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The ocean trembled with the sound of cannon fire. Gunpowder, mingled with the metallic stench of blood, tainted the sea breeze. Screams of dying men nearly drowned the clang of steel while black plumes of smoke rose to the heavens in silent appeal.
The English frigate, The Duchess of Dover, listed, a gaping hole torn in its side. Its mast and great sails sagged on the ship’s deck not unlike a majestic swan in its death throes. The damage was fatal. The once proud vessel yawed sluggishly as saltwater seeped into her hold. A ship, bearing a flag of skull and crossbones, was tied off at the frigate’s side. Grappling hooks were thrown, and a motley crew of men and one woman rushed aboard the crippled vessel slashing away at those who had so valiantly resisted. But the English were outnumbered, and soon, the ship was taken.
“Quickly now. She’ll not stay afloat for long.” Nellie Bouchard sprang to the rail of The Merry Virgin, one hand clutching the rigging for balance, the other brandishing a bloodied sword as she surveyed the carnage below with satisfaction.
A sudden wind had come up and fanned the flames. A strong gust blew against her as if wishing to shove her from her perch. It plastered the loose pantaloons and cotton shirt against her slim frame revealing a near perfect form. For any man who cared to look at that moment, he would have glimpsed her rounded, full-bosomed figure and forgotten she was their captain and strictly forbidden to them.
The gust died away and the grimy folds once again encased her body. Her face was streaked with soot and blood, her auburn hair was hidden beneath a dirty rag tied around her head. Only her face was young and alive, her brilliant eyes, the color of the sea, sparkling with adventure and pride.
“Well done, lads.” She saluted her bloodthirsty crew, which had fought like demons to overcome the hated English. Not a man among them held their motherland in any esteem, most having barely escaped her merciless justice by the skin of their teeth. They were a motley horde, but they were as loyal and true to her as they could be to any man. Their fearlessness struck terror in the hearts of many a ship’s captain and elicited enraged curses from their tongues. Now, she raised her sword in tribute to their victory.
Their triumph had not been without cost. The Duchess of Dover lay in ruins. Only the ballast from the pirate ship kept her afloat. As the daughter of Black Jack Barlow, and having been raised on a pirate ship, Nellie could never accept the waste of lives and property. The Duchess of Dover had been a handsome vessel worth thousands of pounds; now, it was unsalvageable. A waste, indeed. Her only consolation, besides the rich bounty the English ship had carried, was that, once again, she’d shown the world a mere woman could best any man, English or pirate alike. But that thought brought her less satisfaction with each conquest, and what was she to do about it? This was the way of her life. She had a price on her head nearly as high as her father’s had been. She thrust the thought aside and concentrated on the thrill of their victory.
“Bring our prize aboard, gentlemen,” she commanded.
In one voice, the crew sent up a shout and sprang over the ship’s rail, carrying barrels of silk, spices and whiskey, and the biggest prize of all, chests of gold. Finally, the prisoners, bloodied and bowed were roughly prodded forth by sword points. When one stumbled or protested his fate, a whack across his backside with the flat of a blade swiftly ended his rebellion or he found himself thrown overboard. Their lives were lightly held by their captors.
Suddenly, a young gob, hardly more than a boy, tripped and sprawled across the deck. One of the pirates ran forward, his sword held high for the deathblow.
“Cease!” a voice roared. The pirate halted and looked around, his features pulled into an ugly sneer.
“Leave the lad, you blackguard,” the voice commanded, “or by the gods, I’ll send you to Davy Jones’ locker myself.”
“And die in the trying, mate,” the pirate answered, swaggering over to challenge a tall, dark-haired man in a captain’s uniform. The confrontation might have been more impressive, if the pirate, a man known only as Waite, hadn’t stood a head’s length shorter than the speaker.
From her perch, Nellie studied the English captain. He was gracefully built with slim hips, broad shoulders and a full codpiece. His hands were secured with rope behind his back, but he seemed no less diminished for that. He tilted his head with an air of absolute authority. Dark eyes blazed with fury as he glared at Waite, who had, surprisingly, halted in his intent to kill the young English sailor.
Nellie’s lips twisted in disdain. Aye, the captain was a magnificent specimen, and she would get a pretty penny for his ransom, no doubt, but she held little regard for any Englishman with their assumption of superiority and their dandified airs. Turning away, she dismissed him from her thoughts.
“Leave the lad be, Waite. Get on with loading the ship.”
The pirate’s face darkened with anger, and it looked as if he meant to defy her orders, but a quick glance at his shipmates convinced him otherwise. Reluctantly, he sheathed his blade and turned to help carry chests from The Duchess of Dover to The Merry Virgin.
The Englishman stared at her with black, hate filled eyes and a clenched mouth. He was handsome, she saw, in a rugged, rough-hewn manner. Black hair fell over a wide brow and curled around his ears but did nothing to soften the harshness of his set features.
Impudently, she saluted him with her bloody sword and broadened her stance in an unspoken challenge. Her message must have been clear enough, for he bared his teeth in a feral snarl and surged forward as if he might climb to the railing and engage her in combat. She readied herself, but Skelly stepped forward and placed the point of his blade against the Englishman’s neck. No words were spoken, but the prisoner stepped back in acquiescence. Such a surrender was not easy for him. His eyes glittered with rage, and the muscles in his jaw jumped from the pressure of his clamped teeth. His glare promised retribution. Nellie’s breath caught in her throat, and her knees felt as if they might buckle. Here was a worthy opponent.
Still, her temper flared. How dare he assume she might be intimidated by his demeanor? She’d teach him a lesson, right enough. He’d just been soundly defeated and by a woman. She wasn’t Black Jack Barlow’s daughter for nothing. She’d grown up on a pirate ship and stood at her father’s side when he’d taken his prizes from the English fleets.
“Skelly,” she called.
“Aye, Captain,” the burly pirate answered, looking up at her. The English captain swung around to gaze at her with evident surprise. She couldn’t help being pleased at his reaction.
“When ye’ve scuttled the ship, bring the captain to my cabin.” At her words, the captain’s face darkened yet again, as watchful as a wolf scenting his prey. She felt a thrill of something, not fear, for she was afraid of nothing, but of wariness and excitement. This was a dangerous man, she surmised, and she should have him killed or left with his sinking ship. But she knew she would not. Forcing a smile to her lips, she held his gaze while a wild exhilaration poured through her body.
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” she taunted and was rewarded with a flare of his nostrils and the hardening of his clean-shaven jaw. His eyes promised a terrible vengeance, and suddenly, her blood boiled with a need to see him in action, to feel him touching her, to put her lips against his, but most of all, she wanted to tame that power with her own passion. She was the first to turn away, afraid he might see the lust on her face. She would never deliberately weaken herself with the carnal need for a man.
“Set fire to the vessel and cast off.”
She didn’t wait for Skelly’s response, nor did she look back, but turned and leaped off the railing into the netting to break her fall then onto the deck. She watched from the bridge as the last of the prisoners were quickly shunted aboard and lashings released.
The Merry Virgin slipped away from the floundering English ship, which gave a mournful groan as of one dying. Her decks were aflame and her slack sails flapped helplessly in the air currents that hastened her demise. The pirates raised their sails, which billowed in the full-bodied wind and sent the trim ship skimming across the ocean waves. Soon, they were far enough away they couldn’t see the burning ship, only a wisp of smoke on the horizon.
Barrels of rum were broken open, and the pirates dipped their cups into the rich, dark brew and drank deeply. The blood thirst was still upon them so they needed a release. Soon enough, they’d want a woman or at least a boy. She glanced among the prisoners and saw several sailors who could fill that need. One pirate made so bold as to approach the captain, running a blood-crusted hand over his sleek buttocks in their tight breeches. He was rewarded with a head butt to his nose. Blood gushed, and the man drew his sword, but his shipmates blocked him from running the captain through. They knew full well what price in gold such a prisoner could bring.
“Skelly, bring the captain,” she commanded, “and set sail for Port Royal.”
“Aye,” Skelly answered and saluted her with his tankard while the men about him cheered. Given good seas, they’d be in Port Royal in seven days time with money aplenty in their breeches for wine and women and nary another man to answer to. Nellie smiled at their exuberance and turned toward her cabin. She’d no sooner reached it than the door opened behind her and the English captain was shoved inside.
“There ye be, Nellie, just as ye asked,” Skelly said. “D’ ye want me t’stay?”
“Nay, go back to your celebration.”
Eagerly, the man turned toward the door then hesitated. “Are ye sure ’tis a good idea, lass?” he asked. “He’s a fighter, this one, and a nobleman besides. That kind don’t take to bein’ defeated.”
“Especially by a woman,” Nellie added, smiling as she looked the prisoner full in the face.
He scowled.
“I’m not afraid to be left alone with him. Go enjoy the celebration with the men.”
Skelly grinned. “Aye, Captain, they was good lads today, they was. We spilled English blood and gained a treasure to boot.” He cackled with laughter and left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
Picking up a dagger, she turned to face her prisoner. “Captain Nellie Bouchard at your service,” she said with a mocking bow.
He snorted and made no comment, obviously still smarting over her reminder she’d bested him.
“And who might I be addressing?” she asked, ignoring his derisive sneer.
“Madam,” he began with considerable heat, “I am Lord Trey Carlyle, Earl of Guilford and Captain of The Duchess of Dover, which you and your murderous crew have just sunk and for which you will answer to His Majesty’s government.
“I answer to no one,” she snapped.
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “I realize you and your men are lawless pirates who rob and plunder the seas at will. But you will answer for your crimes.”
She advanced until she was a few feet from him and smiled slightly, one eyebrow arching. “But not by your hand, Lord Carlyle. You have been defeated by a woman, your ship lies back there somewhere, burning. Soon it will sink to the bottom of the sea, never to be seen again. You are my prisoner, and whether or not you are ever heard from again depends on my whim and mine alone.”
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