WHEN GUNSHOTS SOUNDED from the island, Ruark suffered an uneasy moment, expecting Harripen and the waiting crew to turn on him. They were clustered on the quarterdeck gazing off toward the island, and they seemed for the moment to have forgotten him. As no threatening moves were made toward him, he continued worrying at his bonds in an attempt to loosen the ropes looped tightly about his wrists. It was sometime later that he was again interrupted by Harripen, who called several of the men to join him and pointed to land. Ruark could see nothing of what transpired ashore but was relieved that no further attention was directed toward him. He redoubled his efforts, but the knots were stubborn and well tied.
Harripen resumed his pacing across the deck of the schooner, and Ruark made little progress with his bonds. The night grew still, the only sounds being the creaking of the ship, the slip-slap of waves against the hull, and an occasional muffled voice. There was no further activity from Trahern’s island.
Almost two full hourglasses had run when there was a shout from the masthead and word was passed that the landing party returned. Though it was far from his expectations, Ruark sighed his relief at the news. By the grace of God he might survive it all yet.
That thought, however, was short-lived, and he braced himself for the worst as Harripen dashed down from the quarterdeck, drawing his cutlass as he came. Ruark eased considerably when he realized the man’s blow was not for him but was, rather, a quick slash that severed his bonds and set him free. Quickly Ruark disentangled himself from the now limp strands as the pirate captain hurried back to the rail, throwing a comment over his shoulder.
“ ’Twould seem ye’ve served us true, laddie. Our men come now.”
The schooner was hailed by a whistle in the night, and soon the pirates were swarming aboard, hoisting with them bags and chests heavy with loot. Ruark seized upon the distraction and eased back into the shadows at the far side of the deck, waiting for a chance to dive overboard and swim ashore. He was slipping off his sandals to be free of them when a large, carved chest with an unusually ornate brass lock was sweated aboard Apprehension raised its worrisome head as Ruark recognized it as the one which had sat below Georgiana’s portrait in the manor house. It took six of the deck hands to sway the ponderous piece over the rail, and it settled to the deck with a thud that bespoke its weight Ruark stepped nearer, cold dread beginning to build within him.
From the boats below, a muffled screech suddenly pierced the air, raising the hackles on the back of Ruark’s neck. He waited tensely as the French half-breed, Pellier, climbed over the side of the ship and reached back to lift aboard a struggling form covered from top to knees by a heavy burlap sack that was firmly bound with cordage. Trim ankles and small, bare feet protruded from the bottom, with the trailings of a white garment twisting about shapely calves.
Ruark swore viciously under his breath and strode forward into the lantern’s light as the bonds were loosened and the sack was snatched away. Then he found himself staring into the most enraged green eyes he had ever seen.
“You!” Shanna gasped. “You—blackguard!”
She seized a short oar from the railing and, before any one could move, swung it with all her strength at Ruark’s head. He ducked easily, and the weapon splintered against the mast behind him. Shanna yelped, and the shaft fell from her numb hands. Fighting tears of pain, she could only glare her hatred.
“You damned witless fools!” Ruark roared, stopping Pellier’s loud guffaws. “Do you not ken what you’ve done? This is Trahern’s brat, and he’ll be after you with a sail full of vengeance!”
“Aye, and I’ll see he hangs you first!” Shanna railed. “Then I’ll laugh when he feeds your foul carcass to the sharks!”
Before her blazing glower, Ruark bowed in mockery. He well knew the depth of their precarious situation. With only himself to worry about, escape would have been relatively simple, but to get them both away to safety would take careful planning.
Three other prisoners were pulled aboard, and Ruark recognized them as bondsmen. They were thrown roughly to the deck against the rail and lashed together there. They would continue to know slavery, Ruark surmised, but now beneath the ready whip of less than humane masters.
Ruark made a turn about Shanna, a careless swagger in his walk. He gave her a lusty perusal as if his mind held lewd thoughts. At the moment Pellier and Harripen were more interested in the material treasures which were being hauled aboard from the small boats and had left their lovely captive to be guarded by several of the men.
“You traitor,” Shanna hissed as her eyes followed Ruark.
“No traitor, milady.” His voice was low and reached her ears alone. “But a simple victim of fate and a woman’s whimsy. I bend with the winds of chance and make the best of what they offer.”
Shanna was furious. That she had even felt a tiny inkling of remorse for her actions was now bitter gall to swallow.
“You beggardly wretch of a knavish whoreson!” she sneered. “You bastardly rakish cur!”
Beneath the onslaught of her insults, Ruark laughed sardonically. Her robe hung open, forgotten in her plight, and the shortened batiste nightshift she wore underneath little impaired his wandering gaze. Ruark could see that she was causing a stir among the crew, for they were beginning to come forth from different parts of the ship to better view this dazzling beauty whose hair tumbled in magnificent disarray around her shoulders and shimmered like gold in the lantern’s glow. His task was laid out for him, to be sure.
Suddenly, Shanna felt Ruark’s hand bold upon her breast, seizing her in a rough caress, and in choked outrage she flung it from her, snatching the dressing gown tightly about her narrow waist and belting it securely. She saw the challenge in his eyes and rose to it in a vengeful fury.
“This time you’ve betrayed my father,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “And he’ll hunt you down like the dog you are.”
“Betrayed!” Ruark laughed caustically and continued in derision, “Nay, madam. I pray you consider. I but sought the favors of my own wife. Twas she who callously betrayed my trust—”
“You filthy guttersnipe! You gallivanting cock!” Livid with rage, Shanna flew at him and sought to claw the smirk from his handsome face, hating him with every fiber of her being. Snarling, Ruark caught her wrists and jerked her close, crushing her brutally against him. Shanna gasped in pain, feeling the terrifying strength of his lean, hard body and her own helplessness. Her ribs creaked beneath the strain, and breathing seemed futile. Though she mustered every bit of her energy, she could not escape and finally collapsed limply against him. Her tears trickled through thick lashes, and Ruark heard her mutter in bitter defiance:
“Hicks should have hanged you, and I wish he had!”
Cupping her lovely chin in his hand, Ruark forced it up until Shanna stared into those savage amber eyes. His dark face was rigid, and his words snapped into her like bolts from a crossbow.
“Little thanks to you, I have thus far survived this last bit of your treachery.” His tongue gave his words added venom. “But if my luck holds, I’ll see this matter to my advantage as well.”
He pushed her into the bony hands of Gaitlier, Captain Pellier’s wizened manservant.
“Hold the wench and keep her from mischief,” Ruark commanded. He stepped to the rail and climbed onto the ratlines to peer toward the village.
“Pellier, give me your glass,” he called after a moment He received the instrument without delay and through it scanned the port In the bright moonlight he could see the dark masts of a ship and barely discerned movement on it. He tossed the glass to the Frenchman. “They’re already warping the Hampstead out. You will soon be feeling the cast of her guns.”
Ruark had seen the carnage a broadside could wreak aboard a ship and knew it played no favorites. He could guess that Trahern’s rage at this attack would be at its fullest, and he wondered yet how it had come to be. If the squire were aware that they had kidnapped his daughter, he would proceed with caution, but Ruark could not take the chance. The Good Hound bore two bow chasers and two stern chasers with several small falconettes on swivels along the rail. The small guns would be no match for the armed brig setting to the chase, but the schooner was trim and with her blackened sails could easily slip away.
Ruark stepped down from the rigging and faced the silent group. “Unless you fancy a long night’s swim, my hearties, I suggest you get underway.”
Harripen was more a man of decision than the others and bellowed, “ ’E’s bloody well right.”
The Englishman set the seamen to action with a flurry of commands. “Get those boats aboard. Ahoy there, Pinch,” he called to an elder seaman who mounted watch on the forecastle. “Hoist the bloody anchor. And, Barrow, set every inch of dark sail you can find.”
Then he turned in a calmer manner to Pellier and grinned into the scowling, scarred face.
“Excuse me, Robby. Tis your ship. If ye’d care to set the course for Mare’s Head, we’d be only too ’appy to be on our way.”
The Frenchman took a mean swipe at one of the men who had gone ashore with him. “We could have gone unnoticed had you not let that other bitch escape the manor.”
His victim squawked, stumbling backwards under the man’s assault “Tweren’t me ‘oo let that tongue-lashin’ Scottish biddie go. It were Tully! She kicked him in his jewels and struck out fo’ the village.”
“I’ll see him gelded,” Pellier threatened, going aft.
Tully, a sparse man, peered after his captain doubtfully. “Why, cap’n, if it weren’t fer her,” he called after Pellier, “we wouldna caught ye these three who come running at her call.”
His words were ignored as the pirate captain set his crew into motion. Soon the dark schooner had a bone in her teeth and was racing away in the night It was not until the square, white sail of the brig was lost on the horizon that the picaroons turned again to counting the booty. A weighty iron box was opened and was found to contain gold coins. This was hastily transferred to the captain’s cabin, where it was stowed in a larger chest for division later. There were several huge bags of silver and gold plate to be valued and shared and a barrel of fragile porcelain carefully packed. The latter, of no value to the pirates, was marked for the mayor of Mare’s Head for his tithe, as were some crates of finer wines and food. Then only the one large chest remained, and all held their breath, for this promised to be the greatest treasure.
Pellier leered and boasted loud. “The Trahern wench says this has a wealth no man can count”
Shanna stepped closer, a wry and twisted smile curving her soft lips. Ruark read her face and knew full well that mischief was brewing in her beautiful head. For the sake of caution he waited nearby, watching the proceedings but taking no part. A blow of an ax crushed the lock and freed the pawl. Pellier shouted and threw open the lid. His dark eyes gleamed at the tray filled with small leather pouches.
“Jewels!” he proclaimed. “We’ll all be rich!”
Greedily he snatched a sample, pulled open the cord, spilled the contents in his hand, then stared in mute amazement, for he held no greater wealth than the trigger, lock assembly, and the butt plate of a musket. Frantically he rummaged through the bags and found only the hard clink of iron. He and Harripen lifted the heavy tray and pulled aside an oil skin to reveal beneath it tier upon tier of long, slim musket barrels stacked neatly in place upon notched wooden strips.
Harripen lifted one in bemusement and turned it in his hands. “ ’Pon me saints,” he remarked as he hefted one of the pouches. “Tis not but muskets—without butts even. Useless bloody muskets!”
Shanna could contain herself no longer and laughed in derisive glee. “Of course, you fools. What else?”
The sound of her mockery rose above their murmurs to ring against their pride, reducing it to shattered shards.
“And should you have the butts,” she jeered, “you’d find them useless still, for you see the chest was dropped on the dock, and all the barrels are bent. My father kept them as a reminder of his one failure at profit. It always pricked him, but now I’m sure he’ll find the memory of it tickles his wit”
Ruark groaned inwardly at her foolishness, recognizing that her words might well draw real blood before the hour was gone.
Pellier whirled on her with a curse. “But you swore it held a wealth no one could count.”
“Of course,” Shanna answered sweetly. “And does it not?” She tossed her head, sending her hair flying over her shoulder.
In a rage Pellier snatched Shanna’s arm, cruelly twisting it until she cried out in pain and fell to her knees before him. Drawing a dagger from his boot, the Frenchman held it close in front of her eyes, which now betrayed a first hint of fear.
“Then I’ll carve the price from your precious skin, bitch.”
Suddenly Pellier found his wrist seized in a grip of iron. Slowly, against his will, the blade was raised away from Shanna until he stared into Ruark’s softly smiling face.
“I know you are rash, my friend, but I think not foolishly so.”
Pellier let Shanna sprawl to the deck. His free hand dipped quickly toward the pistol in his belt, but Ruark caught that arm as well. The half-breed struggled against Ruark, but his arms were held between them where none of the crew or captains could see the battle. The more Pellier tried to free himself, the tighter the vise became until he could feel his hands growing numb. His eyes sought his captor’s face and saw in it a strength and will he had until now doubted existed. It was born in the back of his muddled mind that he could not rest until this one who held him like a child was made to feed the fishes. Having no other choice, he ceased the useless fight, but the grip held where it was.
“Now I, for one, have great love for my neck and would not see it stretched upon the Hampstead’s spar,” Ruark continued easily. “You have already tweaked Trahern’s nose, but would you draw the full wrath of his vengeance on us all? There is also this to consider. The wealth you draw from her flesh will be meager indeed and done with all too soon, but her father treasures the wench as his only kin and will no doubt pay handsomely for her safe return.”
Seeing some logic in this, Pellier relaxed in the tenacious grasp, and Ruark released him.
“Oui, you speak true,” the half-breed grunted reluctantly, but his hawkish eyes lowered to Shanna who, though bruised and shaken, let her gaze show contempt as it roamed his filthy person. With a sly leer he chuckled, “But ’twas Pellier who brought her here, eh? She will be mine ’til the ransom is full paid.”
Shanna’s breath caught sharply in her throat, as much in outrage as in shock, and she scrambled up, staring at him in horrified disgust. His lustful perusal pierced her meager garments, taking a path downward over her round bosom and gracefully curving hips. Shanna could not hold back a shudder of revulsion and clutched the thin robe higher about her neck. When she had seen Ruark aboard the ship, she had thought he had somehow planned her capture, whether for revenge or desire she could only guess. The idea, though it had angered her mightily, was at least remotely acceptable as her fate, and she reasoned it could be dealt with. Now a cold, sickening dread of what really lay in store for her began to make itself known. This swaggering brute, Pellier, could hardly have made himself more sickening to her eyes. He was a rank, filthy man with not the shallowest knowledge of decency. Given her choice between throwing herself overboard and submitting to him, she could only surmise she’d seek the former end without hesitation. Indeed, in the matter of choices, Ruark was her only refuge. But if he had betrayed her before, he might well again.
Ruark’s manner was almost calm as he watched Pellier’s eyes covetously survey and obviously savor that which he named his. A more observant man than the half-breed might have noticed the distinct hardening of Ruark’s lean features, the tightening of his jaw, the coldness in his gaze—and taken a warning.
Deliberately Ruark caught Shanna’s wrist and in spite of her resistance and attempts to snatch free, he pulled her before the pirate captain. He ignored the flashing green daggers that fair riddled him and with a finger under her chin, raised it beneath the lantern until Pellier could clearly see her fine and delicate beauty.
“This further caution I would give you, Captain Pellier. If you’ve eyes in your head, you might see this is a rare piece of considerable cost.” Ruark’s fingers softly stroked the fragile column of her pale throat Beneath his light touch Shanna trembled, and he wondered what emotion betrayed her. “But the piece bruises easily with abuse and once returned, her vengeance might well be more costly than Trahern’s own. This is his valued pet, and he’ll see her will carried out To be the treasure you seek, she must be tended carefully and kept against the day you’ve gotten her worth.”
Ruark dropped his hand away from her, but not before he frowned a warning into Shanna’s eyes. Then, with a casual salute to Pellier, he strode past her and made his way to the forecastle where he leaned upon the rail and watched the iridescent sea curling beneath the prow.
A puzzled frown troubling her brow, Shanna studied him covertly and wondered if this man who seemed to ever mark her life would be her champion or her end.
“Bind the wench!” Pellier bellowed.
Gaitlier scurried across the deck, catching Shanna’s wrist, and dragged her along in his wake as she cast repeated glances over her shoulder at the lone figure by the rail.
Dawn had brushed the heavens in deep magenta before the sun, rising golden on the horizon, bleached it to a softer pink and sharply etched the detail of the craft in its gilded light. The morning bloomed into full day. The sky faded to a subdued blue, and the translucent aquamarine that rose and fell in a languid, heaving motion became the sea beneath it. Triangular sails billowed with the full breath of a brisk wind, and the schooner skimmed the waters like a gull in effortless flight.
Tied with the other prisoners to the pinrail at the base of the main mast, Shanna found little comfort. She dozed fitfully, rousing whenever footsteps paced near. Usually it was Pellier who came to stand above her, his legs braced apart and arms set akimbo. His dark face twisted in a malevolent grin as his black eyes bored into her. Shanna shivered in apprehension as she sensed in him a twisted, vengeful desire to see her writhing in agony while he had her in some perverted way.
Noon cast Shanna in the shade of the sails, protected at last from the glaring sun, but it had already brightened the pale, slim nose and brought a deeper flush to her cheeks. Her long, curling hair, lifting on the freshening zephyrs, swirled about her face and bosom, the ends entangling in their abandon.
Pellier’s men paused often to stare at her with more than a longing glance, but they knew their captain and held a deep fear of him. His temper could rise without warning, and his skill with weapons had earned a healthy respect bordering on fear from them. Long ago they had learned to stay well away from the half-breed and that which belonged to him. It was only Gaitlier who brought her an occasional bit of cheese or bread or a drink of water, and even these minor ministrations were wont to draw Pellier’s disapproval.
Ruark kept his own vigil at a more distant spot, viewing Shanna through slitted eyelids while he appeared to slumber peacefully, his back braced against the rail, and his legs stretched out before him.
In the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, the schooner trimmed her sails and slipped cautiously along a string of small, swampy islands, little more than reefs choked with sand and crowded with cypress and occasional groups of palms. A dark, blood-red flag slashed with a black bar sinister was hoisted, and the ship passed a slightly larger island where, on a placid white beach, a single hut could be seen beneath an overhanging thatch of palms. A shiny surface reflected the light of the waning sun, and the signal was answered with waves from the pirates on the schooner. Shanna and the other hostages were loosed from their tethers and grouped together near the gangport. Ruark roused from where he catnapped near the prow and set his gaze toward the lay of the land and reefs, carefully noting details.
When the Good Hound had cleared the end of the point, she was faced with an open stretch of shallow water spotted with breakers which signaled reefs and sandbars. Ahead of them lay a much larger island that sprouted a low hill overlooking a shallow, half-protected cove. A scattering of ramshackle huts could be seen on the shoulders of the higher ground. In the center and on the brow of the dune squatted a large, once whitewashed structure surrounded by a low stone wall which enclosed a barren courtyard. Behind the port and for several miles on either side, a mangrove swamp extended, which combined with the reefs and bars beyond the shoreline to provide a good half mile of protection from attack.
Harripen joined Ruark by the rail and leaned beside him. The whole side of the Englishman’s face seemed to compress in a weird smirk as he squinted his eye at the younger man.
“Well, me lad, ye see our haven. Mare’s ’Ead she be. What do ye think of ’er?”
He observed Ruark closely, but he only shrugged noncommittally. “Appears safe enough.”
“Aye, ’at ye can say.” Harripen’s arm stretched out toward a spot where the broken ribs of a ship rose amid the shoals. “Ye see ’at ’ere wreck? Twas part of a Spanish fleet what tried to warp a galleon through the shallows near enough to bombard our town, but the currents at ’igh tid s are strong and treacherous.” He chuckled heartily and grated a hand across the heavy, coarse bristles darkening his scarred chin. “After the ship hung up ’ere, we floated a raft with a single gun into range and chewed ’er to bits.”
Ruark noted the man’s obvious relish of the event but pointed out, “If a determined man covered his ship with another and went carefully, he could succeed, and other ships could stand off and intercept anyone trying to escape. You’d be trapped in there.”
“Aye, lad.” Harripen laughed briefly. “And so ’twould seem. But ’tis only fair to say, the wisest rat sees to ’is hole ’fore ’e builds the nest”
Ruark peered at the pirate with a cocked brow.
Harripen gave a secretive chuckle. “Just in case the dogs try to dig ’im out”
Ruark led him on. “ ’Twould be a crafty rat to get from here unscathed.”
The Englishman was eager to explain. “As long as ’ere’s a ship to sail, we’ve a way out, lad. ’Ere’s a channel through the swamp and no reefs on the other side. The Spaniards cut it through.” He stared at Ruark for a moment as the younger man accepted this silently. Then he warned, “But a man must know the way, and Mother keeps it well hidden.”
With that, the hoary buccaneer turned away and busied himself with preparations to debark, leaving Ruark to stare after him, his curiosity much aroused.
A crowd had gathered on the white sand beach, outcasts from the world trapped in this backwater way of life with little hope beyond the meanest existence. Indeed, the town could not sustain itself and survived only by servicing the corsair fleet. Vendors came with their baskets, hawking their wares, hoping the warriors would feel largess with their victory and share some of the spoils for a new bauble or a trinket. Gaudy, unwashed harlots sought any favorable glance, the bolder ones calling invitations to the crew while they revealed plump bosoms and round thighs or sauntered with cocked hips and arms akimbo. The children, few that they were, bore the vacant stares of hopelessness or the savage leers of minds already twisted into the mold of malice and greed. Running sores and scars marked the beggars and bespoke the merciless deprivation suffered on the island. They were the fortunate ones. The unfortunate were those who had been dealt a deep wound in battle or had an arm or leg severed and were dying slow and agonizing deaths in this hellish hole. These poor wretches, whose maimed, misshapened bodies wore a grimace of pain permanently on their faces, and women who were worn and abused until they looked like hags of some horrific tale stood back in mute surrender while their counterparts who still sustained a meager vigor crowded close in hopes of catching some coin, some treasure, some rejected morsel, some sharing of whatever was to be shared. Crewmen tossed coppers from the ship and guffawed as scrawny youngsters and grown men splashed into the shallows for such wealth.
Shanna’s stomach tightened and wrenched with the cruelty of it all. She had always considered herself worldly, well traveled and educated, but nothing she had seen or read had prepared her for this. A twinkling began to dawn of just why her father had so desperately desired to secure his loved ones from poverty. In the tormented faces of the children, she glimpsed her father’s despair as a youth, and something stirred deep within her consciousness, trying to surface into realization, but Shanna was too tired, too exhausted to think.
A questioning murmur rose from the bondsmen who stood near her. This place frightened them as much as it did her, and they cursed their luck to have been captured. They could expect no more than slavery here and were quick to recognize their own plight would scarce be better than that of Trahern’s daughter. As Shanna raised her gaze to them, uncertainty written heavily on her face, they quieted their grumbles. One man swore and faced away while another remarked hoarsely:
“Bloody savages they be. The devil’s own. God save us all.”
Shanna sagged wearily, setting her back to them. She knew they voiced her own apprehension. Awkwardly she brushed a wayward tress from her cheek with her bound hands. She was numb to every emotion save a gnawing fear that feasted heartily upon what courage she tried to muster. She set her mind not to appear frightened, yet her knees had a strange tendency to shake beneath her, and an uncontrollable shivering made tatters of her resolve. Just when she had won some semblance of composure, her chin quivered and the sting of tears smarted in her eyes. Despite her show of self-control, however strained, she was terribly afraid, not knowing what lay in store for her, but convinced now that the miscreants planned some hideous fate for the daughter of Trahern. The constant stares of the pirates and their bold leers when they caught her eye unnerved her considerably. Bruised and hungry, exhausted from lack of sleep, she was listless and dazed. Her head ached from the merciless sun which beat down upon her.
Disconcertedly, Shanna moved her gaze to Ruark. He stood near the fore of the ship watching as the vessel worked her way toward the crude jetty that formed a landing dock. His dark hair was stirred by the light breeze, and his broad, tanned shoulders gleamed with a fine mist of sweat He seemed like a stranger, a man she had never known, distant, frowning as if his cares weighed upon him sorely. She felt a rising bitterness that he had trifled with her so casually, yet she also recognized the folly of the anger that had caused her to have him cast away. Had she only cooled her need for immediate revenge, she could have made him pay a thousandfold for his indiscretion. Now she had only herself to blame and must admit that he had ample cause to seek redress upon her person.
Fear pricked her consciousness that Ruark would be willing to see her demeaned and abused at every hand, and the surety of such was beginning to loom monstrously large in her future. Her already depleted strength would little deter Pellier’s assault when he chose to launch it But it was best not to dwell on the degradations that would precede the final one, and Shanna fought the despair that threatened to reduce her to a whimpering, sobbing wretch.
As his entire fortune was on his person, there was little to occupy Ruark. He was glad he had not doffed the breeches before Pitney’s visit or he might well have been more exposed to the air. Though the pirate captains had promised him a share of the loot for his assistance, he was not bent to believe that Pellier had accepted his interference with Shanna kindly. Considering the half-breed’s possessive attention, she would need much in the way of protection. Still, Ruark thought, if he appeared anxious to defend her, it would arouse suspicions against him. He must gain some degree of trust, or at least some sort of respect, from the picaroons, or escape would be doubly difficult. On the other hand, he could not abide anyone mauling his wife, and he knew if they pricked Shanna’s defense, she could well flay anyone’s pride with her tongue and might bring odious penalties upon herself.
“It may well be that I shall have to fight the whole lot of them,” he mused wryly. “And for that selfsame wench who will not accept my protection, thinking I took my ease with another. But I am set in any event to choose the course that will take us both clear of this hellish place, whether she will have aught of me or not.”
For a space Ruark stared down into the sparkling blue-green sea and thought how much it resembled those eyes that had led him to this corner of the universe and still beckoned with the promise of a reward beyond his ken.
The schooner slid against the dock, and when the ropes were secured to the quay, Harripen strode across the deck, clapping his hands as he loudly called, “A wager for the first wench tossed on ’er back, me ’earties. Which do ye say? A sovereign on Carmelita.”
A sharp grunt came from the stern. “Have ye no eyes in yer bloomin’ head, mate? The Trahern wench I’ll put me wager on. Twould take me not but a thrice count to roll her on her arse and give ’er me all.”
“Aye,” a derisive snort answered. “And should ye beat Robby for a turn on her, ye’ll find his sticker in yer back.”
Shanna remained motionless, giving no outward sign that she was affected by their crudity, but inwardly she quailed, and her mind recoiled. Her night had been unpleasant enough, but she realized it was only her potential value as a hostage that had kept her from an even more unpleasant one in the captain’s cabin or the crew’s quarters, if not both. For that small respite, at least, she had Ruark to thank.
Ruark gave little attention to the banter. He accepted the men’s talk as just that, at least for the time being. As long as Pellier was alive, Ruark was well aware from where the real threat came. Warily he watched the Frenchman approach Shanna and began to saunter forward as the man placed a long leather thong about the slim column of her throat. Then suddenly, without warning, Ruark found his own way blocked by the broad, hairy chest of Pellier’s apelike mate and three of the hands he had seen warping the ship in. Ruark elbowed one aside to force his way, but with a wide grin drawn back from uneven, gapping teeth, the mate moved again to stand before him, and over his brawny shoulder Ruark caught Pellier’s evil smile directed briefly toward him.
“Well, man,” the huge mate leered. “If ya’re to be one of us, let’s see how ya fare at tidying up a ship.”
The gangplank touched the dock, and the corsair captain began to move toward the open way. In that moment a cold, chilling fear washed through Shanna, and her eyes turned a last desperate plea toward her only hope, Ruark. She saw him standing with several crewmen, and he made no move to come to her. His frown deepened even as she looked, but he seemed willing to surrender her to this pig of a pirate.
“So much for his high ideals and wedding vows,” Shanna thought bitterly.
His lack of action stung her to the quick. Their eyes met, and, threatened with a rush of moisture in her own, Shanna lifted her chin with a defiant gesture of dismissal. Then the leash tightened about her neck, and she was jerked stumbling along in Pellier’s wake.
Shanna was paraded behind the pirate captains as part of the booty which was carted after her, the only exception being the large chest; it was left where it sat on the deck of the schooner. Her wrists were bound before her, and her long hair tumbled in wild disarray about her shoulders, half masking her face from the curious eyes of the waiting townspeople. The sting of ire she felt at being so crudely displayed was sharp, though it gave her cause to remember Ruark being hauled aboard the Marguerite in chains.
Some of the strumpets poked grimy fingers at her and tugged cruelly at her golden hair. Shanna bristled angrily and snatched away, but this show of temper only aggravated their pestering. Viciously they began to pinch her limbs and buttocks, calling coarse insults, many of which Shanna could only just grasp the meaning of.
By the time she emerged from the press of bodies and snatching hands, Shanna was much the worse for wear. Her appearance no longer bore any resemblance to a highborn lady. Her dressing gown was torn, the remains of a sleeve hung in shreds from her shoulder, and her bare feet were bruised by the pebbles and blistered by the hot sand. Still, she walked with the unbowed dignity of a Trahern and allowed wrath to mask her pain and trepidation.
A sigh of relief almost escaped her when she was urged on no more. Wearily she lifted her gaze to the large, whitewashed structure before her. A broad veranda stretched across the front, and a gaudy figurehead carved in the likeness of a heavy-bosomed mermaid hung from a post above their heads. The place was badly worn and shabby, in desperate need of repair, but Shanna had already guessed that most who lived here were hardly more than parasites doing as little as possible in the way of work and honest labor.
Beneath the coyly smiling nymph, a monstrously huge man, every bit as tall as Pitney and half again as wide, called a greeting to the victors. His bald pate glistened with sweat above long sideburns which were braided into queues with bright ribbons adorning the ends of each.
“So, ye scurvy swine!” his oddly tenor voice rang. “Ye’ve gone to Trahern’s isle like ye said ye would, and I see ye return whole.” He giggled in glee as he surveyed the crates and chests they unloaded onto the veranda. “And ye’ve even brought back some baggage.”
A quick pull on her tether, and Shanna was yanked before the enormous man and there made to stand while he rudely evaluated her. She shivered in disgust as the man cupped her chin in a hamlike hand then turned her head from side to side, inspecting her much as one might a steed.
“A pretty filly, to be sure, though Trahern left me little enough to appreciate her with. But why bring her here?” he questioned his cohorts.
Pellier grinned slyly. “This is the plum of Trahern’s orchard, Mother, his own daughter. She’ll bring us all a fine lot of coins.”
“Aye, if we live long enough to enjoy them,” Harripen snorted.
“ ’Tis impossible for him to get a big enough ship through the reefs without going aground. We’re safe enough here,” Pellier argued.
The giant pursed his lips and let his gaze scan the horizon, seeming to grow nervous.
“H’it’ll set Trahern on edge, to be sure,” he half mused in a worried tone. Then he gestured toward the prisoners who huddled behind Shanna and mumbled, “We may need extra hands if Trahern decides to make himself felt Bring the wench inside, hearties, and we’ll have us a mug.”
The sun rested on the horizon, and night would soon spread its velvet cloak of darkness over the island. As she was led inside Shanna threw a glance behind her, but she saw no sign of Ruark. Resentfully she wondered if he had already found some wench on the dock to fill his time.
A short stairway led down to a tavern room where lanterns were lit to ward off the coming shroud of night. The large, flat stones beneath her feet were cool and a welcome relief from the burning sand. Pellier crossed the long, dark room, yanking her along with him, and he joined Mother at a long table. A fist crashing down on the wooden planks startled Shanna as their host bellowed for ale. Immediately two women appeared and from barrels lining the wall filled immense tankards. Harripen caressed the bovine breast of one and grinned into her face.
“Carmelita, ye’re as pretty as ever, me lovely. Care for a toss?”
A voice chortled loudly from the rear of the common room. “He bet on ya, Carmelita. And he’s trying to win the wager.”
With a fling of her dark head and a wanton smile, Carmelita roughly pushed a mug into the Englishman’s groping hand, sloshing a share of the contents over his breeches.
"That should cool yer loins ’til me work is done, ye lusting rogue. I’ll bed whom I please, and ’tis not likely to be you, you scrawny gander.”
Loud guffaws sounded around the table until Harripen glared his fellows down. Eager to demonstrate his own prowess with women, Pellier threw an arm about Shanna’s waist and sought to snatch her to him for a quick kiss and a long-awaited fondle. In violent reflex Shanna swung out with her bound hands clenched into fists, intending only to hold the stinking, sweaty body away from her. The blow struck him just beneath the ribs. Startled and gasping for breath, the half-breed stumbled back. As he fought for balance, one foot waving precariously, Shanna saw her chance. She caught her toe behind his heel and kicked hard. Pellier spun about then dusted a full six feet of the floor as he slammed down upon it.
The smaller of the serving women, a plain, drab thing with a listless manner, who had stepped near to fill Pellier’s tankard, gaped in horror. Shanna began to realize the danger of what she had done. The mirth of the corsairs shook the rafters, and it dawned on her that she had embarrassed Pellier before all the others—to her a well-deserved deed but one quite likely to bring her end.
Harripen snickered. “Hey, Robby, get up. Ye’ll do no good down there alone. Ye forgot the wench.”
The Frenchman’s dignity was sorely bruised, not to mention his backside where he had struck the floor. His eyes were shot with blood, his face scarlet with rage as he came to his feet, glowering at Shanna. The words sounded choked in his throat.
“You high-flown bitch, I’ll teach you to be a proper doxy who’ll come when she’s called.”
Savagely he snatched the leather thong, nearly jerking Shanna off her feet and raising a welt where the rawhide strip sawed at her throat. Half dragging her after him, he strode across the room until they reached a large, open hole in the floor. Pellier drew a blade from the top of his boot and to her amazement slashed her bonds, setting her free of both her collar and wristlets. Shanna frowned at him inquiringly, but smirking, he kicked a ladder into the hole and gestured for her to descend.
“Unless of course you wish my assistance,” he sneered and reached for her, but Shanna avoided his grasp and obeyed. She climbed down into the dark, rank pit and then raised her gaze in wonder at what was expected of her. The ladder was pulled away, and she saw Pellier reach over into the shadows near the wall. A heavy, iron-barred grating crashed down to cover the hole. In some bewilderment Shanna glanced around her. A checkered pattern of light from above filtered down, and she realized she stood on the top of a pile of rubble beneath the opening. Did Pellier intend to frighten her with isolation and darkness? The idea was ludicrous, of course, when she was more terrified of his loathsome attentions.
A skittering in the dark chilled Shanna’s confidence like a flood of icy water. A squeak near her pierced the quiet, and she glanced down as a large rat ran across her feet Her shriek brought guffaws of glee from Pellier. Anxiously Shanna strained upward to reach the grating, but the pirate wheeled a weighty barrel onto the grill to preclude her moving it. A scurrying came behind her, and Shanna whirled to see several of the gray furry beasts crouching on the edge of the light. Their eyes gleamed oddly red and evilly bright as if they contemplated her end. Gasping, Shanna scrambled away from them further down the slope of the debris—anywhere to be away from them.
The odious stench of the pit choked her and brought her close to retching. Shanna could only guess what the pirates used it for. The small, red-eyed furries grew bolder. A half dozen or more now sat watching her, creeping nearer whenever she glanced away. Shanna retreated another step, and her foot went ankle deep in the slime. A rat scurried toward her, and, stifling a scream, Shanna kicked at it, sending it squeaking back to the pack. More rodents slithered from the darkness until their number had doubled. They began to move forward in a body. A shuddering sob escaped Shanna as she splashed backwards until she stood knee deep in the foul water. A sardonic laugh came from above, and a crust of bread and pieces of meat fell through the grating.
“Here, milady,” Pellier’s voice mocked. “Here’s your supper!” He snickered wickedly. “That is, if you can save any from your greedy little friends. And here’s something to quench your thirst, milady.” His humor was high as he poured ale through the cover, drizzling it over the squeaking, fighting rats now tearing at the food he had tossed. “Don’t be lonesome for me. Your friends will keep you company ’til I’m ready for you.”
His footsteps faded from her small world, and Shanna, conscious of her own ravenous hunger, stared mutely at the greedy rodents. The droplets of moisture glittering as they fell made her throat dry. The fetid stink of offal caused her to cough. The rats, now searching eagerly for any last morsel, turned as one to stare at her. Something bumped her leg, and Shanna reached down, closing her hand over a piece of wood. It was firm and real, which little else around her seemed to be. Her hunger gnawed at her belly, her thirst burned in her throat, her fatigue eroded her will, her fear undermined her resolve.
She was afraid she might dissolve to tears at any moment and plead to be taken from this pit of hell. Even as she faced the scurrying animals, she imagined she felt small, wiggling things between her toes or something slither now and then against her leg.
The rats tested the edge of the water but were reluctant to enter. Then one bolder than the rest leaped in and began to swim towards her. Shanna stilled her quaking and waited tensely, raising the board. A moment more! With a sob she brought the wood down edgewise upon the furry thing, and after a brief, frenzied splashing, Shanna saw no more of it. Warily the others backed away to a safer distance to consider her, their red eyes twinkling as if they whispered among themselves and plotted against her.
A violent shaking possessed Shanna, and even her defeat of the rat could not buoy her spirit. If only there were a spot, dry and safe, to which she could escape. The board sagged in her hands. The rats grew still and watched her with a malevolent alertness. She wanted to sob but knew what greater disaster awaited her if she weakened. She was so tired! So hungry! So thirsty! So faint!
Evil eyes stared at her from the darkness, creeping closer.
“Someone help me!” her mind screamed. “Anyone! Ruark!”