“Why did you not warn me!” said Le Trompeur.
“If you weren’t so busy with the woman,” spat his officer.
And then, from out of a rough-cut mob of feral beasts, slipped a tall muscular man with green eyes in a tawny face, eyes that gleamed the light of wicked determination.
Devon.
Claire thought she would faint, a picture of the netherworld could not be more complete. On one side she had Mephistopheles, and on the other side, she had Satan. He had a sword, he had pistols, and he had her full attention.
“The Black Devil,” His name reverberated from the crew. Sailor’s crossed themselves, buckling under the worst of their fears, the reality of the Black Devil.
Claire nervously clutched her bodice together. Did she conjure up the image of him? She drank in the sight of his face−a face that aroused deep and profound memories. There was no humble slave or merciful doctor about him now. With his fine tailored shirt open at the throat and exposing his sun-burnished skin, and his tightfitting black pants, he looked a mix of raw predatory instinct, and undeniable power. His black hair was ruffled by the wind, the expressive sweep of his dark brows, and the sensuous bow of his lips−lips she remembered only too well. Even now, she could remember their texture, taste and feel.
His right hand rested on the pummel of his sword, the easy grace of long habit. He spoke to them in the most eloquent French. “You will save yourselves pain and trouble by handing over your prisoners, and the merchant ship you have commandeered, suffering no losses to your ship, or to yourselves, of course.”
“Mordieu!” swore Le Trompeur, his expression beyond astonishment. “How dare you come aboard my ship and make such demands. You are lucky, I allow you to live.”
Devon swaggered to within inches of the French pirate. “Be aware, I ask politely only once, after that, I’ll not be called a fool. I’ll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my exercising what is necessary and proper.” He made a broad sweep of his arm. “You have many of my crew as invited guests aboard your ship with forty guns from theSea Scorpionpointed at your broadside and anxious to fire. So you see, prudence suggests that we make amends, steel our soft hearts to the inevitable, and invite you to be so obliging as to hand over the prisoners.”
“I see,” said the French Captain, planting his sword-tip firmly into the deck of his ship. With mock-urbanity and suave detachment, he took his measure of the Black Devil. “I confess there is much force in what you say.”
“It’s with good cheer, you lighten my sentiments,” said Captain Blackmon. “I would not seem bothersome, especially since I and my friends owe you, due to our partnership. I am glad that you agree.”
“But my friend, I did not agree so much.”
“If there is any alternative that you can suggest…” Devon waited.
The Frenchman’s eyes played over him like points of steel. “I have thought of an alternative, Captain Blackmon. It depends on your mettle.” He slashed his sword through the air.
Claire gasped. Did not her uncle say Le Trompeur was the deadliest of swordsmen?
“You are not afraid to die, Le Trompeur?”
The Frenchman threw back his head and chortled. “Your inquiry, I find offensive.”
Devon smiled back at the Frenchman with a distinctly vulpine curve to his lips. “Then allow me to put it another way−perhaps more indulgent. You do not wish to live?”
“Is it over this woman you dare to breach our friendship?” Le Trompeur guessed.
“Maybe I’ll remark on your intelligence, but she is insignificant.”
Devon never looked at her. An ache in her chest lay like an iron weight
“There is the fact you breached our articles, Le Trompeur, signed and agreed by your own hand. Is it not?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Le Trompeur looked aghast.
“The matter of your raid on theSanta Luga. I did not receive my half of the rewards.”
“You dare to call me a cheat.” Le Trompeur glowered.
“I dare to call you worse. I call you a liar and a cheat.”
Brandishing cutlasses and pistols, Le Trompeur’s crew gathered menacingly opposed by numbers of Devon’s men. To Claire’s mind, Devon seemed not the least bit ruffled. Instead he addressed the pirates over his shoulder. “Did your Captain inform you of the hefty profit he made in Tortuga? Sixty thousand pounds to be exact. Has he compensated you for your trouble?”
“You told us you made a measly eight thousand pounds,” one of Le Trompeur’s pirates snarled. “Where is the rest of our share?” Murmurs of angry protest mounted from his crew.
Even Claire knew such a breach in trust among normal society lay grievous. But among pirates, she could well imagine the deadly results of such a transgression. She gauged the objections. Anger rose like a swell.Divide and conquer. Devon’s brilliant stroke of genius, hastened mutiny on theMer Un Serpent. Why should she expect different? Weren’t they all cutthroats?
