CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE COULD SEE nothing. Eva ran her hands along the walls lightly to avoid snagging splinters as she groped her way to her cabin. There hadn’t been a lantern to take, although when she descended the ladder, she could see a faint glow beneath the far door where Beatrice had left one lit inside for her.
The old nun’s snores vibrated the planks, promising a solid night of restlessness. Their berth was one of several compartments normally used for stowage, however they all had hooks for hammocks. All but three still had remnants of sugar cane and timber.
The next time she walked this passage during the day, she’d count the steps between each door, to find her way better in the thick, inky darkness. This fumbling along would eventually send her sprawling. Already, she had at least two splinters in her palms.
The capitaine’s countenance shifted earlier. The familiar, caustic mantle had slipped away, revealing an interesting combination of a blithe, yet intense demeanor.
She paused and listened outside the twin’s door. Silent. No doubt the events of the day had driven the children into a deep, exhausted sleep.
An eerie tingling shot across the back of her neck and she hesitated, about to call out when a hard, thin hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her sharply into one of the vacant cabins.
Her assailant shouldered the door with just enough force to shut it with a feathery click. Fear clawed at her stomach. She wrenched her head to the side. Attempted to scream, but he slammed his body into hers. What little breath remained left in a whoosh, and panic crashed into her with the unyielding impact of the bulwark against her back. She kicked out into the darkness, and managed to connect with a bony shin, a pained grunt rewarded her efforts. He wrapped something around her neck. The vague realization he used her veil flitted in and out of her mind. She scratched at the fabric, desperate for air.
His ragged nails scraped down her throat then clenched the neckline of her tunic. A violent jerk rent it to her waist. A cold, desolate feeling bored a hole in her chest. Rosary beads clattered to the floor. No stranger to the nefarious side of men, her choices now were few, and none of them offered a complete escape from ruin or torment. A cool, rush of air hit her bare breasts. She twisted frantically. Sharp talons of fear gripped her heart and froze her limbs. A sheer bolt of terror flashed through her lungs as she fought harder to draw a clear breath. Instead of a scream, gravelly puffs of breath escaped her throat. It wouldn’t be long before she lost consciousness.
A low, raspy voice hissed in rapid pants, “You are an insult to God. Your religion, your church speaks with a tongue like an asp, giving with one hand while taking with another.” He groped her bare breast, squeezing harshly. “Your death will be quiet and quick.” Hatred dripped from each word like acid. “After I finish with you.”
After he finished with her. That meant she had a chance.
Unable to loosen the veil, she blindly attacked with her nails, gouging an eye and scraping the skin from his forehead, drawing a hostile yelp of pain.
A blow to her cheek slammed her against the wall, rattling her bones and jarring her teeth. She lunged back at him. If Hugo taught her nothing else, it was how to take a hit and keep fighting.
The metallic taste of blood coated her tongue, but her retaliating strike with her other hand to the ear caused him to lose his grip on the veil. She struggled to inhale past the sharp shards of pain in her throat, but at least now she could breathe. She drove her knee up into soft flesh, hoping it hurt like hell.
The faraway crack of the cabin door against the wall barely registered. A sick, yellow light invaded the room, bringing into focus her attacker, his ferocious face, twisted in fear and pain. The sailor who had spat on the deck doubled over, clutching his stomach, his dark, glinting eyes saturated with hate.
Razin.
An enraged roar thundered in the small room. He had just enough time to turn his head before a blurred shadow crashed into him. Eva sank to her knees and sucked in a lungful of precious air as she grappled with the tourniquet around her throat.
Shadows lunging in the eerie light turned into a raging, snarling demon, huge, muscular and agile. He pummeled Razin until the man crumbled into a bloody heap. His face an unrecognizable mask of fury, Captain Gamponetti needed only a long shining saber and a pistol in his belt.
Saved by a pirate, she thought numbly. Air scraped down her throat as she pulled in a shaky breath. Her heart hammered an erratic rhythm, jolting her ribs with every beat. She blinked and tried to focus. Captain Gamponetti whirled and raked a feral gaze over her, eyes flashing like fiery steel.
The movement made her cringe. He froze, coiled and vibrating, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides, eyes crackling gray fire, the angled planes of his face contorted with fury.
A chill skimmed over her skin. She numbly glanced down. Good Lord, her ripped tunic hung off her shoulders in pieces! She fumbled with the torn material; her hands shook violently and she fought to quiet them. Her rosary was scattered everywhere. She clung to the fabric with one hand and began gathering the beads with the other.
Gamponetti’s tortured voice permeated her mind. “Please, Eva. Let me help you.”
Why wouldn’t her hands stop shaking? The restriction was gone from her throat, yet she couldn’t take a normal breath. This vexing tunic, something was wrong with it. That evil man must have torn part of it off completely. She patted the floor for the lone piece of fabric. It had to be here somewhere. Two warm hands, knuckles raw and bleeding, wrapped around hers, stilling them. The coppery scent of blood mingling with the taste in her mouth.
“Let me help.” He said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He crouched next to her, blocking out most of the light.
Help her with what? She looked down, and two fat drops plopped on their hands, then two more. A ragged sob escaped her raw throat.
She was crying?
Not just crying, but sobbing so hard she shuddered with each breath. His silvery eyes seemed softer now, so she nodded her permission, oddly unafraid considering he looked like the son of Satan. Clad entirely in black, ebony hair loose and wild.
She didn’t object when he gently slipped his arms under her knees and behind her shoulders. He lifted her against the heat of his chest; she buried her face in his neck. Pressing her close, he concealed her naked breasts against his body and carried her to the upper deck in sinuous, smooth strides.
A soft sea breeze wafted across her cheek, but when she inhaled, she smelled him, the same musky, spice forever branded in her memory from the night of the kiss. A warbled laugh escaped her lips. What a crazy time for that particular thought to float to the surface.
Startled voices shouted questions. His chest rumbled as he called for Manuel. “Put Razin in irons. He’s below, in the second cabin.”
“Aye Cap’n.” The worry in Manuel’s voice tugged her heart. “Why is she sad? Is Sister Eva hurt?”
Gamponetti’s long strides didn’t slow. The best she could do was turn her head and give the man a small, tremulous smile. The rest of their conversation faded.
She dimly registered entering a cabin. Odd. No sound of Beatrice snoring.
Ah. Not hers.
This one was well-lit and much bigger. He sat down with her in his arms, then shifted. The trickle of liquid into a glass. His husky voice rumbled in her ear. “Drink this.”
He pressed the rim to her lips and she gulped a mouthful. Fire tore down her throat and she gasped, which made the burning worse, and she coughed, making it shriek with pain. After the fit of coughing ended, he lifted the glass to her mouth again.
“Take another. Smaller this time. You’ve had a long, trying day. It will help settle your nerves.”
She shook her head and tried to whisper she couldn’t, but the words wouldn’t come.
He put it down and offered a tankard instead. “This one is simple grog, it won’t burn as much.”
His gentle, smooth voice reminded her of sun-warmed honey. She focused on his face. Even in the golden glow of the lantern, his eyes were like a storm.
So striking. So lethal.
As treacherous and menacing as he looked, she didn’t fear him. Although perhaps she should. He was large and demanding, and once a pirate in command of brigands and cutthroats, looting and killing for spoils.
Was he also a murderer?
A thief?
It was likely. So, what did she decide to do?
Slip him a tonic and bind him to a bed.
Those actions were no less dangerous than running clandestine messages for Hugo. She managed to escape from that world for ten years. A wave of near-hysterical laughter and disbelief rippled through her chest. She always feared he would find her and drag her back. But willingly enter that society again? Never.
Until Gampo.
He was Jean Lafitte’s second before he left New Orleans for France to become a privateer.
He pressed the tankard to her mouth again, and she drank. It was indeed grog, but it wasn’t as diluted as he’d insinuated. Her shoulders still trembled and it was so hard to swallow. A faint gushing swooshed in her head. It sounded like enormous gasps.
He was talking, and she had to concentrate to understand him.
That gasping sound...
Good Lord, it was her! She was still sobbing uncontrollably. Her eyes were hot and burning. Like a reverse breath, the air left her lungs, faster than she could pull it back in. She fought to slow her breathing and it was several minutes before the sobs reduced to sniffles. Living in the abbey had made her complacent. It had dulled her edges, made her weak, vulnerable.
But she felt safe there.
Captain Gamponetti dabbed at her cheeks and bleeding lip with a cloth. He had a small scar near the cleft in his chin. She reached up and rubbed it with her the pad of her thumb. He stilled. The sensation of slight stubble rimming the soft raised flesh was intriguing. However, even that small expenditure of energy was draining, and she dropped her hand and folded into herself.
He was right. The day had indeed been exhausting.
Capitaine Gamponetti offered her another sip of grog. “You’re safe now. Relax, Eva, I’ll protect you.”
Safe? “I....” Words were so difficult to articulate. Warm bands of steel caged her body, splitting her attention. “You’re a pirate,” she murmured, taking the tankard and burrowing into his hard chest.
His grip on her tightened. “Was a pirate. Regardless, I have always lived by a certain code of honor. I have never broken my word. When I say I’ll protect you, I will.”
Liar.
“You gave me your word back at the abbey. Then broke it.”
The long silence had her regretting her remarks. Was he angry or penitent?
He finally spoke, the granite in his voice suggested barely leashed anger. “One was a small agreement to take you to New Orleans. Not as binding as a formal vow.” He uttered the words with a chilly calm. “And the other, an oath given...under duress.”
Duress. That was funny. A cat coercing a panther. She almost chuckled, but she didn’t have the energy.
She owed him her gratitude at least. “Thank you,” she finally mumbled. “For everything.”
He gave her a tender squeeze in response, his anger either set aside or forgotten, for now. She brought the tankard up for another sip, but it was empty. She put it next to a rum bottle and eased back into the safety of his thick, corded arms. He stroked her hair and murmured melodic words of comfort in a language she recognized, but didn’t understand.
Italian.