A Kiss in the Wind

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Puerto Plata, Hispaniola, 1726

“Crazy wench. Let go!”

Marisol tightened her grip on the coarse barrel of the pistol poised a mere inch from her face. Death’s diseased aroma wafted over her with the depraved wretch’s breath. A frenzy of alarm pumped through her veins, fueling new untapped strength. “Bloody hell, I will!”

She struggled with him, unwilling to release his gun and reach for her own weapon. She pushed and pulled with the ruffian in a gruesome dance of sorts, a ballet amid the squalid dregs and wet filth of the dark alley. Their curses and grunts chased the shrouded silence back up the stone walls. No passerby would take notice, no more than they would a cheap strumpet and her jack.

Marisol slipped on the slick cobblestones and, losing her balance, brought the vile man down with her.

The pistol went off. An unforgiving percussion echoed down the alley.

He landed on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs. Sharp pain sliced through her back with the force of the fall. A moment passed, then another.

The man’s weight crushed against her. She gulped shallow, tainted breaths in the pocket of air between his shirt collar and sweaty neck.
I must get free.
Marisol thrashed beneath the cur. Fear urging her on, she pressed against his chest and shoved him off, rolling him to his back. She scuttled to her knees. But he didn’t move, didn’t get up to finish her off.

What have I done?

Marisol dropped the gun. Blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. She stared at them, turning her hands over to see the crooked red pathways on her skin. Even in the shadows, the deep color glistened. Slowly, she curled her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The blood from his chest wound filtered through his tunic, spreading down his side. Spent gunpowder still singed her nose.

Numb emotions lingered beneath her breastbone. She willed herself not to think of him as a man who might be mourned by someone who loved him, a mother, or a wife with children. Would they be waiting for him? Wondering when he would return home?

No. No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal. Had Alain taught her nothing about survival?
Warm your rum with the blood of another, for if the bastard gets the chance, your course will be run and the devil will have you.

She would not let the compassion seize her heart. Leave that for the weak-minded.

Marisol took one quick glance around the darkened back street. She wiped the blood against her lap then reached into the dead man’s coat, searching his pockets. She pulled out a pouch containing silver coins, three of them. Marisol forced a smile. How fortunate. Something for her troubles. She stuffed the pouch into the folds of her dress.

Continuing her search, her hand grazed across paper in another pocket. She smiled again as she picked up and read the letter for which she’d been searching. The missive was cryptic but given more time she would be able to decipher it. With any luck, it would reveal the information she so desperately sought, information that could lead her to her missing brother. She would do anything to find Monte. Marisol glanced down at the corpse. Perhaps she had become too desperate.
Foolish man. You really should’ve been more careful.

Urgent voices carried down the mudbrick walls. She inhaled sharply, her heart hammering inside her chest. Spanish soldiers. She needed to find a way to escape undetected. Her options were limited. She could not go back down into the alley, to be sure, not with the soldiers coming.

She scrambled to her feet and fled to the obscure darkness of a shadowy wall, feeling her way along until she came to a door. Over her shoulder, she chanced one last look at the dead man. She wished it hadn’t happened that way, but it had.
’Twas his blood or mine.

Gripping the letter tight, Marisol sent up a silent prayer that the door wouldn’t be locked. She pushed open the entry, relieved by her good fortune, and scurried inside. Pressing her back against the door, she reached down to latch it securely. She took a deep breath before looking at the letter in her dirty hand, catching sight of her dress as she did so. The smear of blood had already begun to darken, no longer red with life, as it stained the coarse wool fabric. She groaned in frustration. A change of clothing would be in order lest she be caught. Alain would be furious with her if he had to rescue her again.

A single candle sconce lit the narrow hallway. Spirited music and voices drifted from the end of the passage. Silence lay beyond the two doors on her right. She tried the first door, locked. With the second, she had better luck. Scanning the small room to ensure she found no one inside, she crossed over to the oil lamp and turned up the flame. Perfumed oils clung thick to the air. Beads and stockings hung from a dirty mirror. Two rumpled beds leaned against a wall along with several open trunks. A public house. And a seamy one, at that.

Colorful dresses with gaudy embellishments lay draped askew on the trunk lids. Marisol rummaged through the clothes, picking out what she hoped would be an inconspicuous dress. She changed quickly, selecting a blue one trimmed with a pink tucker that fitted too snug against her breasts. No time to fuss over it. She stuffed the pouch of coins and the letter into the pocket of the skirt and rolled her soiled dress up, tossing it into a corner.

She had to get out of there. Marisol couldn’t go back into the alley. Leaving through a crowded tavern was not the best idea, but what choice did she have?

She passed a laughing couple in the hall.

“Better get in there.” The woman, her arm draped across her companion’s shoulder, tilted her head back toward the noise. “The men are getting restless for company.”

“Aye, we are.” Her fellow grabbed her bottom tightly.

She laughed again, pushing past Marisol into the room behind her. “Must be the new girl.”

Marisol groaned again. This might get tricky. She stepped into the front room of the tavern. It was early evening and already rowdy men, rumming and gaming, filled the brightly lit place. Any one of them could be the potential recipient of the letter she had safely tucked away. She couldn’t rule out the few women about, sitting on laps or serving the drink either. Even the trio of musicians who played a lively tune was suspect. Heavy tobacco smoke filled her lungs and stung her eyes as she looked for the exit.

She skirted her way around the tables. Halfway through the room, a rough hand grabbed her wrist.

“Dance.” The man swayed in his seat but his hard stare was even.

“No. I don’t—”

“Dance!” The man’s drunken shout attracted the notice of several other patrons in the tavern, including that of an attractive man at a nearby table. The striking fellow eyed her with roguish intent. His eyes fixed on Marisol, he said something to the pretty woman who sat to his left, her arms spooled around his muscular biceps, and she threw her head back in a peal of laughter. Leaning forward, he placed an arm across the tabletop. He was handsome indeed, with golden hair that hung freely past the shoulders of his dark brown waistcoat, and Marisol found herself straightening her spine beneath his scrutiny.

She cursed under her breath. She did not need this sort of attention. Surely someone would recognize her.

The drunk yanked her down to level with his face. His breath fouled with the stench of alcohol and sickness. “Dance fer me, or I’ll gut ye.” He pulled back his fearnought jacket, flashing a rusted gully knife tucked under his belt.

Marisol raised her eyebrows. Had the room not been so crowded, she would have felt obliged to deal with the bilge rat, and without much effort. But she couldn’t. Not with so many watching. She didn’t know which was worse, facing Alain’s wrath for stirring up a den of soused men or humiliating herself by dancing. Oh decisions, decisions.

“Dance, whore.”

That did it. Her mind made up, Marisol grabbed the vermin’s wrist, readying to flip him out of his chair. Alain’s wrath be damned. Instead, she became distracted by a young seaman who rushed through the door and moved swiftly to the side of the blond man she had noticed watching her, bending low and whispering in his ear.
Damn.
Marisol’s gut coiled with instinct as her admirer’s countenance sharpened.
The message must be about the dead man in the alley.
If he was the one the letter was intended for…she needed to find out more about him. And now. Before he finished his ale and left.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he dismissed the seaman and turned to the woman, dismissing her, too. She wore a pout of disappointment as she left the table.

Marisol loosened her grip on the drunken sailor’s wrist. “If you would like for me to dance, sir, you must release me.”

He smiled, his teeth jagged and stained. “Aye, dance.” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair for the show.

Marisol snatched a glass of rum off his table, downing it in one gulp. The liquor burned a trail down her throat and she savored the smooth taste. If she had to dance, then a little jolt to her senses would help her get through the horror of it. She moved her hips, first slowly in little circles, then quicker with the beat of the music. Lifting her arms above her head, she clapped to the rhythm, twirling away from the grinning man grabbing for her. She twisted her torso and swung her elbows around. The tavern came alive with whoops and vulgar raillery. Those not inclined to watch their hands of cards clapped along.

If she could drink a couple more half pints of the liquor, well, she might be able to get through it. She reminded herself that these sots didn’t care that she couldn’t dance. She could have wallowed in pig slop and they still would want her entertainment. The damn bastards.

The drunkard stood, reaching for her again, and again she twirled away. The whirl of the room and the rowdy crowd smeared in her vision as she spun. With each intermittent glimpse of the blond rogue, she slowed. He was finishing off his cup. Closer and closer she moved to him. She pushed off with her foot to make another turn, but her right toe caught on her left heel. Just as she tripped forward, he rose from his chair. She crashed into his chest and the momentum knocked him backward to the floor. They both landed with a thump, Marisol sprawled on top of him. An eruption of laughter exploded in the room, and the scoundrels returned to their own vices.

Her heart stopped as she lifted herself on her palms. His eyes met with hers and they were the most beautiful shade of green she had ever seen. She struggled not to fall into them, under their hypnotic pull. Her gaze lowered to his lips that curved into a wicked grin. She swallowed hard and bit her lower lip. Dimples appeared in his whiskered cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

Shaking her head, she dragged her eyes back to his. “Begging your pardon.” Could those dimples get any deeper? His firm grasp tightened around her waist as he rolled her off him and onto her bottom.

“Graceful.” He laughed. “You’re not well seasoned to dance, are you?”

She tamped down the mild agitation building against him. “I was tripped,” she said flatly.

“I can see that.” He took her ankle, lifting it. Teasing her, he smirked. “Hazardous little imps.” He rubbed her ankle above her boot gently with the pad of his thumb. “Are you hurt?”

His calloused skin scratched a rough circle that sent a pleasurable sensation through her, agitating her further. She shook her head.

“Good,” he said. “Name’s Blade. Blade Tyburn.” He smiled, but did not release her ankle.

Why did that name sound familiar? A rapid search through her mind for some recognition came up empty. She returned his smile while plucking her leg from his grip. “Marisol Castellan.” Curse it. She told him her name. Her bloody real name. Damn his bedeviling dazzle.

“Ey.” The drunkard teetered over to them. “Git yer hands offin’ ’er.” He reached down and grabbed Blade Tyburn by his shoulder. “She wit’ me.”

Tyburn’s smile faded as he turned his head only a fraction, his stare cutting down to the man’s grasp. “You’d best remove your hand, friend.” He paused to leer up at the lout. “Before you lose it.” The deadly tone of his voice left little doubt of his seriousness.

“You threatenin’ me, boy?”

“Threats are wasted on your ilk.”

“Mind yerself, Porter,” someone called out. “That’s Capt’n Tyburn of the
Rissa
yer rallyin’ ta.”

The drunkard’s eyes rounded with clarity and he snatched his arm away. “M’ pardon, Capt’n Tyburn.” He averted his gaze to the floor in a submissive nod.

The
Rissa.
The
Rissa.
She was certain she’d heard of the ship before. But she couldn’t remember where.

The captain rose to his feet. “Be gone, then.” He turned back to Marisol, extending his hand to help her up.

She gazed upon his strong hand and questioned if it was wise to touch him again. His allure distracted her from her intentions. She shrugged. No one had ever accused her of being wise. She let him pull her up. The space between them was far too scarce for her liking. Marisol felt small before him, standing both in the shadow of his brawny breadth and his very agreeable good looks. “Um, I give you my thanks.”

“Capt’n Tyburn.”

The captain turned back to Porter, frowning that the drunk still staggered behind him.

Porter pointed at Marisol. “Reckon I’ll take ’er back, now.”

Marisol planted her hands on her hips. “And I reckon you won’t.” She didn’t fancy herself as a man’s property, not even Alain’s. Nothing boiled her pot like a man staking claim where it didn’t belong.

“I came ’ere ta get me a woman.” Porter’s brow furrowed. “Thadda be you.”

She tilted her head. “Pity. You’re going to be disappointed, then.”

Porter took a step forward. Captain Tyburn stopped him with a solid hand to his chest. “You’re a bold one in a clam. I believe I told you to be gone. Not only have you ignored me, you are harassing a lady. This, I don’t accept.”

“She ain’t no lady.”

Marisol gave a chuckle. Something else she had never been accused of.