FicWad

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As we came down the shell road, more women and children passed us afoot, and a few in carts drawn by nervous-looking donkeys or ponies. I understood their fear. The thunder of the guns carried farther and louder over water. Flashes beyond the lip of the harbor split the pre-dawn sky, illuminating puffy clouds in orange and white. My stomach jerked and my throat tightened with each roar of cannon. Yet, I would not have left James’ side for any relief of it.

Organized chaos filled the town and common. Walks Softly and Etienne stood with a group of men. Torches in tall brackets along the roads and dock burned high. Lanterns outside businesses and homes near the harbor flickered to light the way of their defenders. The smell of the greasy smoke hung heavy in the humid air. Between the noises of the crowd and guns, I could only make out their voices, not words at a distance. James halted his stallion, dismounted. I did the same.

He shouted, “Mr. Street, corral these horses behind the tavern!”

A tall, tough-looking man with a shaved-smooth head and curious tattoos wreathing his throat hurried to obey. One eye had filmed white and a jagged scar traveled from above the brow to near his cheek. He glanced at me and I nodded, respectful of his status as a veteran of battle.

Etienne leaned close to kiss my cheek, then raised his voice in question to me. “You mean to remain?”

“I do.” From that first statement I realized the degree of training required to pitch one’s voice above the roar without distorting it.

He unbuckled the leather vest he wore over a light shirt. Taking it off, he helped me into it, used the tip of his knife to punch new holes, then buckled the stiff garment tight about my torso. “It will help protect you.” He drew the cutlass from his waist and slid the naked blade down through my belt. “That is the weapon you practice with. It will serve you well.”

I protested, “You cannot give me your protection against blades.”

“I’ve had more experience getting out of the way of them.” He adjusted the garment. “It will not spare you a thrust, or a forceful enough cut. So, do not depend upon it.”

I nodded, half-sickened with worry and dread, and listened to them discuss what had already occurred. Walks Softly and Mr. Levit had turned the ships again and sent the gun crews to their posts. Scouts dispatched when the heralds sounded went to various vantage points to return with what they’d seen. Etienne’s first mates manned the Cleopatra and Nefrititi. He would fight beside Walks Softly.

A cry rose up from the twin sloops moored out in the harbor. By the light of cannon fire, I saw Gamboa’s vessel, the Prideful Folly, lurching her way across the mouth of the harbor, sails ragged and in many places ablaze. Men seethed over the deck, dark shapes backlit by flame.

Walks Softly took down his hair, cut the leather lace in half, pulled his long locks back and braided mine. He tied the end of the plait, then wrapped it around itself and anchored the coil by knotting the strip upon itself.

Two men came running from the other end of town. We all turned to them, bunching closer to make hearing each other easier as they arrived panting a report.

“Looks like …” He paused, swallowed. “Three ships … British.” His dark-tanned skin showed the pink of exertion even in torchlight. “Two behind Gamboa …” He couldn’t seem to regain his wind.

The other man picked up the tale. “One has … sailed to the other side … of the island.”

“Two fronts,” James said grimly, “with women and children between them.”

I realized with men likely to make it ashore, the enemy might penetrate multiple places. I saw it in James’ gaze when it touched me, he’d recognized what I had. He’d nowhere to send me. By his side would doubtless prove the safest place.

My verbal response surprised me mayhaps most of all. “I want to fight.” Etienne, Walks Softly and James studied me. I added, “God alone knows how many British may have rowed ashore. I’ll be better with you than anywhere else.”

Walks Softly shook his head. Yet, he had posed argument to offer.

“This is the life I’ve chosen, “ I shouted. “Everyone must have a first battle! I shall make mine now. Here, with children’s lives at stake! And lives of friends and family. My own! What better cause to take up the sword!”

Etienne nodded. “I like it little. But, her words ring true.”

James replied, “I don’t like it at all.”

Walks Softly spoke curtly, “I would hate to have her from my sight given the unknowns we face.”

Etienne added, “If she retreats to the villa, even escapes through the tunnel, there’s no guarantee the other ship will not wait, plucking the fleeing from the sea to use as hostages.”

I began to feel invisible as they discussed my fate, my choices, as though I had not yet arrived. “I have decided,” I stated almost too quietly. All the same, they looked at me then, rather than each other. The other men nodded, some appearing to appreciate the precarious circumstances more, and I reasoned their women must have taken now dubious refuge at the villa.

After a moment, James spoke. “Mr. Levit?”

“Aye, sir!”

“Hand select twenty men to go with you. I want you with the women and children.”

My sterile upbringing had sheltered me. My time here had taught me much. I dared speak for the females. “Arm those mothers. If the enemy breaches the house, I promise you those women will fight like tigers to defend their own. Training be damned.”

James studied me, then seconded the idea. “She’s right. We’ve never faced this kind of battle. Arm them.”

“It occurs to me,“ Etienne said, “we’d be better off to remove their means of escape. We cannot afford their sailing back to Port Royal with the location of this island.”

James returned, “Yet, we’d be better having as few ashore as possible. We would have to cripple the ships, then fight them as they fled the sea.”

Walks Softly brought up an ugly prospect. “We can leave none alive.”

I glanced out into the harbor. The Prideful Folly’s course would carry it to run ashore on the harbor’s beach. I realized he accepted further damage to the vessel to keep the cannon shot range clear between our guns and the enemy’s.

When I returned my attention to the group, a solemn acceptance had settled.

James agreed, “No prisoners to ransom and tell tales. These are professional soldiers and seamen. They accepted the risk when they took the King’s shilling.”

The Cleopatra and Nefrititi fired their first volleys. We turned as one to see the first enemy ship sail into sight.

James barked, “Mr. Street, take a dozen of our best shots and pick those bastards from the third ship off as they try to put their feet to our beach!”

“Aye, captain!”

James addressed Etienne and Walks Softly. “At least one of us with her no matter what! Her life above mine.”

As one they answered, “And mine.”

I hated it. Yet, could not help but feel grateful, in all this big world, and with so many slight changes that might have altered my path and carried me to a safer place, I found myself with them. For a moment I saw them as the enemy would. Big, powerful men weighed down with weapons, dedicated to dealing death. James wore a wide leather bandolier diagonally from right shoulder to waist. In its fitted arches of leather, two more pistols, knives and a short brutal club waited for use. His twin pistols, sword and whip hung in his belt. The heavy bucklers’ boots completed the sinister appearance.

I shivered, for a moment pitying the men who would face him. Then the sympathy vanished. Not men who would face him. The enemy.

James shouted to runners to fetch him a glass. We walked closer to the docks as the exchange between the sloops and the British ships roared and shook the cobble. When he gazed through the glass, a sound of terrible satisfaction came from him. “That’s Huntington’s ship, the Dover’s Honor.”

“Huntington’s dead, “ I said.

“He owned his vessel privately. It didn’t belong to the Navy. Whoever he left that ship to has come for a piece of us,” James responded. A black fire burned in his pale eyes. Anticipation radiated from him. Now, he wanted to fight. “I want a small force sent to aid the evacuation of the Prideful Folly. Every other hand will remain here.”

My fear returned threefold as the second ship came hard behind the Dover’s Honor. Well-trained for this contingency, squads of men hurried to man the land-mounted guns along the harbor’s edge. Counting the men stationed to defend cannon crews on the Blood Vengeance and those on the docks, I estimated eighty fighters. Surely the British ships could claim at least that many each?

The numbers and strategies remained beyond my few lessons in such matters. James had dispatched many of our potential force to other venues. Therefore, he must hold some confidence in this arrangement. Or, I reasoned, men like him did what they must without ever giving away any fear of defeat.

My thoughts flew to my brother. Had he survived the attack? Did he lie on the bloody, fire-blackened deck mortally wounded? The fear and not knowing raked my heart.

The Blood Vengeance, tied at the end of the very long dock, suddenly seemed to me the target of the first enemy vessel. Quickly, James confirmed it.

“He means to ram her.” He handed the glass to a runner. I took it from him. James continued, “Whoever that is, he wants a fight with me. He shall have it.” James quickly called up men to him who had waited beyond this smaller administrative gathering. “They mean to ram the Vengeance! We’ll board them when they do!”

An answering yell swelled so loudly, it hurt my ears.

James shouted, “Walks Softly, Etienne, hold this ground! Kill any British coming ashore!” He stepped close to me, said low and fierce. “Courage, Lili. I swear you’ll sleep in my arms tonight.” For the briefest moment, he caught me against him, his mouth stealing my breath to carry away with him.

I watched him lead the ferocious band of men down the dock and up the gangplanks of the big ship. They ran into battle, eager, frightening yells rising above the cannon fire and sounds of splintering timber. My heart thundered and my palms became damp as I clutched the brass spyglass. Soon the metallic tang caused by the heat of my hands reached me, blending with the smell of smoke and scorched wood.

Then the screams began. Unable to control myself, I raised the glass. It required a moment to adjust to using the thing. Then my eyes settled to it and I moved the glass out to the sloops. On the deck of the Cleopatra, a gun crew now resided upon the deck. Not a man able to rise. A few lie still. My stomach churned as I recognized pieces and saw a man had blown apart under shot. Blood slicked the deck almost black. Swiftly, I lowered the glass, dragging in deep breaths.

Etienne took it from me and made his assessment. In a curiously cool, instructional tone, he said, “That’s expected loss, Lili. Put it from your mind.”

I whirled away, staggered a few feet and became quite wretchedly ill.

Walks Softly came to me at once. “I could hide you.”

“No!” I shook. My respiration hitched and my stomach pitched like the sea in a squall. “I can do this.” I straightened, turned.

One of the men offered me a skin of water and I gratefully accepted. As I sipped a little, he said, “I spewed ma rations first time I seen battle. Yu’ll do fine.”

“Thank you.” I handed the skin back to him.

We all watched as the British ship closed in. The Vengeance fired a full broadside. Through the glass, I saw slivers of timber fly, bits of metal. Though the smoke prevented my seeing the British ship after that, I saw the prow. James and his men suddenly flattened themselves on deck. The ship rocked hard toward land, crashing into the dock amid deafening noise. For a moment the ships seemed locked in that lurching embrace. Then, the Vengeance’s weight sent it back upright. James and his men rose.

They did not need grappling hooks. Not smashed together starboard to prow. Breath locked almost, I watched James vault onto the other ship, sword catching some meager light amidst the smoke. Cannons of the Vengeance silenced and their crews joined the fray.

The sea wind did much to dispel the smoke and within moments my view had cleared. My attention fixed upon James. He fought two handed, sword in his right, yanking pistol or knife with his left. Men appeared before and beside him, then fell away ripped and hacked beyond the ability to sustain life. Two men engaged him closely. I found myself in danger of becoming sick again. James switched hands with his sword, punched one of them three times with his right hand. Even at this distance I witnessed the damage. After the first strike, blood covered the man’s face, the second seemed to obliterate nose and cheekbones, and the final reduced what had been a face to a shapeless mass. I saw the blade slash and the second man’s body came almost in half at the waist.

I lowered the glass, panting, dizzy, then again watched.

A sailor in the rigging stared down at James, and a warning lodged in my throat. Below, my lover fought another pair of attackers. Above, a third, unknown to him began cutting free a large piece of burning sail. It fell. Some sixth sense warned James an instant shy of disaster. He stepped for the most part clear. The slap of it to his shoulder spread flame to his shirt. Hardly pausing in the fight, he ripped the shirt from under the weapons strap he wore, dropped it, shot the man in the rigging and dispatched the men teaming against him.

I spared a quick glance about and saw most of the British lay dead or dying. A triumphant shout rose from the living standing on their enemies’ deck. Relief poured through me for a moment. However, the second ship had sailed until it lodged hardly the length of a dozen paces from the wood and shell wall of the dock’s lip. Grapple lines went over to catch the timber and British spilled down them like spiders. They landed in a steady stream. I knew my time had arrived. I returned the glass to the runner, who left upon some errand.

James and his group came back the way they’d departed. We stood now perhaps sixty five to eighty or more. Walks Softly and Etienne kept me between them as our force ran to meet the British.

Behind us, muffled by the rise of the land, came the sound of the third ship’s guns.

Nothing prepared me for the horrific thud and crunch of body meeting body. Or the noise, roars and screams, the clang of steel on steel and pistol fire. I could see little save the backs of my guards and the crush of bodies beyond. I felt removed, disassociated from the smell of sulpher and gore.

Then, a British seaman appeared before me. I realized neither Etienne nor Walks Softly saw him for a heartbeat. By then, they could not turn their blades quick enough to intercept his. It almost surprised me to see my own come up and deflect the blow. It required both hands to match his strength, and the vibration from impact reverberated down through my bones. He turned me sideways and I realized if he could twist me enough, he could then bring his sword back across my throat or belly before I could regain my posture.

I saw the knife at his waist. Made a decision. Releasing the cutlass with one hand, I let him carry through. But, I yanked the long knife and thrust it under his arm, down toward the heart and lungs as Walks Softly had taught me.

The shock on his face would no doubt stay with me for some time. It provided a valuable truth. In battle, not always the biggest, strongest, or even most skilled prevailed. But the one who is able to see an opportunity and quickly act upon it.

Etienne’s sword flashed between me and my sinking attacker. The Frenchman shouted, “Brava!”

The throng thinned and I saw James. He had a British sailor by the uniform front, keeping the bloody man upright by the power of his arm, a knife to the man’s throat. Aside from the occasional cry of the wounded, the noise of battle began to fade. Only that on the other side of the island remained.

I heard James interrogating the sailor in a brutal, ruthless voice. “Only the three of you? Or does another lie in wait?”

Blood bubbled, bright red from the man’s lips. “T-three. I swear before God…”

James growled, “It’s my knife you’re under! Swear to me!”

I shuddered. This was El Pantera.

The wounded man could barely speak. “I swear .. To you.’

James dropped him and stepped over, coming to give me a passionless inspection. “We must regroup and go reinforce Mr. Street. Walks Softly, you and Etienne take what you need to aid him. I shall take a few men, and Lili and go see to Gamboa.”

Walks Softly nodded. “Rendezvous at the villa? Wounded there and here in the tavern?”

“Yes.” He jerked his head in the direction of the first British ship. “There‘s a man bound on deck. Keep him alive. He was Huntington‘s first mate.” James took my hand. The many slashes and blackened spots on his skin seemed to bother him not at all. To me, he said, “Let’s mount up and go see to your brother.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We rode from town, the darkness of the pre-dawn made sharper after such abundant torch and firelight. A dozen men divided into pairs manning long wooden boats, rowed across the harbor from the docks to meet us at the Prideful Folly. Two veterans rode with James and I along the shell road. The battle-thunder still rang in my ears, the lightening of it continuing to spark in my blood. The man I had killed, I could yet see his face. But I knew he would have slain me the same as I did him. With that so firm in fact, I could not regret my very small part in the fight.

Through the trees I could soon see lights of lanterns and torches. My anxiousness began anew, fueled by the ugly images I had seen. Only recently had my brother and I discovered one another. Could the world exercise such cruelty as to snatch him from me?

We had to pick our way through trees and heavy scrub to the narrow lip of beach. Two large row boats had already arrived, men swarming up the lines tossed over the rail. I noticed several of the men wore packs slung upon their backs. Medical supplies, I reasoned.

I had to force myself into composure as we halted. The cries and groans of the wounded reached my ears and traveled directly to my soul with the cold breath of a winter wind. Gamboa appeared at the rail, coat and shirt in absence, a sheet wrapping his chest. Red bloomed upon it alarmingly near the heart. He staggered even as we returned his wave. One of James’ men caught him as Gamboa collapsed.

I did not have the strength to haul myself up the rope the way James easily did. He went up smoothly, hand over hand, then tossed me another and one of our escorts fashioned me a harness. He brought me aboard and released me from the line.

I glanced around the body- and wreckage -littered deck. “Christopher!”

He leaned against what remained of a mast pole. The entire front of him dark with gore, he did not appear to have life left in him. I slipped twice on the blood-slick wood, fell to my knees beside him. I lifted his cool hand. A strangled scream escaped me as he sprang forward, pressing a knife to my throat. His wild eyes flashed battle rage. Then the frightening glow faded and he slumped. “Lili.”

James came to kneel next to me. He drew his knife and began to carefully cut open my brother’s clothing. When he pushed the parted sides wide, I swallowed my gasp and did not allow myself to turn away. Whatever hit him, had sliced skin back to bare muscle in one place and left a wound baring ribs nearby.

“Don’t fret, Lili,” Christopher whispered, “it doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

James called, “Mr. Renee, we’ll need a stretcher, packing powder and bandages.” When he had the latter items in his hands, he said to me, “Can you help me get the rest of his ruined clothing off so we can make him more comfortable?” He set the supplies aside for a moment.

“Of course.” I pulled the tattered, gory garments from Christopher’s shoulders as James leaned him carefully forward. The stretcher, one of many brought by boat, arrived rolled into a trim bundle. James unrolled the canvas and pole device, he eased my brother to lie beside it, rolled him quickly onto side, slid the stretcher, then let Christopher roll onto his back upon it. Fresh blood welled and slid down his sides.

“Bleeding is good in this case, Lili.” He seemed to have sensed the rush of fear seeing the fresh flow evoked in me. “This wound is from shrapnel. Bleeding pushes debris from the body.“ I noticed the care James took in shaking the strange-smelling powder into the wounds, then covering them. Christopher’s breath hissed from him. James said, “Walks Softly makes this. The burn of the stuff is its greatest virtue. It is the effect of the antiseptic properties.”

We saw Christopher lowered to a boat along with Gamboa. Two strong rowers took up oars and struck out hard for the dock. I heard wagons, turned to see several moving along behind the scrub line. Over the next while, I saw stretchers lowered, their cargo carried up to the wagons, and then the litter bearers return for the next one.

I went from man to man with James, realizing how much more I had to learn. For all his skill in taking life, he also knew how to preserve it. Finally, he said, “We must rendezvous with Walks Softly.”

During the ride to the villa, we passed many wagons and stretcher bearers. “So many dead and wounded,” I mused aloud.

“We won’t know the true extent until perhaps mid morning.”

Speaking of it reminded me about what I had heard him say earlier, about keeping Huntington‘ first mate alive. “You told your men you had a man bound on the British ship.”

I peeked over, saw his dark brows lower. “Do not concern yourself with that, Lili.”

Swift indignation filled me. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, James Garrett.” My use of his surname made him look at me for a moment as we skirted the common and turned toward the villa. “I killed a man today. A soldier in the British navy. The time for protecting my sensibilities has long passed.”

He gave me a longer consideration. “Are you all right?”

“If you mean do I regret killing him, no.” I saw the two lovely boys from the stable coming down the road. One had a bandage above one eye. I halted the gelding, “Bonjour.” I pointed to my own head where he seemed to have sustained a wound, struggled to find the words. “Est-il tout droit ?”

He nodded solemnly, his usual joy in understandable absence.

James had reined in the gelding to wait for me. When I drew abreast, he said, “You’ve been learning French, as well.”

“A little.” In truth, only enough to tell when Etienne tried to slip something passed me.

As we drew close to the villa, the noise of activity increased. Torchlight flickered through the trees. I glimpsed much movement and heard voices raised. My heart sank as I saw women moving among several rows of wounded on the lawn.

James and I drew closer. He halted, twisting in the saddle. To a man of his, he asked, “Where is Walks Softly?”

I could not see the man’s face. Torchlight backlit him. “I know not.”

James persisted, “Mr. Street?”

A second less than helpful answer, “I‘ve not seen, nor heard.”

A sharp slice of fear swept me. “We should go.”

To the unknown man, James said, “Mr. Stuart, organize some men on horseback to serve as runners. We need better communications. I expect preliminary casualty reports when I return. We ride to the other side of the island.”

“Consider it done, captain.”

I followed James’ lead as we ascended the hill behind the villa and then wound down through the jungle. Suddenly he halted. I did the same. The sound of men on foot reached me. Though they seemed to make an effort at concealment, metal clicked on metal and small branches snapped. James dismounted, as did I. In the barest whisper, he spoke. “If they were my men, they’d not concern themselves with stealth.”

My lungs tightened and I stamped down the urge to panic. I had considered the fighting done. Now battle loomed again. Keeping my voice at a hush, I asked, “How many?”

He listened. “A half dozen. Perhaps more.”

I felt quite ill. “What shall we do?”

“I can’t risk their laying hands on you in an open fight. Neither can I chance their getting to the villa, or hiding themselves to pick off litter bearers or messengers.” He handed the stallion’s reins to me, withdrew that lethal club and a long, wicked knife from the shoulder strap he wore across his bare chest. “Stay here and keep these horses silent.”

Frantic with fear, I hissed quietly, “You cannot mean to face them alone?”

Instead of answering, he replied, “Do not move from this spot. No matter what you hear.”

Then like a wraith, he melted into the dark jungle. The sounds of the horses’ breath seemed to become very loud as my ears strained. My own respiration sounded noisy enough to draw the enemy’s attention.

A ripple of voices reached me. One saying, “We’re two men short, sir!”

I guessed their location mayhaps twenty paces to my right and no longer moving. There came a sudden swift shuffle, two terrible crunching cracks and then a strangled scream. A pistol shot rang out and I closed my eyes, hoping upon hope James had not taken that ball. Then, I heard a short, sharp cry, almost more like surprise.

The cannon fire had ceased, I realized as I stood waiting.

“Lili.” James’ voice made relief pour through me.

I turned, and gasped. Even in the dimness, I saw the blood on him. It peppered his throat and shoulders, fanned in a wide swath across his chest, and all but coated his forearms. My gaze moved over him, seeking a wound.

Quietly, he said, “None of it is mine.”

I accepted that, handed him Venganza’s leathers. “Let’s go find our friends.”

I heard the fighting before we rode close enough to see more than muzzle flashes and fire. We left the horses in the cover of the trees and made our way through palmetto and scrub. I followed, careful to stay at his back, attuned to his slightest moves, and sensing the battle heat still coursing through him. For a moment we halted. I peeked around him. Spread along the beach, fierce fighting continued. I glimpsed boats farther out. They appeared en route to shore.

More British.

A thorough study of the scene produced two familiar dark shapes. Walks Softly and Etienne fought back-to-back perhaps thirty paces from our hidden vantage. My stomach pitched and I gripped James’ waist, wondering if I would ever adjust to seeing someone I cared about in such peril.

Many shots rang from the tree line down the beach. I saw men flip neatly over the boats’ sides.

He reached back to put his hand over mine. The drying blood stuck to me. I thought what a strange covenant we two had taken. First the spilling of my virgin’s blood. Now that of a common enemy‘s.

“I dare not leave you,” he said. “Can you do this?”

“Yes.” I could give no other answer.

He moved us quickly to our friends, shouting as we approached. Only once did I have to defend myself. A wounded soldier swung wildly at me. I swatted his sword with mine. That alone sent him reeling.

I soon found myself in the midst of the three of them. They stayed a bit farther from me than seemed safe. However, the first time James sidestepped a thrust and the naked rapier winked a few feet before me, I understood why. Had they remained too tight, that blade might have found me.

Despite the disheartening first impression I had received, the battle quickly became a route. Sharpshooters picked off soldiers from the deck of the ship as well as the landing boats. Several groups of James’ men hopped into the crafts shifting aimless and unmanned in the dark surf, rowed out to finish their dire business aboard the British vessel.

A roar rose. I looked about. Only our men remained among the upright.

A tremendous swell of pride threatened to burst my heart. I had done this small part in a great bloody drama. We won the day, stood victorious and in possession of the field.

As quickly as it had lifted me aloft, the euphoria vanished.

The worst work waited.

Trying to save the wounded and seeing to the dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hours stitched themselves together in a blurred, bloody tapestry of terrible wounds, smoke, destruction and death. Only the happy reunion of families and the knowledge thus far those of my heart remained all alive kept me from despair.

The sun hoisted itself from the ocean, pausing waist deep in the indigo, as if knowing its orange glow displayed there best. Then, it rose to backlight darkening heavy clouds with rims of fire very much like the battle had done.

Walks Softly spent over an hour with Christopher and Gamboa. During which, I sat and held their hands and cleaned away the black and red of battle. Gamboa managed to tell us the beginning of this string of events.

They had left here and sailed a day’s time to a small island between this one and Jamaica. A man owed Gamboa for supplies he’d dropped on a previous trip. The man could not pay in coin. Therefore goods were accepted in trade. By the time the docks master pronounced cargo loaded, the tide had departed and with it the depth of water needed to carry the ship from the small harbor. So, they had waited for the next. They had hardly sailed for six hours when the three British vessels ambushed them from behind a series of small islands. Luckily smaller and fleeter, though hit, they managed to stay just ahead in the headlong race to the shelter of Isla de los Tiburones.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, finishing his tale. His brown eyes lifted to a point above my shoulder. “We could think of nothing else.”

James spoke from behind me. “I have not offered the safety of my harbor to have you perish at sea rather than seek it.”

Etienne came to kneel beside my brother as Walks Softly examined the deepest of my brother’s wounds again. The Frenchman said, “Mi amour.” Though the words emerged almost too quiet to hear, I saw Gamboa’s pain-bright gaze go between the two men in sudden understanding. Then his regard shifted to me. I suppose he saw the acceptance, for he closed his eyes then.

To Walks Softly, he reported, “I believe that concoction you made me swallow might be doing some good.”

I watched the indian gently replace the clean bandages over Christopher’s injury. “Why do you not sew it closed?”

“Because the flesh swells. We must keep it clean and covered, and hope I can close it tomorrow.”

James, Etienne, Walks Softly and I left the dining hall turned infirmary. Out in the hall, James said, “Let us speak in the study.”

Once behind closed doors, James asked for an estimation of how many hands Walks Softly needed to minister to wounded.

“At least twenty men I’ve trained and whatever women will lend aid.”

James nodded, “Etienne, find Mr. Levit and organize an inspection of the ships’ manifests. I want to have a number to compare bodies against.”

The Frenchman replied, “Oui, and what of those bodies?”

“Ours,” my lover responded, “it shall fall to the family, if they have one, to chose burial at sea or dry land. The rest will have their choice on record with me in my office by the harbor. The British all find their sleep beneath the waves. Even the officers.”

Etienne seemed almost hesitant, then prompted, “What of the man you wished kept alive?”

Deadly black fire leapt in James’ eyes again. “I go to deal with him now.”

“We’ll meet you back here?” Walks Softly trained that keen scrutiny upon James, and I could tell the indian did not like his adopted brother’s mood.

“Yes.”

They clasped arms and James turned to leave. I did not speak up, rather followed quietly. In the foyer, James realized I did so. He turned, brows lowered. “I go alone.”

“Someone needs to keep you honest,” I answered.

“You may go so far as the docks.” He sounded certain I would obey his word as law. Surely the battle temper had dimmed his memory.

We rode to the town common, where two boys from the village hurried to take the reins as we dismounted. We walked through barely controlled chaos. Already the dead and dying among the enemy were under the process of removal. Here and there I glimpsed women giving a mortally wounded British sailor a sip of water. Still, they did so without a hint of feminine softness. In their faces I could clearly see the hardness conjured by knowing that same man would have slain them and their young. Admiration swelled in me for my gender. At least, for this brand of womanhood. Not the weak, vain, timid submissives found in ’proper’ society.

As our progress brought us closer to the dock, James commanded, “Stay here.” I continued behind him. He halted, tone curt, “I mean it. I do this alone.”

“James,” I began low enough to prevent anyone overhearing, “you are troubled enough without the burden of some inhumanity done in a violent temper.”

“Your presence will not moderate my behavior.”

“Then you’ve no reason to deny me.”

He snarled wordlessly and strode to the cracked and slanted gangplank of the Vengeance. I ventured up at his back. We crossed the blessedly clean deck to the prow of the Dover’s Honor. James helped me over and I had to choke back bile. Body parts littered the wood. Fallen men in various awkward poses, their faces twisted in frozen, final agony, crowded thickly at our feet. James kicked enemy corpses from his path as one might driftwood. I picked my way with more reserve.

At the center mast, a man stood tied. Blood had dried at his nose and mouth. Smoke blackened his fine white shirt under the opened coat. Other than that, he appeared unharmed. Vivid green eyes met mine, flashing a defiant hatred eerily reminiscent of that terrible flame I’d seen burning in James.

“Ah,” the man began, his speech clearly marking him upper crust, “the fearsome Hunter and his whore approach.”

“How would you know anything about me?” I studied him. A fine specimen, he stood perhaps three fingers shorter than James with an abundance of muscle and bone.

“I saw your miniature,” he replied. “Given you’re sauntering about armed and in breeches, no less, I surmise you have warmed to the role of semen receptacle.”

Rage spurted through me. “You know nothing of me.” I walked closer, made a fist as Walks Softly taught me, and struck the man in the face. Pain lanced my knuckles as his teeth ripped them. I cared not. Infuriated by his - by society’s - rules for my gender, I hit him again.

He glared at me and spat fresh blood onto the deck. “You weren’t fit to shine Giles’s boots.”

“Why might I have had to,” I mocked, “when it appears you’d have licked them clean!”

James circled behind the man, untied him. “Come along like a man, or I shall drag you like a cur hound. Choose.”

Through my anger, I found the humor of the moment. I had accompanied James to prevent any battle lust-inspired brutality. Yet I, not he, had attacked a bound man.

James inclined his head toward the Vengeance. “We go ashore.”

My lover took one of his big pistols from it’s place at his belt and kept it trained upon the Englishman as we returned to the dock by the same means we’d come. Though I longed to ask what he intended for his prisoner, I kept quiet. As we descended the damaged gangplank, I saw a man come forward with a rapier in scabbard and belt.

James took the weapon, handed it to his prisoner. “Put it on.”

The man buckled on the weapon, saying, “When I heard Christopher Rothington killed Giles in a duel, I was furious. No seconds. No seconds! Unheard of!” He adjusted his clothing, wiped a hand over his bloody lips. “I learned he went to offer himself in Giles’s stead. I followed.”

James responded coolly. “All the better for me. You stood idly by as he killed my family.”

The other man paused. Pure entitlement blazed in his chill tone. “Your what?”

I watched my lover discard the extra weapons he wore, until he possessed only the sword. “The Far Horizon. That couple and their young son you suffered to see slain? My family.”

The other man threw back his head and roared with ugly mirth. When it finished, he looked at James. “I urged him to sink that ship.” He adjusted his scabbard. “I refused to allow one mistake, involving a ship of Colonials, to ruin his career.”

James snarled, “Defend yourself!”

Again, I had to watch my lover in Death’s presence.

The two men circled briefly. Both aggressive fighters, they attacked almost at once. The sound of clashing swords became deafening. A crowd began to rim the area. I watched the muscles of James’ bare torso bunching and flexing.

They locked, face to face. James growled, “Give me your name!”

“Captain Argyle Mallory.” I saw him shove, noticed the strain in his face. “Author of your cloddish Colonial family’s demise!”

James broke the lock, sending his opponent staggering back several steps. James advanced quickly, harrying Mallory’s left, then slicing open the man’s right thigh in a sudden change of tactic. The movement opened my lover to a frontal blow. I stifled my gasp as Mallory’s sword sought the weakness. A ripple of concerned exclamations rose from the crowd.

Too fast to fall victim to it, James stepped adroitly aside and used his blade to guide Mallory’s out of the strike. “Did you feel powerful murdering a fourteen-year-old boy?”

Pain colored the wounded man’s tone as he replied, “I only wish I could raise him from the dead to hang him again while you watched!”

James executed a flurry attacks that made my breath arrest and my stomach clench. He managed to remain just beyond the reach of Mallory’s blade, yet all the while, red slashes appeared on the Englishman’s body. Watching this, I suddenly realized had nothing to fear. James played with him, harassing, letting him clear, then opening another shallow, though surely painful gash. Before very long, Mallory’s clothing became soaked with his blood. Dozens of wounds latticed his arms, legs and abdomen. I could see his strength flowing out with the red of his life. Even as I recognized the man’s imminent doom, he suffered a terrible swipe to his middle. Red, white and curiously blue entrails spilled to the crushed shells at Mallory’s feet. His weapon slipped from his grasp as he clutched at his dropping insides.

I turned my head, then forced myself to look. This was the truth and finality of living by the sword. More pointedly, dying by it.

Mallory blinked as if confused, slowly sinking to his knees amid the pulsing mass.

James sheathed his gore-smeared sword. “My father was a man of honor and integrity. And my brother was already more of a man than you, Argyle Mallory. Their souls reside in Heaven. Tonight, you sleep in Hell.” He struck the dying man in the face and the instant devastation caused by his fist amazed me anew. The other man’s nose vanished, leaving an almost triangular depression that spewed blood. Though I felt dizzy, I did not retch at the sight.

The ruined corpse fell backward, jerking for a moment, then going still.

I went forward to meet my lover as he turned toward me. He said nothing as he took my hand, and led me to where our horses waited. We rode to the villa without speaking. Litter bearers had moved all the wounded inside. A half-grown youth I did not recognize took our mounts. Out in the yard, many fires blazed. Huge pots suspended above them with iron works steamed. Women carried out fouled bandages and clothes, dumped them into one of two pots stirred by servants. Then, removed fresh ones from other cauldrons, placing them on huge platters and rushed them inside.

We entered the villa amid a rush of solicitous greetings. The household staff had assumed the chore of cooking for the masses. Smells of meat and vegetables mingled in the air with the odor of medicines and blood. James paused to speak with Walks Softly in the hall. I went to the kitchen. The air nearly choked me with hot vapor from their labors. Three huge pots in the hearth held what looked like, fish chowder, pork stew and a soup of chicken, potatoes and onions.

I assembled a tray with two bowls of stew, a small loaf of dark bread from the baskets situated near the hearth, and a wedge of cheese offered by one of the staff, then spoons and a knife. I put it in the lift and sent it up to our room. Next, I arranged for the servants to send up hot water when I sent the box back down to them.

Out in the hall, I took James by the arm. “They can spare you for an hour. Come bathe and break your fast.”

Upstairs I turned the key in the lock behind us. I carried the tray from the lift into the sitting room, then sent the box down to the kitchen. In a moment it returned burdened with a huge vat of heavily steaming water. Several buckets of room temperature water already sat beside the tub. I brought James into the bathing chamber. As a nurse might tend a favored charge, I stripped him, bid him step into the tub and washed the grime from him. I dried him, careful of his myriad small wounds, then wrapped a towel about his hips. He exited the tub, and I said, “Go have your meal while it remains hot.”

Turning my attention to myself, I undressed and gave myself the same treatment. Taking down my hair proved tedious. I’d assumed James had gone when he’d stepped from my field of vision. It startled me greatly when his hands gently brushed away mine and released the knot Walks Softly had made. My hair tumbled down. He stood at my back outside the tub and helped me lather my tresses and rinse them. He lifted me out, set me upon my feet and patted the water from my body.

I stood under his ministering hands, conscious of the violence they’d done this day, feeling my blood warm to their touch. He wrapped a fresh drying cloth around my hair and squeezed the excess moisture from it.

James dropped the cloth, pulled me against him. I opened to him as his mouth came down upon mine, hot, hungry and demanding. The platonic caregiver had vanished. His hands moved over me with the same commanding urgency in his kiss.

“Yield to me, Lili,” he murmured.

I did. And when his fingers delved between my thighs, he groaned at the wet reception they received. I wanted him inside me desperately. Sexual avarice clawed my belly, made me ache with emptiness. I thought of how close he might have come to dying in battle. One slip or brief lapse of diligence could have had me bathing his butchered body rather than on fire with anticipation of it invading my own.

James pushed me against the wall, cupped my bottom and lifted me. He hooked one leg over his arm and entered me in an exquisite, deep thrust. He growled wolfishly and I moaned and shivered.

I dug my nails into his buttocks, holding him to me, wanting him pressed to my quick.

He rubbed his lips over my damp hair. “You’re mine.”

“Yes,” I agreed, lifting my arms to circle his neck.

He withdrew in a slow, nerve sizzling drag of intimate skin on skin, returned to me in a swift knife of pleasure. “Say it.”

“I am yours, James.” Breathless with libidinous rapture, I might have agreed to anything. Yet, I meant it. My heart had given itself, and I loved this man with reckless, wild passion.

His lovemaking became rougher. I welcomed his strength and ferocity. My body began to peak and I gripped my lover with my trembling limbs. James gave a guttural shout and the powerful bursts of his climax burst within me.

Gentle again, he disentangled us after a moment and carried me into the sitting room. We took our meal as we were, naked, one appetite sated as we saw to another. Afterward, we dressed and returned to the aftermath.