The Pirate (The Legacy Series Book 5) Read online

  As The Burning Rose dispensed out one more volley, James clambered his way up the rigging of the mainmast until he balanced upon the main top yardarm. He pulled out two of the four pistols strapped across his chest and waited.

  Bart ordered men to the swivel guns as they continued to try and turn around so their canons were facing The Burning Rose again. As soon as one man came into view, James took aim and fired. The sailor jerked back and fell out of sight.

  The Burning Rose sent another round of shot into the stern, shattering the windows of the captain’s quarters and snapping the giant rudder that was visible above the waterline. James took out another man at the swivel guns and holstered his empty pistols.

  “Hold her steady, Pat!” he called down to his quartermaster.

  Already, he could hear Bart’s irate shouts to his crew. Now, they couldn’t turn, and their stern was wide open for James. More men would come to claim the swivel guns, but he needed those extra bullets.

  He had jumped this distance once before, but never between two moving ships. Timing was everything and if he judged the distance wrong, he might not die but it’d be a terrible inconvenience.

  He took a breath and paced back on the yardarm. Musket barrels were aimed at him, but James took off at a run. In one great leap, he flew across the open air between the two ships and rolled over the broken glass in the captain’s quarters. A few shards cut into his cheek and tore at his coat, but he couldn’t waste time picking out the sharp bits. Bart was already ordering his men to detain him.

  James pulled out the flint and struck the fuses for two of the grenades just as some marines stormed in with their cutlasses and muskets. The bullets found purchase, but James kept moving with his cutlass and cut down the men who opposed him. The golden eyes of the wolf shone bright in response to the pain and James threw all he had into hacking his way out of the cabin to flee down the stairs that led to the gun decks.

  More men charged, but the diminishing fuses in his hand wouldn’t let him slow down. When he had a second to heal, he spotted the pile of powder kegs huddled around the main mast. He tossed one, then tossed the second over the heads of the navy men to land around the foremast toward the bow of the ship.

  The grenades exploded and not a moment too soon. Shrapnel imbedded in his flesh, joining the dozens of musket ball wounds he had sustained. The fire billowed out around the masts, catching and spreading throughout the deck. James could feel the heat sear into his skin and singe his clothes, but that was nothing compared to the tender ache of his gunshot wounds.

  With his inhuman speed, James made his way back to the main deck with his pistol in one hand and the cutlass in the other. Everywhere, men were trying to put out the fire and keep the ship together, but it was no use. James could hear the seawater spilling into the cargo hold toward the stern. The Burning Rose had blasted a sizable hole in just the right spot and the blasts on the gundeck only added to the pandemonium.

  James turned and saw his father standing on the quarterdeck, the only other calm soul on the ship as his plan was falling apart. Bart didn’t move, didn’t even try to meet James for hand-to-hand combat. He wasn’t about to wait around and wonder why.

  He took aim with his pistol and fired at the man behind the wheel. The bullet lodged in the helmsman’s skull, but still Bart didn’t flinch. James weaved his way past the men who were no longer concerned about the rogue pirate onboard their vessel. They had better things to worry about.

  Up he climbed into the rigging and jumped his way from yardarm to yardarm, slicing through the halyard lines to render their sails completely useless. Once he made it to the mizzen topgallant yardarm, James leapt for his ship, leaving behind The Maelstrom, his father, and the last threat to his freedom.

  As soon as James’ boots hit the deck of The Burning Rose, Patrick steered the ship to open sea. The crew cheered and shouted insults to the mariners who were finally given the order to abandon ship. Some dove straight into the sea, but others still tried to maintain some semblance of order as they pulled out the rowboats and oars.

  The rest of their reserved gunpowder ignited and one of the masts came crashing down to crush the men still fumbling around on deck in the shambled ruins of The Maelstrom. James searched, but he saw no sign of Bart. Still, the nagging persistence in the back of his skull told him the man was far from dead.

  “Put our rudder to this mess and get us to sea, Pat,” James ordered as he limped his way up the steps to the quarterdeck.

  “For Kingston then?” he questioned.

  James took off his coat to reveal his bloodstained shirt that was riddled with holes from where he had been shot. “For Kingston,” he confirmed as he painfully slipped the pistol holsters off his chest.

  Any other man might have thought that the trouble was over, but James knew differently. Bart wouldn’t give up, not even after this. He’d get another ship and assemble an armada to come after James if he had to. Their only hope was to evade him, make it to Kingston, change the name of the ship, and disappear before the privateer knew what James had done. They had to vanish if they wanted to keep their freedom.

  Extending his claws, James reached in and dug around for the elusive musket balls. Most of the time, his werewolf flesh could easily push out the shot, but it never hurt to help it along a bit.

  “I’ll take the wheel,” he said to Patrick. “See to the crew and what repairs we can manage on the way without stopping into port. I’m not going to waste any more precious time.”

  The quartermaster nodded and ignored the sickening way James probed around in his chest to retrieve the bullets. In their early days, the Irishman might have offered the help of a surgeon, but he knew better than to suggest that now. James didn’t need it, nor did he want it.

  Somehow, the bullets, the glass, and the fire that battered his body was nothing compared to that pestering feeling that he had done wrong somehow. First, he threw Will to the sea, and now he had left his father on a burning warship. He had always dreamed of meeting another werewolf like himself and it seemed that he was refusing the gift that had been offered to him.

  With one hand prying deeper into his gut to get out a pesky musket ball that refused to come out, and the other hand steering his ship to safety, James was left tired and wanting. Once more, he regretted his actions, but still rationalized that it all had to be done. For himself and for his crew.

  Drowning in his own thoughts, James didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until a strong arm wrapped around his chest and pulled him from the wheel. His scent was masked by seawater, but James couldn’t mistake the man who seized him.

  Cool moisture seeped from Bart’s drenched clothes as he pulled James in tighter. He was ready to struggle against his father just before the sharp edge of a blade met his neck. James had been held at knifepoint plenty of times, but this blade was different. It burned him like fire against his skin and wouldn’t heal.

  Silver.

  He held completely still, but winced as the razor pressed into his throat. One of his men gave a shout and soon, the whole crew had turned their eyes up to Bart and his captive. James held up his hand, silently telling them to not come any closer.

  “I wondered where you were,” he said to his father. “Shouldn’t a captain go down with his ship?”

  “The ship meant nothing to me,” Bart replied in a fierce whisper. “Don’t you understand? It all meant nothing to me. I came to the Caribbean looking for you. The ship, those men, it’s all nothing. I was ready to throw it away for you and this is how you repay me?”

  James’ nostrils flared, but he still didn’t make a move. “You threatened all I hold dear. This ship, my crew, it’s everything for me. Did you expect me to just let it all go?”

  Something in his words gave Bart pause and the blade didn’t bite so hard into his flesh for a brief second.

  It was all the time Patrick needed. The quartermaster bounded up the steps and shot Bart. James was freed, and his father fell backward. Th
e scent of charred flesh slammed at his senses and he looked down to see a thin wisp of smoke curling up from the hole in Bart’s shoulder. His father was alive, but that injury wasn’t going to heal. The silver coating on the bullet wouldn’t allow him.

  Half in disbelief, James didn’t act straight away. The crew flooded the quarterdeck, but their captain turned a pair of golden eyes upon them, telling them to stay back. Patrick stood, the barrel of his pistol smoking as he stared at James.

  The bastard had silver bullets and James never knew it. How long had he had them? Had Patrick been planning to use them on his captain if he spiraled out of control?

  James dropped down to his father’s side and made no effort to hide his claws as he tried to pry out the silver bullet. It was no use. Every time he came close to extracting it, the metal would scorch the tip of his fingers, which make him flinch and lose his grip.

  He shouted for Mr. Jacobs, their carpenter and the only man close to a surgeon aboard their vessel. When the man stepped forward, he grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Take him to the brig and take that bullet out. If he gives you trouble, put him in irons.”

  James appointed a few more men to accompany them below. Bart may have been older and more dominant, but he was too injured to put up a fight that half a dozen men couldn’t handle. Once the excitement died away, he knew some of the men were ogling at their captain’s beaten condition. To anyone’s eyes, he had lost buckets of blood and it was a miracle he was standing at all. Quite honestly, James wondered the same thing.

  All at once, his legs decided to give out and he lowered himself to the deck. Patrick, his gun safely stowed back in his holster, rushed to his captain, but James would have none of it. He gave a low warning growl and Patrick eased off to give him space.

  How could Patrick have silver bullets and never tell James? How did he know to use them on Bart? Was it purely by accident or did Patrick know more than he let on?

  “Steer the bloody ship,” he grumbled.

  And so Patrick did, all while under the intense scrutiny of his captain who continued his painful task of ripping out the bullets and bits of glass from his flesh. After this, he’d need a great deal of rest. Only then would he go to see his father in the brig below. They had plenty to discuss.

  Chapter 11

  Those hours spent sitting in the brig gave Bart what he knew he needed after his fight with James. Time. Time to think about all he said and all he did. He didn’t bother trying to formulate a plan of escape. That would have been simple enough. The bars weren’t made of silver and the locking mechanism on the brig door looked to have been damaged once before. A good yank and he was free to waltz up on deck, steal the rowboat and make for any shore. But he didn’t. Bart would see this through.

  In the heat of the battle, Bart only had the sole objective to capture James or kill him. He preferred the former over the latter, but after his son ran through his ship like a damn hurricane, killing and wreaking havoc with his gunpowder supplies, Bart knew he couldn’t let him go that easily.

  His men would make it to St. Martin’s shore easily enough. They would probably spin some new tale about the formidable prowess of The Devil Dog and claim that Bart went down with the ship. He had slipped away to board The Burning Rose before anyone else knew he was gone.

  With the silver knife, he had planned to do the only thing he thought he could do. Yet, when James started to go on about his ship and his crew, about how they were his reasons for causing such destruction, Bart wasn’t sure what he needed to do anymore.

  That wasn’t the talk of a rogue loup-garou who cared nothing for the lives of others. And when he lay on the deck, the silver bullet searing his flesh from the inside, Bart finally took a good look into his son’s eyes. There was no madness in them, no anger or arrogance. James looked to be thoroughly distraught by the sight of his father bleeding out on his quarterdeck.

  Perhaps he had been wrong. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But how could he be sure?

  Bart listened closely to the chattering voices and stomping feet of the men above him. By their merriment, he assumed it was late evening already. There were no portholes for sunlight to shine in, nor for the foul air to escape through. For a loup-garou with as keen senses as his, this brig was a version of hell he didn’t care for. His wolf wanted him to pace like a caged animal, but Bart remained silent and still upon the filthy floor, staring at the same spot on the opposite wall beyond his cage.

  One thing he noted through the stench of tar, sweat, and bilge water below him, there was another scent mingled in with the rest. It was faint and old, but distinctive. A young woman had been here. A young woman he knew. They had met only once or twice in passing, but Bart had a good memory for scents.

  Only when he detected the approach of his son, did he let his eyes shift toward the doorway. James ambled through, a grave and solemn look on his face as he came to the bars. They assessed one another for a long moment with only the sounds of the party on deck to fill the silence that would have settled between them.

  “How’s your shoulder?” James asked.

  One more piece of evidence that his son may not have been what Bart suspected.

  “Your carpenter has some skill with a pair of forceps,” he replied. “It’s healed now.” Bart chose his words carefully. In every confrontation, he was used to having the upper hand, declaring his command over the interaction. That was impossible in his current predicament, but his wolf still wanted him to show that he was the more dominant of the two loups-garous on this ship. “You could have left the silver in. You could have let me suffer, but you had it removed. Do you plan to offer me up for ransom in Kingston?”

  Just before Bart attacked James, he had heard them talk about setting course for Kingston. That was all the way across the Caribbean. Why Kingston?

  James gripped one of the bars on Bart’s cage and shook his head. “I’m not giving you up for ransom, though my crew would probably want that.”

  “That’s very un-pirate of you,” Bart remarked.

  A muscle jumped in his son’s jaw, but he didn’t give the retort Bart was expecting from that light insult.

  “I had Mr. Jacobs take the silver out because… I don’t even know anymore. I hate you. I’ve always hated you, but I can’t bring myself to let you die like that. You wouldn’t have done the same for me, but I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you.”

  Bart nodded. That was a fair answer, no matter how disarrayed it might have been. He didn’t care about the part that James hated him. He expected it. What relieved him most was the fact that James might have been a ruthless pirate, but he wasn’t a heartless killer.

  He stood, forcing his tired limbs to carry him to the cage bars where James stood. “Answer this one question for me,” he said. “Have you eaten human flesh?”

  James’ face wrinkled with disgust. “No. Good God, why would I have done that?”

  Bart met his son’s stare and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. He wasn’t lying. He let out a long breath and nodded his approval. “All this time, I thought you had.”

  He cracked a smile. “You can’t believe all the stories they tell about me.”

  Perhaps if he had asked that question from the very beginning, they could have avoided this mess in the first place.

  “I hope the stories about how you cut open your prisoners and hang them with their own intestines is a lie too.”

  James didn’t exactly deny it, but he said, “I won’t do that to you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “I don’t want you to break the door either.” With that, he unlocked the brig.

  Bart didn’t move to the cracked gate. “Why?” he asked, peering at his son in the darkness of the brig. “The governor of Kingston would pay well for me. Why not boost the faith of the crew with a ransom?”

  James stowed the keys back in his pocket. “You just saw my men take on a ship twice the size of their own, face more canons than
they’ve seen on any one ship in their lifetime, and all without a single thought to their own safety. Do you really think I need to boost their morale?” He shrugged. “Besides, I have other business in Kingston that doesn’t involve you.”

  “Grace Norrie?” he questioned. By the way James’ heartbeat escalated in his chest, Bart knew he was right. “I can smell her in this brig. How long was she on the ship?”

  He didn’t have to, and Bart wasn’t expecting it, but James told him all about the girl he met in Kingston, and then again on St. Thomas when she disguised herself as a man. What else he didn’t expect was the way James told the story with such tenderness, putting Grace upon a pedestal like she was a goddess incarnate and how he had tried to do the right thing by returning her to the governor. When Bart and Grace first met, he had a feeling she was dissatisfied with her life in Kingston, but he would have never imagined she would resort to serving on a ship to run away.

  “I’m going back to do what I should have done from the beginning,” he confessed. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive me, but if distance has done anything, it’s proved that I can’t spend another moment without her.”

  Love. Bart knew it well, and that’s what shone in James’ hazel eyes now. A notorious pirate and a governor’s daughter. It might never work, but it wasn’t Bart’s place to tell his son that he couldn’t have what he wanted. James had spent his life chasing whatever whim and fancy struck him at the time and he wasn’t about to start doing anything less. Holding back a loup-garou from the one he loved might as well have been like trying to stop a massive hull leak with a spoon. It just wasn’t going to work.

  “Does she feel the same for you?” Bart asked, for once, feeling as if he were truly playing the father figure that he had wanted to be from the beginning.

  James made a wry face. “If her scent was any indication, then I’d say that she does.”