The Hawk picked up a pewter goblet of wine. “He will simply never have a piece of me, Captain, you needn’t fear.”
“I fear this warfare among us, for it will bring destruction down upon us.”
Robert Arrowsmith glanced quickly at the Hawk. “How?” the Hawk asked with an easy smile. “Why, I hear tell that the governor of North Carolina is in league with a certain one of us! A man to be bribed, so they say. We, in this our Golden Age, shall reign forever.”
Stoker shook his great head broodingly. He shrugged. “In the Carolina waters, perhaps, we find a certain safety. But in Virginia that damned Lieutenant Governor Spotswood seeks us out like bloodhounds!”
“So they say.”
Stoker smiled, finding some amusement in the matter. “He will have to intrude upon Carolina to destroy us, though, eh?”
He started to laugh. The Hawk glanced at Robert, and then he started to laugh, too. He patted Stoker strongly upon the back. “Aye, Captain, he’ll have to do just such a thing!” He sobered. “Now, to business, sir. I need canvas, needles, coffee, and fresh meat. And rum. Can you see to it all?”
Captain Stoker raised a hand, calling to one of his clerks. A little man hurried to them with an inkpot, quill, and paper, and sat down to take the orders.
For the moment, peace and laughter reigned.
It was not Robert who had been left aboard the ship to guard her. When she slammed upon the door, it was soon opened, but it was opened by a huge, burly Frenchman.
“Mademoiselle!” he cried, looking at her warily. He was like Samson out of the Bible, she decided. He had a head of dark curls and warm brown eyes. His size was intimidating; his eyes were not.
“Monsieur! Forgive me! I feel so ill of a sudden. I must have some air!”
“Ah, but my lady!Sacrebleu!The captain would have my head. You are to remain here.”
“Ooooh!” she started to moan, doubling over. “I feel so very ill, I must have air.…”
“D’accord!I will take you out. Come, lean on me!”
She offered him a sweet, pathetic smile and leaned heavily against him. He led her out to the deck. She inhaled deeply, gasping, bringing in air. This was easy. Much, much easier than she had imagined.
He brought her to the railing. She leaned over, clinging to him, gulping for air. She also looked around herself. The ship was almost empty. She looked up. There was a man in the crow’s nest. She looked across the water. There were still men upon the dock. Someone was pointing their way. She felt a shiver seize her. Night was coming on quickly. Darkness was falling. Perhaps this plan of hers was not so well advised.
She looked down. The ladder was still in place from the deck to the water, and a longboat waited there, tied in place should it be needed. The temptation was too great to be resisted.
“Mademoiselle! Speak to me, are you better?”
The Frenchman’s attention was entirely for her, and he was desperately worried. She felt a twinge of guilt, but ignored it. She sank down upon one of the barrels near the rail. “Oh, monsieur, I am much better, truly!” she said. He was by her side. She offered him a flashing smile, for it was then or never.
She reached down and drew his cutlass quickly from the scabbard that laced around his waist. Before he could move, she had brought the point to his very chin.
“Monsieur, forgive me, but I will be free this night!” she told him.
“Mademoiselle!” he said, and he tried to move. She pressed the point against him, drawing blood, and he went still. “Now, come, sir!” she said softly. “We will take the longboat to shore. If you cross me, I will skewer you through. I will do so unhappily, for you appear to be too kind a man for this life you have chosen, but I swear that I will gladly slice you open, nonetheless.”
He said nothing. She pressed her point still further.
“Am I understood?”
“Mais oui, mademoiselle—” the Frenchman began, but he broke off as the sound of an explosion suddenly burst through the night.
Skye leaped to her feet, backing away from the Frenchman. There was a huge thud and she screamed as she saw that the sailor in the crow’s nest had fallen to the deck, his shirt crimson with the spill of his blood.
“Mon Dieu—” the Frenchman said, ignoring her and spinning around to see from where death had sprung.
A man was halfway over the railing. He tossed a still-smoking pistol to the deck and drew forth a second flintlock weapon, aiming it their way.
He was a hideous soul, Skye thought, her heart hammering. He was dark and surly; a scar marred his right cheek. He wore a hat pulled low over his forehead, but it did not hide his eyes. They were pale and cold. He smiled, and his mouth seemed a black cavern, and his teeth looked awful and fetid. The leer gave him such a bearing of cruelty that she trembled.
