Bring Me the Horizon (11 page)

Richard pressed his lips, acknowledging Cutler’s speculation. Gracie sucked in a surprised breath.

“You, Zane, Blade, the lot of you are wound so tight, ’twas a mere matter of time before tensions snapped.”

Cutler flicked his chin at Richard. “We’re your brothers.”

“Nay. Not completely. You refused my convictions.”

“Blazes, man. You shoveled scriptures and arrogant sanctimony down our throats! That is not what this is about. You’re spinning tale. Not once did we shun you for sparing drink, women, and pillage. You are still one of us.”

Cutler pointed the tip of his sword toward Gracie who was calculating a route of escape. “It’s her. You’ve become obsessed with her.”

“Obsession is such a negative word.”Richard lowered his arms. “In all the years we’ve traveled, I have been true to my maker’s will. He has rewarded me with what I deserve—a piece of heaven.”

“All well and good, Monk. But Gracie is not yours.”

Richard’s chest expanded on the unsaid challenge.

“And so she is yours?”

“Aye.”

A sardonic chuckle spurt from his lips. “I will not allow her to be damned by you.”

Cutler chose not to view his need for Gracie as damnable. Maybe it was selfish, but love, pure and sweet, exhilarating and whole, couldn’t possibly be anything other than God’s plan.
If
she would have him.
If
she felt the same about him.

“Come to me, Gracie.” Keeping his cutlass poised, Cutler summoned her with a crooked finger.

She hesitated—a frightened, excitable filly. His gut knotted, turned cold. Had he pushed her too far gone? Had he misunderstood her intimate sighs? Had he read her passion-filled eyes wrong? When they had laid embraced, flesh-to-flesh, had his own emotions clouded his judgment? Blasted!

The knot loosened as she raced for him. Thank the heavens! For a detrimental moment, Cutler dropped his guard, needing to swoop her into his arms and kiss away the pain he caused her, help her heal from the wounds left behind by Carrion.

Richard snatched at Gracie’s arm and yanked her back. “No! You can’t have her back.” He pushed a stack of lumber off the wall causing Cutler to hop back. Dust flew up and the clatter broke the vast empty silence of the church.

Cutler’s boot caught on a bucket of tools. He twisted and wobbled to stay on his feet, but waving around his sword skewed his balance and he fell anyway.

Pain fissured his skull as his head hit the hard floor. The flash of white agony cleared just in time. Richard swung a wooden beam meant to bash in Cutler’s brains. He felt the gust of air as he rolled away. The smack against the floor cracked in his ear.

Cutler snapped up his sword, hopped to a defensive stance, and blocked Richard’s next attempt with the plank.

And so it went. Parries, blocks, and a few good thrusts. Though not a fighter, Richard had sparred with Cutler many occasions on the ship to help keep Cutler in good practice on long voyages. He was a good opponent...in practice. But in combat, Cutler could cut him down easily. Instead, let the cockerel tire. Then Cutler would handle Richard appropriately.

Gracie screamed at Richard to stop as the fighting led them up the steps into the pulpit. She moved around in a wide berth, waving her arms, stomping her feet, pleading. ’Twas useless. Cutler had never seen the crazed glint in Richard’s deadlights before. But he had in others—enemies bent on destruction and death.
They
were usually met with the latter. Cutler didn’t want that for the cove. No matter, he was trying to kill his captain and friend.

“Stand down, Monk. Before you get hurt.”

Richard circled around holding his battered plank out. “The good Lord will have me prevail.” His words caught on his heaving breaths.

“Stand down and I’ll make sure the brethren shows you clemency.”

“I’ve no need for the brethren’s clemency. I have God and Graciela.” Richard threw the board at Cutler and charged him. Crashing into him at the waist, they went down, sailing above the stairs, crashing to the floor, rolling over one another. The impact stole the wind from his lungs and he lost his sword. Pain shot across his jaw from Richard’s fist. Tangy blood coated Cutler’s tongue
and
his anger. He felt a tug on his pistol baldric before his mind caught up to what was happening.

Richard scuttled up and Cutler stared at the barrel of his own gun.
Shit!

“God has spoken. I am to save Graciela. She belongs to me.” He leveled the pistol square to Cutler’s face. “I’m sorry it has come to this, my friend.”

Determined to be faster than the bullet, Cutler sneered. “I’ll wait for you in hell.”

A pitiful tilt snaked the corner of Richard’s mouth. “I will pray for your soul.”

“Sod you, Monk.”

As if in a vision, Gracie appeared, wielding a bucket. “I belong to no one!” she screeched. She swung with all her might. Cutler cringed at the resonant crack as she smashed the bucket upside Richard’s head.

Cutler kicked Richard’s legs out from under him. The codfish grunted upon impact, his head cracked against the floor, and he grappled to stay conscious.

Cutler recovered his sword and pressed the tip to Richard’s heart. “Looks like we’ll have to wait for hell, Monk.”

Richard’s eyes fluttered closed. Snuffed unconscious.

“For such a wee lass, you carry a big blow.” Cutler teased.

A sweet, pride-filled smile reached Gracie’s warm eyes. “With all this talk of saving me, it looked as if
you
needed rescuing.”

He laughed outright. “And now I’m beholden to you for life...if you will have me.” Cutler braced himself, unsure if he should send a silent plea to a god who had deaf ears.

She chewed her bottom lip and glanced down at the bucket she still held. “I lied again.”

Christ, no.

“I do belong to someone.” Her gaze slowly ratcheted up to meet his. Expressive pools lured him into their abyss. “You.”

Cutler growled. He wanted her. Now and forever. He grabbed her rosy cheeks and kissed her, hard and long.

Not-too-distant gunfire popped. Screams erupted. A small explosion shook the cathedral’s frame. The riot had begun. Zane and Blade would be rushing the gallows to save the condemned.

Cutler needed to bowse about. “Grab me the end of that rope, there,” he instructed Gracie.

Richard’s limp body was like dragging a sack of cannon balls. Damn, the arsehole was heavy. He plopped him down next to the coiled rope attached to the pulley at the ceiling and fashioned a secure knot around Richard’s wrists with the cordage. Hoisting dead weight was no easy undertaking. Fortunately, being a seasoned dog, Cutler was used to the task. His arms and back strained until Richard’s feet dangled overhead.

“You’re going to leave him?”

“He’s a traitor, to me and to the brethren.” Cutler tied off the rope to an iron sconce on the wall. “Let the soldiers find him. His chances with them are somewhat better.”

She frowned, saddened. Richard had been her friend, too. But Cutler knew she understood. People change. People they thought they knew.

He gently grasped her arms and turned her focus from the priest to him. “We must go, turtle. We do not want to be captured. If we are,” he smirked, “won’t be able to take you to my bed.”

Damn, she had a beautiful smile. “Let us make haste, Captain.”

He held fast to her hand and together they fled from the cathedral north toward the melee. Columns of smoke curled into the twilight, stormy skies. Small pockets of fire burned between them and the docks. They weaved through crowded streets of prowling pirates brandishing cutlasses, musketoons, and barkers, terrorizing folks, breaking windows, and creating chaos. Townsfolk raced for the protection of the San Marcos fort.

But this riot was different. ’Twas a rescue mission. The men were instructed to spare lives and take only from the rich, nothing more. Concentrate plundering and destruction in one area—the area near the gallows. Get in, get out. Half the crew were to retreat inland into the dense woods, to draw focus away from the bay and give the illusion there were more enemy forces than there was. Cause confusion, break apart the soldiers’ efforts. The fort wouldn’t be able to fire upon
Rissa
until the civilians were out of harm’s way. As more people converged on the fort, Cutler and Gracie’s window for escape on the ship was closing.

Cutler’s blood sped through his veins, excitement thrummed in his chest. The thrill of adventure, of wanting to raise his sword high and yell a battle cry, of nabbing booty and living like a king, was overpowering. But strangely, not as overpowering as his need to hold Gracie, to laugh with her, to know her deeply, to lay with her and wake with her in his arms every morn. She was his passion now.

He pulled her to a stop at the end of the street. Across a grassy lawn, not far from the government house, seven men and a boy stood on a makeshift platform, each with their necks fitted inside a hempen noose. Zane and Blade swooped in, fighting soldiers and slicing through the heavy ropes. The newly freed men scattered. Some were given weapons by their fellow mates and, like any good pirate worth his salt, joined in the fighting. As quick as they came, Zane and the lads retreated.

Cutler tugged Gracie and followed after. Not far behind, the beggar boy kept up on their heels.

Soldiers chased after them; bullets whizzed past dangerously close. They dodged and ducked, weaving through trees, past buildings, and around crates, barrels, and nets on the docks. Pirates poured into waiting longboats, confiscated bumboats, small fishing crafts, anything that could quickly get them to
Rissa
.

Gracie gripped the sides of the boat so hard, Cutler thought her tiny hands might shatter. Breathing erratic, shaking, wild eyes, ’twasn’t from the enjoyment of bold escape. The lass was verily scared. Poor thing was about to burst into hysterics.

“Almost there, turtle,” he said, offering her a cheerful grin. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Gracie had finally gotten her shakes under control and now she waited in the captain’s quarters, curled up comfortably in his large chair, for his return. As promised, Cutler captained
Rissa
safely away from St. Augustine down the Matanzas River. Fort San Marcos managed only one cannon shot from an embrasure, missing widely as
Rissa
had sailed beyond the range. Soon, they had picked up Blade Tyburn and the rest of the pirates further down the coast and set a course for Nassau. With the pirates reunited, they had gained a new member to the crew—Jason, the beggar boy. Jason had pleaded to sign the articles of the ship, claiming he owed Captain Fox his life. Fox agreed to allow him to stay on as his cabin boy. It warmed Gracie’s heart to witness such compassion, and this among reputed callous men.

The rain pelting against the window was hypnotic. No storm, just a steady wind and sheeting showers. ’Twas a peaceful sound—the patter of waves below. Thanks goodness. She certainly didn’t want to be laid up seasick again. Not when she could be intertwined in bed sheets with the captain.

Her guilt had almost subsided after Captain Fox accepted her apologies for being the reason behind
Triumph’s
sinking. She was still beside herself, however, that Richard went to such great lengths to
save
her. Gracie refused to think what might’ve happened had Richard succeeded in his madness. What would have become of Cutler and the brethren? They’d surely destroy themselves as they sought revenge for the loss of a good ship and good men. What would have happened to her? Become a God-fearing priest’s wife trapped in a pious world? Be persecuted as a witch like her sister? Would he have killed her for refusing him? She shuttered.

Gracie wanted to prove how grateful she was to Cutler for coming after her. From her ears to the tips of her toes, anticipation tingled at being with him alone. And, she had yet been alone with him since they left the Florida coastline.

She had sat around the table with Cutler, Captain Fox and Blade earlier. With a dagger and hammer, they chiseled up the soft gold nugget into equal parts. The gold would be sold and the shares parceled out to the men of both
Rissa
and
Triumph
. Her heart filled with pride knowing that good men would benefit from the fortune. Greed over the nugget would end. She was free of the curse to protect it. And it
was
a curse—to pretend the infamous nugget didn’t exist, to have her sister lose her life over it.

All’s well that ended well. Almost. Carrion still lived.

She missed Sarah. And always would. But the empty spot within her, the hopelessness, the loneliness filled anew with her love for Cutler.

Criminy! When would she get to be alone with him?

The drumming rain pulled upon her weary eyelids. She propped her elbow on the chair’s arm and rested her head in her hand.

“You must let go.”

Gracie startled awake to Cutler perched on the edge of his desk.

“Oh!” Sitting up straighter and smoothing out her dress, she tried to shoo away the fuzziness clouding her brain.

“Sorry to wake you, my darling. But I just couldn’t stand to see you so haunted in your sleep.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you hurt for you sister. Killing Carrion would not have brought her back. Nor eased your pain. You are not a murderer. Even if you had succeeded, you’d have no peace. You’d be plagued by his blood upon your hands.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right.”

“Never you mind. The bastard will get his someday.” He grinned. “And ’twill be gruesomely fitting for the likes of him.”

She chuckled. “I feel better already.”

“Good. Because I have something to discuss with you. A new proposition.”

He stood. She took his outstretched hand, his calloused fingers crossing over hers, and let him lead her to his bed. Excitement skittered down her spine as they sat. She hoped this new accord involved getting naked with him.

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her fingers—a tender, intimate gesture—before releasing her. His brow stitched, the lines around his mouth deepened with his frown. All the confidence she knew of Cutler was missing. Anxiety, shame, she didn’t know what, tainted his eyes.