Mistress of the Stone (10 page)

“And I won’t argue with you.” He pointed to a massive frigate now closing in on them. “They mean to board us, and I’ll need every man to keep them at bay. You’d only be a distraction and a burden to them. They’re sworn to protect you, remember? I don’t want them dying just to keep you from getting hurt.”

“I can fight.”

Paqua’s leathered hands cupped her face. He squeezed her cheeks, then kissed her forehead. “I know you can. But right now, I need you to hide. Please, Luísa. For my sake. For your father’s.”

Luísa looked out to sea where the ghostly shape of a frigate spilled out of the thinning fog. She was big and she was French. Was it Saint-Sauveur? It looked like the
Vengeance
. And if they boarded them, the
Coral
was doomed. She was no match for something that big. Cannons aside, they probably had twice as many men at matchlocks and swords.

The old man was right. Next to their loot, she’d be next for plunder. Women were a valuable commodity—especially virgins.

“Be careful, Paqua.” She pulled him close to her and kissed his cheek. “Don’t you dare get killed by the likes of them.”

“There’s not a Frenchman born yet who could get the best of me.” He patted her cheek. “Off with you now. I intend to teach some manners to those dandies.”

Luísa made her way to her quarters, struggling to stay on her feet as more volleys rocked the
Coral
out of the water. Blast Paqua and his mollycoddling. They needed every blade to fight the French off. That included hers.

What good would it do to save her skin if she drowned on a sinking ship?

The frigate grew like a mountain out of the mist. She’d be upon them soon and then the battle would turn man to man. She threw open the door to her cabin and rustled through a chest where she kept her guns and powder.

She pulled out two pistols, specially designed to fit her smaller hands, and loaded them with powder. Once primed, she wedged them on either side of her belt. Her knives were kept in a special leather wrap, an entire array of blades of every shape and size. These she wedged into every pocket and sleeve, hiding even two shurikens into the folds of her bandanna. Her dagger, the one Paqua said was magicked, she kept in her boot.

All the extra hardware weighed her down, but she knew she’d be doffing them quickly once the battle started. She found two more pistols and tucked one under a bandolier and another in her breeches.

If she had to load herself with one more weapon, she was sure to lose her trousers down to her ankles. She reached for her swords next when a crash threw her to the ground. A loud, grinding scrape cut across the side of the ship.

They were being boarded.

Musketfire and the scrape of blades echoed outside. Men rushed toward each other, a blood-curdling war cry on their lips. Luísa made the sign of the cross then grabbed two swords from where she dropped them.

As she rose to her feet, two men sprang into her quarters. French cutthroats. How did they reach her so quickly?

She lunged at the closest one and threw her sword at the second, spearing him in the gut. He was a goner, but the first man evaded her lunge then parried with his blade.

He was good, matching her thrusts, stroke by stroke, but this was taking too much time. As the brigand moved in for another blow, Luísa feinted with one hand and reached up to her bandanna and threw the two hidden shurikens.

One hit him in the throat and it must have been close to the jugular because the blood spurted out in a gush. The second bladed-star struck him in the eye, and that was all the stomach that Frenchman had left. He screamed like a burnt dog and became so disoriented he slammed right into the doorjamb, knocking himself out cold.

Two down, and at least fifty more outside begging to meet their Maker. She sheathed her sword then lit the fuses on both her pistols. Let them kill her if it be God’s will, but she wouldn’t be meeting Him alone.

Chapter Eight

Daltry heard the call for arms and cannon ports lifted almost at once. They had picked up speed and for a few blessed minutes order had been restored.

But all their efforts proved fruitless.

Whatever ship lit upon them caught them again. The first volley crashed at the aft of the ship, then came a mighty crack and the roar of a mast hitting the deck. Men scattered and screamed. Was Luísa all right?

Another volley, and again the
Coral
bobbed in the water. The gunners were good. Too good. If the
Coral
didn’t make haste, they’d sink her for sure.

She must not have been in a good position to fire because no shots were returned. Daltry felt the ship lean into a turn, but it was too late.

A low groan echoed on the starboard side as the enemy scraped along the
Coral’s
bulwark. They leaned side by side, popping against each other as the waves pushed them closer together.

The top deck rang with war cries as men and steel clashed, and the ricochet of gunfire ate away at men’s nerves. He could taste their fear, a sick dread that wafted off the sweat of men in battle.

Time to go.

Daltry closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as the fire in his belly swelled. He stretched his neck feeling the cords of muscle thicken and grow. An arc of pain ripped through him, his body on fire. That was the way of it when he had to hurry. There was no time to let nature take its course. He let out a cry that transformed into a growl as his body succumbed to the wolf within.

With one tug he broke the chains pinning him to the ceiling beam. He tore the shackles off his wrists, now too tight for comfort. His breeches stretched at the seams and his shirt, voluminous though it was, gave way to his increasing girth.

Daltry jumped on the ladder and lurched up the rails two by two and climbed to the top deck.

The
Coral
had been boarded and Daltry recognized her transgressor immediately. It was the
Vengeance
. Saint-Sauveur had found them at last.

The
Vengeance
drilled into the
Coral
like a wedge, punching a hole in her that put half her cannons out of commission. She was taking on water. If Paqua didn’t surrender now, he’d lose the ship along with her hands.

Three men dragged Luísa from the top; she, fighting them off with all she was worth. One man grabbed her around the waist, pinning her arms at her sides, while another man relieved her of half a dozen pistols and knives. Luísa kicked out, gaining purchase on the groin of the man in front. The man paled and crumbled to the deck.

Daltry winced. That had to hurt. The girl kicked like a mule.

He raced toward them, but he wouldn’t reach her in time. They were already at the ship’s rail ready to disembark. Paqua fought like a man possessed, jabbing and slashing every man in front of Luísa. He had nearly reached her when someone cracked a musket over his head. He fell face forward into her arms.

Paqua slid to the deck and Luísa screamed in horror. Her legs buckled under her, and she tried to help the shaman to his feet, but she was surrounded in seconds.

Dooley, brave and stupid lad that he was, took up where Paqua went down, and ran after the brigands, lunging on the back of the man who towed Luísa like a sack of grain.

Another man pulled Dooley off and knocked him out with one blow. The brute pulled the boy’s head back by a hank of his hair and studied him. A sick grin crossed the man’s face as he threw the lad across his shoulder and took him too.

Someone came up on Daltry, a one-eyed cook by the look of him, with a grimy apron and a meat cleaver in his hand. The poor bastard took one look and withered from fright, fainting dead away.

Daltry relieved him of the cleaver and made his way to the ship’s rail. Saint-Sauveur was beating a retreat. They had gotten what they came for. The
Coral
was unimportant now.

Even as Paqua’s men fought to hold the boarding lines between the ships, the
Vengeance
cut the ropes and drifted away from the
Coral
. The distance between them spanned too far. Daltry couldn’t leap the void, so he did the next best thing. He jumped into the sea.

He didn’t allow his body to change back into human form just yet. Much as his wolf state hated getting wet, he needed his animal strength to reach the
Vengeance
before she put on speed.

He climbed up the barnacle lined hull, his claws digging into the lapped seams of the ship. When he reached the top, he hung there, listening for movement.

Saint-Sauveur left the
Coral
listing in the fog. He wouldn’t be expecting a stowaway.

Daltry peered over the railing. The crew of the
Vengeance
were tending their wounded and making what repairs were needed. Still giddy from battle, they’d be fidgety and wary. He had to bide his time. He scanned the perimeter and let his wolf side recede from whence it came.

His jaws ached as they molded themselves back into human form. Wolf muscles waned and the long dark hair on his face and body shortened to reveal the flesh of a man. His clothes were gone, except for his skivvies that now hung limply along his hips.

Daltry waited for his moment, then climbed over the railing and hid behind a small currach. His eyes widened when he caught sight of Luísa, her body limp and in the arms of Saint-Sauveur’s first mate.

Dooley, who had valiantly fought to save his mistress was strapped to a mast, his face pummeled by the master at arms until he slid against his ropes unconscious. Daltry feared the lad was in for far worse. If the chance arose to help him, he would.

Daltry sniffed the air. Even in human form his sight and smell were sharper than the common man. But what he hunted was no common man.

On a breeze, he caught a whiff of Saint-Sauveur and his head turned to the quarterdeck. His eyes narrowed when his rival turned in his direction as well, sniffing the wind, recognition on his face. Wolves at sea, the both of them. One seeking the scion who would free all wolves from turning involuntarily, the other desperate for the means to stop him. In the middle was Luísa, the one creature who could plunge the entire night realm to war.

Chapter Nine

Luísa’s head throbbed as if it had been smashed in a press. Her eyes opened slowly, painfully, forcing lids that felt like someone had poured thick syrup over them. She looked down at her torn, stained shirt. Not syrup, she winced. Blood.

What of the
Coral
? Had the crew survived the day?

She was bound hand and foot, and had been relieved of her cutlass, but when she pressed the side of her boot against the bed frame, she felt the hidden blade. They hadn’t found that. It was some comfort at least, though she didn’t know how it would help her at this point. If the blade was truly enchanted, she could sorely use that magic about now.

She forced herself to a sitting position and grimaced. Everything hurt and moving too fast made her woozy. That lump on her head felt as big as a casaba melon.

Luísa studied her surroundings, searching for a way out. Judging by the feather bed and the richly carved woodwork, this was the captain’s quarters. Clean, gilded and as fussy as French decoration would allow.

Her blood stained the bed linen. How appropriate. No French sod’s quarters would be complete without the blood.

The ferocity of the attack numbed her still. Most pirate-hunters take their prize intact, but the
Vengeance
seemed determined to sink the
Coral
. What had they taken—besides her?

If they had stolen any gold, it would’ve been taken here first so the captain could take an account, but she seemed to be the only trophy. The attackers fought a focused battle, every man in a direct line from her cabin at the top deck to the
Vengeance
. Was it possible…

Bloody French.

She was the prize.

But for what reason? They had already taken Papa, and the
Coral
was no match for the brawny
Vengeance
. There was no reason to take her, unless Saint-Sauveur thought to make her his bride even without Papa’s consent.

Bride.
Rubbish. Saint-Sauveur wouldn’t have bothered with the likes of her when he had enough money to buy any woman. If it wasn’t money and it wasn’t a bride, what other reason would he have to steal her?

There was always pride and retribution. Saint-Sauveur wouldn’t pass up a chance to hurt her father for making him look the fool. But even this seemed a bit extreme.

Luísa worked her way toward a bedpost and tried to loosen the ropes on her wrists. If a sailor knew one thing, it was how to tie a knot. And the knots on her bonds gave no quarter.

Craning her neck, Luísa was able to look out a port window, but all she could see was the blue-green milk of the ocean. The
Vengeance
sailed to the east and she moved fast, clipping the water in a wedge.

She felt for the knife tucked in her boot. There’d be no trouble in retrieving it, but once free, where would she go? For now it was best to remain bound. It would do her no good if Saint-Sauveur knew she still had a weapon. But if he meant to rape her, by God, he’d try it only once.

Luísa steadied herself for the inevitable. If she had to die, she planned to take as many of them with her as she could.