My Timeswept Heart Read online

  Blackwell! Where was he? Good God, was he sprawled on the deck somewhere bleeding to death? And Duncan and Thorpe and—they could be dying while she sat here, she thought realistically, shoving her hair out of her face and jumping to her feet. Bi­zarre as it was, Tess knew one thing for certain. Her situation had suddenly become a matter of pure sur­vival!

  She fought with the dress, tearing it off her shoul-

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  ders and wiggling it past her hips, then kicking it aside. Tossing the petticoats atop the soiled gown, she strode to the captain's chest of drawers, riffling through his clothes, then searched a trunk, finding a worn pair of trousers and a shirt. Stripping down to the chemise, she donned the shirt, tying its tails at her waist. Shoving a leg in the pants, she looked around for something to hold them up. Seeing nothing avail­able, she tore a strip of petticoat and fashioned a belt. The pant legs pooled for more than a foot around her ankles, so she took up the knife and cut slits in the hem, then ripped the seams to her knees and tied them off. At least I can walk, she thought, slipping the braid down the back of her shirt as she moved toward the door. Halfway there she halted and made a beeline for the hutch, splashing brandy into a glass and draining it. She instantly regretted it when her eyes watered as she choked violently on the amber liquid.

  Artificially braced, she left the cabin and made her way down the companionway. I'm a fool, she thought, gripping the wall rail. An idiot not to stay safely tucked below and wait this out. But, she couldn't. I improvise with what's available, she could hear her father say; adapt quickly to the situation, and you can overcome any obstacle.

  Tess pushed on the latch.

  Bursting out onto the deck, she surveyed the chaos around her. Swords clashed and rang, pistols cracked, their blasts flashing white fire in the dark. The air was thick with smoke, and men screamed, dropping into the water as their opponents continued on relent­lessly from over the side of the Sea Witch and onto

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  the other vessel. Criminy, Blackwell, your own ship isn't enough! She was caught off guard for an instant when a snarling man lunged for her. Her foot con­nected with his solar plexus, and he doubled over, giv­ing her time to run onto the poop deck and climb several feet up the rigging. Thank God for those Ka­rate classes, she thought, nerves stretched taut, her position offering a view of the other ship.

  Its main mast was ablaze, but no sign of Blackwell. She climbed higher, easily adjusting to the swing of the lattice ropes. Had Blackwell attacked the ship? Could he be that ruthless? A free rope threaded around her thigh and wrapped around her ankle for stability, Tess dangled from the main mast, waving a hand before her face to clear the smoke. She squinted, her gaze careening off anything that moved. Her heart drummed in her throat as she searched. Where are you, you archaic squid? Muscles worked furiously in her arms, and her entire body clenched as Tess fought the urge to scream out. Oh God! Was he already dead? Had he gone overboard? Tears pricked her vision. Please God, no!

  On the deck of the brig, Dane Blackwell wielded the silver cutlass, hacking his way toward her captain. The sniveling coward stood on the quarter deck, sur­rounded by men, his sword drawn, ready for the mo­ment when he must defend himself. Dane's lips twisted in disgust. The wigged dandy pushed his men before him, doing naught but shouting frantic orders and waving his weapon. Dane saw no reason to kill uselessly and shoved men out of his path until forced to run them through. He'd given the vessel the chance to surrender, even after they'd fired the first shot; the returning volley had destroyed her main mast.

  Dane grabbed a rope and swung onto the rail, ad­vancing without interruption. He leapt to the deck.

  "Do you ask for quarter, Bennett?" he shouted and watched Captain Bennett's eyes widened. "Aye, I know you. Only a coward would champion a sot like Rothmere!"

  Thus dared before his crew, Bennett lunged for­ward, shoving men from his path in an effort to get to the legendary captain.

  His fine Toledo sword clashed, and Dane strained, hilt to hilt, his greater power sending the man over the rail as he boarded the brig. Another came and his blade sliced across the man's bare chest, laying it open. The seaman shrieked, staggering back and fall­ing across a cannon barrel, his flesh searing on the hot metal. His wail was deafening, but Dane pushed on, thoughts of Phillip grinding him to seek a mea­sure of revenge this night.

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  Tess's eyes widened as she watched Dane fight, his sword chopping through flesh as if he were cutting weeds. Clad in black from head to foot, he was awe­some, like something out of Captain Blood. He must have said something to further enrage the man ridicu­lously dressed in a white wig and yellow silk coat be­cause the fellow no longer stayed hidden behind his men. He leapt forward, drew the hilt of his sword before his face, then touched it to the deck.

  Timber crackled and burned, debris fell to the

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  deck, yet the ash-filled air seem to suddenly grow qui­eter as the captains squared off, crewmen clearing a path for the duel. Bennett lashed the air, the sound a shrill whine, and Dane caught the blade against his own, flicking his wrist and sending the man back. Bennett parried, lunged, and met Blackwell's strikes head on. He'd underestimated the infamous captain and his ability to maneuver his ship. The Sea Witch was like a phantom, vanishing into the night only to reappear where her master chose. Bennett felt a mea­sure of panic, staring into those accursed eyes. The man wanted blood —Phillip's, but his, it seemed, would suffice for now. Frantically he swung the blade, crisscrossing a hairs breadth before Blackwell's chest.

  Dane blocked the stab to his heart, yet the tip caught him, slicing open his shirt, blazing a red streak up across his shoulder, Tess gasped, expecting Dane to fall, but he didn't even flinch, his stance remaining relaxed, pale mint eyes narrow and keen. Metal sang again and, like an artist painting a scene, Captain Blackwell wielded his sword with cool expertise, as if the heavy steel were merely a feather.

  Dane pressed on, forcing Bennett to back up to­ward the stern. Though only slightly smaller, the man was losing strength, his heavy clothing constricting his movements, making him work harder, and with each parry, Dane maneuvered closer. The backs of Bennett's legs touched the stern rail, and with all his remaining strength, he lunged at Dane.

  But the dark captain was lightning quick, snaring the thin blade against his Toledo steel. "You were part of it, admit it?" Dane demanded into the man's face,

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  hilt caught to hilt.

  Bennett's smile was sadistic. "Aye. Desiree was quite the wildcat, Blackwell, screaming for your aid."

  A low growl rumbled in Dane's chest, his lips twist­ing cruelly. Bennett's muscles strained to keep the man back. Phillip was wrong, Bennett thought, Blackwell's ship could not be taken down, yet the man was a different story, he decided, confident in his expertise with a sword.

  "Phillip has guaranteed me sanctuary to spend your money," he grunted, throwing his weight for­ward in an attempt to take Dane off balance. It didn't work.

  A black brow lifted. "Rather difficult, I promise," he snarled. "For you shall be quite dead."

  Something flickered in Bennett's eyes. "Care to make a wager, Blackwell?"

  Tess nearly swallowed her tongue as she caught sight of a turban-clad man advancing on Dane from behind, a wicked machete brandished high above his wrapped head.

  "Dane! Behind you!" she screamed, but it was lost in the din of the battle. No one intervened, and Dane didn't hear the frantic shouts from his own men. Her pulse staggered, her fingers clenching the ropes. Oh, God, help him! Please! He'll be killed! Tess did the only thing she could. She became the wind.

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tess didn't stop to think, but drew her arms back and dove out, her petite body like a shooting star as she flew to the mizzen mast. She prayed, for it was a greater distance than she had ever dared, and thanked God when she caught the wood, spinning around it into a supine position. Ten points for execution,
Ren­frew.

  The broad pole braced at her abdomen, her move­ments were swift, urgent, yet confident as she spread her legs, her torso twisting until she straddled the pole, then curled her legs back, hooking her ankles on the wood behind her and pushing to a stand. The wind's too hard for the easy way, she thought, hand­stand to round off. She grasped a rope, tugging it once to be certain it was secure, then threaded the thick hemp between her thighs and around one leg. Leaning back slightly for a better stance, Tess saw the machete near Dane's back and again called on her championship abilities.

  With the cry of "Oohh-Rahhh!" Tess pushed off, sailing through the darkness, feet first. Her heels con-

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  nected with the turbaned head, and she heard a sick­ening crack, yet the momentum forced her high into the air and she smacked into a charred sail like a fly against a swatter. Holding onto the rope for dear life as she dangled uncontrollably, Tess shook her head, then slithered down to the deck. Then wished she'd stayed up there. Turban lay beside the capstan, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

  Dane caught a glimpse of the machete and its dead owner. "You fight with no honor, Bennett," he snarled. "And tonight you die with none." Driven by revenge, Dane's muscled arm shot forward, his fist cracking against jawbone, sending Bennett against the rail and nearly dumping him in the water. It isn't over yet, Dane thought, I haven't tasted enough blood.

  Bennett stared into those determined eyes and saw his death plainly etched. The man was possessed, in league with the devil, he thought, and he's been play­ing with me since the first. Damn you, Phillip, and your arrogance!

  Growing tired of this squabble, Dane set upon the man with a vengeance, thrust, parry, thrust, the first laying open the man's cheek, the second cut slitting his coat crossways from shoulder to hip. Blood burst across the yellow fabric. Bennett went mad, his pow­dered wig slipping over his forehead until he dis­carded it into the sea, the bald pate amusing Dane and enraging the Englishman. Bennett swiped the air in a wild frenzy, overextending his thrust.

  Dane allowed the man to advance several steps and in the process found himself backed up against some­one.

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  "Hate to interrupt this splendid sword fight, Black-well, but this tub is on fire." Her words were rapid, frightened.

  Dane's eyes widened a fraction at the familiar voice, his heart skipping a beat. How the bloody hell did she get here? he wondered, then pulled her close behind him, his sword swiping so close to Bennett's face the man jerked back.

  "You haven't the sense God gave a pea, woman," he growled, then with the blade point plucked several buttons from Bennett's shirt.

  "I'm impressed, Blackwell, but-" She gulped, her eyes darting to the flames quickly engulfing the ship. The vessel rocked and the foremast toppled, its top gallant crumbling into the sea. "Oh, God! See what I mean!" she choked, gripping the back of his shirt.

  "Strike your colors, Bennett," he demanded in a cold voice.

  "Nay, Blackwell, never." Bennett lunged, aiming for Dane's heart.

  It was a flash of a moment. Dane caught the thrust, twisted his wrist in a spiral motion, and Tess watched as he made three sharp revolutions, the fourth flinging Bennett's sword straight up into the air. As if in slow motion, it tumbled end over end, plummeting to the sea. An instant later Dane's blade point was tucked beneath Bennett's chin, bringing the man up short.

  "Do you beg quarter?" Dane asked, and Tess's soft gasp made him step back. His free hand caught the knife heading for his stomach, and before Bennett could reply, Dane sent the cutlass deep into his heart. Bennett slithered to the deck noiselessly.

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  Tess's stomach lurched as Dane callously yanked the blade from Bennett's chest, swiped it across the man's yellow coat, then returned it to its loop. He grabbed her arm, tugging her from the gruesome sight as she continued to gape at the dead man.

  "Where the, hell are you going?" she cried, jerking free when he started down the burning ship's com-panionway. "It's going to sink!" Men jumped over­board, and Tess felt the almost uncontrollable urge to join them.

  "There are maps and pilot rudders aboard I must possess," he said, descending the ladder.

  Not knowing what else to do, Tess followed and under less terrifying circumstances she would have smiled when he repeatedly banged his head on the ceiling. The cabin was a cracker box.

  Dane rifled through the desk, ignoring her fright­ened expression and gathering up all he could. After stuffing the items down his shirt, he dragged her out of the cabin, his long strides forcing her to run. He didn't give her a chance to mount the steps and slung her over his shoulder.

  "I got over here on my own, Blackwell. I can cer­tainly get back!"

  He didn't respond. The second they were topside he called across to his first mate, ordering speed as he stepped over bodies and debris.

  "Your Neanderthal qualities are showing, Conan."

  He grasped a rope, checked its stability, then wrapped an arm beneath her bottom, slipping a hand between her legs and gripping his own shirt for secu­rity.

  "Blackwell?" she squeaked at the intimate position

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  of his hand. No answer. "Blackwell?" She twisted, her eyes widening. "Oooh, no, you don't!"

  He looped the rope around his boot, then took a few steps back.

  Tess let out a piercing shriek as they left the deck and flew through the air, her hands buried in his shirt so tightly she heard it rip. The wind jolted out of her lungs when his feet hit solid ground, and through blurry eyes she saw the remaining masts and poop deck of the brig collapse. Close call. Instantly hands steadied them. She heard Dane bark a few orders, but could understand none of it; her ears were buzzing much too loudly. In the next heart beat, she was dumped on her rear.

  "You, madame, are the most brainless twit I've had the misfortune to know!" Dane growled down at her, hands on his hips, eyes ablaze with fury.

  She rolled her eyes. "Says the man who should be living in a padded cell." Let him rant, she thought, still shaking from what she'd witnessed and experi­enced in the last hour. "What happened to those fine gentlemanly attributes, Blackwell? Lose them too when you hacked those men to pieces?" Tess shoved the loose strands from her face and struggled to stand on rubbery legs.

  "Lady Renfrew? Is that truly you?" Gaelan asked, assisting her to her feet, his sooty face a mask of dis­belief.

  "Yeah, it's me." Her gaze never left Dane's. "How could you be so ruthless, so cold? Christ, I saw you kill over twenty men!"

  "I plead guilty," he said without a trace of remorse. "And as you can see," he made an impatient gesture

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  to his vessel, "we have been hacked to pieces as well."

  "It was you who saved the captain, m'lady?" Gaelan put in incredulously.

  "Unfortunately, yes," she muttered, then turned to view the ship.

  Dane frowned at his first officer. "What say you, man?" *

  "It was she, sir, that — " Gaelan pointed to the mast, made a swinging motion, then shrugged.

  Dane snapped a look to the mast, then to the burn­ing brig. The turbaned man, he thought, some pecu­liar emotion assailing him. He glanced down, expecting to find the lady before him. She wasn't. Then he heard her voice, sharp, clear, giving com­mands, and his gaze followed the sound to where Tess knelt beside a crewman..

  Tess examined the sailor's leg wound. It wasn't too deep and as she pressed a less-than-clean cloth to it, decided it could wait.

  "You'll be fine, but others are worse. I'll be back." She ordered the sailor to maintain pressure, then moved to the next man. He'd lost a finger and had a large gash in his side. She wanted to vomit but couldn't spare the time and bound his hand and ribs, ordering an uninjured sailor to hold pressure. She went to another victim and knelt beside him.

  "Aren't you Sikes?" she said, ripping open the bloody shirt and examining him.

  He seemed shocked she would know. "Aye, miss," he gasped. "A ball
caught me."

  "I can see that." Tess glanced up. He looked more frightened of her than anything. "You'll be first, Mr. Sikes. Mr. Potts!" she shouted, knowing no other

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  name to call. "Aye, m'lady?"

  "I need any medicines you have aboard, clean cloths torn into strips, water—fresh water," she stressed, brushing back her braid as she moved to the next man. "Have every able hand rinse the decks im­mediately," she ordered. "Then move all the wounded you can to one dry area." She glanced around her, then added, "If you can find one."

  Everything was either wet or bloody. Deck hands were already clearing away the dead and Tess shut the thought of who they were out of her mind. She was running on pure adrenaline, her nerves taut, her mind blocking the truths she could plainly see.

  "Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady, but the cook and Mr. McPete usually tend to the wounds."

  "Then I suggest you get them up here, Mr. Potts, because I need help!"

  Satisfied she had the bleeding under some measure of control, Tess straightened. So many hurt, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut and massaging the bridge of her nose. How many would live? Three times she'd come across wounds wrapped in dirty bandages smeared with some foreign crap that stunk. In a modern hospital the wounds would have needed minor treatment, but here infection could run ramp­ant. My bag, she thought, breaking into a run. She must have something in it that would help. She was almost to the companionway when a noise like noth­ing she'd ever heard made her stop.

  The brig was like a Viking funeral ship, an orange fireball on the sea for an excruciating moment before it exploded, fiery debris shooting into the black sky,

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  the luminescent banners of defeat fluttering to the ocean to hiss and sizzle. More death. Tears burning in her tired eyes, Tess ducked through the passageway.