The Winds of Fate (41 page)

A flurry of feathers blackened the air. Abu Ajir!

With talons and beak, the bird attacked him. Its needle-like claws dug into the pirate’s head, its piercing beak pecked into his eyes. Le Trompeur cried out and his weight lifted from her. The bird screeched its offensive, rushing the pirate with no let up. Le Trompeur fought a black blur. His hands smacked air, his target elusive. Abu Ajir struck everywhere. He slapped the bird. Abu Ajir settled on the windowsill and cawed. Le Trompeur staggered bloody and dazed.

Joy surged in her soul. If Abu Ajir was here, Devon was here.

Claire recalled the superstitious nature of Le Trompeur and jumped from the bed, backing toward Abu Ajir.
When up against overwhelming odds, use your strengths to exploit your enemy’s weaknesses
. “He is a demon of hell, a prophetic omen of your impending death. A crow on the thatch, soon death lifts the latch.”

Le Trompeur leveled his pistol at the crow. Claire shooed the brave bird away. The deafening report of the gun rang in her ears. She scanned the sky and sagged in relief. Abu Ajir flew on into the night. The rough hemp of rope encircled her neck and cinched tightly. Le Trompeur’s maniacal laugh grazed her ear. She clawed at the rope. He hauled her from the room.

“What kind of man is this Le Trompeur?” Admiral Norreys whispered.

“He knows as of much of honor as of mercy or decency. He dared to kidnap my wife.” Armed with sword, knives and pistols thrust into his belt, Devon and his band moved through the streets of St. Martine, blending into the fabric of the night. “Of what to expect, you’ll observe
the worst of humanity.” He kept his line of sight on Abu Ajir. He lost the crow for a minute, but after a pistol shot, he reappeared and roosted on top of a tavern. Claire would be there.

“Would it not be more prudent to wait for the English fleet?”

“I’ve found−” Devon bit out, irritated with the English Admiral’s conservatism, “−that it is sometimes safer to thrust an arm in the lion’s mouth rather than to run away.” His only thought was to get to Claire. They paused at the edge of a knoll.

“All of you wait here with Admiral Norreys,” ordered Devon. “Young Johnnie, go to the bell-tower and light the lanterns in five minutes.”

Robert came up alongside.

“Are you up for a fight, Ames?”

“Aye. I promised Lily and Cookie we’d bring Claire back to Paradise.”

Devon moved to the tavern and peered in the windows. French soldiers caroused in drunken merriment with pirates. Sir Jarvis sat with Sir Teakle cozy with French officers. Le Trompeur shared a mutual joke with a French admiral, both in their cups. Claire sat proud and beautiful at the head table. Her misery choked him. But she was alive.

He narrowed his gaze. Claire sat tethered. Le Trompeur jerked her to him. The rope sawed on her delicate skin. A red welt showed on her slim neck. Le Trompeur laughed with the horde of pirates amused at his antic. Blood raged through Devon’s veins.

He heard the click of a pistol before he felt its cold barrel weighed on the side of his head. “It’s best to come with us, Monsieur.” A trio of heavily armed guards relieved him of his weapons.

Inside the tavern, Devon threw aside his guards and swaggered boldly to Le Trompeur. “Tis good to see you.” Devon laughed, a bitter sneering note. “I’ve come to fetch something that belongs to me.” He glanced at Claire. Her golden eyes sprang wide, and she scrambled to join him. Le Trompeur yanked on her tether. Devon cursed. His raked a scornful gaze over those at the table, most promising Le Trompeur.

“Who is ‘dis man?” demanded the French admiral, spreading his hands in a deprecating gesture. “What does he want?”

Silence combed the air. Murmurings fired through the crowd, recognition of the latest arrival, the Legend of the Caribbean. Le Trompeur stiffened, and drew himself up, one of his eyes bleeding the other eye blazing. Blood dripped from his head.

Le Trompeur cursed. “So the Black Devil dares to invade the French capital?”

“I couldn’t think of a better nest of vipers to entertain. No quarter will be given to you Le Trompeur. The rest of you have a chance if you leave now. All I came here for was my wife.”

The French Admiral smiled, his face in repose was repulsive, his mirth made it revolting. “You are not in a position to make threats. As you English say, all’s fair in love and war.”

Devon laughed. “
Fas est et ab hoste de-ceri
. It is right for you to be taught, even by an enemy.”

Rolls of fat around the French admiral’s girth waved from his amusement. “So you’re the infamous Black Devil. Le Trompeur is a buccaneer like you, eh? He knows your ways I think. Dog eat dog, they say. You come to entertain? How about a duel? What say you, Le Trompeur?”

Devon embraced the satisfaction of seeing his nemesis’s face turn a deathly pallor. “Your last attempt to best me remains burned into memory.” His words provoked the Frenchman.

Le Trompeur whipped out his sword and flicked it at Devon’s shoulder. “Your death awaits you. You would be wise to rest content with it. I believe you will find it less distasteful, I hope, than to find yourself swinging from the yardarm. That is not at all amusing.” He pulled Claire’s tether until she was an inch from his face then released her. She stumbled backward. “You see?” Le Trompeur jeered. “She is trained like a bitch to answer my commands.”

Cold fire burned in Devon’s eyes. He held himself in tight rein until his rage cooled. With no weapon, he was useless to Claire. He had to stall for time.

“Devon,” Claire yelled. Devon turned his head. Claire snatched a sword from a soldier and pitched it into the air. His hand closed over the hilt, and in that instant, Le Trompeur ran his sword through Devon’s left shoulder. Pain rocketed through him, but he numbed the
pain in his mind, too busy with survival. Blood poured from his wound. His arm hung uselessly at his side. Le Trompeur laughed.

Devon pivoted as Le Trompeur circled him. Deadly intent glittered in his eyes. The buccaneers hooted, tossing their comments as if the fight were some sort of amusement instead of a deadly contest. Wagers were completed with gusto.

“So you seek to fight with me? With your injury, you will not be so lucky this time,” Le Trompeur boasted. “Have you thought what will happen to Claire when I kill you?”

Devon smiled, his eyes as hard as agates. “I promise you will die tonight, Le Trompeur. I leave no one in doubt of my sincerity.” Erect and easily poised, Devon parried.

Before Claire could call out a warning, a ferret-faced pirate rammed a table behind Devon. He went down, somersaulted and landed agilely on his feet, his sword still in his hand. Le Trompeur ripped away the offending table and thrust. Devon crouched, advancing and retracing by little leaps, testing Le Trompeur’s guard at each disengage.

Devon mocked the French pirate’s antics. “I heard you boast that this was your last voyage. How oddly prophetic.” Shivers of laughter ran through the spectators.

The jest and Devon’s close guard riled Le Trompeur. His teeth bared, the Frenchman attacked then drew back with a savage thrust. Devon recovered with a swift, sudden unexpected counter, driving Le Trompeur back, his poise and calm borne of instinct. The French pirate lunged to take Devon’s other shoulder. Claire screamed. They smacked together, eye to eye. Devon leaped back. Swift as lightening, his point whirled after the Frenchman. Le Trompeur parried late, the point driven straight at Devon’s breast was swept up and outwards. Devon plowed a furrow in Le Trompeur’s cheek.

“I’ll kill every Irish−pocked whoreson of you!” Le Trompeur swiped at a crimson line of blood that flowed down his face. He kicked a chair at the crowd to cease their guffaws.

Le Trompeur reacted more rashly. Was he afraid to suffer disgrace in the eyes of his followers? Had he underestimated Devon’s skill
despite the fact he was wounded? Attempting to wear down Devon’s close guard, he attacked wildly.

Every time that gleaming sword struck against Devon’s steel, her breath stopped. Devon had fought and bested Le Trompeur aboard the
Mer Un Serpent
. But this night, a change in Devon’s countenance showed his intent−a fight to the death. His green eyes sizzled with cold fire. A savage smile split his tawny face.

Devon’s speed tired Le Trompeur. Sweat mingled with blood ran down the Frenchman’s grey face. He breathed hard. The gloating grin faded from his scarred face. Devon advanced, his glittering point everywhere dazzled his antagonist. Two, four, six, points. Le Trompeur defended one and the same time, circling his blade to cover himself. Devon’s sword flashed and pressed Le Trompeur back, again and again.

Le Trompeur’s eyes bulged. His arrogance, no doubt bred on past victories, crushed the assumption of his superiority. He fell back, tripped and crashed to the floor. Devon leaped back and smiled.

“Stand your ground, you mangy dog. In the hereafter you’ll think twice about taking the wife of the Black Devil! Name of God, do you call yourself a swordsman? Stand, you cur, and fight.”

The French pirate bounded forward like a lion. Devon sidestepped to avoid his charge. The Frenchman spun around, thrust and from his disengage, Devon riposted.

The success of his recovery bolstered confidence in Le Trompeur. He slashed at Devon. Devon parried, inviting a riposte.

“Don’t be rash. Where do you intend to go?” Devon bluffed. “Observe how you and your French masters are trapped. The Royal Navy and the rest of my fleet hold the mouth of the harbor. You have no other option but to surrender.”

“I know nothing of the Royal Navy. You lie.”

“You think I know nothing of the war between France and England? I have the eyes and ears of the Caribbean!”

Cannons boomed, bombarding the town. Pirates screamed. The town lay sieged.

“You fool. You brought the whole Royal Navy down on us by taking his wife,” said the French Admiral. “Le Trompeur, you will hang if we
survive this night. Men, go to the harbor, board your ships, defend your positions.” Pirates and French naval men fled over tables and chairs. Le Trompeur, the first to fly out the window.

Breathing heavily, Devon placed his hand over his injured shoulder. He sank to his knees.

A cannon ball hit the front of the building. French buccaneers lay dead in the aftermath. Concrete and dust fell in a pall. Devon mopped the sweat that beaded his forehead and blinded his eyes.

Claire ran to him. She trembled. Daubs of blood blanketed her like driblets of red paint.

“Oh Devon. How badly are you hurt? We must get you out of here.” Claire blinked when an English officer with members of Devon’s crew climbed through the rubble.

“Help me,” she commanded.

“I’ll live,” Devon managed. “Good to see you, Admiral Norreys. That Rock of Gibraltar, Bloodsmythe has done his job in capturing the outer defenses.”

“That was the best swordplay I’ve ever witnessed,” said the English officer. “Let’s make haste while your man occupies these French frogs.” Devon’s men lifted him. He gritted his teeth, the searing pain shot through his shoulder. Claire bit her lip.

In the streets of St. Martine, a cacophony of screams and blasts rent the night. Through a warren of back alleyways they made their way to moored boats. They lifted Devon into her arms. “Oh my darling, let me look,” Claire whispered, tears in her eyes. Blood oozed through his fingers clapped to his wound. She pulled his fingers aside. Le Trompeur’s sword had done its evil. A hole straight through his shoulder welled with blood. Claire tore her skirts and made a bandage.

The French rallied to their ships and found their quarry. Cannons from the ships burst with fire. Balls hailed around them. The water heaved from a well-aimed ball, barely missing and pithing their vessel into the air. Ames and Young Johnnie grinned like gargoyles drawing lustily on their oars. Claire bit her lip. She held Devon next to her body to warm him. The reassuring beat of his heart thrummed against her palm.

They repaired to the deck of the
Sea Scorpion
. “The French are releasing their warships,” warned the English Admiral.

“Run up the royal colors.” Devon shouted and with his good arm used his scope to ascertain the damage done to the French Navy. Claire stood beside him. Clouds of smoke and darkness impaired her view. With the first few streaks of dawn, she strained through the haze.

“Bloodsmythe has done a fine job leveling the town and two of the five ships,” Devon assessed their condition. “But we’ve three warships, fully masted and coming down fast.”

“Dooley,” Devon yelled over to the
Golden Gull
. “Hold that old sea bitch steady then ram her into her broadsides. Keep your head about and remember to keep the cannons blazing, set her afire then jump.”

“Aye Captain. We’re ready and waitin’”

The first ship approached and Dooley, a true man of the sea let loose the
Golden Gull
. From her sides, cannons blasted at the French Man-O’-War. Claire counted the seconds. The French ship returned a full blast of her guns onto the helpless merchantman. Billowing clouds of smoke to larboard blotted out everything. Claire choked. The caustic odor caught in her throat set her to gasping and coughing. Devon’s men toppled to the decks of the
Golden Gull
but held firm the full sails. Claire saw Dooley pitch a torch. Suddenly the whole
Golden Gull
blazed with fire, fast proceeding on its course to the heart of the French ship. Devon’s men dove overboard.