The Devil's Fire (20 page)

Thatcher held the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as he traversed the deck. He wasn't sure where to begin. The ship's best marksman and helmsman were dead. The Musketmen were now four. The Seven were now five.

Cannonballs had inflicted most of the damage, upon both ship and crew. The more fortunate victims, Thatcher concluded, were those who had been killed instantly. Only two men had survived the cannons. One man's arm had been ripped from the socket when a cannonball hurtled past. Another had lost a leg. The remaining injuries were bullet wounds and cuts of various shapes and sizes.

Thatcher opted to help the one-armed man, for the one-legged man had lost too much blood to be saved. He set his canvas case down and knelt beside the injured pirate, while the one-legged man shrieked for his attention.

"I'll get to you next!" he snapped back.

"There won't be no blood left in me!" the one-legged man protested.

Unfortunately,
Thatcher realized,
he’s quite correct.

"Oh god," the dying man wailed. "It’s spilling out of me!"

Thatcher ripped off his shirt and tossed it to him. "Then plug it up with that."

"I'd rather die than see your fat naked belly!"

"Then see yourself dead!" Thatcher spat back.

The one-legged man grunted a laugh and then bunched up the shirt and pressed it against his stump. "I suppose it’ll do."

Thatcher shook his head in disgust.
No, it won’t do. You’ll be dead in a few minutes.
Why he felt inclined to save the lives of these maimed pirates was a mystery to him. In the end, he knew that they would hold a grudge against him for what they had lost, rather than thanking him for prolonging the eternal fires they were sure to suffer.

Thatcher was hotter than ever, and the salty red water that continuously splashed over his legs did nothing to cool him. He reached for his canvas bag and found that it had been swept a few feet away. He leaned over to retrieve it and collapsed face-first into the red water.

The one-legged man laughed hoarsely at Thatcher’s clumsiness, and then he gave to a fit of violent, convulsive coughs. He rolled over into the water and didn't move again. Thatcher spared a moment to watch the man's stomach and quickly determined that he was no longer breathing.

"Just as well," said the one-armed man through clenched teeth. He was an Englishman named Norton, and he maintained a paradoxically chipper expression. "Was tired of his braying."

Thatcher retrieved his canvas bag and set it on his lap. "As was I."

"He was of no use minus a leg anyhow," the one-armed man continued.

Thatcher rolled his eyes. "And what are you minus an arm?"

"I'm a lefty is what I am."

It was twilight by the time Thatcher was attending to the last wounded pirate. It was a minor gunshot wound to the leg, but this one had a penchant for the melodramatic. "Oh, I won't last!" he cried as Thatcher dug a surgical spoon into his leg. "Better I should strangle at the gallows than suffer another minute of this! Find me some rum!"

Thatcher easily fished out the steel ball. He dropped the bloody shot in the man's shaky hands and told him it was a "souvenir."

"I won't have it!" the man cried, and he tossed the ball to the sea. "I'm sure to ne'er walk again!"

"You'll walk," Thatcher said as he slipped the spoon back into its slot. "You might have a slight limp on that leg, but you'll walk."

"A limp, you say! Why not cut the thing off and have done with it!"

Thatcher rolled up his canvas bag and tucked it under one arm as he stood. He gave a slight start when he saw Griffith standing before him. The man was stained as red as
Harbinger
's decks. "You've done a fine job here, Thatcher," Griffith said.

"The cannons fared better. You've lost a fourth of your crew."

"It's true," Griffith nodded. "And fine men they were. Their lives afforded us this victory."

"Victory!" He spat the word. "Is that what you call this?"

"You will receive your honest portion, Thatcher. We're all of us rich men now."

Griffith smiled reassuringly and started for his cabin. The man strolled across the ravaged deck as though he had not a care in the world.

Thatcher smirked. His share of the treasure did not interest him unless it would buy his freedom, and he was convinced that only death would part him from Jonathan Griffith. As he approached the shattered port bulwark, he found himself wishing that he had been in the path of the cannonball responsible.

The sounds of battle had long since faded, but only in the last hour had Katherine mustered the courage to emerge from her hiding place within the hollow of the desk. The first bullet to pierce the cabin wall had sent her scrambling for cover, and she immediately felt rather silly cowering while men fought outside, but when a second bullet zipped past her ear, she abandoned pride and ducked beneath the desk. When she was certain the battle had concluded, she crawled out on all fours and peered through one of the bullet holes. After she was satisfied that
Harbinger
’s pirates were the victors, she lit a single candle on the bedside table.

She wondered what would have become of her had the other ship won the battle. Would the Spaniards have returned her to her family? Or would they prove even worse than the pirates, and send her below decks for the crew to have their way with? Perhaps she was safer here. Griffith hadn’t so much as touched her.

The murky hues of twilight were yielding to the black of night by the time Griffith returned. He looked affright, caked in dried blood from head to toe, black hair matted to his head, and his clothes utterly despoiled. At first she thought the blood was his, but realized that there was no way he would still be standing if that were so. "You look horrible," she couldn't help but say.

He set his cutlass on the desk and started to take off his shirt. She turned away and listened to the rustle of cloth. "Any stray shots get at you?" he asked.

"No."

"You've got wounds on you."

She glanced at the scratches on her arms and remembered that she had been cradling the cat when the battle commenced. The animal had gone ballistic, tearing away from her like a small, furry hurricane, taking pieces of her skin in the process. "The cat," she replied dismissively. "The first shot put her in a frenzy, and I suffered the worst of it. She's cowering under the bed. I don't think she'll ever . . . "

Absentmindedly, she turned to face him as she was explaining. Her words trailed away. He had cleaned much of the blood from his face with the crumpled mess of his shirt and was presently scrubbing his arms. Lean muscles had been concealed by the loose-fitting shirts he commonly wore.

"I’m sorry," she said, and started to turn away.

"For what?"

Her cheeks filled with warmth. She swallowed the girlish emotion and twisted her face. "For nothing, if you want truth. It was merely a courtesy. Something this vessel is severely lacking. I don’t begrudge you for not recognizing it."

"You are fierce with words," he said, his eyes gleaming.

"I have no other means," she replied, leveling her chin. She decided she would not shy from him again. She was sick of it. "Should I be silent, like a good slave?"

"I don’t expect that."

"How very thoughtful of you," she chuckled.

"Nor do I expect you to forget what I’ve done." There was no trace of remorse in his tone. He was merely stating a fact.

"Tell me, what sort of pirate need justify his crimes to his victims?"

"I justify nothing. But I don’t expect you to forget."

"What exactly
do
you expect of me, captain? I’ve often wondered. I linger here, in this dark cabin, waiting for your expectations to rise."

"And you grow impatient?"

"Is that what you think?" Scathing laughter bubbled out of her.

His face flushed red. "Then what is it?"

She sighed, considering the question. The answer came slowly from her lips, each word under careful scrutiny. "I grow weary waiting for the inevitable."

He arched an eyebrow, studying her narrowly. "You would get it over with?"

Yes,
she realized.

"I have no stamina for games, Katherine. I’ve just killed a ship full of Spaniards."

She took a step closer. "Is that your problem? Stamina?"

"That’s not what I—"

"When you leave this cabin, do you tell your men that you ravished me? That I screamed your name? Surely you don’t tell them that you’ve not so much as removed your boots!"

"What’s gotten into you?" he said, blinking in sudden frustration.

"Not you, that’s for certain."

His brow creased, revealing lines she hadn’t known were there. "This is not the woman I took aboard my ship. You’re talking like a whore."

Her pulse quickened. "Isn’t that what you wish me to be?"

"No," he said, firmly shaking his head. "Whores are not difficult to come by."

"But I am a rare gem, yes?"

He tossed his shirt away and aimed a threatening finger squarely at her face. "Stop this."

She held his gaze. The air was thick with humidity, and she fancied she could see swirls in the moisture dancing between them. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her back beneath her shirt. "I will not. What story will you tell your men when you leave tonight?"

He glared hungrily at her, eyes scaling her body. "The truth."

"And what is the truth?"

He edged toward her. His face was still littered with tiny specks of blood, which became more apparent as he drew near.

I should be frightened.

His breath grew heavier with every step. She inwardly prepared herself, abolishing the bloodthirsty murderer from her thoughts and welcoming a handsome rogue; albeit a rogue with blood on his face. She purged the battered remnants of Thomas's memory, which she had struggled so diligently to preserve after these many months. It was not as difficult as she had guessed it would be. She told herself she could barely recall his face, and that he hadn’t been so great a husband. What kind of a husband took a woman to sea, anyway?
You begged him,
an irritating little voice reminded her.
He should have known better,
she told the voice.
It’s his fault I’m here now, forced to placate this savage who knew my name before I had chance to give it. Thomas, what have you done to me?

Griffith lifted her by the waist and flung her to the bed. He crawled on top of her and straddled her with powerful legs. He held one of her arms in place as though he feared she might squirm loose, though she had no intention of escaping.

Why am I not frightened?

He ripped her shirt open and buried his face in her breasts. His warm, wet lips encircled her left nipple, and for a fleeting moment she was nervous that he might bite down. He remained surprisingly gentle. The nipple hardened as he caressed it with his tongue. The bristle of his chin, which he had not shaved in days, tickled her skin as his mouth moved toward her neck. She tilted her head to one side, dodging his lips.

He slipped a hand into her trousers and massaged her. A palpitating torrent washed through her, prompting her to moan things like "no" and "stop it," though she meant none of it. Secretly she wished it would never end, even as the glint of the cutlass on the desk across the room ensnared her eye.
Too far.
Even if she could squirm out from under him, he would be on her before she could reach the sword.

He undid her trousers and slid them to the floor, following them down. She started to get up, knowing she should not allow herself to enjoy another second of this. He drew her legs out from under her and she collapsed feebly onto the bed. He spread her thighs and delved between them. Her fingers spread into his hair, moving of their own accord. She gathered tufts of hair into each hand, balling them into fists.
Now this might work,
she thought. A sharp twist of his head and perhaps his neck would snap. And if his neck didn’t break, perhaps the pain would daze him, and perhaps that would buy her enough time to sprint across the room and take up the cutlass.

And then . . . what then?
Would she have the courage to do what she must? Would she have the strength to plunge the blade into his heart?
Of course you will. Your rage will fuel you. And you will smile down at him as the life flows from his chest. And when you emerge from the cabin, shrouded in his blood, they will look on you in horror.

She arched her back as his tongue worked diligently.

Your rage will fuel you.

A hand reached up to grasp one of her breasts.

Your rage will fuel you.

The atrocities he had committed were irrelevant in contrast to the overwhelming gratification he delivered her now. She found herself quivering uncontrollably as some piece of her screamed in protest, lost in a fog of pleasure.

Your rage will fuel you . . . if only you could recall where you mislaid it.

Over nine months she had learned to accept despair as a way of life, never to be amended. It was only fitting that the man who had caused her so much grief should now take that pain away. It was the very least he could do.

When he was finished between her legs, he came up searching for a kiss with glistening lips. She seized his neck and bit down gently, holding him there with one hand, and reaching down to guide him into her with the other. He was heavier than Thomas ever was, and he leaned into her with every thrust; Thomas had always seemed afraid of injuring her. The muscles of his neck strained, but she held him firmly in place, keeping his lips away from hers. His breath was hot on her shoulder. He stank of sweat and salt and death.

As she nibbled at his neck, she fleetingly wondered if it was possible to murder a man by gnawing through to his jugular. How long would it take him to die? Would she be doused in a gush of his blood? Would his life fade swiftly, or would he prove resilient even in the throes of death, and use his final moments to strangle the life out of her in turn?