XVIII.
Meg swallowed, acutely aware of the sharp blade pressed against her neck. She began to feel lightheaded, and fought against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Now is not the time to faint.
She forced herself to focus on the tall, muscular man facing them. Long, wild hair the color of rich coffee swung over his shoulders. His skin was deeply tanned, providing a striking contrast to his deep-set, piercing blue eyes. He wore bracers on his powerful forearms, his aggressive stance as intimidating as a Roman gladiator. An ebony-handled flintlock pistol was tucked into his wide leather belt, and a long sword hung at his hip. He held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then coolly swung his eyes to Morton.
In response to his scrutiny, the soldier dragged her back towards the treeline, breathing heavily as his heart hammered against her back. "Don't come any closer!" he shouted, his tone shrill with fear. "Or I'll cut her throat! I swear I will!"
The other man shrugged. "Go ahead."
The pirate-for he had to be a pirate, Meg decided-spoke in a deep, husky rasp. The sound of his voice sent a chill up her spine, as did the casual smirk that played on his lips. For each step Morton took back, the pirate took a step forward, moving with the calculated grace of a predatory animal. The man appeared completely at ease, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"You'd be doing me a favor, actually. The sooner she's out of the way, the sooner I can take care of you."
The soldier laughed nervously. "Perhaps you should take a closer look. She's a feisty bitch, but you look like you could handle her." His free hand reached around the front of her dress, grasping the neckline of her bodice and giving it a savage tug that nearly threw her off balance. Meg glanced down, paling as she saw her breasts rise even higher above the material, threatening to expose her nipples. Morton's breath was hot on her neck now, the point of the knife digging into the soft skin just under her jaw.
"So, how about I hand her over, and you let me go? A fair trade, eh?"
The pirate's eyes roved over her body for a few long moments, He took a step to the side to assess her from another angle, then shook his head. "Nah. Not my type."
"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" screamed Morton. "What kind of a pirate are you?"
The man met his gaze levelly. "The kind whose name is Charles Vane."
"Fuck." The soldier's grip on Meg intensified, then relaxed. An instant later, he gave her a mighty shove, sending her flying towards Vane. The pirate stepped neatly to the side, then caught her around the waist. "I'm not done with you," he growled. "So don't even think about moving."
Still in shock, she nodded slightly, and he released her, leaping into the dense vegetation to pursue Morton. Crashing and grunting could be heard from the underbrush, gradually becoming more distant. Meg glanced around her, and took a cautious step towards the path that led to the beach. She knew the way back, and could be at Billy's side in two minutes if she ran. But he could do nothing to protect her now, not in his weakened state. Her only hope was to head up the path, towards the barracks. But if Vane came back, and found her gone…
Make up your mind. She took in a deep breath, and turned to head across the clearing. Suddenly, she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. An instant later, a dagger pricked against her ribs, causing her to flinch.
"Move, and you die."
The voice was unmistakably female. Taken by surprise, Meg glanced over her shoulder, trying to get a look at her newest captor. She caught a glimpse of a slender woman swathed in a weathered leather coat that looked a size too big Untamed, fiery red hair fell nearly to her waist. The upper half of her heart-shaped face was shielded from view by a battered brown hat that was covered in black stains.
"Fuckin' stupid, ain't you?" the woman hissed, shoving the dagger against her side again. "I told you not to move!"
Meg snapped her head forward, and squeezed her eyes shut. "So you did," she said, her voice trembling.
"Where the fuck did you think you was goin'?"
"Nowhere," she whispered. "He told me to stay here."
"But you think you're smarter than Charles Vane, eh?" Her words dripped with scorn, and she laughed. "Your kind is always thinkin' that, aren't they? Stupid bitch."
The sound of a throat clearing was heard from a few feet away. "Anne, you might want to use a bit…"
"Fuck off, Jack!" the woman snapped.
A tall, thin man in a tricornered grey hat and a buff-colored coat cautiously entered the small glade, his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "I am not telling you how to do your job, merely pointing out…"
"Fuck off, Jack." Vane walked into the clearing, wiping his bloody blade on his trousers and sheathing it with a snap of his wrist. Jack glared at him, but remained silent. Ignoring him, Vane strolled up to Meg and ran his fingers gently along her cheek. His touch sent an odd sort of thrill through her body. While he did not have the same type of conventionally rugged good looks that Billy possessed, he had a primal, almost sensual, charisma that was undeniably attractive. She sensed it was the sort of raw masculinity that would drive men to follow him into battle, just as it drew women into his bed by the dozen.
"What did I ask you to do?" he said, his voice low.
Unable to stand the intensity of his gaze, she cast her eyes to the ground. Shifting uneasily, she whispered, "You asked me to-"
His hand stilled on her cheek. "Look at me when I speak to you."
It was said matter-of-factly, but a steely edge had crept into his words, and she felt her throat tighten.
She raised her eyes, and noted that Jack and Anne had withdrawn a few feet away. Anne stood leaning against a tree, a scowl on her face. Jack was speaking to hushed tones, his expression earnest.
"You asked me to wait here," she blurted out, forcing herself to look at him
He squinted down at her. "But you didn't." His thumb began to stroke her cheek.
"I-I-" her voice failed, and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly going dry.
"Listen to me." Vane hooked his fingers around her jaw, and leaned down so that his face was inches from hers. He smelled of rum, cigar smoke, and something else she didn't immediately recognize. It took her brain a moment to recognize the third scent-the faint, coppery scent of blood.
"The next time you disobey me," he rasped, "I will kill you myself. Is that clear?"
She nodded dumbly.
"If you do exactly as instructed, you have nothing to fear. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered, fighting the urge to look away from the flecks of blood that were spread across his cheek. "Yes, I understand."
"Good." He released her, and motioned for his companions to join them.
"Now, I need to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer me—quickly, and truthfully. I'll know if you're lying."
Then why even ask me?
He seemed to read her mind, and his eyes narrowed.
"Don't do that," he said, his voice now a low, dangerous rumble.
"Don't do what?" The second the words were out of her mouth, she instantly regretted them.
He stepped closer. The muscles in his arm rippled as he gripped her chin in one large, rough hand, his touch no longer gentle.
"Don't fuck with me."
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," she said, her words coming out in a desperate rush. "Please, just don't hurt me."
"Who did you come to the island with?"
"A man named Tobias Nelson...and a slave named Marcus, who rowed us over from Nassau."
"Tobias Nelson," he repeated, spitting the name out as if it were an curse. "And what are you to him? Wife? Sister?" His eyes dropped to her cleavage for an instant, then met hers again. "Whore?"
She felt heat rush into her face, and he smirked in response.
"No whore, I see. That's unfortunate. It's been two weeks since the crew has seen a fuck tent, and they're getting restless."
"I am his ward."
"His ward?" He glanced at Jack, who gave him a slight nod. "And why is Mr. Nelson here?"
She shifted again, and he tightened his grip, tilting her neck back. "I don't have all day."
"To meet with the Governor-elect of New Providence Island," she gasped. "A man named Woodes Rogers."
Vane's nostrils flared slightly. "I see," he murmured, a meditative look on his face.
"Do we take 'em?" Anne asked, her fingers running restlessly over the silver handle of her dagger. She tilted her head for just an instant, and Meg saw a flash of azure eyes before the woman lowered her gaze. "We could come over the ridge and cut their throats before they know what hit 'em." The tense excitement in her voice was unnerving.
"No." Vane shook his head decisively. "When I come face to face with Nelson and Rogers, it'll be on my own terms, at a place of my choosing." His hand settled on Meg's arm. "Luckily, I now have the means at my disposal to make that happen. I have no doubt that Mr. Nelson will be most anxious to get his porcelain doll of a ward back safe and sound."
"Now that that's sorted, may I suggest that we repair to the boat?" Jack's dark eyes darted around the clearing. "I suspect our prize's absence will be noted shortly."
"We're leaving? But-I can't! We can't!"
The three pirates exchanged glances, and Vane steered her towards the path. "I don't think you have a say."
"Wait!" She turned to speak to him, and he seized her other wrist.
"I have no patience for games."
"Isn't there some sort of code?" She was desperate now, and spoke rapidly, her voice strained. "I've heard about it...the pirate code. Like honor among thieves, so to speak?"
"She's stallin'," Anne said flatly.
"There's a man-one of you-being held prisoner-being tortured- by the Navy, down on the beach. He's-" her voice cracked. "Very dear to me."
"So someone close to you-a pirate-is currently being held by the Royal Navy?" Vane's tone registered his skepticism.
Anne crossed her arms. "If you ain't lyin', who the fuck is he?"
"His name is Billy Manderley-you might know him as Billy Bones. He's the boatswain for Captain Flint-on the Walrus."
Jack raised an eyebrow, and caught Vane's eye.
Vane's face remained impassive. "Why should I give a fuck about one of Flint's men?"
"Did you not hear me?" Meg gripped his arms now, praying that somehow, she could get through to this man. "He is being tortured, for no crime other than having sailed under the black."
"Does your guardian know of your affection for this man?" The pirate's hooded eyes watched her intently.
She flushed. "No. Billy and I knew each other as children back home in England, and only became reacquainted by chance in Nassau."
"So he would not approve."
She hesitated, then said, "No. He most decidedly would not."
Vane was silent for a moment, and Jack spoke up. "Surely you're not suggesting that we-"
"Rescue our brother in need?" drawled Vane, a grin spreading across his face. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting."
Thank you to everyone who is following and favoriting. Special thanks to Demonsdown (this one's for you) and ohmicrofilm for your faithful reviews. I'm trying to battle post-series finale depression by working on this fic, so please feed the muse by leaving any comments or suggestions you have.