Page 3 of Captive of the Pirate King
My stomach drops.
I have a deathly fear of heights, and practically no upper body strength. Swinging across that gap, from deck to deck, trying to grasp a massive ship’s rope in my small hands, while dark water churns two or three stories below—it’s not going to happen. I can’t do it.
If I happen to fall, I’m dead, because I can’t swim.
3
One by one, the others swing across to the pirate ship.
I’m the only one left aboard the merchant vessel. I’m certain the pirates won’t wait for me, and I’m equally certain I won’t be able to swing across that gap on my own.
But if I can’t manage it, I’ll die.
And then who’s going to look for my brother?
Nobody else cares about him. My parents have shut him out of their minds, given him up for dead. But I can’t. I refuse to believe that I won’t ever see him again.
Setting my jaw, I reach for a rope. As I thought, it’s enormously thick, and my slim fingers look weak and pale closed around it.
A voice speaks over my shoulder, startling me. I thought I was the only one left, but Eye-Patch—Locke—stands behind me, his full mouth twisted with disapproval. “I knew you were a cowardly one when I saw you in the galley, boy, but this is beyond the pale. Get on with it!”
I don’t dare answer him. I’ll have to learn to pitch my voice low enough to fool these men without sounding ridiculous, but I don’t trust myself to utter words right now. If I try, I’ll probably end up voicing a very feminine squeak of terror.
“Leap, or be left behind,” says Locke, irritation sharpening his tone.
I grip the rope tighter and step onto the railing. Weakened by cannon fire, it sways outward and I nearly scream—
A brawny arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back to safety. “Fine, then. You hold this—” Locke shoves a bottle of wine at me— “and we’ll nip over there together. But you better make your scrawny ass useful, or I’ll drop you over the side myself.”
I nod vigorously, clutching the wine. It’s from the captain’s cabin, and a fine vintage. No wonder this Locke person went back for it.
Locke grips the rope with a powerful hand and wraps his other arm around me again, pinning me with my back to his chest. I nearly gasp, because part of his forearm is pressed against my bound breasts. They’re a smallish size, but definitely noticeable. I can only hope the binding and the peril of our crossing distract him from any lumpiness he might feel.
As for me, there’s an illicit warmth snaking through my body at the proximity of the muscled male body to mine. A salty, bitter musk emanates from him, sweat and blood mingled with the sting of the sea. He steps onto the rail, holding both his weight and mine with one arm as if it’s nothing. I grip the wine bottle and bite my lip until blood pulses from it, as the deck falls away and I’m suspended, propelled through whistling space.
We crash onto the deck of the pirate ship—well, I crash and he alights much too gracefully for such a tall person. Somehow I manage not to break the wine bottle.
The toe of a boot nudges me, and a new voice asks, “Who’s this, then?”
I look up—way up, into the face of a man with a neatly oiled goatee and a long blue-black braid. He wears a coat of azure leather and a large hat bedecked with peacock plumage. Metal studs travel the arch of one eyebrow, and his angled eyes are black-lined.
The pirate captain.
I get to my feet, leaning into my natural clumsiness, abandoning every bit of grace that’s been hammered into me. Ducking my head, I hold out the bottle of wine.
“Cabin boy, sir,” says Locke. “Seems to be a mute.”
“Is he now?” The pirate captain sweeps a hand beneath my chin and tilts my face up. “I doubt that. By the stars, he has pretty eyes. Give us your name, lad.”
Veronica. But that can’t be my name anymore. “Nick,” I say hoarsely.
“Welcome aboard, Nick.” The pirate captain inspects one side of my face, then the other. He squeezes my upper arm through my shirt. “Not much to you, is there?”
“No, sir.”
“Too bad.” The captain nods to Locke. “Too weak. Toss him.”
“Aye, Captain.” Locke picks me up bodily, and this time one of his hands is over my left breast—but I barely register it as he walks to the railing.
