CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN BERNARD RELATED how he witnessed Hugo Dupré shove Eva into a dingy, a hard knot formed under Drago’s ribs. And stayed.
Lafitte ground his teeth and picked up an oar. “I know where the dog hides.”
As time passed, the knot tightened.
His stomach churned with rocks and sharp things. He wasn’t a praying man, knew God had no reason to give a damn about him, but surely Eva deserved protection. He’d never thought much about praying for anything. He took charge of his own destiny, his own actions, and decisions. Relying on someone else revealed vulnerabilities best left buried. After all, some of the soundest strategies involved exploiting and twisting the frailties of your enemy.
A helpless man was a weak man.
Perhaps that was why people tried to bargain with God, making outlandish promises in exchange for strength, guidance, victory. They found themselves incapable.
Helpless.
Weak.
He mashed his lips together. Who would want to help to someone who only asked when there was nowhere else to turn? Why would you even bother when they possessed nothing to give worth your efforts?
What could he possibly offer in exchange for God’s aid?
Realization burned through him, both shocking and terrifying in its magnitude.
Loyalty.
Love.
They could never be taken, only freely given. Such an offering must be wrapped in a solid oath, or it was worthless.
His word. His vow.
Imagine combining God’s hand with those convictions and adding every last ounce of strength and will he could ever wring from his body; although collapsing from exhaustion, still struggling to take one more step forward, then another, and another. Refusing defeat.
Flames licked the walls of his chest, and energy pulsed through his battered body. Drago Vitieri Gamponetti dropped his head.
And prayed.
Eva had nowhere to run. With her hands tied, the best she could do was swing them at Hugo. Then what? Even if she managed to disable him, how would she handle the skiff?
Her gaze followed the broken bottle he waved in front of her face, and fear like the fingers of fog still gripping the bayou, coated her skin. She shivered. He would use that to cut her again. Just like that night years ago, under the surface, his rage roiled, toying with the edge of insanity. He had wobbled on that edge then, just as he did now.
He lunged, grabbed her by her wrists, and dragged her back outside. The alligators eyed them warily, some on the bank, others submerged but for their wary and hungry eyes.
The sting shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. She hissed then gaped in horror at the blood dripping from her palm into the bayou. Seconds later the coppery scent had them all hovering nearby.
Alligators.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hugo gripped Eva’s wrist and shook the blood oozing from her hand into the water. “Tell me where you hid the map, Eva.” He managed a thin, hard smile. “Tell me or I’ll feed you to the gators one hand at a time.” He shoved her precariously close to the edge of the dock.
She forced an even tone, despite a beating heart pounding in her ears loud enough to be deafening, and fear dripping down her spine like melting ice. “It’s gone, Hugo. I lost it,” He was mad. And she was alone. The image of Drago bleeding on the muddy ground left a horrifyingly empty hole in her chest. She had to get back. She choked back a harsh sob because she feared the worst.
He shook her again, the motion sending him off balance. He swayed back then forward until his whiskey-soaked breath was hot on her face. “You looked though, din’ you? You looked at it. What’d you see? Where’s the treasure?” He waved the sharp glass in front of her eyes.
It was hard to think, to focus. If only she could come up with a believable story, something that might calm him, she might have an opportunity to divert his attention from feeding her piece by piece to the alligators to something else, like perhaps a search for the map back in the city.
He swayed drunkenly and took an unsteady sideways step, and she saw an opening.
Survival instincts kicked in, and Eva swung her fists up with all her might and connected solidly with his jaw. She cried out in pain as her hands met the bony chin. Hugo’s head snapped back, but to her horror, he didn’t fall. He staggered, shook his head then lurched for her, the broken bottle raised, ready to make good on his threat. The lurking reptiles now floated only a few feet from the dock. Toothy grins expectant and pink.
The fingers of his free hand stretched for her throat. Eva screamed and twisted to the side, flinging herself behind him, to the rough-hewn, wooden deck. She landed hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Hugo jerked around at her sudden change of direction, his face contorted in a snarl. The quick movement altered his balance enough to make him stagger back. Willing her body to move and take advantage of his inebriated state, she hissed in a painful gasp and kicked him again, adding to his backward momentum. She rolled to her side and pushed herself up to her hands and knees. If she was going to continue to fight, she needed to be on her feet.
Hugo’s startled shriek cut through the misty air.
Water splashed her face and shoulders. Thrashing water quickly drowned out his gurgled cry.
She looked over her shoulder and gasped for breath, her heart still quaking against her ribs with violent aftershocks. Bubbles and blood drifted on the bayou surface, now murky with churned mud.
Hugo was gone.
And so were the alligators.
Drago whipped his head around to glare at Lafitte. “I know a twelve-year-old girl who can paddle faster than you. Put your back into it, man!” Drago’s head pounded like a bloody hammer to an anvil, and pain sliced through his battered ribs, but he pulled his oar through the water like a giant beast with a single focus.
Jean merely raised a brow, before digging his paddle into the water. “Harvey, Monsieur Sauvage, I am not zee only one with a paddle, yet his wrath has unjustly fallen only on my strong, broad shoulders. As men of honor, you should share zee burden.”
Bernard grunted in response. Harvey grumbled under his breath, lifted his oar from the water and placed it on his lap, drawing a groan from Bernard. “I told ye earlier, me shoulder’s near broken from the kick of that blasted musket. Damn thing were older than me. ’Tis a miracle I felled a moving target.” He nudged Bernard. “Did ye see my shot tho’? Took ‘im down before he could order his men to charge.”
Bernard rolled his eyes. “I’ve already complimented your marksmanship, you bloated, strutting cock. Now, will you please take a stroke? Unless you’re too weak from singing your own praises...”
Harvey harrumphed and put his oar to use again. “I were hoping the blighter was Brighton.” He mashed his lips together. “Wanted to avenge Manuel, that big ox. I shot at anyone yelling orders.”
“I know, Harvey,” Drago could almost choke out the words. “Thank you.” He scanned the bayou for a glimpse of Hugo’s hut.
Harvey preened just a little and picked up his tempo. “Don’t need to thank me Cap’n. I did it b’cuz it needed done.” He paused to wipe the corner of his eye on his sleeve. He gave Drago a respectful dip of the head. “Saw ye shoot one commander betwixt the eyes.”
So he was dead then. “That was Brighton,” Drago ground out, almost surprised at the fluid anger that still flowed through his veins.
Harvey’s face was solemn, but his eyes gleamed in undisguised glee. “Got his justice. Bloody white-livered bastard.”
“There!” Bernard pointed to the right. “I see a shanty.”
Lafitte’s face was stoic, his gaze sharpened. “Dupré’s.”
A small dingy floated lazily near the decking, not even tugging on the dock line was the only sign the place might be occupied. Acidic tension boiled in Drago’s stomach and scorched a path up his throat. If the bastard hurt Eva he’d rip him into pound pieces.
They secured the boat to the piling as silently as they could manage. Jean took in the quiet structure and the half-open door, then studied the line of demarcation between the brown-gray bayou water and the thicker churned muck closer to the building and frowned, the edges of his mouth lined and hard. Drago’s heart catapulted into his ribs. He slipped the knife from its sheath and drew his sword. Harvey hefted his musket.
They could creep up and use surprise to freeze the occupants, or simply charge inside. Not one to ponder long on such dilemmas, Drago went with his gut, leaped forward and flung his shoulder through the door of the tiny one-room shack.
Eva bleated in shock. She whirled next to a table splattered with dark blotches and shattered glass. Blood and frayed rope streamed down her wrist, an angry bruise colored her cheek, a cut split her lip. She crouched, wielding a wicked shard in her bleeding hand. He locked on to her sapphire eyes that first flashed in fear, then shock and finally shimmered with relief.
A strangled sound lurched from Drago’s throat. His weapons clattered to the floor and he stumbled toward her. Eva met him halfway and they collided bone to bone. She threw her arms around him and he crushed her to his chest. His groan was ragged, not from pain or desire but from his insides crumbling. A wave of relief crashed through him so violently he was unable to stand. He sank to his knees, taking her with him. It took all his strength to keep himself from splintering.
Eva couldn’t believe her eyes. His face pale and bloody, head bandaged in a strip of torn cloth, Drago’s massive shoulders filled the doorway. He was alive! Air left her lungs on a choked sob only to be jerked back in again. The urgent need to touch skin and breath and lips drove her into his arms. He curled her into his embrace with an anguished groan, buried his face in her neck and inhaled until his ribs stopped him before dropping to his knees with her.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” he choked, clinging to her as if he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.
Eva blinked back the tears welling in her eyes. The sheer frigid burn of fear and loss had ripped through both of them. Drago, so stoic and strong and commanding, was on his knees to keep himself from breaking. She could hear it in his voice and feel it tremble through his body because the same sensations tore through hers. They were raw and scraped, torn inside and out.
She placed her palms on his face and kissed him almost frantically. She tasted blood, the sting of the cut reopening, but didn’t care. Skin, breath, lips.
Drago.
When she could breathe, she touched the bloodstained bandage on his head. “I feared you were dead.” A tremor rumbled through her body. “You didn’t move...all that blood—”
“Shhh.” His voice, low and calm still shook with emotion. He placed a gentle finger on her bruised cheek and frowned. “Did I not tell you I never engage in a fight I cannot win?”
She knew better than to smile, but she did anyway and endured the protest from her split lip. “Yet, you did this time.”
He managed to look somewhat offended. “I certainly did not.”
Lafitte’s voice held a trace of both humor and pride. “By my records, it took thirty-seven minutes.”
She was still confused. “Thirty-seven minutes?”
He offered his hand and she took it, allowing the suave pirate to help her up. Drago winced, sucking in a sharp breath as Bernard and Harvey hauled him to his feet. He immediately reached for her still needing the solid warmth of her body as reassurance. She gladly stepped into his embrace, needing the same from him. She hugged him, loosening her hold only at his soft grunt of pain.
Harvey crossed his arms and inhaled, expanding his bony chest to its full capacity. “That’s the amount of time it took us to set those British curs running with their tails twixt their legs.”
Her jaw dropped. “We won?” Shock stilled her tongue and she couldn’t even think of words to use in another sentence. “We won?”
Lafitte laughed as he turned toward the longboat. “In my experience, in battles between cunning and might, cunning always wins. It’s like pitting foxes against hounds, eh mon petite renaud?”