“I’d fight for England but not for that bloody rascal James,” said Devon.
“James you say?” bellowed Lord Sunderland. “We ridded ourselves of James three months ago. England and its people will only tolerate a ruthless tyrant for so long before they stand up and eradicate the malignancy. James has fled to France, living under the protection of King Louis. William now sits on the throne.”
“Good God. Why didn’t you say so? King William you say?” said Devon. Ames and Bloodsmythe edged nearer, sharing his astonishment.
His Lordship drove his point home amidst Devon’s’ turmoil. “King James is dethroned and banished. We are at war with France. You can enlist in His Majesty, King William’s service and see an end to your outlawry then return home and take up your life again.”
Stunned by this revelation, Devon barely had time to contemplate his good fortune. The revelation filled his mind and moved him deeply. A chance to have freedom and country? To be with Claire and enjoy the normal nuances of life that he’d been so deprived? To be out from under the yoke of hated piracy, the shadow of the hangman, to have a home, a family. The freedom he yearned at his fingertips. Two long unfortunate years had elapsed. The prospect of taking up the new King’s fight and gaining the very thing he craved within his grasp. Claire wanted his freedom. He’d sell his soul to the very devil to make her happy.
“Devon, do you know what this means?” Ames came to his side, Bloodsmythe, Wolf, nodding their heads with the same assertion.
Devon did not miss the keen eyes of Lord Sunderland absorbing the dawning import on him and his crew.
“Here is a great chance for you and your men. We have heard of your many exploits and know what you are capable of upon the seas. Should you choose to serve the King during this war, your knowledge of the West Indies should render you a very valuable servant to His Majesty’s Government, which you will not find ungrateful. I encourage you to consider your freedom. I reiterate soundly, this is a great chance you are given.”
Devon leaped onto the ratlines and hailed his men. “Men, we have been given great opportunity. Freedom under a new King of England. King William. If you offer your services to fight in his name against the French, it’s freedom you’ll be breathing. How many say aye?”
“Aye! Aye!” A chorus of cheers ascended from the lips of every pirate. “Hail King William.”
“There’s your answer, Lord Sunderland.” Devon shouted. He jumped to the deck. “How injured was theMer Un Serpent?” He did not want to think of Claire sinking in the middle of the ocean.
The admiral spoke. “We did a fine job. She’ll need to repair.”
“Good,” said Devon. “Le Trompeur will limp into St. Martine, the nearest French port. I’ll bet my life he is meeting up with the French squadron there. Wolf, sail northwest. My guess is that is where the storm blew the Royal fleet then head to St. Martine. Ames! Make all sail! Throw up all canvas! I have a score to settle with Trompeur.”
“Waste of time, you know, my dear Madame Blackmon. He’ll never know where to look for you. Even if he did, he’s dead if he comes here. Nothing in the world will save him.”
Since they landed on St. Martine a week ago, she had used every device to ward Le Trompeur off. The minute they landed the French pirate dogged her steps into the bougainvillea covered tavern where she was held prisoner.
He deliberately set out to bait her. “When he does come, and he will, there will be nothing in the world to save you.” She pushed away from him, but he held her drawn between his legs. Her stomach roiled.
Le Trompeur laughed a bit and smoothed the skin up and down her arm. “With the entire French Fleet and theMer Un Serpent? I doubt it.”
“You don’t know the Black Devil well enough. Fortune rolls in his favor. Some say it is his genius, but others know it is his fate.”
In a brief instant, his eyes took on a hunted look. Claire played on it. “You are afraid of the Black Devil. You think you have power over him because you hold his wife. You think it makes you stronger.”
“You can think what you wish,” growled Le Trompeur.
He pressed his fingers into her flesh, digging them into her muscles. When she squirmed, he laughed and thrust her away from him. Claire stumbled but righted herself. She refused to show weakness. Somehow she had to keep up this dangerous game, this dance of words, faking a bravado she did not have. Le Trompeur grew more and more unstable.
“Admiral St. Pierre ordered you to stay away from me.” Apparently the rules relaxed once they arrived at St. Martine.
“Bah! When do I consider the words of Admiral St. Pierre? He has promised me he will not interfere if the Black Devil does not come for you. Days have passed. I grow impatient.” He unlocked the door and shoved her into a room. The lock clicked behind her. The stomp of his heels tapped away.
Claire slumped to the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. The only arms wrapped around her tonight were her own, but even they weren’t enough to still her shivers of misery. Like every night before, she cried her heart out. It hurt so much to breathe that she almost wished she could stop.
She wanted the pain, she craved it. She wanted to remember, to feel. For that is what she had learned on Paradise. Life wasn’t about gaining one’s independence, of running away from commitment, but knowing the beauty of friendship, the pain and joy of love−of Devon’s love.
Would there ever be a time to feel the warmth and pleasure in his powerful arms, the unexpected gentle caress of his hands as he made love to her, to see his handsome visage or hear him laugh or tease her? Or to bear his child?
Her breath came in short, hurtful gasps. What if he did come for her? No, she did not want Devon to be destroyed by the French Fleet or at the mercy of Le Trompeur. She could not face a future where he would perish because of her. She had to think of some way to escape.
Claire smoothed her hands down her legs and felt the knife she had taken from a drawer on the French ship and secured in her garter. An idea began to form. Claire stood and retrieved the knife. She hacked at the mortar around the bars of her window. The crush of French merrymaking below drowned out her hammering. She stabbed at the mortar holding her prisoner. One. Two. Three hours passed. Her hands bled. She did not care, finding joy as chips flew and each bar separated. She was not the same person she used to be, holding to the whim of men. Refusing to give into despair, she would free herself from this prison. Claire swiped out the fragmented mortar, letting it fall to the ground.
If only she could get to a small skiff that bobbed in the harbor. Fishermen in Port Royale launched their skiffs easy enough. If only she could imitate them, sail close to the islands and make her way to Paradise? A bar broke loose. She thrust the bar over her head in victory.
In Devon’s cabin, the men convened, pouring over the map of the French port.
