The Winds of Fate (40 page)

The admiral spoke. “We did a fine job. She’ll need to repair.”

“Good,” said Devon. “Le Trompeur will limp into St. Martine, the nearest French port. I’ll bet my life he is meeting up with the French squadron there. Wolf, sail northwest. My guess is that is where the storm blew the Royal fleet then head to St. Martine. Ames! Make all sail! Throw up all canvas! I have a score to settle with Trompeur.”

“Waste of time, you know, my dear Madame Blackmon. He’ll never know where to look for you. Even if he did, he’s dead if he comes here. Nothing in the world will save him.”

Since they landed on St. Martine a week ago, she had used every device to ward Le Trompeur off. The minute they landed the French
pirate dogged her steps into the bougainvillea covered tavern where she was held prisoner.

He deliberately set out to bait her. “When he does come, and he will, there will be nothing in the world to save you.” She pushed away from him, but he held her drawn between his legs. Her stomach roiled.

Le Trompeur laughed a bit and smoothed the skin up and down her arm. “With the entire French Fleet and the
Mer Un Serpent
? I doubt it.”

“You don’t know the Black Devil well enough. Fortune rolls in his favor. Some say it is his genius, but others know it is his fate.”

In a brief instant, his eyes took on a hunted look. Claire played on it. “You are afraid of the Black Devil. You think you have power over him because you hold his wife. You think it makes you stronger.”

“You can think what you wish,” growled Le Trompeur.

He pressed his fingers into her flesh, digging them into her muscles. When she squirmed, he laughed and thrust her away from him. Claire stumbled but righted herself. She refused to show weakness. Somehow she had to keep up this dangerous game, this dance of words, faking a bravado she did not have. Le Trompeur grew more and more unstable.

“Admiral St. Pierre ordered you to stay away from me.” Apparently the rules relaxed once they arrived at St. Martine.

“Bah! When do I consider the words of Admiral St. Pierre? He has promised me he will not interfere if the Black Devil does not come for you. Days have passed. I grow impatient.” He unlocked the door and shoved her into a room. The lock clicked behind her. The stomp of his heels tapped away.

Claire slumped to the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. The only arms wrapped around her tonight were her own, but even they weren’t enough to still her shivers of misery. Like every night before, she cried her heart out. It hurt so much to breathe that she almost wished she could stop.

She wanted the pain, she craved it. She wanted to remember, to feel. For that is what she had learned on Paradise. Life wasn’t about gaining one’s independence, of running away from commitment,
but knowing the beauty of friendship, the pain and joy of love−of Devon’s love.

Would there ever be a time to feel the warmth and pleasure in his powerful arms, the unexpected gentle caress of his hands as he made love to her, to see his handsome visage or hear him laugh or tease her? Or to bear his child?

Her breath came in short, hurtful gasps. What if he did come for her? No, she did not want Devon to be destroyed by the French Fleet or at the mercy of Le Trompeur. She could not face a future where he would perish because of her. She had to think of some way to escape.

Claire smoothed her hands down her legs and felt the knife she had taken from a drawer on the French ship and secured in her garter. An idea began to form. Claire stood and retrieved the knife. She hacked at the mortar around the bars of her window. The crush of French merrymaking below drowned out her hammering. She stabbed at the mortar holding her prisoner. One. Two. Three hours passed. Her hands bled. She did not care, finding joy as chips flew and each bar separated. She was not the same person she used to be, holding to the whim of men. Refusing to give into despair, she would free herself from this prison. Claire swiped out the fragmented mortar, letting it fall to the ground.

If only she could get to a small skiff that bobbed in the harbor. Fishermen in Port Royale launched their skiffs easy enough. If only she could imitate them, sail close to the islands and make her way to Paradise? A bar broke loose. She thrust the bar over her head in victory.

In Devon’s cabin, the men convened, pouring over the map of the French port.

The English Admiral drummed his fingers on the table. “You are assuming that St. Martine is a city of the blind, that they will be observing our sails and asking themselves who we are and what we intend.”

“If they feel secure in the north−” said Lord Sunderland, pausing and rubbing his chin, “−that very security will lull them and that should be our line of entry.”

“Perhaps,” Devon said as he pointed to the map. “But you’ll have to take to account our strength, knowledge and experience in this particular matter. Any attempt to land on this side is doomed to failure at the hands of nature. Sharp cliffs with breakers slam its sides. I know the shoals and the channels like the palm of my hand. We’ll abandon the inclination of raiding to the north, not being in sufficient strength. Instead we will force the entrance of the harbor.”

“What of the element of surprise?” Lord Sunderland objected. “We will be discovered.”

Devon smiled. “Not so. We’ll strike France’s colors. They will realize too late, the
Sea Scorpion
that has entered their rat’s nest.”

“How do you plan to take on the entire French Navy and Le Trompeur? Your two ships will be at risk.” The English Lord looked to his admiral.

“Trust me to understand this business,” Devon said.

Admiral Norreys jumped to his feet. “Damn it. You are not equal to it. Any one of the French Navy’s three ships is a match for both of yours.”

“In guns−aye,” said Devon, and he smiled. “But there’s more than guns that resolve these matters. I promise to give your lordship and the Admiral, a taste of action fought at sea as an action should be fought.”

The Admiral shook his head. “Impossible. The odds are infinitely against you. Seamanship is important, but cannot be eclipsed by guns.”

Devon faced Admiral Norreys and Lord Sunderland. Claire’s face swam before his eyes. He itched to get his hands on the French bastard who dared to kidnap his wife. “You may be right. The risks are heavy. But what I’ve learned, the best form of revenge on your enemies is to prove yourself superior to them. That which should have been a real attack shall be no more than a feint. They won’t know what hit them. What’s more, there will be no moon tonight. Did you happen to see a woman on the
Mer Un Serpent’s
deck?”

“No,” said Lord Sunderland. “Is she important?”

“She is
my wife
!”

Devon ignored the raised eyebrows of his companions. He pointed out the mouth of the harbor. “The fort is barely visible above waving palms on an extended tongue of land and hosts a formidable armament. We must dispose of those defenses. Half of the crew under Bloodsmythe with a contingency of your men, with your permission, of course, Admiral, will be let out just south of the harbor under cloak of darkness. They’ll come up the backside, commandeer the fort and move the cannons to face the town. At the same time, we sail into the harbor, and anchor at the narrow passage, creating a bottleneck and making it difficult if not impossible for ships to move into the Caribbean. A group of us will row to town. Bloodsmythe will look for two lantern signals from the bell tower of the Sainte Marie Church, wait five minutes then blast away at the town. The diversion created will be enough for me to snatch Claire and make it back to the
Sea Scorpion
. My hope is that our delay tactics will be enough to keep the French fleet bottled up until the English Navy arrives with Wolf.”

“I still don’t see how this strategy will work,” growled the admiral. “Never has this been done. And you are forgetting the
Mer Un Serpent
.”

“The
Mer Un Serpent
!” Bloodsmythe spat. “I’d sooner straddle a hen in battle. Now the
Sea Scorpion
, there is a ship to admire.” The old pirate boasted with fierce pride. “Yet truth be told, it is the Captain.”

Ames nodded. “Many years I served in the Royal Navy as navigator. In battle, no ship is better than her captain.” He fixed his eyes on both the Admiral and the English Lord. “When it comes to captains, there are none better than Captain Blackmon. None better”.

Lord Sunderland pulled Devon aside. “I perceive greatness in you, Captain Blackmon.”

Their gazes locked. Devon felt a bond with the man. He saw wisdom and faith and strength in his eyes and knew the English Lord was a man he could count on. He shared a history of Claire’s murderous uncle and how Sir Jarvis sold her to Le Trompeur to get even with him.

Lord Sunderland crossed his arms, giving Devon his rapt attention. “I had great respect for Claire’s parents and served with Sir George Hamilton in the House of Lords. I had heard of their bizarre accident
but to know that Sir George was murdered by his brother’s hand? To know Sir Jarvis kidnapped Sir George’s child… Committing treason? Deliver Sir Jarvis. Heads will roll.”

Devon clasped his hand one last time.

“God speed to you,” said Lord Sunderland. “I hope you find your wife.”

The drunken merriment of pirates and French naval men pitched loftily below. Footsteps pounded down the hall, the same staccato footsteps of Le Trompeur’s boots.

Claire swung over her other leg on the windowsill. Her hands gripped a rope of twined sheets. The lock on the door rattled. The bolt slid. Claire fought a wave of vertigo.

“Salome!” swore Le Trompeur as he entered the room. He lunged for Claire and jerked her roughly across the chipped mortar. She crashed to the floor. The wind knocked from her lungs.

“So, you think to escape!” He forced her to her feet

Smothering a groan, Claire lifted her face to his. He reeked of rum and his eyes glared red. Claire trembled. “I warn you again. Release me and you will live to see the light of day. If not−” she bluffed.

“Enough. Captain Blackmon does not come for you.” Claire pried his fingers from where they dug into her arm. “I will take you now.” Le Trompeur knocked her to the bed. His face leered above her. Claire bucked and fought. He slapped her. The room spun. Le Trompeur ripped at her skirts. A sickening terror crawled up over her belly. His hands clawed up her legs, forcing her thighs to open.

“Where is your Black Devil now? Where is his power to protect you?” His hands were everywhere. He mauled her breasts in a punishing grip, pinching her nipples. She wanted to scratch his disgusting sneer from his face. When she cried out, he laughed. “You see? Your Black Devil has no power. The fates do not rule his success.”

Her heart pounded in her ears. She reached down and stretched. She slid her hand into her pocket, clasped the hilt of her knife then whipped it to his throat. She pushed it into his flesh.

“Get off me!”

The pirate eased back. He laughed at her. You think I am afraid of your knife. I’ve fought men armed ten times over.”

He could easily overpower her.

Claire inched off the bed. Suddenly Le Trompeur flew at her, grabbed her wrist and wrenched it back. Pain shot up her arm. She lost her grip and the knife clanged on the floor.