To the Hawk’s eternal horror, the Lady Skye Kinsdale appeared, scrambling frantically to her feet, pausing only when she saw the assemblage of rogues before her. Her hair was a tousled sunburst, damp and curling to her face and shoulders. Her gown was ragged, drenched, and torn, and her beautiful eyes were wide and brilliant with horror. She stood before them like a shimmering star in the horizon. Disheveled, she was still the lady, tall and straight, her pride radiating from her in the beautiful colors of life that separated her from the riffraff that filled the room. Her very beauty separated her from it all.
She was, indeed, a prize.
God in heaven, how in hell had she come to be there? the Hawk wondered in fury. He had to save her, he determined.
Just so that he could throttle her himself!
She spun to flee suddenly. Logan pushed her forward. Laughter broke out. A seaman rose to stop her when she lunged anew. And then another man rose, and another, and she was nearly encircled.
It was time for him to step into it. She lunged anew, and he left his table. The next time she lunged, she fell to the floor at his feet. She was quick. She braced her palms against the floor to rise, then paused, seeing his boots.
She looked up. Her eyes met his. She inhaled and gasped. He did not know if she trembled to see him, or if the dazzling liquid in her eyes was meant as a plea to save her. His heart leaped and careened to his stomach. They were in deadly danger now.
She had betrayed him somehow. Despite his threats, his words of warning, she had betrayed him.
He smiled icily. “Well, milady, do not say that you were not warned!” he whispered furiously. But there was no more that he could do then.
Logan had drawn his cutlass, and was stepping toward him.
VI
Skye watched in deep dread as the Hawk stepped over her to meet the instant clash of Logan’s steel.
With a gasp she swiftly rolled to avoid being trampled. She came up beneath a table, and with a certain, horrified fascination, she watched the fighting men.
It was a fair fight; one well met. They might have engaged in a macabre dance, so graceful, yet so deadly, were their movements. Their left arms remaining behind their backs, they met and clashed, and parted again, their swords ripping the very air, so that it seemed the night itself whispered and cried. Cheers rose within the room, some claiming for Logan, some for the Hawk, and all of them urging on the fight with merriment and blood lust.
The men broke apart. Logan jumped upon a table. Leaping into flight, the Hawk followed behind him. The table crashed to the floor. Wine and ale spilled freely and pewter clanked upon the floor. Skye’s hand fluttered to her throat, for she saw no movement. If he had died, then it seemed that she had best pray for death. What madness had brought her here? she wondered. But her thoughts were fleeting, for both men were upon their feet again. The duel was reengaged.
A hand clamped upon her shoulder of a sudden. She choked upon a scream as she was dragged to her feet.
She looked into the eyes of a man with thick dark hair, a stocky build, a sharp, cunning gaze, and the faint sign of pockmarks beneath the heavy growth of his beard. He wore a scarlet frockcoat with golden epaulets and fine soft mustard breeches. He hauled her up against him. She struggled fiercely, seeking to bite him. “Hold, lassie!” he warned her. “I’m not your enemy!” Swinging her before him, he called out to the fighting men. “Gents of the brotherhood! Cease this ghastly foray and listen! This fight is no longer over Jack, nor, I daresay, was it ever! Logan, you would have him dead. Hawk, you would have the woman. Let’s put a price on her head. That’s our business, is it not? Gaining riches? So what is she worth, gentlemen? In gold?”
“Here, here!” someone else cried, laughing. “Is it open bidding, then? I’ll give a hundred pieces o’ eight, Spanish gold, the best o’ the lot!”
“One-fifty!”
“Two hundred!”
“A thousand gold doubloons!”
“A thousand!” It was the Hawk. He stared down the length of her, then looked to her captor. “Nothing that lies ’twixt a maiden’s thighs could come so dear!”
“Dear me, and not hers!” chortled one of the whores, who waltzed by Skye, tweaking her cheek. Skye kicked her furiously. The woman screamed out, lunging toward her.
“Cease!” the Hawk yelled, catching the whore. She turned to him with huge dark eyes and her painted features, a pretty thing despite her paint, young and buxom.
“She kicked me, Hawk! Why, I’ll claw her eyes out, I will!”
“She’s not that easy, Mary, trust me. And she is to be ransomed, so keep clear of her, eh?” Gently, he thrust the whore far from himself, and far away from Skye.
“Is the bidding open again?” someone called.
“Aye, and think on this. She’s a feisty piece of baggage!” the dark pirate called out.
Skye stared about herself in dismay. The Hawk was lost to a clang of steel once again while the others were all having a rollicking good time discussing her life in terms of the highest sum. The pirate holding her had a cutlass at his waist. She eyed it as another bid rang out. She itched to get her fingers upon it!
“A thousand! I’ve said a thousand! Someone top that, me friends!”
