Chapter Ten
Treva dinna know what to do. Her mission was accomplished. She stopped a massacre from happening. Was reunited with Duncan and surrounded by the few people who cared about her. But she felt…wrong. And ’twas all because of Coire. Her thighs still quivered for him and surely, even now as she sat at the table across from her cousin recounting the days since escaping Peel Castle to him, she was still flush. The pirate captain obliterated her world. Nay, this was willfully her fault. She fell for him and would suffer for it the rest of her days. Gladly. So why was she so sad?
“I’ve known ye yer whole life, Treva.” Duncan refilled her mug but the whiskey wasna strong enough. “Ye are bold, strong, courageous. Ye have survived the unthinkable, stood up for what is right, for others, for you. I’ve never seen ye afraid. Until now.”
“I’m not afraid.”
He sat beside her, put his hand upon her wrist to stop her from taking a sip. “Ye are. Because ye are in love.”
“I winna deny it.” Her vision blurred and Duncan pulled her into a hug. She hated for him to see her this way. It harkened back to when she was young, homeless, crying, when he waved goodbye to her from behind a tree on the bluff as the boat she was put on sailed from Oban.
“What is next? What are ye going to do now?”
She shrugged. “Go back to Liverpool, continue to pass secrets.”
“Are ya now? Ye are a wanted fugitive.”
He was right. She wouldna last long before someone spotted her and outed her to the authorities. “I could go to Paris.”
“Too dangerous. France is rife with traitors.”
What was she to do? Her options were few. “I will stay here. Help ye and Ranald plot another raid.”
“Or ye could follow yer heart. Yer tenacious heart is a match for his.”
Her chest hurt. ’Twas an impossible hope. “Coire winna want me.”
“Dinna be so sure. I saw the way he looked at you. A man doesn’t look at a woman that way out of desire alone. And he sure as hell doesna look at another man like he would rip his arms off and beat him with them for hugging ye unless he has strong feelings for you.”
“He dinna.”
“He did.” Duncan’s grin tilted one side of his mouth. “I reckon he loves you.”
Her heartbeat picked up rhythm, though she tried to will it to stop. “But he dinna ask me to come with him.”
“Maybe he believes that a woman who jeopardized her life daily for her country wouldna want to leave.”
She would not have thought of that. Could Duncan be right? “He’s a pirate. I’ll only be baggage.”
He shook his head. “And ye are a pirate at heart and by blood.” He noisily released a tiresome exhale. “Cripes, Treva. Ye are a risk-taker. Take a risk now. Go to him. Board his ship. Tell him ye love him. Ye love him, right?”
More than life itself. “With all I have.”
He opened his palms like she had the answer in front of her. “Tell him ye want to go with him to Skye, to the West Indies.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Since when do ye accept a no? Worry upon that if it comes to that.”
Duncan was right. She had nothing to lose. Well, her pride. And her heart. But was it not better to try rather than steep in regret wondering what could have been? Every day she had spent with Coire was a chance taken. What was one more?
“What would I do without ye?”
Duncan grinned and she hugged him again, thankful for the one relative who never turned his back on her.
“Come. I’ll walk ye to the docks.”
She downed her mug, in some small part to ward off the evening chill. But mostly to give her the courage to stand up to Coire, make him agree to take her with him. She had done it before, she’d do it again.
They walked down the hill and weaved through the buildings leading to the wharf. Through the thatched roofs of the squat structures, she could make out the masts of a handful of ships bobbing in the water. They reached the road to the docks lit with a handful of torches and Kelpie was within view. Her veins thrummed with anticipation. Soon she’d be up to her old tricks and convince Coire they belonged together.
In a blink, someone slapped a cloth over her mouth and grabbed her from behind. Treva cried out but the sound was muffled behind the caustic, sweaty rag. She struggled uselessly against the solid band wrapped around her.
“Hey!” Duncan’s shout was cut short with a grunt and was followed by a thud.
Treva thrashed about in the hold of the brute pinning her to him, caught sight of Duncan scrambling from the ground and tackling a Redcoat. Fists connected with flesh. Dust swirled about their feet as they shuffled in to strike. Duncan got in a good clip, spinning the soldier. But a third soldier attacked him from his left and the other recovered quick enough to bash him in the side of his head. The hits were coming too fast for Duncan. He was unable to get more than a punch or two in while being pummeled.
She fought against her attacker, tried to scream through the rag. Duncan didna have a chance against the two soldiers. She heard a crack as one of the men landed a square blow. Blood flung from Duncan’s mouth, trickled from his nose, as he landed in the dirt. The Redcoats kicked him in his ribs, kidney, over and over, even after he stopped trying to protect himself, stopped moving.
“Filthy rebel.” A soldier rubbed his chin where Duncan had managed to hit true.
Hot tears burned from her eyes. Weakened from fighting to get free, from wracking sobs for which she could not breath in enough air, Treva’s knees buckled.
“Ah, no. Don’t make this hard on yerself, missy.” Stale breath mingled with the rancid stench of the cloth under her nose. “Ya better walk, lest ya end up like yer friend, here. Captain Pullings didn’t say what condition ya have to be in when we bring ya to ’im.”
She was placed in shackles and dragged away from Duncan’s broken body. Within minutes, she was rowed out to a familiar English frigate. She entertained the idea of throwing herself overboard for one brief moment, but the fire inside her over Duncan’s death burned out of control. She would not go down without a fight. ’Twould be what Duncan would do. ’Twould be what Coire would do.
Captain Pullings met her on the deck of the Invictus, an unamused smile upon his cleanly shaven face. “Miss MacDougall. You are a sly, enterprising young woman. What a thrill it is to have finally captured you.”
She smiled politely. “And what a feat it must have been. I do hope yer superiors dinna harangue you too much for the lost time.”
His upper lip twisted. “Indeed. Dare I say that I at least have time, whereas you do not. The noose awaits you at Man, traitor.”
He spun on his heel, stiff as a pole, and marched away. “Take her below.”
Treva was forcibly tossed into a wet, crusty cell. The door clanged shut, and she sank to the hard plank that would be her bed. She buried her face into her hands, letting the tears flow freely. A sob cleaved from deep inside. Then another and another. She couldn’t stop the weeping. She’d spent a lifetime scoffing at the injustices that lined up against her, incessantly battering her like the waves that would carry her to the hangman. Now she cried all the unshed tears of her life. Cried for what was taken from her—her parents, her youth, Duncan, her chance at happiness with Coire.
Coire. Thank God for him. She had no remorse for what led to this moment. For if she hadn’t escaped Peel Castle and coerced her way onto his ship, she would never have had a taste of love. Oh yes. She loved him. She had fallen, that she knew. But she hadn’t known how far until he shut the barn door behind him. She’d felt so fulfilled, yet so empty. He had her heart, wholly and truly. She’d hold onto that until her final breath, whether from getting her neck stretched or attempting an escape.
On that thought, Treva regained control. She swiped angrily at her damp cheeks and sat a little straighter. She’d been in this predicament before. ’Twasn’t likely she could make a second escape from the prison, but she had to try. She would spend her dwindling hours scheming, watching for opportunities, going over scenarios of getaways between the ship and the gallows. And she would spend her final night dreaming of a handsome captain and all the ways he made her feel.
Fate had a strange sense of humor. Treva had always been proud of being a descendant of the almighty pirate Savage MacDougall, even as she was condemned for displaying too much picaroon behavior. Yet she had been terrorized by the nasty Captain Dread, had believed he would be the death of her. Now she would cast her lot blindly with a blue-eyed brigand for all eternity.
Fight for freedom like a pirate or die like a pirate trying.
“Blazes! What the hell happened?” Coire helped Mr. Shaw clear the table as Jonesy and Redd carried Duncan inside Kelpie’s galley. The fellow was a grisly sight—blood coated his tunic, dried in rivulets from his nose and mouth. Contusions darkened around his bloodshot eyes, his left temple, his knuckles. Dirt caked his hands and nails.
“Jonesy and I found the lad dragging himself to the docks.” Redd held Duncan’s legs as he and Jonesy hoisted him onto the table. “He was askin’ for you.”
Duncan cried out as Redd moved one leg too quickly. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to remain awake.
“Hang it. The pain’s getting to him.” Coire swung out his arm to Mr. Shaw. “Rum.”
Mr. Shaw shoved a flagon into his outstretched hand.
He lifted Duncan’s head and put the bottle to the lad’s swollen lips. “Drink.”
Duncan swallowed and promptly sputtered from the rum’s potent strength. But the liquor did its job. He heaved as if his lungs were on fire. “Shite,” he groaned, gripping his side and cringing.
“What happened, man?” Coire asked again.
“They took her.” Duncan seethed through his teeth at the pain.
Coire met Jonesy’s troubled gaze, looked to the other lads. His blood iced. “Who took her? Who took Treva?”
“Soldiers.” He coughed, blood tainting his spittle. “To someone named Pullings.”
“Sod it!” The English captain had found her! “He’ll take her back to Man to hang.” He spun and planted his fist into a beam. The sting splintered across his knuckles further angering him.
“Pullings must be anchored further up the coast,” Jonesy offered. “There are no English buckets here.”
“How long ago did they take her?”
Duncan shook his head. “I…dinna know. We came to the wharf about an hour after ye left.”
That was nearly three hours ago. Invictus would be sailing down the Clyde by now. Coire closed his fists again, coiled to bloody his knuckles more.
“We must go after her.” Duncan toiled to sit up, growling against his pain.
“Nay, Duncan.” Coire gripped his shoulder to keep the lad from rising.
He addressed Redd and Jonesy. “Get word to Ranald to come fetch Duncan. We sail immediately.”
“No!” Duncan floundered under Coire’s hold, but Coire held him firmly pinned in place.
“Handsomely!” he barked at his men. The boys hurried from the galley. The sooner they returned, the sooner they could leave.
“She’s my cousin,” Duncan pleaded. “I’ve got to help.”
“Ye are no good to us, mate. ’Tis clear ye’ve broken ribs, probably yer leg, too.”
Coire waggled his fingers for Mr. Shaw to hand him the rum again. “Drink more of this, help numb the pain. We’ll get ye back on the docks and fetch ya a healer.”
Duncan’s head fell back on the table. “Ye have to save her.”
“I will.” There was no other option. He’d been busying himself with his stash of arrack in the dark of his cabin since he left her earlier, slowly drowning himself in pickled self-pity. Weighing if he was making the right decision leaving her behind. He’d be taking her from her Scotland, from her cause. And for what? Because he wasna ready to give her up? Because his body craved hers? Because he might care for her more than anyone he’d ever cared for before? Hell, he didna know what he was feeling, though was familiar…and somehow more profound.
But now… Now what he was feeling was terrified. What was happening to her? Was she hurt? Had Pullings or any of his men touched her? Coire growled, slammed his fist into the beam again. He cursed the pain away. By his deathless soul, he would kill anyone who laid a hand on her.
Duncan gripped Coire’s wrist. “She was coming to you.”
“What?”
“She was going to persuade ye to take her with you.”
“I dinna understand. To where?”
“Wherever ye go.” His frown deepened with austerity. “If ye know anything about Treva, ye know she will do anything it takes for what she believes in. She was coming to you, gamble on what she feels for you. She loves you, Fletcher.”
He flopped back into the beam, taken aback. Coire should not be surprised. Her actions toward him were as clear as the waters off the Barbados shore. But to hear the words spoken tilted his world off its axis. Suddenly, what was an immediate need to save a girl flipped to a critical demand. He had to know if it was true, hear the words from her lips, see it in her verdant green eyes. And he would do whatever it took for that chance.
“She will feel the warmth of the Caribbean sun. This I promise.”
“A pirate. The irony…” Duncan chuckled, and he paid for it. But his grin gave way to seriousness. “Ye save her, ye take good care of her. She has been hunted for too long. Treva needs someone to look after her. To tame, or the very least, match her. Are ye the man to do it?”
Coire would make a pact with the devil to be that man.
“The bastard!” Coire marched down the Kelpie’s deck now wet from sea spray. They had set their course south down the Firth of Clyde halfway between Malig and Taylough when they were intercepted by another ship. When the Damned Jewel was within range, she fired a shot. It missed his ship by a mere few feet. ’Twas enough to indicate that was no warning shot. Captain Dread had meant a direct hit.
“Mr. Shaw!” Coire called. “Clear the lashing from the guns. Prepare for battle.”
Mr. Shaw nodded and raced off to give orders to the bosuns.
Coire pointed to the helmsman. “Keep her steady. Broadside.”
Jonesy strode up and handed him a long gun and gunpowder. “What’s he doing?”
“Starting a fucking war.” He quickly loaded, set it down, and checked his pistols.
“To what end? He’ll make an enemy of many. Not just here, but of our Caribbean brethren.”
“Dinna think he cares. Eliminate us, prove a point—he and his followers rule these waters.”
“Sod that.” Jonesy leaned another primed long gun against the bulkhead. “Let’s prove ’em wrong.”
Coire was not wasting time on proving anything. His woman was in danger. But he wasna going to cut and run, either. “We aim to disable him.”
Jonesy scrunched his face.
“’Twould be an insult he’d have a hard time overcoming,” he explained. “Make it known he can be defeated.” Sound reasoning, but really he needed to get to Treva. And Dread was keeping him from doing just that.
“He may be feared here, but we’ve experience on our side.” A true fact attested from years of smuggling, privateering, and overall survival in the warmer waters near the equator. “If we sink him in the process, so be it.” Coire snapped up his long rifle, peering at the rapidly closing distance between the ships. If he got a clear shot between the bastard’s deadlights, he sure as hell would take it. “Let’s make quick work of it.”
The air shook from a shot taken by the Damned Jewel. A spray of water rose near mid-ship. Coire hollered up to Jacob. “Three points starboard, then back!” He called out to Mr. Shaw. “On the up-roll, fire one, fire three!”
Kelpie swung out and as she rose up on a lofty swell, Mr. Shaw gave the order. The ship rocked from her powerful guns. Smoke from the ports caught on the breeze. One shot landed off the Jewel’s prow, the other smashed across her forecastle.
Spent gunpowder filled Coire’s lungs. The fiery excitement of battle coursed through his veins. He would never tire of it.
Dread fired again but just missed Kelpie as she angled back toward him, the shot whizzing past the stern.
“Bring her broadside! Two and four, fire at the waterline!”
The deck shivered under his feet as the guns unloaded. A direct hit blasted a hole into the other ship well above the waves. ’Twouldn’t sink it, but was enough to put the Jewel in danger in high seas.
Coire marched down the railing, watching for the captain he longed to take aim at, giving orders to pick off pirates of rank. Shot from the enemy ruptured the gunwale to his right, splinters exploding in every direction. “Shite!” Coire flinched, turning away from the deadly projectiles.
“Fire at will!”
He nabbed a passing bosun. “Give ’em grenados. Set that bucket aflame.”
The bosun nodded with an emphatic grin and ran off delivering orders over the relentless booms of the two ships’ guns.
Coire scanned the Damned Jewel’s decks through the rising smoke until he found her captain. Dread whipped around, pointing and shouting at his grisly men. As if he sensed Coire’s stare, he stopped and turned to look directly at him. Time seemed to slow with the smirk creeping across his greasy, scraggly, bearded face. Coire returned the smile before raising up his long gun and pulling the trigger. The wood of the mast beside the louse’s head shattered. Dread snapped his head back with a glower that could reach across the span between them and rip out his heart. Coire lowered his gun and cocked his chin, a promise he’d do better with the next shot.
Pops of gunfire, booms from shipboard guns, and shouts from men rent the air. Smoke thickened, could be tasted on the tongue. Wood creaked and rattled. The cacophony was quickening, a thrilling reminder of life and death.
As the ships passed midway, several grenados landed upon Dread’s deck and burst into explosions of fire. The Damned Jewel’s crew raced around in a futile effort to put out the fires as more fireballs were launched onto the decks. Within moments, flames licked up the ship’s sails.
Attack from the Jewel died as the pirates concentrated on saving their ship. Kelpie’s crew erupted in cheers. Coire saluted to Dread as the captain gripped the railing of his faltering ship with a gruesome snarl. If the arsehole made it out alive, he’d seek revenge. Coire would welcome it. But not before he made sure Treva was rescued, safe from anymore danger.
Jonesy sidled up beside him. “Made quick work of it, we did.”
“The men?” Coire tore his gaze away from the Jewel to assess the damage of his own ship.
“A few injuries that I know of. Mostly from flying shivers.”
Coire kicked at a piece of railing and scanned the masts and yards. “The hull?”
“We took a few direct hits. Nothing we can’t repair.” Jonesy tucked a pistol in his waistband. “Nothing that will slow us from reaching Man.”
“Any spare man not working the sheets should report to Nicolas. Shore up and repair as much as can be done. I want no weaknesses. We dinna know what we’ll be up against once we get to Man.”
“Aye.” Jonesy jogged off just as Mr. Shaw appeared.
“Lash the guns, but be prepared to meet more resistance.”
“We gonna see more hot action?” The barrel-chested old sea tar scratched at his graying chin with a serpentine grin.
“No pompous poxed labberneck will stop me from saving the lass.”
Mr. Shaw’s grin split to show his nubby teeth. “I reckon not.”
“What?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Why are ye still grinning at me, then?”
“Just ain’t never seen ye in love before.”
Coire groaned. “Piss off.”
Mr. Shaw guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder as he passed by to see to the guns.
Coire took one last look at the Damned Jewel. Burning sails had been cut and fluttered to the sea, gray smoke spiraling into the sky. The wretch’s crew was acting quickly. They had a fair chance at saving the pirate ship from being destroyed. Coire hoped this would be the last time he saw Dread. But he doubted it.
He spun on his heel and retreated back to his empty cabin and unfinished bottle of arrack. By this time tomorrow, if not sooner, they’d reach Man and he’d launch a rescue mission. There was nothing to do now but wait out the rest of the journey and pray he made it in time.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Captain Pullings said you were to stay in this cell until they were, uh, ready for ya in the mornin’.” The British soldier squirmed on the stool which was placed directly across from her cell door. The poor lad was a mere summer younger than she, which made her wonder if he’d been pressed into service. He would have to be ambitious to climb any rank. By the way he worried his fingers around the barrel of his musket standing between his legs, he wasna that aspiring. And he was probably scared of what Pullings could do to him.
“I understand, Lansing. Yer captain would not have put ye in charge of such an important duty as to watch over a helpless woman behind a locked door if you weren’t up for the challenge.” Treva should be ashamed of herself. Lansing had been welcome company, and here she was blistering him with vaguely masked affronts. She’d been trying to trick him into letting her out of her cell so that she might feel the sunlight on her face one last time with a stroll on deck. Of course, she’d meant to earn his trust and get an idea of where they were anchored so she could make a plan of escape.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Me, too.” She dropped her head and sighed. “Me, too.”
Coire dropped over the Invictus’ railing into a crouch, landing with a soft thud. A quick glance up to the topsails revealed his arrival hadn’t alerted the watchman. Gentle creaks of plank and taut rope and the whispers of the slumbering sea were the only sounds. He looked over the edge to the jollyboat bobbing in the black water. Though he couldn’t see their faces in the dark, he signaled to Jonesy and Redd. They’d remain close. But if spotted, they had been ordered back to Kelpie anchored just out of sight around the small isle’s rocky breakwater.
He slunk along the shadows. Took the ladder below deck with slow steps. Having been acquainted with the inside of a Royal Navy frigate after an unfortunate mishap of getting caught, Coire had an idea where he would find Treva. He made his way to the rear. Voices carried down the companionway. Footfalls neared. Coire ducked behind a twenty-four pounder gun. He couldn’t be discovered. He couldn’t fail. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Two men walked past unawares. As they climbed the steps to a higher deck, he crept deeper into the ship’s belly.
Voices, one female, lead him to a closed door. Treva was in there, but how many others were in there with her? His entry would have to be swift, precise. Coire drew his pistol from the brace strapped across his chest and burst inside. It took a mere heartbeat to assess only one man guarded his lass. The soldier startled from his stool and found himself staring down the barrel of Coire’s gun. He was fairly certain the poor lad soiled himself.
“Hello, again.” Coire managed a polite grin, though it might have seemed malicious to the man. “Lansing, is it?”
The soldier nodded, his affirmation stuck in his throat.
Coire spared a glance at Treva gripping the bars. She appeared unscathed, and just as shocked as Lansing.
“Well, Lansing, ye would like to stay alive, yes?” Another near imperceptible nod. “Put down yer weapon. Good man.” He ticked his head toward the cell, his pistol still trained on the soldier. “Unlock it.”
Lansing did as he was told and freed Treva.
Coire handed the pistol to her. She needed no instruction to keep it pointed at the fellow. He snatched off a pair of shackles from a hook and clapped them on the man. “Let’s get ye inside.” He snapped up the man’s musket and followed him into the cell.
“I’m sorry, Lansing.” By Treva’s tone, she sincerely meant it. “Take care of yerself.”
“Good luck.” More sincerity. ’Twas the last words Lansing said before Coire slammed the butt of the long gun into his temple, knocking him out.
Coire locked the cell door and when he turned she launched herself into his arms. By God, she felt good—warm, yielding, alive. He kissed her thoroughly and hugged her tighter. ’Twould take death to pull him away from her now. And that was a high possibility if they didna get off the ship soon.
“Ye came for me,” she said against his chest. “How did ye know?”
“Duncan.”
She peered up, sadness dragging down her frown. “Is he…?”
“He took a powerful beating, but he’ll survive.”
Treva sagged against him, a hiccup in her sigh of relief.
“We haven’t much time.” He took his pistol from her, shoved it back into his brace, and grabbed her hand. “Stay close.”
They stole from the room, down the companionway, and up the ladder. He opened the hatch and they slunk into the crisp night. This escape, it had been too easy. It shouldn’t have been this easy.
“Halt!”
Ah…there it was. And now the fun began.
He turned to an advancing pair of soldiers. ’Twould be easy enough to dispatch them with a firearm, but the last thing he needed was to awaken the entire ship full of armed men. Not yet. And he really didna want to kill the men. They were not his immediate enemy. He didna need the entire Royal Navy hunting them down before leaving Scotland. But he would do what was necessary.
Coire twirled his cutlass, a clear indication he would not surrender, but fight. “Stay behind me,” he warned Treva.
“Who the devil—”
“That’s the snake Captain Fletcher.”
Coire couldn’t give them time to sound an alarm. He drew his dagger lunged forward on the offensive, swinging his cutlass to catch upon the men’s blades as they countered with haste. The men separated, one on either side of him. His veins pumped furiously with the fire of the fight to come. Sword to sword, two on one. He loved the odds.
The first soldier swung his weapon, but Coire blocked it with his dagger and quickly followed through with a slice of his cutlass across the man’s side. The bloke hissed and stumbled back. Coire spun around to his left in time to catch the thrust of the second soldier’s weapon. He twisted his dagger, deflecting the sword down. But the soldier hopped away before he, too, could feel the sting of Coire’s cutlass. As fast as he backed away, he came forward, assailing Coire with swing after swing. Coire parried, pivoted, parried again, passed back, all while giving the soldier a false sense of besting him.
But this was no time for swordplay. The clanging of metal reverberated up his arm, up into the shrouds. Soon, the topman sounded an alarm. ’Twould be moments before the deck would be swarming with British fighters.
Coire caught the man’s next swing between his dagger and cutlass. Stepping into the soldier with his blade trapped, Coire slammed his elbow into his face. The force of the blow snapped his head back. Blood spurt from his crunched nose. Coire pushed him, kicking him hard enough in the chest to fling him across the deck onto his back.
“Coire! Look out!”
The first soldier recovered enough to answer Coire’s initial strike, swinging at his flank. Blood bloomed around the jagged edge of the tar’s shirt. Anguish pulled upon his ashen face as he darted forward, his blade pointed straight from his extended arm. Coire twirled his sword, drawing the man’s attention to the flash of steel. As he thrust forward, the man anticipated the move and blocked. But he hadn’t anticipated Coire’s simultaneous lower stab with his dagger. The shorter blade slid easily into the giving flesh of the cove’s thigh. He went down to his knees just as a hatch door flung open and soldiers filed out, including a disheveled Captain Pullings.
Coire shoved his dagger into his belt and spun to Treva, wide-eyed and frozen in place. He grabbed her arm as he raced past.
A shot cracked the night. And another. Wood splintered off the mast they darted around. Shite! Coire yanked her behind the ship’s massive wheel for cover. She cowered beside him panting wildly from near panic.
“We’re trapped!”
He shook his head, drew his pistol from his brace. He just needed to buy a few precious seconds. “Run for the gunwale. Jump overboard. I’ll cover you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are ye mad?”
“Better mad than dead. I’ll be right behind you.” In a single powerful whack with his cutlass, he chopped the helm’s rope. The taut line snapped loose, rendering the Invictus’ wheel, tiller, and rudder useless.
“Go, now!”
Treva bolted for the side of the ship. She trusted Coire with her every breath, which she could hardly draw for the fear lodged in her chest. Halfway to the edge, the exchange of gunfire popped rapidly. Flashes blinked at the edge of her vision. She expected to feel instant pain. None came and she pumped her legs harder.
“Spare the prisoner! Kill the pirate!” The captain’s command mingling with the echoing bursts frightened her all the more.
She reached the railing, climbed up. The dark water was so far down, a dizzying depth. Not far away, she spotted a longboat. That had to be part of Coire’s plan.
“Don’t let her jump!”
Treva glanced back. Soldiers raced toward her from the left, Coire from behind yelling for her to go.
Without a thought or prayer, she jumped off the ship feet first. Her skirts billowed wide as she fell. She closed her eyes tight waiting for impact, the plunge into the cold water snatched away the breath she held. New terrors shuffled through her mind as she plummeted deep beneath the waves—sharks, sea monsters, and drowning. Had she come full circle, back to that first night she met Coire, when she ruptured a hole into her dinghy determined to board his ship? Would she survive?
Treva broke the surface, gasping for air, coughing on the brine burning her nose and throat. She gathered her bearings, paddling to stay afloat, fighting the sting in her eyes. Jonesy called her name, a shadowy silhouette of a man in a boat not too far away waved.
Coire! She looked up in time to see him on the rail. His body jerked as he seemingly stepped overboard. My god! He had been shot! Soldiers immediately lined up at the edge and took aim. “No!”
He splashed nearby, but she couldn’t see him over the swells, couldn’t locate where to swim to find him. “Coire! Coire!” It was no use. It was too dark, the crests of water too high.
A salvo of pops echoed from the ship. A bullet plunked in the water beside her. Heaven help us!
She swam toward the sounds of Jonesy’s frantic shouts, fought against her rising hysterics. Bullets pelted the water around her. Spare the prisoner her arse! Treva threw her arms ahead of her one after the other to pull herself through the currents, kicking wildly. Damn it, she would get to that boat.
A sharp pain slashed through her calf. She yelped, thrashed about wildly. A monster, shark, something bit her! Horror shuttered her mind, her vision. Glimpses of whipping black water accompanied visions of blood, teeth, flesh. She was going to die!
Quite suddenly, the beast grabbed ahold. Tentacles wrapped around her waist. No, I’m not going to die like this. She slapped and jabbed, twisting and writhing, but it wouldna let go.
“Treva! Stop! Ye’re going to drown us both!”
Coire? Thank God. The fear drained from her. Until more pops and bullets peppered around them.
“Swim!” Coire propelled them forward.
Her leg burned as if on fire but she kicked hard. The little boat seemed so far away but and after what seemed like a lifetime, she grabbed the side, but her clothing weighed heavy. She hadn’t the strength to pull herself up. Several pairs of hands helped her and Coire inside.
“Get us outta here!”
Jonesy, Redd, and two others grabbed oars and rowed, putting their backs into it, to get out of firing range of the Invictus.
Treva flopped back on the seat to catch her breath. But the sting of her calf was too much. She gathered up her skirts to see just how much of her leg was gone from the bite as Coire knelt in front of her. “Something bit me.”
With a careful touch, Coire twisted her leg to inspect it. Blood coursed down her calf in watery rivulets. “No, love. Ye’ve been shot.”
“Shot? Oh, thank God.”
Coire chuckled, though his smile was constricted. “The bullet went clean through. Jonesy, yer shirt.”
Jonesy shed his dry tunic and handed it to Coire who ripped a strip off the bottom. “Are ye hurt anywhere else?” She winced as he wrapped the cloth tightly around her leg.
“I dinna think so.”
“What about ye, captain?” Redd asked, ducking as stray bullet splintered the edge of the boat.
“I’m fine,” he groused.
“My arse.”
“Just get us outta here. We haven’t much time before Pullings makes repairs.”
“Capt’n.”
“No more!”
Redd clamped his mouth shut and Jonesy shook his head.
The oarsmen put distance between them and Invictus apace. Each stroke of the oars loosened the grip of doom. They had a chance. As they rounded an outcropping, Kelpie loomed like a blackened devil ship. A rope ladder waited, the crew raced about on deck.
“Get the boat secure,” Coire said to the men. “We weigh anchor even before it’s on deck.”
He held out his hand for Treva. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Treva wasna prepared for the shooting pain as she put weight on her leg when she stood. She flopped back down on her arse with a grunt. Embarrassment and anger had her on her feet in an instant. She would not slow their escape because she couldn’t manage a little stitch. She hated that she needed assistance. But she didna hate Coire’s encouraging words and arm around her waist.
The climb up the rope ladder was grueling, the pain in her calf absurd. Once on board, Coire led her to a box to sit upon. She was surprised her makeshift tourniquet was soaked in blood.
“We’ll get Nicolas, the ship’s carpenter, to sew ye up.” He squatted to take a look. “Ye’ll be good as new.”
She swiped wet strands of his long hair from his eyes. “Doesna matter as long as I’m with you.”
His lips parted, ticked upward, before his tongue wet his bottom lip and his teeth bit down. Crivens, that one small action had her ready to whisk him to his cabin.
“Capt’n.” Jonesy strode over with purpose. Redd looked on with a frown as he helped with hauling the boat up.
Coire closed his eyes a moment before he stood.
Treva gasped when he turned to face his quartermaster. His tunic was dark red with stain, as was the waistband of his trousers.
She sprung to her feet, panted against the bolt of pain through her leg. Without preamble or permission, she scrunched up the shirt. Treva caught a glimpse of his weeping bullet-riddled shoulder. “Oh my God, Coire!”
He shrugged away. “’Tis all right. I’m all right.”
“No, ye are not.”
He met Jonesy with his hand out. “I am.” He hollered over Jonesy’s shoulder at Mr. Shaw. “Get this bucket under way.”
Jonesy cocked his chin at Coire, challenging him. “You can’t captain the ship dead.”
“But ye will be if you dinna get us out of here.”
Jonesy smirked, his boyish dimples deepening. “Aye, Capt’n.”
Even in what must have been acute agony, Coire commanded his ship and crew. And he was admired for it.
Coire stumbled forward as Kelpie lurched forward with the release of the sails. Jonesy caught his arm. ’Twas then Treva saw just how pallid he’d become and the beads of sweat forming upon his damp brow. Two brawny sailors rushed in, propped Coire up and, with Jonesy to lean on, she followed them to the captain’s quarters.
Nicolas bustled in after them with several younger men in tow carrying bowls of water, leather satchels, and rags.
“He was hit with fowling shot,” Jonesy announced. “At close range. By Captain Pullings, the crowing motherless bastard.”
Coire grunted. “Never liked him.”
The carpenter dominated the scene, having Coire lie on his stomach while directing his helpers to get his instruments ready.
“Her first.” His voice was gnarled in pain even as he barked this last order.
“Dinna ye dare.” She squared her jaw and slapped away the reaching hands of one of the young helpers. She plopped into a chair and propped her leg up on another. “Just get me some whiskey.”
Coire mumbled something about defiance. Lightning quick, he yanked a pistol out from under his mattress and pointed it at Nicolas. “Her first.”
Unfazed, the carpenter shook his head. “Sorry, capt’n. Your injuries are more serious. I can’t let you die.”
Coire must have been spent. He let his arm drop and the pistol slipped from his grasp. “I winna die here,” he mumbled. “My soul will be free in the lush tropics, God willin’.”
Jonesy’s troubled brow redoubled. He quickly corrected his countenance once he realized Treva watched him. He nodded to the crewmen to get topside and trailed after them, leaving her alone with Nicolas and Coire. If Jonesy was worried, this was every bit as bad as Treva thought. She fought against another deluge of panic.
For the next hour, Treva drank more whiskey than she needed. Coire’s agonizing, torturous grunts and moans as Nicolas dug out the bullets from his shoulder were unbearable. Until he lost consciousness.
Jonesy came in to check on them just as Nicolas retrieved the last pellet and dropped it into a plate with the others. The lead ball clinked into the metal dish, punctuating how lucky Coire was to be alive.
“How is he?”
“He’ll recover.”
Jonesy visibly relaxed and saw his way out when Nicolas shooed him away so he could turn his attention to her. She’d been brave for her man, hardly making a whimper as her wound was cleaned and properly bandaged.
“I’ll be back to check for fever.” Nicolas glanced at his captain, as if he just wasna sure Coire would indeed make it if fever set in.
When he took his leave, Treva crawled into bed beside Coire, facing him. Careful not to bump his mangled shoulder, she curled into him. The rise and fall of his even breathing lulled her. She traced the lines on his face, around his mouth. So beautiful, so strong, so indomitable. How had she come to this moment, this man? He had started out an infatuation. The silly bloom in her heart was just because she dallied with someone dangerous. Or so she thought. Aye, she wanted the risk, fed on it. But now she knew just what she’d done. Falling in love was one thing. But somehow, she had become completely dependent on that love. He was one half of her whole. Without him, she would be lost. Without him, she wouldna be able to breathe. Without him, she would be no one. She had been irrevocably changed, forevermore.
Though he couldn’t hear her, she whispered her first truly frail feelings aloud. “I’m scared, Coire. Please, dinna leave me. Dinna ever leave me.”
She stayed that way a long time, nestled against him, watching for any sign of fever. Blessedly, none came and she finally closed her eyes.
Treva awoke slowly, drifting away from an ethereal dream—a ship, a pirate, tender kisses. Her eyes fluttered open. Staring back at her were the most alluring blue eyes.
“Hello, mo sionnach àlainn.” Coire kissed the tip of her nose.
“A girl could get used to waking up to this.”
His returning smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Good. I intend to say it every morning.”
Her heartbeat staggered. “What does that mean?”
He lifted his good arm to cup her cheek, rub his thumb over her bottom lip. “It means I love ye, Treva Shawna MacDougall. I want to spend the rest of my days with you.”
“Truly?”
“If ye’ll have me.”
“A pirate? I dinna know…” she teased.
He chuckled. “Ye, a pot calling the pan a burnt arse.”
She good-naturedly popped him on his shoulder and he groaned. “Oh! I’m so sorry. Are ye all right?”
Coire smirked, not being able to hold in his ruse. “Aye.” He tucked her in closer. “And I’m looking forward to recovering with you, here, in my bed.” Her head spun from the sound kiss full of promise.
She snuggled into his chest, breathed in his salty warmth. “I love you, Coire Fletcher, with my heart and soul. Dinna ever leave me.”
“Never.”