Her head snapped from right to left as she heard a tiny scrabbling sound. Her breath stopped. Drawing her knees up, she waited tensely, wondering if she might have imagined the noise. Suddenly there was an investigative nibble at her toe. She gave a shrill scream and kicked out with her feet. Mice? Rats? Oh God, how long was she going to be trapped down here with them? In the darkness there were more sounds, the pad of animal feet on the planking, a brief scuffle, a rodent squeaking.
Celia burst into tears, realizing that there was something else besides rodents in the hold. Should she scream for help? No one would bother to come to her aid. Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, steady purr somewhere nearby. She jerked in surprise as a warm, furry body brushed against her arm. A cat. Its long whiskers tickled as it rubbed the side of its face against her arm. She moved slightly, and her foot encountered the dead body of the mouse. With a shudder of disgust, she kicked it away.
One paw at a time, the cat crept into her lap. Celia did nothing to disturb it. She had always detested cats, thinking them sly, sneaking creatures, but this particular one she was willing to make friends with. “Mon ami, you’ve done more to protect me than anyone else today,” she said in a watery voice, her head inclined toward the contented creature, who was kneading the fabric of her dress with its paws. The cat soon ventured off to investigate a noise, but later it returned to her lap.
Leaning her head against the side of a barrel, Celia murmured ceaseless prayers until she sank into an exhausted silence. Images floated before her, remembrances of childhood and her family, but most of all of Philippe. She remembered the first time they met. Her father, Dr. Robert Verité, had invited him to dinner. “Philippe Vallerand,” her father announced, welcoming the young man into their small but cozy home. “An American, and one of my medical students…but well-mannered for all that.” Good-naturedly they cleared a place for him at their long table. Bemused, Philippe stared at the enormous family. “Eight children,” Verité said with a hearty chuckle. “Big, healthy brood. A man couldn’t ask for better. Here now, Claudette, change places with your sister so she can sit by our guest. You’re already promised to a young man. Let Celia have the chance to catch one!”
It was all Celia could do to keep from running out of the room. Embarrassed and shy, she sat stiff-backed in the vacant chair next to the handsome stranger.
The family began the meal in its usual noisy way. The Verités all possessed dominating personalities. It had always been easier for Celia, the oldest child, to fade into the background and let the others attract the attention. Since their mother had died ten years before, she had taken care of them all, settling into a quiet domestic role. Men had always found her company pleasant but far from alluring. Long ago she had reconciled herself to becoming a spinster devoted to the service of her family.
Celia watched as Philippe Vallerand adroitly handled a barrage of questions, unintimidated by the clamor surrounding him. His smile was natural and easy, his features clean and fine-edged, his thick, close-cut hair a shade of brown so dark it was almost black.
Mercifully he said nothing to her. It would have terrified her to have to respond to even the most mundane question. But every now and then he would glance at her with those bright blue eyes, and she had the feeling he could read her mind. As the family laughed boisterously at her father’s humorous account of a surly patient, Celia felt something slide from the pocket of her apron and fall to the floor. It was a small book she had been reading in her spare moments. Ducking to retrieve it, she nearly bumped heads with Philippe.
She curved her fingers around the book, and her heart stopped as Philippe’s hand closed gently around her frail wrist.
“I-I have it,” she managed to whisper. The family’s chatter continued above them, but he kept holding her arm, while his other hand gently pried the book from her grasp.
“Rousseau,” he remarked softly. “You like to read philosophy, mademoiselle?”
“S-sometimes.”
“So do I. Would you allow me to borrow this?” The book looked absurdly small in his hand.
She thought briefly of refusing his request, since lending it to him would necessitate the ordeal of having him return it. But her fear of seeming rude outweighed her fear of the handsome stranger. “Yes, monsieur,” she said timidly.
Still, he did not let go of her wrist. “Yes, Philippe,” he prompted, a teasing light in his eyes.
She stared at him in astonishment. Surely he knew how improper it would be for her to call him by his first name.
Her father’s voice resounded over the table. “Young Vallerand, may I ask what causes you to hide under the table with my daughter?”
Flushed and bewildered, Celia tugged at her wrist, but he would not let go. “Yes, Philippe,” she said in a frantic whisper, and was rewarded with a slow smile as he released her.
He returned with the book a few days later, and in his quiet way insisted she take him outside to show him their garden. As they talked, she realized with some surprise that her usual shyness seemed to have disappeared. She confided in him more readily than she did in her own brothers and sisters. She was not afraid of him…not until he pulled her behind a wall of climbing roses and bent his head to kiss her.
“No,” she said, twisting away from him, her heart racing.
“Untouchable,” he murmured against her cheek, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “That’s how everyone thinks of you, isn’t it? You don’t need anyone. You don’t need anything but your books and your solitude.” His lips were hot against her face, seeming to scorch her skin.
“Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “That is what they think.”
“I know it isn’t true.” His mouth played gently at the corner of her lips. “I understand you, Celia. You need to be loved. And you’re going to be mine…”
In the dark, fetid ship’s hold, Celia blotted her tears on her shoulder. It had taken her so long to realize that Philippe’s love for her was real and lasting. He had gone back to New Orleans and stayed for three years until the American war with the British was over and international waters were declared safe once more. Three years of waiting and writing letters, three years of hope and frustration and doubt.
But Philippe had returned to France to make her his wife and take her back to New Orleans with him. Finally she had let herself believe that they would have a life together, and it had all been taken away in the space of few minutes. Now Philippe was dead. She felt ashamed of herself, for not only was she consumed with grief, she was also angry at him. It made no sense to blame Philippe—none of it had been his fault—but still she was angry that he had not been able to foresee the danger. She stared blindly into the stifling darkness while the drowsy cat rearranged itself on her lap. Now that Philippe was gone, she had no desire to live. She could only hope that death would come to her quickly, and that she would have the courage to face it with dignity.
He had several aliases, but his crew knew him as Captain Griffin. Like the mythical monster with the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, he was swift, cunning, and lethal. Under his command a schooner could outsail any other vessel on the water. He sailed as he did everything else, by instinct. It was because of him that his men worked without the usual sloppiness of pirate crews, for he had made them understand that discipline and efficiency were the quickest means to the end they all desired.
Stretching out his long legs on the beach, Griffin settled his broad back against a grounded pirogue and lit a thin black cigar. After placing the cigar between his lips, he rubbed a hand over his shaggy beard and pushed back an unruly lock of hair that had fallen over his face. His blue eyes, as dark as the sea at midnight, sought and found his own ship Vagabond moored in the harbor.
For the past few days the schooner had been tucked in the safety of the harbor of Isle au Corneille, Crow’s Island. More than a dozen other vessels were anchored there—brigantines, gunboats, and schooners of varying sizes, all armed to the teeth. Almost t
hirty warehouses—not to mention a village of palmetto-thatched huts, a brothel, and a few large slave corrals—had been built amid the thick groves of shrubs and twisted oak trees on the island.
While Vagabond was at anchor its crew had partaken of whores and spirits, both of which were cheap and plentiful here. Meanwhile at Griffin’s orders the cargo had been appraised and unloaded into relay warehouses. As usual, the spoils of their recent plunders had been divided equally among the hundred men who comprised his crew.
Griffin drew again on the cigar and breathed out a puff of smoke. He was relaxed but still alert. Now that he had been declared an outlaw by the American government, he could never afford to let his guard down. A year ago, his ventures had been more or less legal. Armed with letters of marque from Cartagena, a seaport on the Caribbean coast of South America, he had preyed upon Spanish commerce and garnered a considerable fortune. But along the way it had been impossible to resist capturing a few fat-bellied merchant ships from other nations he had not been commissioned to attack…hence the upgrading of his status from privateer to full-fledged pirate. Griffin’s only hard-and-fast rule was that his ship left American vessels unmolested. Everything else was fair game.
Feeling in need of a drink, Griffin stubbed out the cigar and rose to his feet in a lithe movement. He headed toward the crumbling fort, which contained the closest thing to a saloon the island possessed. It was a dismantled brig, set in the sand and converted into a tavern and dwelling place.
Brilliant with lamps and torchlight, the tavern, dubbed the Cat’s-head, beckoned invitingly. It was filled with unruly seamen. Many of them were Legare’s men, just in from a successful tour of the Gulf. Even in their drunken merriment the men took care to avoid Griffin as he crossed the threshold.
“Cap’n,” a voice hailed from a table in the corner. Griffin threw a glance over his shoulder. It was John Risk, a black-haired Irishman with an able sword arm and a perpetually roguish grin. Risk was the second-in-command and the best cannoneer on Griffin’s ship. He wore a black patch where one of his eyes used to be. The eye had been lost just last year, when he had saved Griffin’s life during a hand-to-hand contest on the deck of a ship they were boarding. A hard-faced whore perched on Risk’s lap, holding a half-empty bottle of rum.
“Cap’n, are we planning to up-anchor soon?” Risk asked carefully.
Griffin reached for the bottle, took a healthy swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you that eager to leave, Jack?”
“Aye, I’ve had a bellyful o’ Legare’s men boastin’. ‘Twas six prizes they tuck on this trip…well now, didn’t we do the same not three months ago? Next time out we’ll show them rovers how to pack on sail! We’ll come back towin’ ten prize ships behind us! We’ll—”
“We’ll lay low for the time being,” Griffin interrupted dryly. “After all the recent activity, the Gulf is crawling with gunboats fresh from New Orleans.”
Risk scowled. “Aye, Cap’n. If that’s what yer gut tells ye—”
“It is.”
“Ye got the ship stocked heavy with supplies,” Risk said reflectively. “P’raps we’re finally settin’ out to the middle passage?”
An ominous glint entered Griffin’s dark blue eyes. “I don’t run slaves, Jack.”
“Aye, but the money to be made—”
“We make enough doing things my way.”
Risk shrugged cheerfully. “Can’t argue with that, Cap’n. But the divvil knows Dominic Legare makes no scruple of it.” He lifted the rum bottle to his lips, drank deeply, and shook his head. “Six prizes,” he muttered. “Just look at that André Legare, fat bastard, with his bloody big grin, knowin’ his brother Nicky’s going to cut him a nice big slice of the spoils. For doing nothin’ except anchoring his arse in a tavern while the rest of us—”
“Enough, Jack,” Griffin said coolly, and Risk quieted.
Griffin looked in the direction Risk had pointed. André Legare was indeed wearing a grin. As usual, he was surrounded by platters of food and bottles of wine, his large belly overflowing onto his lap. His perspiring face was half-covered by a reddish beard clotted with scraps of meat and grease.
The differences between the Legare brothers were striking. Dominic was a cold, efficient shark, seeming to take pleasure in nothing except hunting and providing for his younger brother. A peculiarly self-contained man, he had never been seen with either women or boys, never drank, never acknowledged pain or required anything for his own comfort. He was excruciatingly meticulous in his dress and appearance. André, on the other hand, was a buffoon, a rotund, slovenly man with a bottomless appetite for food, drink, and women—in precisely that order.
“Dominic’s brought a new woman for André,” Risk commented. “Heard the commotion when they took her off the Vulture—she’s got a scream that’ll make yer ears wither up and drop off. Poor wench. Do ye know what happened to the last one Dominic gave him? She was all—”
“Yes,” Griffin said shortly, finding the subject distasteful. Unfortunately, he’d once happened to see one of André Legare’s victims as the body was being deposited on the shore. The girl had been tortured and mutilated by André’s vicious sexual games. Those who knew of the younger Legare’s treatment of women were repelled, but no one interfered. On Isle au Corneille a man’s business was his own, unless it happened to interfere with yours.
Risk lightly jostled the prostitute on his lap. “Tell me now, darlin’, why is it I never see André Legare with his paws on ye and yer erring sisters?”
“Dominic won’t let ’im,” she replied with a saucy pout. “We makes a good profit for the Legares.”
Risk pretended dismay. “Then…in a roundabout way I’ve added to their pockets? And them already flush with money?” He pushed her off his knee, nearly causing her to land on the floor. “Shove off, darlin’…I’ve lost me yen for love tonight.” As the whore scowled, he grinned and flipped her a gold piece. “An’ do say somethin’ nice about me to the other sisters. I’ll be back again.”
Catching the coin expertly, she slanted a smile at him and strolled away with swaying hips.
Griffin had retreated into the shadowy corner, paying little attention to Risk’s antics. His attention was focused on Dominic Legare and his entourage, who had just entered the tavern and gathered at the opposite corner of the room. Bottles were passed around, brandy and rum splashing over the tables and floor. Carousing and singing drunkenly, they crowded around André while Dominic watched. A presentation was about to take place. When the last notes of the ribald sea chantey died away, Dominic snapped his fingers and gestured to someone behind him.
A roar of approval set the walls to trembling as a woman was dragged out of concealment and thrust in front of André. She was clad in a tattered, bloodstained gown, her legs and feet bare, her arms bound behind her. She should have been in hysterics, but she was silent and outwardly calm. Her gaze flickered around the room. Griffin realized with a touch of unwilling admiration that she was trying to assess her chances of escape.
“Lovely,” Risk muttered. “A choice bit of goods, aye?”
Griffin agreed silently. She was obviously a woman of quality, with fair skin and delicate features. Her tangled blond hair glittered in the torchlight, pale and silvery and rare. He could not look away from her, could only stare while an unreasonable tide of wanting swept over him. She was too thin, breakably fragile. His taste was for robust women who would not be intimidated by a man his size. But he could not repress the thought of what it would be like to fit himself between her slender legs and crush her sweet mouth under his. The image caused a hot stirring in his loins.
Griffin folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, deciding that this was the first foolish move he had ever seen Dominic Legare make. Such a woman shouldn’t be wasted on André.
“Why the hell are we nivver findin’ women like that on our prize ships?” Risk wondered aloud.
After squealing in deligh
t and wiping his greasy face on his sleeve, André caught the woman’s slim hips and jerked her down to his lap. “By God, Dominic, this is the best one yet!” His pudgy hands roamed over her. “So sweet, so soft…I’ll make her scream for me tonight!”
“Yes, mon frère, do what you like with her,” Dominic said. His tone was dry, but his lips were curved in a benevolent smile.
André rubbed his hands over her hair and smooth-skinned face. “I’ve never had a woman with this color hair. I’ll have to make this one last.”
Celia closed her eyes. His breath was rank enough to make her ill. The feel of his mouth on her face was more than she could endure. As he tried to kiss her, she jerked her head to the side and bit his ear, hard enough to taste blood. Screaming in sudden surprise and rage, André let go of her. Quickly she scrambled away and darted through the tavern.
Ignoring the stinging of her bare feet, Celia made her way toward the open door, her pulse racing in powerful surges. There was shouting and laughter behind her. The side of her hip bumped painfully into a chair. It was useless to run, but she didn’t care. The will to live flooded through her, and every nerve screamed for her to escape.
Just before she reached the door a booted foot obstructed her path, and instantly her mad flight was over. She tripped and began to fall. The hard floor rose up swiftly to meet her. There was no way to save herself—her arms were tied behind her back. Suddenly she was caught and pulled upright by an unyielding arm. Gasping, she wondered how someone could have moved fast enough to stop her from hitting the floor. Her unseen rescuer steadied her by the shoulders, holding her facing away from him.