Skye wanted no more of the man known as Blackbeard. She counted on her speed to bring her through the crowd of rioting men. At first, no one thought to strike her, only to stop her wild flight. Then, as more and more of the sailors came away from a brief encounter with pricks of blood upon their persons, cries of warning went up.
Three men came toward her.
There was a stack of wine barrels by the door. Skye instinctively tossed them over. They cracked and spilled, and it seemed that the earth was soaked with it.
“Dear God, dear God, I am ruined!” called out the proprietor. A straw-haired harlot in totally disreputable undress shook a fist toward Skye. “You’ve cost us all, girl!”
Skye ignored her, looking to greater danger. She was backed against a wall then, and more and more men were coming her way. They laughed no more. Their faces were grim.
“Get behind me!” she heard. White-faced, she dared to look around.
The Hawk was coming her way, fiercely challenging every man who sought to approach her. She was amazed again at the deftness of his swordplay. He leaped upon a bench and soared forward, taking with him three of her attackers. He spun about and caught one man at the knees, leaving him screaming, slicing a second man through the arm, and catching a third at the throat.
She nearly missed an opponent, watching him. She came to attention just soon enough and ducked a blow that struck the wall. Hawk was beside her then. His weapon, she saw, had taken a beating. The steel had cracked.
“Give me the sword!” he commanded her.
She stared at him, her eyes growing very wide. Did it matter? She had caused this fray. She had brought him to arms against his comrades. He had claimed that she wasn’t worth any fortune in gold, that he would keep her just because he already had her. He was surely furious with her, and might very well plan to torture her near to death once he had his hands upon her.
She could not give her sword away.
Men were approaching them quickly.
“Give me the sword!” he roared once more.
Of course, if she didn’t hand him the sword, they might very well perish at that very moment.
He lunged for it. She gasped, but released the steel to his grasp. He stared at her with a promise of fury, then turned to the sailors now ready to assault. He raised the weapon against them, and steel began to clang again.
He moved forward, maneuvering himself and Skye away from their disadvantaged position against the wall. Skye saw that they were slowly joined by the Hawk’s men. She didn’t know them all, but she suddenly realized that she was being shielded behind the Hawk and Robert Arrowsmith. They were fighting their way to the door.
Slowly, the attackers began to fall away. Only a few remained when they reached the entryway.
The Hawk paused, reaching into a pocket within his frockcoat. He drew out a number of gold coins.
“Mr. Ferguson! For the damage done, sir!” he shouted. Then he said to Robert, “Watch my back, Mr. Arrowsmith!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
And with that, the Hawk grabbed hold of Skye’s arm. He dragged her along the primitive road with him in a raw fury. They were not far from the sea. She could smell the salt and feel the breeze. The Hawk’s men now raced behind them, like a giant wave, seeming to pitch them ever forward. She could still hear shouts of rage and fury from behind them. What had happened to Logan? She didn’t know.
She stumbled.
“Move!” the Hawk shouted to her. Grasping his arm, she tried to do so. She apparently did not move fast enough for he swept her up into his arms. She struggled briefly. “I can walk—”
“By God, I should let them have you!” he thundered out. Caught by moonlight, his eyes glittered with a striking, chilling silver. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and went silent. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was running with her held taut in his arms. “The longboats!” someone cried. “We’re there! All men to the oars, and quickly.”
Their boots fell heavy against the dock as they raced down to the longboats. Skye was tossed heavily within the first. The Hawk quickly landed by her side. He dropped his borrowed sword while his men crawled in with them and picked up the oars. Reaching to his waist he drew out a long flintlock pistol. Staring at him, Skye had not seen the shirtless man with the knife between his teeth reaching up to her from the water. The pistol flared. The man cried out, and the knife fell from his teeth as he crashed into the water.
The Hawk cast her a chilling stare. Her eyes fell upon the sword as the longboat shot away from the dock. Fear made her think to lunge for the sword. His booted foot fell upon her fingers before they could wind around the steel. She cried out and her eyes met his again, and this time the hostility in them ran deep, and far colder than she could have ever imagined.
“Aye, mistress! I should have left you to them!” he hissed, sinking down beside her.
Shouts were arising from the dock. The contingent from the tavern had followed them down to the sea.
“Are they coming, Mr. Arrowsmith?” the Hawk called to his man.
“I’m not sure, Captain. They seem to be hovering at the moment, sir, and nothing more.”
