They would notice her soon enough.
She flew forward in a burst of courage and strength, flying toward the men who held down Tara and Bess.
“Leave them be!” she commanded, waving her sword toward the graybeard who tore at Tara’s skirts.
He paused, staring at her. All of them paused, in surprise. The graybeard slowly smiled, licking his lips. “Well, lookee here, will you now! We’ve found the crème de la crème, eh, boys?” He started to laugh, rising, tossing down Tara’s skirt and adjusting his breeches. “How-de-do, mee-lady. Old Samuel, here, and indeed, mum, I do intend to show you a good time.”
“Shut your mouth and step aside, Samuel. And you!” she said sharply to the blond youth who was nearly upon poor Bess. “I suggest you return your protruding anatomy to your breeches, boy, lest I find myself tempted to lop it off!”
Samuel burst into a loud guffaw. The blond boy did not find the threat so amusing. He quickly stumbled to his feet, drawing the cord on his breeches tight.
“A feisty wench, this one!” Samuel called happily. “Toss me a sword; this bird I shall quickly best, and have.”
“And share!” the boy said.
“Let’s see how the lady does. I think perhaps that the prize might first be mine,” a voice called out, and Skye quickly turned about.
She didn’t need to be told that she had come face-to-face with the man known as One-Eyed Jack. A black patch covered his one eye. He smiled an evil leer and she saw yellowed, rotting teeth beneath the curve of his lip. He was a small, sinewy man with whiskers.
Her stomach heaved. The idea of fighting to the very death gained new appeal for her.
“Captain!” cried Old Samuel. “I killed the captain of this here ship—she’s a prize, and mine! Give me a sword!”
“Take on the fight, Sam, and we will judge the lady,” One-Eyed Jack agreed. He tossed a sword the man’s way. He smiled at Skye, displaying his rotten teeth again. ’Twould be prettier, she thought, to bed a warthog.
She would die first, she vowed to herself.
Which was a growing possibility!
She quickly bemoaned the warning she had given the man—she should have slain him while he attacked Tara unarmed. He was a pirate, an animal, but she had not been able to slay an unarmed man. Now it seemed that she would pay for her morality—and stupidity.
“Sir!” she snapped out, tossing her skirts behind her, finding her position.
And it seemed that Old Samuel was soon as dismayed as she, for the fight went on. Skye knew that he had assumed her threats were idle; he could not know that before her father had shipped her off to Mrs. Poindexter’s School for Refined Ladies, he had sent to France to hire her a world-renowned instructor when she had determined to learn the art of swordplay. Samuel had learned the art upon the sea. He was strong, but he knew no finesse.
She could best Samuel. She knew that she could.
But when that was done, there would still be another twenty to fifty pirates … perhaps more … to fight off.
“Methinks you are no lady!” Samuel called to her. A mean look crossed his face. He was not fighting for a prize anymore; he was fighting for his life, and he knew it. He tried to shatter her strength, slamming down upon her blade. She was too quick. She parried, and feinted, and eluded his anger. She leaped high upon a charred sail beam, and when he slammed downward, she ducked, and flew into a pirouette, and brought her blade slicing through his midsection.
Samuel died, staring at her in rage and disbelief until the fire left his eyes to be replaced by the cold glaze of death.
She swirled around. She realized suddenly that the ship had grown silent. There were no more small skirmishes being fought upon the deck. The officers who’d survived had swords cast against their throats. And they, like the pirates, stared at her.
One-Eyed Jack slowly clapped his hands together, eyeing her with a new respect. “Madame, in the end, it is me that you will meet.”
There was little that she could do; nothing that she could say.
She raised her sword. Her eyes lit upon the lot of them, and she backed against the mast, looking to her left and to her right, awaiting her next opponent.
It was to be the youth. He rose and spat upon the deck. Someone tossed him a sword. He bowed mockingly.
“Milady?”
Then he lunged forward.
He was an easy opponent, too easy. He hadn’t the strength or barbaric skill of the older man. Soon Skye saw sweat beading his brow. They moved across the deck, and men gave way.
“Lady Skye!”
For a second, a mere second, Davey’s anguished cry distracted her. He warned her that a second man had drawn a sword to come up behind her. A balding pirate with a red kerchief about his head popped Davey hard on the head with the butt of his pistol, and the boy sank silently to the deck.
She started instinctively for his side. The blond youth made a swipe toward her, slicing through her skirt. She swung about just in time to save her flesh from the tip of the blade.
“Go ahead, milady, skewer the young hearty!” the balding pirate encouraged. “The boy’s not dead; ’e sleeps!”
“No more interference!” One-Eyed Jack called out. “If she’s as feisty beneath the covers, I want her alive!”
This was a game to them, she realized, this fight, this murder, this death. And until they drowned in a pool of their own blood, they would play it.
Until she fell. Until she was at the mercy of the one-eyed creature who watched the savagery with such gusto, and waited.
“On guard, monsieur,” she told the youth. “To the death.”
“Or … other.” The boy laughed.
Skye stepped forward. Then she fell forward, stumbling along with the others. Suddenly, out of the grayness of the day, came another monster.
The ship was rammed from portside. Pirates and officers alike teetered and grasped for balance and looked about in dismay.
No one had seen the ship that had come upon them out of the murk and tempest of the day. None had seen her ghostly shape or her haunting form as she came upon them, a wraith from the sea.
None had seen her.…
Until she rammed the injured ship.
And now, Skye’s duel was interrupted, for new screams filled the air. Skye had hoped in an instant that it might be rescue.
That hope was quickly dashed, like the deck beneath a cannon’s fire, for it was not rescue that had come.
It was a second pirate ship.
Muskets flared; screams rose. The screech and thunder of grappling hooks was heard again, and from the rigging of the newcomer, men leaped down upon the decks, and battle was joined once more.
“ ’Tis the Silver Hawk!” someone called. “In the rigging! ’Tis the Hawk himself! Lay down your arms, and he’ll do no murder!”
“Bah, you coward!” another man called out. “One-Eyed Jack is me captain, and I’ll not grovel before the Hawk.”
“There, there upon the ropes! See him, he comes!”
Skye forgot her own opponent. Her sword rested upon her torn skirts as she stared upward.
Indeed, he was coming. The Silver Hawk, as they called him.
He was clad in black from head to toe, his shirt seemed to be of black silk; his frockcoat, silver-threaded, was black brocade. His boots, thigh high, were black, as were his skintight breeches. A black hat with silver eagle plumes rested upon his head. A full set of neatly trimmed silver-and-black whiskers covered his chin. A black mustache curled stylishly upon his lip.
And for all of his elegance of dress, he moved upon the ropes with skill and speed and uncanny ease. In seconds, he was upon the deck, and before his boots struck wood, he was engaged in battle.
“Surrender, me hearties, and leave me the prize. Your choice, messieurs, to die!” he called, his deep voice a thunder that challenged the sky, that challenged the very tempest of the day.
Pirates stepped back, and pirates stepped forward. The proud old-timer met and d
efied him first, and lay down so quickly and silently to die that Skye barely saw the battle.
She saw his blade, the silver blade of the Silver Hawk, and she saw the striking, magical grace with which he leaped and danced and moved then upon the deck. No man challenged him alone. They came against him in groups, a pair first, a trio when they fell. And through it all, Skye watched in amazement, unaware of her danger.
Until more of his men came upon the deck. Until fighting erupted all around her once again.
“Take hostages of the crew!” came a shout, and Skye was aware that the deep, commanding voice belonged to the pirate, the Silver Hawk.
“Hawk, I’ll kill you!” One-Eyed Jack roared out.
“Valiant words, Jack! Match the action to them!” the Hawk retorted.
And the men met with a vicious clash of steel. The fighting, all around Skye, was suddenly fast and furious once again.
The blond youth swung around abruptly, his face a mask of fury. Skye, startled, raised her sword to parry his lethal blow without a second to spare. She could watch no one else, for she was suddenly thrust into a violent struggle for her own life. The blond furiously lunged toward her. She leaped aside and parried, and caught his throat with the tip of her sword. With a peculiar whishing sound, he fell before her. She gasped, staggering. She could hear the clang of steel around her.
And then, suddenly, she could not.
The deck had fallen silent once again.
And even the wind had died.
Gray rose around her. The gray of the storm that teased and threatened, the gray from black powder and shot, from battle and burning. It rose like a curious fog, as if she had been cast upon the London stage.
And all those around her were curious players.
Once again, pirates ranged about the ship’s deck. The crew, she saw, had been ushered toward the aft cabin and were being held there at sword’s point.
The second officer held young Davey, and Davey, coming to, held his own head.
One-Eyed Jack would never leer her way again. He lay dead in a pool of blood by the mizzenmast.
And resting upon the fine teak balustrade leading to the helm was the pirate, Silver Hawk.
Silver Hawk, standing well over six feet tall, with his elegantly plumed hat, his black-gloved hands resting upon the hilt of his sword, the point of that sword scarring the deck. He stared at Skye, and her fallen, blond-haired opponent.
“Bravo, milady. Now be a good girl and cast down your sword.”
He had taken the ship, that much was obvious. But she had not surrendered to the first set of pirates; she was not about to surrender to this new rogue.
She shook her head. He cocked his own in curious surprise and pushed away from the balustrade, coming toward her.
“You’ll not surrender, milady?”
“Never,” she said softly.
A hysterical cry came her way. “Throw it down! Milady, throw it down, he’ll let you live!” It was Bess. She’d been thrust into the arms of one of the new pirates, a young fellow with dark eyes and striking features. “Mother of God, milady, he’ll let us live, he’ll—”
“Shush now, ye hussy!” the dark-haired man interrupted her, squeezing her tight about the middle. “Captain,” he complained. “What’ll we do with these ’uns here?”
The Silver Hawk shook his head, his eyes never leaving Skye’s. “Whatever you so desire, Peter. Whatever you so desire.”
A boisterous cry went up among the men.
And then young Davey suddenly broke away from the young ship’s officer who held him. He lunged toward the Silver Hawk.
The pirate moved back with the speed and agility of a tiger. Davey would die, and Skye knew it.
“No!” she screamed. She cast herself between the pirate and the lad. Davey flew against her and fell to the deck. Sprawled in her petticoats and torn skirts, Skye tried to rise. The pirate stood before her, reaching down a hand.
She ignored it.
She managed to roll, and she leaped to her feet, angling back, her blade wagging before her.
The pirate paused, laughing. He bowed to her very deeply. “As you wish it, milady.” He cast his left hand behind his back, and raised his sword. “Someone get the lad. He seems to offer his lady a foolish loyalty, and I’d not want to slay him for it!”
A man came forward for Davey. The boy struggled fiercely, but Skye could pay him no more mind. The Silver Hawk stepped toward her, his blade flashed.
The clash was terrible. She could barely keep her hand upon the hilt of her sword.
She had asked for death. She could not fight this man. Yet if she did not fight, didn’t she face a fate worse than death at his hands? She did not know, she only knew that the battle was engaged, and that if she turned to run, he would probably cleave her into two pieces. The man reeked of his bloody strength, of his fascinating agility, of a masculinity so strong that it caused her to quake as well as shiver, to falter when she should have found courage.
“Milady!” he acknowledged, dipping back, allowing her to regain her grip upon her sword.
“Sir!” she said, and rallied.
The dark-haired man holding Bess suddenly tossed her to another, stepping forward. “Captain, the lady’s at a disadvantage! Her skirts!”
“Shed them!” the Silver Hawk ordered.
Skye nearly screamed. The handsome young pirate raised his sword and it slashed through the air. She was not struck at all, but her cumbersome skirts and petticoats were sheared from her form, and she was left to fight with her hose and sheer shift protruding from the tattered remnants of her gown. Crimson flooded her face, but she raised her chin and did not gaze upon the humiliating exposure of her form. None of it could matter now. She could cling to her pride, for it was all she had left, and if she could find courage, he could not take it from her.
“Milady?”
“Sir, as you have ordered, I am ready.”
“I give you leave to attack, Lady …”
“Kinsdale.”
“Kinsdale!”
She thought that he gave pause then, that she had startled him with her name, that he did, indeed, know it well. Whatever, his pause did seem to give her an advantage, and so she did attack, thrusting forward, seeking his heart.
Deftly, quickly, he parried her thrusts. She feinted again, he parried. He backed to the balustrade and leaped up upon it. Caught up in the fray of battle, Skye followed him. He did not attack at all, she realized too late. He merely watched her with his eyes alive, silver gray like the day, like the color of his blade, like the mist of the tempest about them.
A cry went up. Laughing, applauding, the pirates followed along behind them. There was no escape, Skye realized, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Her arm felt like lead; it was so tired, she thought that it might drop right off with the sword. Now each clang of steel seemed to echo and reverberate throughout her body. She shuddered with each thrust, and she kept driving faster and faster, seeking some vulnerability.
The man had none.
A dark and sleekly savage beast, he barely breathed hard as he caught and fended off her every thrust and parry. Surely, she seemed the wild one, for her cape was lost, her skirts torn and shredded, and her hair flew about her in disarray.
He was deadly calm, a smile twisted into his features beneath the display of mustache and beard. His accent had been English, she thought, or was it? He was whipcord lean and hard-muscled, and the more she realized that she could not win, the more she became determined that she should do so.
“Watch her now, Hawk, they say she knows how to threaten the right part of a man, or the wrong part, depending on a way of thinking.”
“Can’t imagine the captain with a high voice!”
“She’ll never touch him with steel!”
“Never in a coon’s age!”
“She’s desperate, Captain!”
She was desperate, very. And so she was trying for desperate measures. She allowed her sword t
o drop, and when he stepped near, she sliced upward with all her strength, just missing the length of his thigh. He leaped back. Laughter rose. His eyes met hers, burning silver with the challenge, burning silver with stark warning.
“Mam’selle, I begin to think that you are no lady,” he said, coming to the same conclusion as her previous opponent.
“You, sir, are most certainly no gentle knight.”
“Alas, I am a pirate.”
“And I, sir, your victim. And therefore, I will fight you with any means at my disposal.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.” She had warned him. She swirled with her sword, slicing the air. And she was nearly victorious. With any other man, her thrust would have been lethal. She would have slit him cleanly from his groin to the gullet.
But the Silver Hawk moved too quickly. He sensed her movement and responded to it, fighting with uncanny grace and strength, and it was a combination she feared that she could not match.
“Eh, Captain, we warned you!” someone called out.
“That you did!” he replied pleasantly, his voice loud. Then he dropped his tone and spoke to her softly. “Careful, mam’selle, lest I discover the same wicked rules of swordplay.”
“Have you rules, monsieur, of your own? I had not thought that you knew the meaning of rules, or of fair play.”
“You receive fair play right now, milady.”
“Sir, you are a bastard knave, and give me nothing. What man honors himself to fight a lady?”
She thought that she had found his weakness, for he paused, and it seemed that he mused over the question. She had to best him, she had to! And she had to do so soon, for her strength was waning.
She thrust forward with all of her strength.
He parried with a single, swift blow. The staggering strength of it caught her unaware. So far, all that he had done was tease her, play with her. He hadn’t used a tenth of his power, or skill.
Now he did.
And the force threatened to break her arm. She cried out, falling as her sword was sent flying high, until it blended with the silver and gray of the day, soaring in the sky … then splashing softly into the water.