I'm going to kill those beasts, Nicole thought grimly as she pounded her head against her forearm on the desk. When she sat up, she blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and looked down at her desk, presently littered with charts. She glared at all the numbers and equations fogging together.
She couldn't think, much less concentrate on plotting a course to impress her father. She didn't expect to when the livestock in the hold had been shrilling for a quarter of an hour.
Of course, this would happen when no one was on board to shush the puling animals. Lassiter had gone to a meeting he'd set up through the woman from the tavern, and nearly all of the crew were out enjoying their liberal shore leave.
The sounds dimmed. Holding her breath, she inwardly commanded their silence for the rest of the night. Just when she picked up her pen again, the animals erupted once more. Disgusted, she threw it down. Why weren't the two crewmen who'd drawn guard duty tonight seeing to this annoyance?
Probably asleep on the job. She would never fall asleep on the job.
Nicole stretched her arms high above her head before rising from the bolted-down chair in her cabin. Although she wasn't going very far, she grabbed her woolen cloak and pulled it tight.
She trotted with her clanging lamp toward the companionway, trying not to breathe too deeply of the sluggish low-tide air, but she couldn't suppress a yawn or two. She thought of the other reason she'd gotten so little accomplished this whole day--her exhaustion in the face of a sleepless night. She'd tossed and turned with sensual dreams, the sheets tangling between her legs, the fine cloth of her nightdress growing too bristly against sensitive skin.
In this dream, the man who set upon her wasn't a faceless stranger. It was Sutherland.
She reminded herself that he'd largely influenced her father's misguided decision about her sailing. And that the race would pit her father against this man again, making bad blood worse. So why could she still feel his warm, strong fingers firm on her wrist?
Shaking her head, Nicole drove him from her mind yet again. She did not have time for distractions.
At the companionway, she scanned the deck for the guards. Unable to see anyone to reprimand, she swung effortlessly down the steep, narrow steps as she had a thousand times before. When the light touched the animals, the insouciant goat merely swung its head toward her. But the wide-eyed pigs and sheep were frightened and heartily announced that fact in the echoing confines of the hold.
She puckered her lips and cooed, but they were spooked as they were when a bad storm was brewing. Muttering a curse, Nicole set her lamp on the floor and reached for the shovel to throw them more feed.
Her arm halted in midair.
The light from the lantern faintly illuminated a shape crouched on the floor, a huddled form partially obscured by one of the mighty timber ribs of the ship.
A man?
Nicole pushed her hair out of her eyes and up more securely in her hood as she squinted to make out the sailor's identity. Whoever he was, he needed to learn that he shouldn't be down here at odd hours without a good reason. Even more, if he'd upset the animals, then he should have made some effort to calm them.
"Just what do you think you're doing down here, sailor?" she demanded, each word she spoke underscored by the solid click of her boots as she marched toward him.
But as she neared him, something inside her, some oftignored instinct, told her to proceed warily.
He didn't answer, just rose and turned to her. Her breath leached out in a hiss.
The man bore a purplish, bubbled scar that curved over his forehead and down through a vacant eye socket. A foul odor emanated from him. It was the smell of gin, refuse, and...blood. She gagged, her eyes watering as she swallowed to keep from retching.
After several shallow breaths, her wits returned. This couldn't be one of her father's men. Which meant...which meant that she was in trouble. Again.
The play of emotions over her face must have amused the scarred man, because he grinned, revealing teeth that resembled little chunks of charred wood. She couldn't stop the widening of her eyes, or the hasty step back.
With her next step, she drew a deeper breath, regretting it immediately as his reeking form moved toward her. She managed to say, "Carry on, sailor. M-my apologies."
For a second, then two, she awaited his reaction. How could she attract the guards' attention when the animals obviously hadn't? Could she outrun him? She was in trousers--she might be able to escape to the deck if he came after her. She should try...she really should move.
Just as she spun toward the companionway, the man called out, "Don't think we'll be wantin' 'er to go nowhere, Clive."
Appearing out of the shadows before her came a hulking second man, a man she sensed was even more dangerous than the first.
Two of them, in the hold. With her.
Nicole gaped at this new man's equally alarming appearance. She found herself morbidly fascinated by his pie-plate face, round and stamped down except for the bulbous protrusion of his lips. She watched him much like a bystander witnessing a terrible carriage accident, mouth parted, too horror-struck to move.
An instant later, the will to defend herself rose up, and her eyes darted all around to spy out a weapon. But she wouldn't be able to grab the hold's shovel or pitchfork before either of the men could get to her.
Then she spied the haphazard arrangement of tools on the floor beside the second man. The bastards were here to sabotage them! Fury spiked through her before settling like a weight on her chest, but she bit it back and said, "I am sorry for interrupting whatever repairs you're doing down here. I'll be going back up to my cabin...so good night."
"You ain't goin' nowhere, lady," the man called Clive said through those beefy lips. "I think you're goin' to stay with us and keep me 'n' Pretty comp'ny for a spell." His voice was guttural and his leering eyes scoured her body. Revulsion racked her. She flexed and closed her fingers as she fought for control. "You didn't think I'd let a comely piece of puss like you leave without me givin' you a good toss, did you?"
"Now, 'old on, Clive," Pretty protested from where he'd stopped, not five feet from her side. "The boss didn' say nothin' about tuppin' nobody tonight." He scratched intently in his greasy hair as he suggested, "Let's me 'n' you finish up 'ere afore we get caught, 'n' then we'll take care of 'er."
"Bugger you, Pretty," Clive said as he reached for the front of her cloak. A panicked screech burst from her lips. She kicked out at him. The stiff toe of her boot planted into his knee before she dashed around him, narrowly shimmying past his enraged lunge.
"Help! Somebody help me!" she screamed just once before she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.
Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was faster, and she managed just three steps up the companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce. Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out of her lungs.
Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The pain ebbed and her sight blurred...until Clive hauled her back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand over the other snaking higher up her leg.
Fight, damn it, fight! With a hidden reserve of strength, she kicked forcefully, her heel catching the man squarely in his foul, soft mouth.
Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.
She'd broken free. She'd--
"I'll shoot you if you try that again." The words accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.
She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred man had
a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.
One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.
Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed, knowing she was too weak...too slow.
Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.
Chapter 2
D erek Sutherland was an angry man.
Those who knew him well, and they were few, feared he wasn't many years away from becoming a bitter man. The events of the last four years did seem to guarantee his descent in that direction.
Late on this cold and bleak night, in addition to being angry, he was drunk. As was usual.
In truth, only one thing was out of the ordinary. He'd begun sobering up, an inconvenience he hoped to remedy soon in a nearby tavern. Lengthening his strides, he weaved his way through the broken crowds that populated the docks. He made his way easily even with the influx of people the race had drawn, since most wisely gave him a wide berth when he came near.
This wasn't only because he was a large man, standing a head taller than most out here. Nor was it that his hard face evinced the anger he wrestled with more and more each day. It was because he'd become a man who had nothing to lose, making him the most dangerous kind. And it showed.