Page 55 of The Winds of Fate


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Le Trompeur’s eyes flashed. “That is an unpardonable insult.”

“I hope I am not obscure,” Devon said icily. “I am contemplating the irony of your name, Le Trompeur. Does it not mean ‘the deceiver’?”

Le Trompeur jerked Claire forward. “Perhaps we should ask the woman who she desires to choose.”

Devon glared at her. Disgust curled his lips.

Claire seethed her contempt. “You’re all unworthy specimens of humanity. Why should I care?” She tried to pull her arm away from the French pirate. Devon’s eyes slid menacingly to where the French pirate held her fast in his cruel grip then to the tear in her bodice. For a brief second, she saw a tick in his jaw, and it gave her hope.

“I will not give up the woman,” shouted Le Trompeur.

“Do you hazard to breach the articles again over a mere woman?” Devon scoffed. “I believe your problems surpass the fuss over her. I will pay you well. What say you the price of these pearls?” Palm open, he displayed the pearls to the greedy eyes of Le Trompeur’s men, men who had been denied their full share from their captain, a monstrous act.

The first mate plucked a pearl and examined the lustrous gem. “It is beyond compare.”

Devon laughed. “Taken from a ship in the South Caribbean Sea. Worth exactly thirty thousand pounds. My half of the prize of theGolden Gull.”

Le Trompeur glared. “Why is the woman so important to you, that you risk my wrath?”

“The woman?” Devon strode up to her and looked her up and down like a piece of meat. “She means nothing as I have already said. Except for the sum of eleven pounds, my exact worth which is what she paid for me two years ago on a dock in Port Royale. For that I have a score to settle.” He threw wide the handful of valuable pearls.

And with that motion, the spark of hope extinguished as the pearls clattered to the deck and the rush of pirates to scoop up their prize. Her hands balled into fists, to be bought and sold.

“My payment for the woman.” His eyes glinted over her face, his tone scornful. “I believe more than a fair and honorable bargain.”

“Bloody Hell. It is settled with satisfaction to all,” shouted Le Trompeur’s officer.

The French Captain gave his lieutenant a fierce blow, sending him sprawling. He drew his sword and cast Claire behind him. “I am beyond tired of your empty threats, Captain Blackmon.”

Devon’s sword flashed. “I do not fight to lose. I never have. You’ll be swimming with the fishes soon enough. The articles provide that any man of whatever rank concealing any part of a prize, be it of the value of no more than a farthing, shall be hanged at the yardarm. It’s what I intended for you in the end. Since you prefer a fight, I’ll be indulging you.”

The blades rang together in a fierce clash, men backing away to allow them room. Devon took control of the blade and forced Le Trompeur back, as he parried three swift attacks, one after the other. The French Captain fought well, fluid in his strokes, but Devon had the endurance. Claire noted Le Trompeur tired. His brow sweated. His foot slipped on the deck. Devon ignored the advantage and paused, letting his enemy regain his balance. When Le Trompeur found his feet, he lunged forward with all his might. Claire screamed. The impact of the blade would sever his shoulder. Devon danced to the side. Le Trompeur’s sword sliced Devon’s shirt.

Devon glanced with indifference at the blood on his own sleeve, and up to his French brethren. “Shouldn’t you be begging for clemency?” he laughed sardonically.

“Not when you are dead, you son of an Irish whore.” Wildly Le Trompeur lunged, his attack vicious. Steel against steel clanged. Shouts from the crew became silent. Devon caught the blade with his own, and held it into a stalemate. They faced each other. “When you are dead, I will spit on your grave.” The Frenchman’s weight surpassed Devon’s throwing him off balance. He tripped and fell to the deck. Claire’s heart froze. Le Trompeur’s blade followed him and would have gone through Devon’s heart. He rolled to the side. On his feet again, Claire saw a fury on Devon’s face she had never witnessed. He parried, knocking the weapon easily from the Frenchman’s hand and brought his own point down and to the side so that he could close the distance. He struck Le Trompeur across the throat with his forearm, and followed him to the deck.

The French Captain laid beneath him, struggling for air, Devon’s knee in his stomach and an elbow at his throat. The final recognition rose in Le Trompeur’s eyes, the comprehension that he had lost, and this was how he would die. Devon drew his sword arm up and down through his shoulder.

Devon stood, holding Le Trompeur pinioned to the deck. The Frenchman gasped for breath.

“You will survive, unfortunately. You should be thankful for my surgeons’ skill. The wound is clean through. Give the orders surrendering theGolden Gulland its prisoners unmolested. We do not desire any needless bloodshed to your crew. For my charity, I will let you live, although you do not deserve to. The articles between us are over. Do not cross my path again. I will be less charitable. If you wish to entertain more foolishness, you and all your men will die.”

“Go to hell. Take theGolden Gull. It sinks as we speak.”

“Dooley,” Devon called his shipwright.

“Aye, Captain. I’ve given her a look over. I can keep her a float.”

“Well enough,” said Devon. “Now get this filthy cur from my presence and make haste with your departure before I change my mind.”

Claire surveyed the French crew, weighing the gravity of those commands. Awed by the Black Devil’s benevolence in saving their own necks, and hatred for their own Captain, they made haste to remove grappling hooks and unfurl a sea of sails.

Devon could have killed Le Trompeur. Killing her would be a mere nothing.

Lord, save me, Claire prayed with every sickening second. He was her terror now. With easy grace, he picked her up and swung her over onto the deck of theSea Scorpion. She was powerless, completely at the mercy of this mass of muscle and power who had vowed his revenge upon her.

Devon put Claire down, his focus on Sir Jarvis and Sir Teakle. Neither of the two worthless cads had come to her assistance, worried about deliverance from their own peril. Jarvis trembled, recognizing the vital and healthy, well-armed pirates standing before him were the ragged, unkempt starved creatures enslaved on his plantation.