Looking for a Hero Page 2

It seemed a thousand years since they’d shared secrets, since they’d sailed with their parents from England toward the West Indies—since he’d held Melody’s limp, lifeless body in his arms and buried her in the midst of a grove of palms.

  He shook his head, shoving that memory from his mind. Her death had driven him to vengeance; remembrances of her life kept him sane. And it was sanity he needed most of all now.

  Pressing his cheek to the cool battered wall, he listened as the child in the next room cleared her throat, the same thing he’d often done when he’d sat down before the fire to begin one of his tales, with Melody snuggled in his lap.

  “Listen up, matey,” the child announced, in a deep, exaggerated voice. “’Tis a vile story I tell you now, of the most infamous pirate to ever sail the seven seas.”

  Warmth touched his heart as he sank to the floor, resting his weary head against the wall while he listened to her tale.

  “Some folks say Blackbeard was the scurviest of pirates, but my story is about a buccaneer who was even worse. He had a big, ugly scar on his face and when he wasn’t wearing his patch, his right eye hung from its socket. Some people say that he ate babies for breakfast and picked his teeth with their bones.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a bit too much?” the woman interrupted.

  “No, Mommy,” the girl said innocently. “It’s true. Cross my heart.”

  A rumble of laughter caught in Black Heart’s chest. He’d embellished many a tale to the delight of his sister, even to a drunken crew. He’d been the best of storytellers, and now it appeared he was meeting his match.

  “Did he have any good qualities?” the woman asked.

  “Of course not,” the girl said indignantly. “He was a pirate! His hands were grimy, his fingernails were broken. His pigtail smelled like rotten fish and his clothes were so dirty that even the ship’s rats hated to get close to him.” Her voice lowered, and Black Heart scrambled up from the floor and put his ear close to the opening so he could hear her story over the ceaseless winds. “If you’ve heard anything good about this man, don’t believe it.” Her voice raised again, and her words hit him loud and clear. “Black Heart was the wickedest cutthroat to ever set foot on earth.”

  “Lies!” Black Heart shouted, but his protest was drowned out by a rumble of thunder. ’Twas one thing to embellish a story. ’Twas another to slander a man who’d once had an admirable name. He had half a mind to storm into that room and point out all of his sterling character traits, but nausea gripped him again. Swirls of darkness and light whipped around his head, and once more he rested his brow on the cool, damp wall.

  The pain at his temple intensified, but he managed to peek cautiously through the jagged hole to see if the child who repeated such contemptible hearsay had horns protruding from her head.

  He wasn’t quite prepared for the sight he saw in the gloomy room. The storyteller chatted on and on as she cuddled in her mother’s arms, dressed in scarcely a stitch. She was just a wee bit of a thing, with wide eyes the color of a tranquil sea, a turned-up nose, and a mass of blond ringlets. From the looks of her she should have a halo suspended over her head. A tilted halo. One that burned with Satan’s fire.

  “Aren’t you leaving a few things out of your story?” the woman asked. “Like the fact that Black Heart robbed from the rich and gave to the poor?”

  The child rolled her pretty blue eyes. “That stuff’s no fun.”

  But it’s the truth! Black Heart spouted inwardly, wanting to vindicate himself. He had to stay quiet, though. Hidden. A woman and child would not be on the island alone, and he couldn’t risk being seen. Should their man return, a man interested in the bounty on his head, he would not have the endurance to fight.

  Nay, he must remain silent. On guard. Watching his surroundings. The scantily clothed child. The inadequately attired woman.

  Ah, the woman.

  She had a damn fine face. One of the prettiest faces he’d seen in many a year. She had a mighty fine body, too, and he could see nearly every scandalously revealed inch. The child’s head rested against her mother’s bosom, a pillow of comfort if ever he’d seen one. Her plump round breasts came close to spilling out of the bright blue corset she wore. At least he assumed it was a corset, the way it hugged her waist and belly. He’d never seen one quite like it. Naturally, he’d seen many a corset in his day, but this one had no bones to keep the woman’s back stiff, no hooks or laces to cinch her body into an unnatural shape and make it difficult for her to breathe, much less talk or eat. Instead, the fabric glistened like the finest of silk, and it smoothed over an already slender body. A damn fine body!

  And the face. A grown-up version of the child’s, with fair skin, the pinkest of lips, wide eyes that, even in the gathering gloom, sparkled like emeralds. Her wavy hair was the color of honey, and it hung far below her shoulders, looking windblown, tousled, as if she’d just been making love.

  What a beautiful woman like that was doing on his island was hard to fathom.

  Unless she was a gift from the gods.

  Or an outcast. He looked around the room where she and the child huddled and saw nothing to sustain them. There were no baskets filled with cheese and bread, no flasks of water, beer, or rum. They had nothing with them save the few scraps of fabric they were clothed in.

  Perhaps someone evil had left them alone on the island to die. Perhaps they’d had the misfortune of meeting someone as vile as Thomas Low.

  A sudden attack of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him, and he doubled over to thwart the worst of the sickness. Blood rushed to his head, to the gash across his skull. He forgot all about the woman’s perfect body, about the child’s angelic looks and her devilish lies. The incessant howl of wind and rain battered his eardrums, sending most thoughts from his mind.

  Weakness overcame his muscles as a thousand pinpricks of pain jabbed at his skin. His fingers turned cold and numb. His shoulders drooped, and he felt as if they could no longer bear the weight of his neck and head.

  He needed to sleep, to let his body heal. Perhaps when he woke he’d realize that the woman, the child, and the destruction of his home were nothing but a dream. Life would return to normal. Satan’s Revenge would be anchored in the harbor. His fortress would be whole again and his riches would be in their rightful places.

  Thomas Low would be in shackles.

  And the godforsaken pain would be gone.

  He prayed for oblivion, and smiled when a bolt of lightning flashed in the sky and thunder shook the ground. Slowly he crumpled to his knees. For one moment he thought he was going to die, and he clutched at the chains he wore about his neck, touching, one more time, his mother’s ring and his sister’s cross, before the blessed darkness enveloped him and the hard, sandy floor rushed up to meet his face.

  Chapter 2

  The waves lie still and gleaming,

  And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

  LORD BYRON, STANZAS FOR MUSIC

  “Are you okay, mister?”

  The child’s words were but a whisper against Black Heart’s ear. Too many years had passed since he’d wakened to something so sweet, and the voice of the little girl he’d seen earlier pleased him more than fair winds ruffling the sails on Satan’s Revenge or the lap of gentle waves against her hull.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Aye, he tried to say, but his mouth was much too dry for speech to come. It seemed as if he’d swallowed half the sand his face was resting in. Opening his eyes proved an impossibility, too, and the mere thought of nodding his head brought back the pain, as strong and relentless as the hurricane that had attempted to take his life.

  “Wake up, mister.”

  He managed to groan, a horrendous, guttural noise that to his ears sounded like the wail of a cow.

  “Did you say something?” the child asked. He could feel her warm breath against his cheek, her tiny fingers lightly prodding his shoulder. She was a brave bit of a thing to come so close, especially
when she imagined him to be a man who ate babies for breakfast.

  “Are you dead?”

  “I’m…not…quite…sure,” he mumbled. With great effort he rolled over on the rocky floor, and somehow he worked open the eyelid that wasn’t covered with a patch. Blond ringlets bounced before his nose, and two frowning blue eyes studied his scar.

  “Are you a pirate?”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he asked, “Are you a castaway?”

  “No. I’m Casey Cameron. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you a pirate?”

  “Aye.” The word slipped from his lips with no thought of their consequence. He should have answered, “Nay,” and told her some far-fetched story, but it was too late now.

  Her eyes widened, followed by her smile. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered, and then her voice rose with excitement. “I knew it! Mommy’s never going to believe this. Not in a million years.”

  She started to run.

  Bloody hell! He had to stop her before she brought back her mother and any others who might be on the island with thoughts of collecting the bounty on his head. He jerked up, and the dizziness once more overwhelmed him.

  “Wait,” he called out to her, his voice just as unsteady as his body, his throat as scratchy as the sand embedded in his skin.

  The child stopped in the doorway and twisted around. “I’ll be right back.” But she didn’t leave. Instead, she frowned, her gaze traveling to the cutlass lying on the floor, then upward, pausing just long enough to study the pistol and dagger tucked under his belt.

  She bit the corner of her lip, then met him eye to eye. “You are real, aren’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  The angelic smile returned to her face. “Then don’t go anywhere. Please.”

  She disappeared into the sunlight outside, and for one brief moment, he contemplated honoring her plea. But he couldn’t stick around—not for her, not for anyone. Hiding was a way of life, one he practiced well.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he struggled to stand. The room spun around him as if he’d been on a week-long drunk and was just now regaining his senses.

  With a faltering sweep of his hand, he retrieved his cutlass from the ground, shoved it into its scabbard, and willed himself to move.

  One foot dragged across the sand, and then the next. He was gasping for breath by the time he reached the doorway, and for just an instant, he rested his cheek against the craggy stone wall. Then he pushed on, forcing himself to go faster, skirting the palms that rustled in the waning wind.

  The storm had calmed, but it had left its mark upon the land, making it even more difficult for him to maneuver. He trudged through puddles of water and over uprooted trees and finally collapsed behind a pile of storm-tossed vegetation that had mounded against a tall drift of sand.

  A cool breeze brought some relief from the heat and humidity of the day, and carried with it the child’s voice. She was close. Much too close. How could he possibly have run toward her—when he’d meant to run away?

  “I knew he’d come, Mommy. I knew it!”

  “Calm down, Case. What are you talking about?”

  “The pirate. When I said my prayers last night, I asked God to send me a pirate—and He did.”

  Ah, the woman’s laughter again. If only he could capture that sound as it drifted through the air, and keep it with him always.

  “It’s not funny, Mommy. He’s not funny, either.”

  “Is he mean?”

  “I don’t think so, but he’s not the kind of pirate I wanted.”

  “You had something specific in mind?” the woman asked.

  “Well, I wanted a nice-looking pirate. One you might like, but this one’s ugly. Really big and really ugly, and he has a big red scar down the whole side of his face. I guess that means he must be mean.”

  “You can’t always judge someone by his appearance. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  “Oh, I know all that. But if you saw this guy, you’d probably be really scared.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “Heck, no. I think he was asleep, and when I touched him, he just sort of grunted, then he kept saying, ‘Aye’…‘Aye,’ you know, like real pirates say.”

  The woman was silent for too long a time. He imagined her eyes scanning the island, looking for an evil buccaneer, wringing her hands in dismay, anxiously hoping that her own man would soon return.

  And then her sweet, melodious voice touched his ears again.

  “You’re sure you didn’t imagine the pirate, Case?”

  “No, Mommy, you’ve got to believe me.”

  He remembered the child’s words. Mommy’s never going to believe this. Not in a million years. He wondered why his presence should seem such an impossibility, when a multitude of brigands roamed up and down this coast.

  Then a thought crossed his mind. Perhaps they’d been in search of a pirate, desperately needing to collect the bounty on his head. It seemed a foolhardy venture for a woman and child, but the price for capturing Black Heart was enough to tempt anyone.

  Claiming the reward, however, would prove most difficult. As soon as nightfall came, he’d find a way to escape the island. Until then, he’d rest quietly on the dune, and listen to the woman, the child, and keep an ear out for others.

  “Tell me more about the pirate, Case. Did he have a peg leg?”

  “No, just a patch. I bet he doesn’t even have an eye behind it. Somebody probably cut it out when they were fighting.”

  A laugh rumbled deep in Black Heart’s chest as he reached under the patch and rubbed his right eye. Perfectly intact, just as it had always been. He readjusted the piece of black satin he’d worn—or not worn—to confuse his pursuers, then traced his index finger lightly down the length of the scar that ran from the outer corner of his right eye, over his cheek, and curled just under his lower lip. It wasn’t all that big and it wasn’t all that ugly, simply a razor-fine slice left by the tip of a very sharp blade.

  Thomas Low’s blade. Damn him to hell! The blackguard hadn’t been satisfied with carving a deep scar on his soul; he’d maimed his body, too.

  He shoved memories of Low away. He was confused enough by what he’d found on his island without clouding his thoughts with the deeds of that murderer. There were other things to think of now—like the unprotected woman and child, and the possibility that there might be others stalking the island, looking for him.

  Climbing to the top of the sand dune, he caught sight of the curly-haired child.

  And the woman.

  She was on her knees in the sand, her hands on the child’s shoulders. Behind her was the sleekest sailing vessel he’d ever seen, lying like a beached whale on the shore.

  The ship was finely built, but it was the woman who caught his fancy. She was far and away the most winsome female who’d ever come into his line of vision. Definitely a woman to be gazed upon with two good eyes, he decided, flipping up his patch.

  He imagined her age to be close to a score and four, perhaps as much as a score and six. She had the creamy skin of a girl not long out of the nursery, but the lusciously rounded body of a goddess—Tethys, maybe, the beautiful queen of the seas, the titaness he’d often asked to protect him as he and Satan’s Revenge sailed the oceans.

  Bloody hell! She was not a goddess, she was merely a woman, a petite bit of perfection who’d have to stand on her toes just so the top of her head could reach his chin.

  A woman who could easily tempt a man to wish for a wife, and babes, and a permanent home, if he was foolish enough to contemplate leaving the sea.

  A thought that would never cross his own mind.

  “We have to go to him, Mommy,” the child cried, tearing Black Heart’s attention away from sentimental thoughts, and turning it back again to the child, and the beautiful woman shaking her head quite adamantly.

  The child shoved her fists into her hips. “But he could be dying.”

  “He could be dangerous, to
o,” the woman stated flatly. “No, Case, we’re better off staying here in the open. That way we can keep an eye out for him.”

  “You don’t believe there’s a pirate, do you?” the child asked. “Daddy would have believed me.”

  The woman turned her head, looking out to sea. “Daddy was a dreamer, Case. He believed in a lot of things….” Her words drifted away, just as the child drifted from her touch.

  “I wish Daddy was here. I would have prayed for him to come instead of a pirate, but I’ve tried before and it doesn’t work.”

  The woman reached out to touch the child, but she jerked away. He could sense the woman’s hurt, the rejection she felt, as she looked at the back of her daughter’s head. God knows he’d seen his own mother look that way many a time.

  In spite of her daughter’s withdrawal, the woman approached her again, wrapped her arms around the girl, and rested her cheek against her curls.

  “Daddy’s not coming back,” she said gently. “As much as we want him to, he can’t. It’s just you and me, Case.”

  He watched a tender smile transform her face from sad to wistful. “If Daddy were here….” Even from the distance he could hear her sigh. “If Daddy were here, the blasted boat wouldn’t be lying on the beach and we’d be home by now.”

  Slowly the woman ran her fingers down her daughter’s sides, and with a sudden change of mood, she tickled her waist. She laughed as the little girl erupted into giggles.

  For long minutes they chased each other around the beach, and as Black Heart watched their gaiety, he sensed they were alone, that there were no men on the island. He could easily make himself known to them, but then he’d no longer be able to watch their play, and it did his heart good to know that there was still great happiness in the world he’d abandoned.

  He watched while they scampered through the water, kicking at waves, diving into their depths, then coming out at last to lie on the beach.

  “Do you think we’re going to be stranded here forever?” the child asked. “Like Robinson Crusoe?”