Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters except Kat—the rest belong to
RKO Radio Pictures, if they even exist anymore.
A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to my ONE AWESOME REVIEWER, DJ Caligula! Woohoo! Someone actually liked this! As a token of my extreme joy at having someone actually read my story, I am awarding DJ Caligula a Paul Henreid clone (as soon as I invent a time machine and a way to clone him...eh, details). To anyone else...please, please, please, input! Feed me! Feed me! Feed me Seymour...oops, sorry, random musical digression there. Anyway, back to our piratical escapades...
Kat woke to a wave of pain. Her eyes flew open and she cried out. Someone was carrying her, and it was the pressure of an arm on the broken skin of her back that had roused her. As her vision cleared, she realized that she looked into gray-blue eyes. "So, this is the wench, is it?" a familiar voice inquired. Laurent smiled down at her as he carried her across the deck of the pirate ship.
"You!" she gasped. "But—the pirates—how did you escape?"
His grin grew even wider. "My dear girl, I am a pirate."
Kat's eyes widened, and she struggled against his grip. "Let me down!" she cried. "You—Laurent, put me down!"
"Stop that," he said, laughing. "There's no need for alarm."
"No!" she cried, twisting. She managed to free one leg; then, a crate swung over the side of the ship, and Laurent had to duck to avoid being hit. His arm slid up her back, and the resulting flood of agony from her broken skin swamped her. Her vision was washed over with black and a thin ringing filled her ears.
The next thing she knew, a cool cloth touched her forehead. "You ought not to have done that," an amused voice said.
Kat opened her eyes. She was in a lavishly decorated room, filled with fine furniture and rich fabrics, but then her gaze rested on the man sitting next to her, and she could do nothing but stare. The humble Dutch sailor had been transformed by the battle; his shirt was ripped, his hair flew about his face, and a bloodied sword was strapped to his side. He certainly looked the part of a pirate, but she knew he wasn't just any buccaneer. The cabin, quite obviously his, was far too luxurious for any common sailor, pirate or no.
"You're the Barracuda, aren't you?" she accused.
"At your service," he said. He set aside the damp cloth he'd been holding to her forehead, then stood and favored her with a sweeping bow. "You've had a rough time of it, and no mistake," he added, retrieving the cloth and dipping it into a bowl of water.
She pushed his hand aside when he brought the cloth near her face. Kat levered herself slowly off the bed—Laurent's bed, she realized—and let out a shaky breath. "What are you going to do with me, Señor?" she asked wearily, though she barely cared what happened next. Her back was one solid mass of pain, her arms ached unbearably, and she could feel blood trickling from the cut on her cheek. The bed was reassuringly solid under her hands, but her head swam and her vision wavered still.
Laurent—the Barracuda—studied her for a long moment. She could hear the sounds of raucous celebration from the men outside, and the gentle slap of waves against the hull below. His gaze was disconcerting, the silence ominous, and it was a relief when he finally broke it. "For now," he said, "I intend to deal with those wounds." He stood and collected strips of cloth, a jar, and a clean shirt from various parts of the cabin. "Turn around," he said, sitting on the bed beside her. Kat opened her mouth, about to protest, but stopped when Laurent frowned. "And I'll hear no complaints of maidenly shyness. Those cuts need bandaging, and I very much doubt you'll want anyone else to do it."
She flinched as he eased her bloody shirt over her head, biting her tongue to keep from protesting. The bandages she'd used to bind her breasts flat were still intact, though stained, and Laurent didn't try to remove them. He took up the wet cloth once more and began cleaning out her cuts. "Why are you helping me?" she asked, trying to ignore the burning pain.
Kat heard him chuckle. "I've taken a liking to you, my dear," he said. "Although I never would have guessed that you were a girl. That's a dangerous thing, besides being a stowaway. What were you doing on a merchant ship?"
She turned to look at him, but his expression was serious. "I was running away," she replied.
"From what?"
Kat hesitated. "Marriage," she said finally. "And my family."
He stopped dabbing at her back with the rag and smeared a cool substance on her skin. "This should help the cuts," he said, and handed her the shirt. "Put that on." He turned around. As she slipped the soft linen over her head, he commented, "What could have been so terrible about a marriage that you would risk your life to escape it?"
She tied the laces at the shirt's neck. "The man," she replied flatly. When Laurent turned back and tried to clean the blood away from the cut on her cheek, she did her best to avoid his touch. He caught her chin in his hand and fixed her with his beautiful eyes. "Who is the man?" he asked.
"Let me go," she said.
"He must be a tyrant, to drive you so far from your home."
She tried to pull away from him. "He is. But you wouldn't believe me if I told you his name, and I see no reason why I should."
His hand was gentle but firm in its grip, and he cleaned the cut quickly with the cloth despite her efforts to make him release her. Dipping his fingers into the jar of salve, he dabbed it on the wound, then let go of her. "You didn't tell the captain that I helped you. Why?"
Kat scowled, rubbing her face where his fingers had been. "Why should it matter to a pirate? Your skin is intact, isn't that what's important?"
He simply looked at her for a moment. "I find it most unusual that a girl of noble blood would choose to take a beating rather than betray the man who would help a stowaway."
She stared. "How did you know that I'm noble?"
Laurent took her hands and turned them over. "These are the hands of a cultured lady, not one who is used to working," he said, remarking on the smooth skin of her palms. "No one but a noble would have skin so unblemished." He released her hands and reached one of his own up to rest his fingers on her cheek. "Although I think you will have a pretty scar there, when that heals."
Kat dodged away from his hand, stood, and glared at the grinning man. "It is through no fault of my own that I am noble," she snapped. "I didn't ask to be born one—nor a woman. I'd have been anything else if I had the choice."
He seemed amused by her outburst. "I believe you would. But you took a beating rather than reveal me—that is something that a noble would never do."
Her eyes flashed, and she clenched her fists. "You doubt me? I—" She paused, sighed, and let her hands open slowly. "I am Contessa Katarina del Arrigantora, daughter of the Viceroy of Mexico." She looked away. "I didn't point you out because you didn't deserve the blame for my actions. You helped me, Señor, and I don't betray those who help me." After a moment, she looked back at him. "So you know who I am. Does it surprise you at all?"
He grinned infuriatingly. "Perhaps—Katarina? I should have known that you were no Carlo."
"Kat," she said curtly.
This only served to make him grin even more. "You have fire, Katarina, I will grant you that." He leaned back on the bed and toyed with his belt- knife. "You mentioned a marriage. What's so terrible about that?"
She chafed at his use of her proper name, but chose to let it go. "Being bargained off to the Viceroy of New Granada, that's what. How would you feel, Señor, if you were to be as good as sold to a man you'd never seen?"
"I should not like it any more than you," Laurent said. "And I know the man you speak of. I've known him for quite some time." His eyes hardened; she noticed the change in his expression, but said nothing. "I don't blame you for not wanting to marry him. He is not a particularly attractive man."
Kat found that she couldn't stand still, and began to pace. The deck swayed under her feet, but she paid it little notice. Weeks of life at sea had accustomed her to the pitch and roll of a sailing vessel. "And what of the crew of the merchant ship?" She threw the words at him, building once more a wall of anger that disguised the turmoil of her emotions.
Laurent shrugged. "Those who choose to join me and swear an oath of allegiance will live. The rest..."
She could guess what would happen to them. She'd seen the dead bodies of the merchant sailors draped over the railings. "I'll ask you again: What are you going to do with me, Señor?" she asked, planting her feet firmly and resting her hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed with the challenge.
He looked her over appraisingly. "I thought perhaps that we might put you up for auction at the market in Tortuga." When all the color left her face at once, he burst out laughing. "Forgive me, my girl. I couldn't resist. No, until I decide what I will do with you, you are my honored guest."
Kat scowled once more, but inwardly she gave way to a flood of relief. The man was wholly unpredictable, and she suspected that had she angered him, he might have made good on his words. A glance at the windows of the cabin told her that night was approaching. "And is there a bunk where your honored guest might stay for the night?" she asked, doing her best to keep the relief out of her voice. "Or do I share the captain's bed as well as his hospitality?"
Laurent stood. "I may be a pirate, my lady Contessa, but I have some sense of propriety. You may sleep here," he said gallantly, "and I will make do with a hammock." He stood, and she watched, puzzled, as he crossed the cabin and lifted the lid of a large chest. When Kat stretched onto her toes, she could see that it was filled with clothing—and not all of it men's. Delicate lace and ribbons spilled over the edge of the chest as he dug through the clothing. Finally, he pulled out a long white frilly something. "I ought to provide you the proper attire," he said, tossing it to her.
When Kat held it up, she found it to be a nightgown, made of soft fabric and cut in a manner more fitting of a courtesan than a lady. "Brabant lace," Laurent said. "The finest on the Spanish Main."
She looked at him. "You must be joking," she said incredulously. "I can't wear something like this. It isn't proper—or practical."
"Joking—no, not at all!" he said, obviously enjoying himself. "I am not concerned with practicality, my dear Katarina. I should like to see you as a lady—for all that you are a strong-willed, ill-tempered lady. Put that on." When she glared angrily at him, he walked up to her and looked down at her face. "Put that on, or I'll throw you to the crew without it."
Kat thought that he might still be joking—but she wasn't about to take any chances. She was, after all, still his prisoner, no matter what he might call her. "All right," she said quietly. "Must you watch me put it on?"
His face broke into a smile. "I should have known that would concern you. No, I will respect your sense of maidenly virtue." He turned and walked into the next room. "I'm waiting."
With a sigh of resignation, Kat began to undress, realizing that this was as much modesty as she could expect on the ship. She discarded the comfortable boy's clothing, folding it neatly, and began to wrestle with the lacing and ties that the nightgown required. When she was finally finished, she shook her head. "This is the most absurd garment I've ever seen," she said with well-bred disgust.
Laurent looked around the corner of the doorframe. "Oh, but it is most becoming," he told her with an appraising look. "You look quite...uncomfortable, Contessa." He laughed when she snorted. "Go on, into bed with you. We put into Tortuga tomorrow. Good night." He went out on deck, closing the door on a very annoyed and perplexed young woman. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Kat gave in to her exhaustion and climbed into the bed.
A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to my ONE AWESOME REVIEWER, DJ Caligula! Woohoo! Someone actually liked this! As a token of my extreme joy at having someone actually read my story, I am awarding DJ Caligula a Paul Henreid clone (as soon as I invent a time machine and a way to clone him...eh, details). To anyone else...please, please, please, input! Feed me! Feed me! Feed me Seymour...oops, sorry, random musical digression there. Anyway, back to our piratical escapades...
Kat woke to a wave of pain. Her eyes flew open and she cried out. Someone was carrying her, and it was the pressure of an arm on the broken skin of her back that had roused her. As her vision cleared, she realized that she looked into gray-blue eyes. "So, this is the wench, is it?" a familiar voice inquired. Laurent smiled down at her as he carried her across the deck of the pirate ship.
"You!" she gasped. "But—the pirates—how did you escape?"
His grin grew even wider. "My dear girl, I am a pirate."
Kat's eyes widened, and she struggled against his grip. "Let me down!" she cried. "You—Laurent, put me down!"
"Stop that," he said, laughing. "There's no need for alarm."
"No!" she cried, twisting. She managed to free one leg; then, a crate swung over the side of the ship, and Laurent had to duck to avoid being hit. His arm slid up her back, and the resulting flood of agony from her broken skin swamped her. Her vision was washed over with black and a thin ringing filled her ears.
The next thing she knew, a cool cloth touched her forehead. "You ought not to have done that," an amused voice said.
Kat opened her eyes. She was in a lavishly decorated room, filled with fine furniture and rich fabrics, but then her gaze rested on the man sitting next to her, and she could do nothing but stare. The humble Dutch sailor had been transformed by the battle; his shirt was ripped, his hair flew about his face, and a bloodied sword was strapped to his side. He certainly looked the part of a pirate, but she knew he wasn't just any buccaneer. The cabin, quite obviously his, was far too luxurious for any common sailor, pirate or no.
"You're the Barracuda, aren't you?" she accused.
"At your service," he said. He set aside the damp cloth he'd been holding to her forehead, then stood and favored her with a sweeping bow. "You've had a rough time of it, and no mistake," he added, retrieving the cloth and dipping it into a bowl of water.
She pushed his hand aside when he brought the cloth near her face. Kat levered herself slowly off the bed—Laurent's bed, she realized—and let out a shaky breath. "What are you going to do with me, Señor?" she asked wearily, though she barely cared what happened next. Her back was one solid mass of pain, her arms ached unbearably, and she could feel blood trickling from the cut on her cheek. The bed was reassuringly solid under her hands, but her head swam and her vision wavered still.
Laurent—the Barracuda—studied her for a long moment. She could hear the sounds of raucous celebration from the men outside, and the gentle slap of waves against the hull below. His gaze was disconcerting, the silence ominous, and it was a relief when he finally broke it. "For now," he said, "I intend to deal with those wounds." He stood and collected strips of cloth, a jar, and a clean shirt from various parts of the cabin. "Turn around," he said, sitting on the bed beside her. Kat opened her mouth, about to protest, but stopped when Laurent frowned. "And I'll hear no complaints of maidenly shyness. Those cuts need bandaging, and I very much doubt you'll want anyone else to do it."
She flinched as he eased her bloody shirt over her head, biting her tongue to keep from protesting. The bandages she'd used to bind her breasts flat were still intact, though stained, and Laurent didn't try to remove them. He took up the wet cloth once more and began cleaning out her cuts. "Why are you helping me?" she asked, trying to ignore the burning pain.
Kat heard him chuckle. "I've taken a liking to you, my dear," he said. "Although I never would have guessed that you were a girl. That's a dangerous thing, besides being a stowaway. What were you doing on a merchant ship?"
She turned to look at him, but his expression was serious. "I was running away," she replied.
"From what?"
Kat hesitated. "Marriage," she said finally. "And my family."
He stopped dabbing at her back with the rag and smeared a cool substance on her skin. "This should help the cuts," he said, and handed her the shirt. "Put that on." He turned around. As she slipped the soft linen over her head, he commented, "What could have been so terrible about a marriage that you would risk your life to escape it?"
She tied the laces at the shirt's neck. "The man," she replied flatly. When Laurent turned back and tried to clean the blood away from the cut on her cheek, she did her best to avoid his touch. He caught her chin in his hand and fixed her with his beautiful eyes. "Who is the man?" he asked.
"Let me go," she said.
"He must be a tyrant, to drive you so far from your home."
She tried to pull away from him. "He is. But you wouldn't believe me if I told you his name, and I see no reason why I should."
His hand was gentle but firm in its grip, and he cleaned the cut quickly with the cloth despite her efforts to make him release her. Dipping his fingers into the jar of salve, he dabbed it on the wound, then let go of her. "You didn't tell the captain that I helped you. Why?"
Kat scowled, rubbing her face where his fingers had been. "Why should it matter to a pirate? Your skin is intact, isn't that what's important?"
He simply looked at her for a moment. "I find it most unusual that a girl of noble blood would choose to take a beating rather than betray the man who would help a stowaway."
She stared. "How did you know that I'm noble?"
Laurent took her hands and turned them over. "These are the hands of a cultured lady, not one who is used to working," he said, remarking on the smooth skin of her palms. "No one but a noble would have skin so unblemished." He released her hands and reached one of his own up to rest his fingers on her cheek. "Although I think you will have a pretty scar there, when that heals."
Kat dodged away from his hand, stood, and glared at the grinning man. "It is through no fault of my own that I am noble," she snapped. "I didn't ask to be born one—nor a woman. I'd have been anything else if I had the choice."
He seemed amused by her outburst. "I believe you would. But you took a beating rather than reveal me—that is something that a noble would never do."
Her eyes flashed, and she clenched her fists. "You doubt me? I—" She paused, sighed, and let her hands open slowly. "I am Contessa Katarina del Arrigantora, daughter of the Viceroy of Mexico." She looked away. "I didn't point you out because you didn't deserve the blame for my actions. You helped me, Señor, and I don't betray those who help me." After a moment, she looked back at him. "So you know who I am. Does it surprise you at all?"
He grinned infuriatingly. "Perhaps—Katarina? I should have known that you were no Carlo."
"Kat," she said curtly.
This only served to make him grin even more. "You have fire, Katarina, I will grant you that." He leaned back on the bed and toyed with his belt- knife. "You mentioned a marriage. What's so terrible about that?"
She chafed at his use of her proper name, but chose to let it go. "Being bargained off to the Viceroy of New Granada, that's what. How would you feel, Señor, if you were to be as good as sold to a man you'd never seen?"
"I should not like it any more than you," Laurent said. "And I know the man you speak of. I've known him for quite some time." His eyes hardened; she noticed the change in his expression, but said nothing. "I don't blame you for not wanting to marry him. He is not a particularly attractive man."
Kat found that she couldn't stand still, and began to pace. The deck swayed under her feet, but she paid it little notice. Weeks of life at sea had accustomed her to the pitch and roll of a sailing vessel. "And what of the crew of the merchant ship?" She threw the words at him, building once more a wall of anger that disguised the turmoil of her emotions.
Laurent shrugged. "Those who choose to join me and swear an oath of allegiance will live. The rest..."
She could guess what would happen to them. She'd seen the dead bodies of the merchant sailors draped over the railings. "I'll ask you again: What are you going to do with me, Señor?" she asked, planting her feet firmly and resting her hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed with the challenge.
He looked her over appraisingly. "I thought perhaps that we might put you up for auction at the market in Tortuga." When all the color left her face at once, he burst out laughing. "Forgive me, my girl. I couldn't resist. No, until I decide what I will do with you, you are my honored guest."
Kat scowled once more, but inwardly she gave way to a flood of relief. The man was wholly unpredictable, and she suspected that had she angered him, he might have made good on his words. A glance at the windows of the cabin told her that night was approaching. "And is there a bunk where your honored guest might stay for the night?" she asked, doing her best to keep the relief out of her voice. "Or do I share the captain's bed as well as his hospitality?"
Laurent stood. "I may be a pirate, my lady Contessa, but I have some sense of propriety. You may sleep here," he said gallantly, "and I will make do with a hammock." He stood, and she watched, puzzled, as he crossed the cabin and lifted the lid of a large chest. When Kat stretched onto her toes, she could see that it was filled with clothing—and not all of it men's. Delicate lace and ribbons spilled over the edge of the chest as he dug through the clothing. Finally, he pulled out a long white frilly something. "I ought to provide you the proper attire," he said, tossing it to her.
When Kat held it up, she found it to be a nightgown, made of soft fabric and cut in a manner more fitting of a courtesan than a lady. "Brabant lace," Laurent said. "The finest on the Spanish Main."
She looked at him. "You must be joking," she said incredulously. "I can't wear something like this. It isn't proper—or practical."
"Joking—no, not at all!" he said, obviously enjoying himself. "I am not concerned with practicality, my dear Katarina. I should like to see you as a lady—for all that you are a strong-willed, ill-tempered lady. Put that on." When she glared angrily at him, he walked up to her and looked down at her face. "Put that on, or I'll throw you to the crew without it."
Kat thought that he might still be joking—but she wasn't about to take any chances. She was, after all, still his prisoner, no matter what he might call her. "All right," she said quietly. "Must you watch me put it on?"
His face broke into a smile. "I should have known that would concern you. No, I will respect your sense of maidenly virtue." He turned and walked into the next room. "I'm waiting."
With a sigh of resignation, Kat began to undress, realizing that this was as much modesty as she could expect on the ship. She discarded the comfortable boy's clothing, folding it neatly, and began to wrestle with the lacing and ties that the nightgown required. When she was finally finished, she shook her head. "This is the most absurd garment I've ever seen," she said with well-bred disgust.
Laurent looked around the corner of the doorframe. "Oh, but it is most becoming," he told her with an appraising look. "You look quite...uncomfortable, Contessa." He laughed when she snorted. "Go on, into bed with you. We put into Tortuga tomorrow. Good night." He went out on deck, closing the door on a very annoyed and perplexed young woman. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Kat gave in to her exhaustion and climbed into the bed.