, unrecognizable now as she scanned the broken debris searching for signs of Captain Collins and Lieutenant Guffald. She could barely make out a man in garish clothing through the crowd, lurching over a man's form, shouting, waving his sword to all who would listen.

“Keep to my back,” her captor warned. “Do not feast your eyes upon the carnage ahead.”

They moved closer to the crowded men positioned at the bow. Bodies of the unfortunate lay scattered about, illumined by fires aboard ship, forcing her to remember another ship, another night, and the last glimpse of her mother's face. Her legs threatened to buckle as a man's scream pierced the darkness and her captor's arm tensed. She squeezed his hand, mindful to keep her eyes trained upon her feet. But she could not remain detached from her surroundings long. A flash of light to her left drew her attention. Near that lighted torch, she spied two men picking through a limp man's pockets. Her eyes focused on the poor soul, his blond hair bloody, body vulnerable, yet somehow familiar. Another torch made everything clear.

Constance gasped. Lieutenant Guffald! With a terrified plea, she tried unsuccessfully to jerk free of the pirate's grasp in order to aid the wounded lieutenant. But she could not pull free. The grip on her arm remained unrelentingly firm.

“Do not fight me,” he growled.

Another scream rent the air like thunder and lightning during a storm. She could no longer fight the urge to discover its source. Curiosity getting the best of her, she peered around the pirate's arm until her gaze locked upon Captain Collins tied to the mizzen mast. The sight emerged so horrific, Constance sank into the abyss.

• • •

Percival Avery braced himself to catch Lady Constance Danbury in his arms. Surrounded by the stench of death and misery, she posed a shapely, unwelcome mystery he had no time to explore. Why Simon Danbury's niece was on the
Octavia
in the first place he couldn't comprehend. Her presence aboard the merchantman put him in a tenuous position. She was not what he needed. Not now, not when he'd been so close to achieving everything he'd worked so hard to attain, vengeance. His mind weathered the odds of fate that bound him to a woman he simply had no time to rescue.

Simon Danbury's directive had placed him under Captain Frink's command. The coordinated efforts of members within Nelson's Tea dictated routes taken to sabotage the madman's attacks on various cargos sailing the Channel. Frink's association with his sister's killers created a division of loyalties within him. He'd lived and fought for eight months to win the depraved captain's trust. Now, thanks to the appearance of one woman, he stood to lose everything.

Percy cursed his rotten luck. The irony was inescapable. Mutiny, the last resort for a pirate, would be his only chance to get the lady safely off the ship and back home into Danbury's expectant arms. He was not immune to the ramifications that one miraculous act would ignite upon his own hide.

“We can't afford to let anything get in our way,” Ollie, his second in command said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “We've come too far to let anything stop us now.”

He recalled the many lives lost in their race to catch Frink's backer and swore under his breath. None of their efforts had gone unrewarded. Time and time again, they'd prevented further bloodshed. Yet, the primal creature he'd become in order to stay sane sickened him.

“Have you lost your sense of decency?” he spat. “Allowing Simon's niece to bear witness to Frink's bloodbath is not part of our plan.”

“We do what needs be done. It's the only way to collect our golden goose. You know this better than I.”

Ollie's words stung more than salt on a whipped man's back. He hated what Ollie had become, what he'd been forced to become in order to survive among Frink's crew. What had happened to his convictions of right and wrong? God help him, he was not the man he'd set out to be at the beginning of this mission, especially if he even considered finding a way to protect the girl without making the final cut with Frink.

Percy turned his back on Ollie, then scanned over the
Octavia
's remaining crew, men who'd fought bravely to protect the woman in his arms — and lost. Their dwindling numbers guaranteed his limited options. He'd have to make a final stand or die.

Ollie hounded him. “If Frink gets wind of this, he'll have you killed.”

“That's a risk we're going to have to take.”

Ollie glared at Constance. “What if the girl recognizes you?”

“That won't happen.”

“Are you certain? Would you wager the lives of our men?”

Percy scowled. He rued the day he'd accepted Simon's writ and signed on with Barnabas Frink. Since that moment, he'd proven his loyalty to the insane captain again and again in a quest to find answers to the mystery of his sister's death. He'd been flogged countless times for his endeavors. Presently, he shifted his hip, allowing the scars rubbing against the fabric on his back to remind him how much he'd sacrificed to get into Frink's good graces. He'd put aside his name, his position among the ton, and denied himself happiness. What more would he be asked to give?

“Sexton!” Frink bellowed. Oh, how the name and invention of Thomas Sexton blighted Percy's soul. “What have you got there?”

Percy's gaze dropped to the unconscious woman in his arms. Golden hair draped over his arm like the impenetrable shield of an angel in the aftermath of Armageddon. Tiny, fragile, she was no fallen angelic warrior, but an innocent Frink would destroy.

“Bring her here, Sexton. I want her to join our little gathering.”

Percy exchanged glances with Ollie, and then gathered Constance's shapely form closer to his chest. She was a Danbury all right, a lioness. For this reason, he worried for her safety. One wrong word, one open-ended threat had sent Frink into a frenzy more times than he could count.

“Give him no need to admonish you, lad. You'll need your strength,” his first mate, Jacko, said as he sauntered up alongside.

Keeping his eyes trained on Frink, Percy made the decision that would derail every one of his aspirations for revenge. “Wait for my signal. We cannot and must not fail.”

Captain Frink appeared to show signs of losing patience. There was no mistaking why the man was the most feared captain known to man. His form-fitting maroon brocade jacket was splattered with blood of the innocent. His face was smeared with oil, gunpowder, and sulphur. He wore a maniacal smile that decreed his hunger had yet to be staunched. Percy hugged Constance closer to his heart, prepared to die protecting her, if need be.

“What have you got there, Sexton?”

“A prize worthy of ransom, Captain,” he pressed, desiring Frink to treat his captive as a valuable commodity and not incommodious sport.

Frink's eyebrows furrowed. “Why isn't she conscious? Why have you denied me her screams of fright and me crew her delights?”

The threat in Frink's eye warned him to take care, but Percy knew the man had already heard her screams. What baited hook did the captain dangle before him?

“She's weak, Captain,” Ollie intruded. “We had no more than made our way onto deck then she fainted dead away.”

Frink's eyes narrowed as he pondered Ollie's unpardonable mistake, interrupting the madman. Percy held his breath, for he had seen that look and felt the resulting effects of the man's anger before.

“That old crone didn't seem affected,” Frink stated matter-of-factly.

“That badger's not as frail as this one,” Ollie replied.

Frink backhanded Ollie in a fit of explosive rage. “You bloody wastrel! That is the last time you'll interrupt me!”

Ollie clenched his fists. Frink raised his cutlass, prepared to strike. Percy warned Ollie off and stepped forward. “Ollie had nothing to do with this. I hit the girl, Captain. You heard her scream. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a blithering woman.”

Frink turned on him, stared hard, and then growled a curse. The captain would find no fault with his actions. In fact, he expected Frink to applaud them.

The captain howled with demented laughter. “That be the difference between us, Sexton. I like a woman to squirm and beg. You've always been won over with soft-spoken words and promises. Today, spawn, you've won me respect.”

Turning toward his men, Frink yelled above the din to men who clamored to fight off the last of the
Octavia
's crew. Fire burned on the bow, lighting up the night, casting Frink in sinister contrast to those who struggled to survive. Wood snapped and crackled, increasing the expectancy of everyone present.

“You know'd the law when you signed, Sexton,” Frink reminded him. “Your disobedience has cost me on more than one account. You're a damn good pirate, one with an insatiable appetite I've yet to see quenched. And,” he added, “you're a man who's outlasted his turn more than once with the cat.”

Frink sneered as if that one act of defiance irritated him. Then he raised his cutlass high. Warily, Percy eyed Frink, prepared to act should the captain attack.

A cacophony of voices rent the night, some bloodcurdling, some victorious. Sounds of shattering glass and busted wood echoed in the air as men tossed provisions to and from the
Octavia
to their ship, the
Striker
. Percy held no illusions. Frink was a frayed rope ready to snap. Like a male bird preening for a mate, the fiend paced left, then right. A captain's life became forfeit if his authority ever came into question. Frink, better than any other, knew how tenuous his position as captain could be if he did not face down any threat to his command, when it was made. And Percy had always been viewed as a threat.

“She looks a wee bit small. Pretty, too. Were you fighting over her?” he asked.

“Would it make a difference?” Percy answered. “She wanted nothing to do with either of us.”

Frink smiled a wicked purposeful warning. “No? I suppose not. This one is made of finer stuff than we've ever seen. Will she survive? No matter. These women never do. So to say whether or not your attempts to bed her before me were worth it or not, well … we shall never know.”

Pure evil, Frink raised his cutlass again to anyone who would listen. “Captain Collins forfeited all rights to parlay by aiming his guns at our ship!”

The
Striker
's crew gathered around Collins. Percy knew the only thing on the minds of these men was the booty in the
Octavia
's hull. No matter what occurred next, they would not be denied their share.