Devon paced in constant motion up and down the length of his ship, consulting Ames, barking orders. He chomped at the bit with the constant delays. The readiness for departure took three days, not six as Dooley predicted to get the Sea Scorpion and her newly outfitted companion, the Golden Gull sea ready. Nature’s fury blew them off course with a fierce tropical storm. Two more days were lost to that endeavor. His only hope lay in the confidence Le Trompeur ran adrift, blown off course as well.
On the bow, Ames joined him to survey a wallowing English ship, but idly, suspicious. Devon cursed this mission of mercy that further delayed him. He could not let the sea swallow helpless men and ordered all sail on the Sea Scorpion pulled into bare poles to aid in rescue. Blasphemies rose from grim confusion and turmoil in the British Man O’ War. The Bonaventure, her foremast shattered, and a gaping hole in the side, bilged fast with an ominous list to port, a question of moments before she sank.
One of the rowboats knocked alongside the Sea Scorpion. With his hands clasped behind his back, he proceeded to the helm to greet the visitors climbing up the entrance ladder. The first head to emerge was an older gentleman of modish and expensive apparel, carrying himself with the easy confidence of a man of rank. Devon gauged the man, a wizened face etched with deep lines, and eyes that scanned his uncouth crew of the Sea Scorpion. He was no pirate.
“And where the devil may I be now?” He demanded peevishly. “Are you English, or what the devil are you?”
“I have the privilege to be Irish. My name is Captain Devon Blackmon. And you have just boarded my ship, the Sea Scorpion.”
The gentleman stood thunderstruck. “The Black Devil. Extraordinary. I can’t believe the miracle of fate that drags me from my miseries and puts me in your presence. A fine tale this will make at home. My admiral first loses his fleet in the night by a tropical storm, then has his flagship fired under him by a French pirate, and ends all by being rescued by the very man I traveled hundreds of miles to find. Truly extraordinary.”
“At your service.” Devon bowed, taken aback by the old man’s ravings. “And whose august company do I find myself in? And may I inquire the name of the ship that molested you?”
“I am Lord Sunderland, the King’s Governor-General of the West Indies, and this is Admiral Henry Norreys, commander of His Majesty’s West Indian fleet, at present mislaid somewhere in this damned edge of the world. Of most urgency, I’ve been sent on a mission to find you. To scour the vast Caribbean, and if need be, turn the world on its head to accomplish that feat. Lo and behold we meet. What chance opportunity is that? And to answer your second inquiry, it was the foul Mer Un Serpent who dared to fire upon us.”
“And for what purpose have you sought me out?” Devon eyed him, letting no reference from his countenance show his emotion at being on the tail of Le Trompeur.
“To ask you to fight for King and country.”
Devon snorted. “You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’d venture into the King’s enterprise. I will tolerate you as guests aboard my ship, but your entreaties will go no further.” Devon turned on his heel and climbed to the foredeck, leaving a bewildered Admiral Norreys and Lord Sunderland in his wake.
He strained to stare beyond the horizon. Why had he not protected Claire? Thoughts of his mother surfaced then veered to Claire lost in the hands of Le Trompeur, a fate worse than the rape and killing of his mother. Helplessness, fear and anger scorched him. He cursed his own stupidity in not keeping a vigilant eye and the prey of such a beast as Le Trompeur.
Devon watched the fifty-three remaining survivors board his ship. The English Lord dared to follow him.
“If I may speak frankly,” Lord Sunderland endured. “I judge, sir, your history speaks of you as a resourceful fellow. You outrank the majority of your peers in nobleness and intellect.”
“Your persistence and tact test my good humor. I would almost think that a compliment if I did not realize the character flaws of my companions,” Devon said drily, waving aside Ames who had come to escort Lord Sunderland away.
“That is only a half-truth, an over-simplification,” Lord Sunderland said with a trace of impatience. “We are all the fruits of our experiences. You can’t change that.”
“A bitter truth,” Devon agreed. “I am what I am. A felon made by a bad king. An escaped slave. A pirate. All with a sum on my head, my fate if caught to be gallows bound.”
Lord Sunderland looked him right in the eye. “Piracy is a state of mind,” he argued. “You can call Francis Drake a pirate, or a benefactor, as you will.”
“Your diplomacy outweighs your intuitions and defies commonsense. Please do not insult me by inviting further illusion that I will fight for England. Need I remind you, you are aboard the Sea Scorpion, my ship, at my generosity. Do not stretch my hospitality.”
A cannon boomed and Devon reached for his spyglass. “Wolf. He captains one of my ships. Ames, halt our departure until we see what tidings Wolf brings.”
Like a dog with a bone, Lord Sunderland said, “If I may be so bold−I came out here with full knowledge of your past. I know you were accused of treason, reduced to King James’s treachery.”
Devon grew impatient. “So you know about all that. What difference−”
“It makes a lot of difference. For despite all that you are, you never went against a British ship, you saved helpless women. You play the role of a swaggering rake-hell, yet beneath that false crust, you’re a man of immense integrity and honor. If not for all the injustices, you would have had a country and freedom. I see it in your face. You want it badly. Tell me I am not right.”
Devon laughed as Wolf climbed up the ladder and joined them.
“England is at war with France,” reported Wolf, towering over the English Lord. “That is why that snake, Le Trompeur bid to make allies with you. The French fear your interference.”
Lord Sunderland touched his sleeve. Devon looked down to where the diplomat’s fingers pressed, the breach dared by the English Lord caught in his glower.
Lord Sunderland weathered his hostility. “However disillusioned you may be operating outside the shadow of the law and thumbing your nose at the very society that has scorned you, it is even more expedient than ever that you reconsider my proposal to do what is right for England.”
“I’d fight for England but not for that bloody rascal James,” said Devon.
“James you say?” bellowed Lord Sunderland. “We ridded ourselves of James three months ago. England and its people will only tolerate a ruthless tyrant for so long before they stand up and eradicate the malignancy. James has fled to France, living under the protection of King Louis. William now sits on the throne.”
“Good God. Why didn’t you say so? King William you say?” said Devon. Ames and Bloodsmythe edged nearer, sharing his astonishment.
His Lordship drove his point home amidst Devon’s’ turmoil. “King James is dethroned and banished. We are at war with France. You can enlist in His Majesty, King William’s service and see an end to your outlawry then return home and take up your life again.”
Stunned by this revelation, Devon barely had time to contemplate his good fortune. The revelation filled his mind and moved him deeply. A chance to have freedom and country? To be with Claire and enjoy the normal nuances of life that he’d been so deprived? To be out from under the yoke of hated piracy, the shadow of the hangman, to have a home, a family. The freedom he yearned at his fingertips. Two long unfortunate years had elapsed. The prospect of taking up the new King’s fight and gaining the very thing he craved within his grasp. Claire wanted his freedom. He’d sell his soul to the very devil to make her happy.
“Devon, do you know what this means?” Ames came to his side, Bloodsmythe, Wolf, nodding their heads with the same assertion.
Devon did not miss the keen eyes of Lord Sunderland absorbing the dawning import on him and his crew.
“Here is a great chance for you and your men. We have heard of your many exploits and know what you are capable of upon the seas. Should you choose to serve the King during this war, your knowledge of the West Indies should render you a very valuable servant to His Majesty’s Government, which you will not find ungrateful. I encourage you to consider your freedom. I reiterate soundly, this is a great chance you are given.”
Devon leaped onto the ratlines and hailed his men. “Men, we have been given great opportunity. Freedom under a new King of England. King William. If you offer your services to fight in his name against the French, it’s freedom you’ll be breathing. How many say aye?”
“Aye! Aye!” A chorus of cheers ascended from the lips of every pirate. “Hail King William.”
“There’s your answer, Lord Sunderland.” Devon shouted. He jumped to the deck. “How injured was the Mer Un Serpent?” He did not want to think of Claire sinking in the middle of the ocean.
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.
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.
The corpulent French Admiral stood arrogantly on his foredeck. His outrage transformed to shock. He had miscalculated his enemy. His jaw worked up and down with his impending doom. The shattering and explosion of the Golden Gull into the French warship rocked the waters. Men on the Sea Scorpion cheered with the direct hit.
“Fetch Dooley and his men from the sea. Don’t get overconfident boys,” shouted Devon. “We’ve two more ships that plague us.” He turned to the two gentlemen next to Claire.
“Lord Sunderland, Admiral Norreys,” Devon addressed them. “I had hoped Wolf would have returned with the Royal Navy.”
Claire stood shocked. Lord Sunderland was a peer of the realm, a very important peer. Had Devon kidnapped an English Lord and an English Admiral? She didn't even want to contemplate it, yet they seemed on familiar terms. But how? Numerous English sailors worked side by side with her husband's crew. The abduction would not matter. The odds of surviving the menacing French Man-O'-War were nil.
Devon stopped beside her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Don’t fear, my love.”
“I’m not afraid. But I worry of your injury.”
He kissed her forehead again before leaving her and shouting to his men. “Make all sail! Dress her in every rag she’ll carry. Top-men aloft. Man the tops’l sheets and halyards. Lay out. Loose. Let fall. Sheet home.” Devon ordered the Sea Scorpion to full sail.
Lord Sunderland said to Devon, “Whatever results of this day, I am proud to be a part of it.” He turned to Claire and bowed to her. “It is a pleasure, Madame Blackmon to meet you, despite our circumstances.”
No time existed for them to get under way. The French ships breathed hot on their necks.
Suddenly the French ship quaked and pitched to a halt, throwing her crew to the deck. Devon grabbed the glass from Ames. “Look there, Lord Sunderland. That cursed storm narrowed the passage. It heaved up sandbars, running them aground on shoals. Our quarry delivered to us by nature. We will oblige them. Young Johnnie, let loose your cannons!”
The deck beneath Claire’s feet thundered with the roar of the Sea Scorpion’s cannons. Claire shivered. A breeze swept clear the smoke, revealing the burning rubbish heap of the defeated French ship, its lily standard shredded and trailing from its broken mast.
The English Admiral emitted a dry smile “This night’s work beats anything I’ve ever witnessed.”
“It’s not over yet,” said Devon.
Claire followed to where her husband had his eyes trained. Her breath caught in her throat. The Mer Un Serpent emerged from the smoke and gloom, equaling the massive French warship, and with Le Trompeur to guide her, was a heavy match for the Sea Scorpion.
“Bear to port. Pull out, but tender the reefs,” Devon ordered. “I predict she’ll not make the same mistake. We’ll lure her out to sea. Now Admiral, you’ll be able to sit on King William’s lap and recite this battle.”
“But you’re going up against a forty-six gun ship.”
“A moot point, Admiral Norreys. When up against overwhelming odds, use your strength’s to exploit your enemy’s weakness.” Devon chuckled, and Claire smiled at those familiar words. “The Sea Scorpion is fast and sleek. Much as I would enjoy further debate on the matter, time passes and I must take my leave.” Danger proved a heady wine for her husband as he moved about his ship with steeled confidence.
With incredible speed, the sails fluttered from the yards. When the sails were hoisted and trimmed, the Sea Scorpion trembled with eagerness. The Mer Un Serpent chased in their wake. Far out to sea, beyond the hazard of shoals and reefs, Devon ordered his men to rein in and slow their progress for Le Trompeur to catch up.
“The Mer Un Serpent lists to port. Her belly full of barnacles makes her slow and wallowing,” and without waiting for Norrey’s approving grunt, he shouted an order. “Helm, hard to starboard!”
His voice rang with authority and purpose as he juggled the demands of bringing a huge ship about. Everything depended on Devon’s timing. Admiral Norreys stared off to port where the Mer Un Serpent altered course to bear aslant their bow. Like a bristling row of teeth, Claire eyed the cannon muzzles thrust through its open ports ready to fire upon them.
She swayed against the bulkhead and held her breath. Le Trompeur shrieked to fire. The blast rocked the Sea Scorpion. Claire fell to the deck. A pirate ran past, wild-eyed with fear and excitement, his hair plastered wet to his head. Her pulse roared in her ears. Visions of the Sea Scorpion sinking swam before her eyes.
Lord Sunderland pulled her to her feet. “Do not fear, Madam. Your husband knows what he is about.”
Their starboard side came up. The Mer Un Serpent leaned larboard, so heavy with barnacles her portholes were covered. Claire could count the hairs on the French pirates’ chins they were so close. Le Trompeur’s soaring exultation vanished, the look on his face almost comical as he realized his mistake.
“Fire!” commanded Devon. Cannons pounded. A volcano of fire and metal burst upon the Mer Un Serpent. Le Trompeur’s command to fire lost on his cruel lips. The French buccaneers mowed down. Fractured masts and rigging fell. Devon ordered his cannons again. Swept by the murderous scythe of a broadside, the mortally impaired Mer Un Serpent drifted.
A shout from the crow’s nest drew Claire’s attention to the east. With studding sails set and royals full, the majesty of England’s sea power broached the horizon alongside Wolf. The men cheered. An answering volley from Admiral Norrey’s lead ship blasted the remainder of Le Trompeur’s ship. It exploded. Claire watched the fiery remains settle into the sea.
Admiral Norreys proved he had a sense of humor. “At least we got in on part of this adventure.”
“It’s about time,” laughed Devon. “Bring her up to the wind. Heave too,” he ordered and with his good arm, pulled Claire to his side. She beamed up at him. His men cheered.
The uproar of relieved laughter and shouts filled the ship until it fair danced upon the sea. Backs were pounded, hands clasped between pirates and English naval men alike.
Devon grinned. “Tell me true, Admiral Norreys−what do you think of this day’s work?”
The English admiral chuckled. “When a man fails, it is considered folly, but it is genius if he succeeds.”
Claire insisted Devon recline on a caned day bed set up on the foredeck with a sail canopy to shade him from the dazzling sun. Since he refused to rest in his cabin, they compromised on this arrangement. She stood next to him with Admiral Norreys and Lord Sunderland in attendance. Jovial congratulations and overall good cheer continued while waiting for Wolf and officers from the Royal Navy to board the Sea Scorpion. She bit a grin at her indomitable husband, chafing from his confinement. Devon rose again to bark an order to Ames. Claire placed her hand upon his good shoulder with a well-meaning look that broached no argument.
Devon lay back down, and sighed irritably. “Madam, I am a doctor and own prescription to what I can do and not do.”
“You’re a stubborn man who does not heed his own advice when necessary, so I have to take matters in my own hands.”
“Faith, you’re bossy lass.”
“Dooley’s doing a fine job with ship repairs. Bloodsmythe is rowing from shore with the men from the fort. Let Ames direct the rest of your crew. He is fully capable.”
“He frets about seeing Lily again. It’s a wonder the Sea Scorpion is a float,” Devon huffed.
Lord Sutherland chuckled. “It’s hard to keep a good man down.”
“Look what fishes we caught in our nets,” said Bloodsmythe, pushing two wet men forward.
“Sir Jarvis. Sir Teakle,” Claire seethed.
Jarvis’s initial fear of being in the hands of pirates recoiled in confidence when he recognized Lord Sunderland and Admiral Norreys. “Arrest this pirate rabble and their leader,” Jarvis glared at Devon. He dared to move where the Black Devil reclined. Grabbing a whip he raised it and bent to strike him. “You’ll be hung for your crimes against the King. I’ll begin with the first strokes of justice.”
Claire grabbed the whip from her uncle. He shrieked as the wicked strands of the cat cut into his neck and face. In shocked surprise, he stared into her enraged face. Claire raised her arm again, and snarled, holding her ground. “Do not ever touch what is mine.”
Devon stood, his sword ready. Admiral Norreys stepped in front of him. “Let Lord Sunderland take care of this.”
Lord Sunderland’s height and posture dominated Sir Jarvis. “The man you dare to disparage, the Black Devil performed with heroism today. As the Governor-General of the West Indies, I assure you his brave deeds will reach His Majesty’s ears. I am quite confident he will be knighted for his courageous performance.”
Jarvis’s mouth opened and closed like a sea-bass on dry dock. “You can’t possibly mean that this pirate scum will be rewarded!”
“Sir Jarvis, you will be sent back to England for treasonous crimes against King and country, kidnapping of a loyal subject of the realm, and collusion with the enemy in time of war. Add to that, the murder charges of your own brother and his wife.”
Jarvis looked wildly about. “You believe the words of this pirate?”
“I believe that justice will be meted out by the Crown for your abominations. Hanging will be your condemnation,” the English Lord intoned.
Devon angled his head toward his men with the clear meaning, “Take him below.”
“I should have hung you when you were in my power,” Jarvis spat as they dragged him away.
Sir Teakle colored as the pirates chained him, his fate sealed with Jarvis. “I had nothing to do with it.” His entreaties fell on deaf ears.
Lord Sunderland and Admiral Norreys left Claire and Devon alone. She held her husband’s head in her lap and smoothed an errant hair from his forehead.
“Long ago in a gaol,” he began. “A beautiful woman entered my cell and gave a vow. Instead I vowed my vengeance on her person, blaming her for all my misfortunes. I’ve learned revenge isn’t the sword you carry but the love in your heart. Can you forgive me Claire?”
“Oh Devon. You don’t ever have to ask for my forgiveness. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I was just too foolish to realize it until it was almost too late. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” he smiled shamelessly up at her. “On one condition.”
Claire quirked her head to the side, as if considering. “Does that condition include a dozen children?”
“That, I accept with pleasure, Madam Blackmon. And when can we begin that happy event?”
Claire’s eyes twinkled mistily down on him. “Shall we repair to your cabin?”
“Is that a promise?” he teased.
From above, Abu Ajir cawed his approval and they both laughed.
Devon’s eyes were soft with love as she cupped his handsome face in her hands.
“A promise.”