Cold fire burned in Devon’s eyes. He held himself in tight rein until his rage cooled. With no weapon, he was useless to Claire. He had to stall for time.
“Devon,” Claire yelled. Devon turned his head. Claire snatched a sword from a soldier and pitched it into the air. His hand closed over the hilt, and in that instant, Le Trompeur ran his sword through Devon’s left shoulder. Pain rocketed through him, but he numbed the pain in his mind, too busy with survival. Blood poured from his wound. His arm hung uselessly at his side. Le Trompeur laughed.
Devon pivoted as Le Trompeur circled him. Deadly intent glittered in his eyes. The buccaneers hooted, tossing their comments as if the fight were some sort of amusement instead of a deadly contest. Wagers were completed with gusto.
“So you seek to fight with me? With your injury, you will not be so lucky this time,” Le Trompeur boasted. “Have you thought what will happen to Claire when I kill you?”
Devon smiled, his eyes as hard as agates. “I promise you will die tonight, Le Trompeur. I leave no one in doubt of my sincerity.” Erect and easily poised, Devon parried.
Before Claire could call out a warning, a ferret-faced pirate rammed a table behind Devon. He went down, somersaulted and landed agilely on his feet, his sword still in his hand. Le Trompeur ripped away the offending table and thrust. Devon crouched, advancing and retracing by little leaps, testing Le Trompeur’s guard at each disengage.
Devon mocked the French pirate’s antics. “I heard you boast that this was your last voyage. How oddly prophetic.” Shivers of laughter ran through the spectators.
The jest and Devon’s close guard riled Le Trompeur. His teeth bared, the Frenchman attacked then drew back with a savage thrust. Devon recovered with a swift, sudden unexpected counter, driving Le Trompeur back, his poise and calm borne of instinct. The French pirate lunged to take Devon’s other shoulder. Claire screamed. They smacked together, eye to eye. Devon leaped back. Swift as lightening, his point whirled after the Frenchman. Le Trompeur parried late, the point driven straight at Devon’s breast was swept up and outwards. Devon plowed a furrow in Le Trompeur’s cheek.
“I’ll kill every Irish−pocked whoreson of you!” Le Trompeur swiped at a crimson line of blood that flowed down his face. He kicked a chair at the crowd to cease their guffaws.
Le Trompeur reacted more rashly. Was he afraid to suffer disgrace in the eyes of his followers? Had he underestimated Devon’s skill despite the fact he was wounded? Attempting to wear down Devon’s close guard, he attacked wildly.
Every time that gleaming sword struck against Devon’s steel, her breath stopped. Devon had fought and bested Le Trompeur aboard theMer Un Serpent. But this night, a change in Devon’s countenance showed his intent−a fight to the death. His green eyes sizzled with cold fire. A savage smile split his tawny face.
Devon’s speed tired Le Trompeur. Sweat mingled with blood ran down the Frenchman’s grey face. He breathed hard. The gloating grin faded from his scarred face. Devon advanced, his glittering point everywhere dazzled his antagonist. Two, four, six, points. Le Trompeur defended one and the same time, circling his blade to cover himself. Devon’s sword flashed and pressed Le Trompeur back, again and again.
Le Trompeur’s eyes bulged. His arrogance, no doubt bred on past victories, crushed the assumption of his superiority. He fell back, tripped and crashed to the floor. Devon leaped back and smiled.
“Stand your ground, you mangy dog. In the hereafter you’ll think twice about taking the wife of the Black Devil! Name of God, do you call yourself a swordsman? Stand, you cur, and fight.”
The French pirate bounded forward like a lion. Devon sidestepped to avoid his charge. The Frenchman spun around, thrust and from his disengage, Devon riposted.
The success of his recovery bolstered confidence in Le Trompeur. He slashed at Devon. Devon parried, inviting a riposte.
“Don’t be rash. Where do you intend to go?” Devon bluffed. “Observe how you and your French masters are trapped. The Royal Navy and the rest of my fleet hold the mouth of the harbor. You have no other option but to surrender.”
“I know nothing of the Royal Navy. You lie.”
“You think I know nothing of the war between France and England? I have the eyes and ears of the Caribbean!”
Cannons boomed, bombarding the town. Pirates screamed. The town lay sieged.
“You fool. You brought the whole Royal Navy down on us by taking his wife,” said the French Admiral. “Le Trompeur, you will hang if we survive this night. Men, go to the harbor, board your ships, defend your positions.” Pirates and French naval men fled over tables and chairs. Le Trompeur, the first to fly out the window.
Breathing heavily, Devon placed his hand over his injured shoulder. He sank to his knees.
A cannon ball hit the front of the building. French buccaneers lay dead in the aftermath. Concrete and dust fell in a pall. Devon mopped the sweat that beaded his forehead and blinded his eyes.
Claire ran to him. She trembled. Daubs of blood blanketed her like driblets of red paint.
“Oh Devon. How badly are you hurt? We must get you out of here.” Claire blinked when an English officer with members of Devon’s crew climbed through the rubble.
“Help me,” she commanded.
“I’ll live,” Devon managed. “Good to see you, Admiral Norreys. That Rock of Gibraltar, Bloodsmythe has done his job in capturing the outer defenses.”
“That was the best swordplay I’ve ever witnessed,” said the English officer. “Let’s make haste while your man occupies these French frogs.” Devon’s men lifted him. He gritted his teeth, the searing pain shot through his shoulder. Claire bit her lip.
In the streets of St. Martine, a cacophony of screams and blasts rent the night. Through a warren of back alleyways they made their way to moored boats. They lifted Devon into her arms. “Oh my darling, let me look,” Claire whispered, tears in her eyes. Blood oozed through his fingers clapped to his wound. She pulled his fingers aside. Le Trompeur’s sword had done its evil. A hole straight through his shoulder welled with blood. Claire tore her skirts and made a bandage.
The French rallied to their ships and found their quarry. Cannons from the ships burst with fire. Balls hailed around them. The water heaved from a well-aimed ball, barely missing and pithing their vessel into the air. Ames and Young Johnnie grinned like gargoyles drawing lustily on their oars. Claire bit her lip. She held Devon next to her body to warm him. The reassuring beat of his heart thrummed against her palm.
