CHAPTER SIX
THIS WASN’T THE first time Drago awoke tied to a bed. Last time, a lusty trollop made off with his entire purse as well as his boots and weapons. It had been inconvenient, but not a surprise. He’d been drunk. Worse, that was the morning he visited the Obeah witch’s hut after he staggered, broke and barefoot out of the bordello desperate for something to offset the affect of the rum. To ease his misery, Kalia could make a potion or something.
“Change in de wind, Drago. See you in I’s dream. De demons hunger for you dark soul. Feed it them?” She’d relit her pipe and waved him inside. The scarlet paint on her forehead resembled a hideous red frown. Her raspy voice shot a chill down his spine. “A woman of light soon beckon you. Her a gilded place to trust you heart. Will her light you way, or will you extinguish her wit you shadow?”
He was confused. The last thing he remembered, he was dining with Sister Eva in the abbey kitchen. Now, he was bound spread-eagled on a small cot in an unfamiliar cupboard. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his head weighed ten stone, yet he hadn't taken a drop of rum. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow. Drugged? How?
Someone mumbled nearby. He raised his head. Sister Eva?
She did this?
He wasn't really a pirate anymore, but she knew of his reputation, which should have been enough to make her think twice about doing something like this. He shifted so blood flowed to his numb right hand.
Her head bent, the sister prayed in disjointed French and English. What on earth possessed a nun to drug and truss a pirate? It was insane to even consider it. He paused. Was she in her right mind? Did she fool him with her soft smile and meek countenance? Did her deep blue, almond-shaped eyes and smooth, slender neck distract him from noticing the madness within?
He almost apologized to God. Even the most pious would notice a beautiful pair of eyes on a woman, sister of the church or not. Surely acknowledging her features wasn't a sin.
Was it?
Christ, why linger on the question? He had no hope for redemption; why should he worry? Best to live a grand life while he had a life to live. God already knew he was neither a humble nor a decent man.
He stared at the ceiling and tried to think. Last night, she appeared to be in control of her wits. Even during Kalia's eerie intervention. In the cave pool, she cradled Jacqueline's head and spoke in low soothing tones, putting the children--even him--at ease. A mad woman couldn't possibly appear so sane for that long.
Could she?
He searched for the moment her demeanor changed, struggled to guess her motivation for drugging his tea.
Kalia.
Drago plied the fickle waters of the sea a long time, witnessed and heard of too many strange and mysterious things for him to be arrogant enough to dismiss any of them.
The old woman possessed the gift of the sight, that was a certainty. Her own people both revered and feared her. She was a known witch, after all. Did she have powers beyond? It wouldn't be a stretch to think she might be able to place a curse on him. What if the novitiate fell under her witchery?
He sucked in a breath. Were the two in league together? Was it a black witchery?
It couldn't be. Jacqueline improved after drinking the tea.
So, she directed the curse to him, alone, but why?
Questions circled in his head like vultures. None more than why she restrained him and what she planned to do with him.
His mouth was drier than sun-baked parchment. His mind mocked him by creating visions of Kalia and Sister Eva carving out his heart, dancing under the full moon until a darker thought loomed. A strong aftershock of terror thundered straight through his bones.
In the presence of the sister, Kalia mentioned seeing him leave a brothel. Did Sister Eva mean to punish him for the infraction? Hell, there were worse sins...he committed most of them.
A commandment or two broken. Probably three. No penance could redeem him.
That horrible decision which led to his doom returned to torment him yet again. Along with that horrible day, and the horrible act which secured his spot in hell.
When they first tracked the pirate's to the coast of Portugal, he'd been ecstatic. The markings on the hull and patches on the mainsail matched the one who took his sister. After gunning down their mizzen mast, they boarded the vessel, hoping to find Risa, but was disappointed. The only information they wrenched from the captain concerned a girl matching Risa's description, she escaped with a member of his crew.
An Irishman by the name of Fynn Ahern.
Father placed Risa is Drago's care. He failed to escort her from Elba back home to San Vincenzo safely. Failed to protect her. Pirates kidnapped her to sell as a virgin bride at sixteen.
They found the women separated into two groups aboard the pirate's ship. It was obvious the older ones had been mistreated by the men. The younger girls were in better condition most likely virgins. Worth ten to twenty times the price of a regular slave on the block.
The Orientals and the Persians loved virgin slaves.
It had been damned difficult to convince the prisoners they did not intend to mistreat them or sell them back into slavery. After being released from the hold, the first thing the Negroes tried to do was fling themselves, chains and all, overboard. Before his men could stop them, several succeeded, sinking into a cloud of bubbles.
After that, they secured them in a storage room, determined to figure out how to communicate with them later. Raul, a huge Cimaroon, had been able to settle them a bit and communicate somewhat. The man was as dark as night and wore nothing but a loincloth with a weapon's belt around his waist and one of Drago's old shirts, sans sleeves. The two of them had been through a lot together; he was one of the few men Drago trusted with his life.
At least now he had something to use in his quest to find his sister: Ahern.
If Ahern sold Risa to those Oriental or Persian bastards, he'd travel to the end of the ocean searching her. After he hunted the black bastard down and killed him.
Slowly.
The wind picked up. Good. It would aid their efforts to be away quickly. Drago gazed dispassionately upon the pirates chained around his mizzen mast. Their captain lost consciousness an hour ago.
Lucky bastard.
He wouldn't have to endure watching his brig, and with luck, his livelihood, sink. The closest port could have them.
The most valuable cargo to Drago had been off-loaded and stowed away aboard the Dragon. All that remained was to scupper the other ship. Damned if he'd make slithering back into the slave trade easier for them.
It didn't take long to rig their vessel to blow. A few spilled kegs of powder in the hold, a trail of oil-soaked rags and it was ready.
One of the rescued women became hysterical from her place at the stern. Why, he couldn't fathom, unless she thought she'd just been taken by another band of pirates. Not only did he not understand her language, he couldn't understand why she wasn't relieved to be saved from the pirates. No matter, they'd find a way to explain things once the current task had been executed.
Time to go.
Raul strung a rag-wrapped arrow dipped in oil in his bow. Tapping the tip to a lit torch set it aflame. After careful aim, he let it fly.
"Make sail!" Drago shouted. "Lead along topsail sheets and halyards lay out and loose!"
"Lay aft the braces, ye dogs! Starboard main and larboard head!"
Sails puffed out their bellies then stiffened as the breeze filled them. The Dragon lurched into motion and soon they were flying away.
Harvey handed Drago the spyglass. Thick, rolling gray and black clouds billowed from the deck.
A slight movement near the capstan drew his attention and the small form of a young girl stumbled toward the rail, her white shift flapped around her, dark hair swirled across her face.
Why was the child still on the boat? Drago's heart stopped. How did they miss one? How the hell had they missed her? Horror knifed through his gut just as it exploded, sending a thunderous black plume billowing upward.
The woman screamed and fainted.
He wanted to drag the glass away from his eye, but he couldn't. Of course she was gone, but still, he found himself looking frantically for her as the wind blew the black smoke away. The ship itself blew in half. Stem and stern both speared the sky for the briefest moment, like twin peaks, then tilted and within minutes, disappeared into the depths.
The ocean roared in his ears, the image of the waif in white, hair blowing, would haunt him the rest of his days.
Anger, shock and sickening dread flooded his chest. Drago fought to inhale. He'd never taken the life of an innocent soul before. A child no less.
It was unforgivable.
Drago forced the memory and the weight of the guilt away. He opened his eyes and stared at the foot of the bed where his legs were spread wide, strapped to the posts.
His stomach tightened. Maybe as punishment, she intended to castrate him.
He whipped his gaze to her, his breath froze in cold terror. Beside the kneeling woman, a long, slim filet knife rested on a stool.
Dear God.
A leather strap was wrapped several times around his right hand. His left, restrained with a rope. He couldn't move his legs. He was completely at her mercy.
His heart ricocheted off his ribs.
She prayed on her knees near his feet, likely praying for his precious soon-to-be-departed bollocks.
Thankfully, she was yet unaware he awoke. He tugged again at the straps securing his wrists, then examined the pallet. It was made from roughly hewn wood, so the joints didn't fit together well. With any luck, it was weak. If he broke the frame, he could free himself.
He'd have to be quick. The old wood would make a lot of noise when it splintered apart. He tensed his arms, ready to heave his body to the side. He rocked back and forth, testing.
A grating creak echoed in the tiny room, and her eyelids flew open.
She looked up, her velvet blue eyes widened and locked with his.
His mouth had gone dry. Although his soul was undoubtedly lost, he prayed.
Dear God in heaven, I sincerely, deeply and humbly apologize for admiring Sister Eva's eyes. And curves. And neck.
Amen.