The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(73)
“Prepare to board,” the boatswain shouted to the occupants of the cutter.
The Regent impostor crossed the thwarts from aft to bow, heading directly toward her as oars were stored and the boat wobbled precariously. Without preamble, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet.
Cold and wet, she struggled against the Regent’s tight grip to keep her footing. She’d lived by the ocean all her life, but she’d rarely been to sea. On occasion, she’d gone fishing with her brothers, stolen moments before the boys had turned to wrecking ships and her world as she knew it had collapsed.
She pulled up her skirts to maneuver the thwarts, climb over the gunwale, and manage the battens leading upward to the deck of the large menacing ship. She breached the pinnacle, passed through an entry port, and stepped onto a deck teeming with bedraggled men who lined up to welcome them, staring at her like she was a curiosity.
Unusually quiet, the Regent led her down a companionway. There, they stood waiting as a brisk wind assaulted the rigging and spars above, the sound noisy and ominous. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, creaking in agony and illuminating the blackened tar blocks and tackle above their heads. Murmurs erupted from the gangway fore and aft as the congregating men broke into conversation all at once amidships.
Shivering, Oriana chastised herself for her pigheaded desire to fancy herself for John by wearing the unserviceable silk instead of her normal functional wool. The ruined fabric clung to her skin now, a thin veil against the jeering, lewd expressions of the men shuffling above her who roared to life and then quieted when John was brought aboard.
Naught but the sounds of canvas snapping overhead and the rigging protesting the ship’s anchorage governed, leaving her baffled when the men began to scatter. Their padded footfalls echoed around her as a shadowy figure exited the captain’s cabin to stand on the upper deck. He paused, his eyes searching the newcomers until his pinioning stare fastened on her.
Oriana gasped. She was staring into the eyes of a killer.
Charles.
“It’s time for your happy reunion.” The Regent’s impostor gouged her flesh cruelly with his fingers as he pulled her around to face her brother.
She cursed her poor judgment. What she’d done in trying to save John had seemed her only avenue of escape, but now, facing Charles, her mouth suddenly went dry. Her chest tightened painfully, and she wanted to crawl inside herself and die.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip. “You’ll rot in hell for this!”
“It’ll be worth it to get the likes of you off my back,” the fraud said, gnashing his teeth.
Only one thing would work in her favor: behaving like she wasn’t afraid. Oriana jerked her head back, slamming the bony part of her skull into the pirate’s nose.
The shocked man staggered backward. “Bitch!”
She tightened her fists and elbowed him in the stomach as he fought to regain his footing. “We’re not tarred with the same brush, ye chitterin’ weasel.”
He grabbed her none too gently and dragged her along to the roaring laughter of Charles’s crew. “Ye’ll regret that mouth of yers.”
Her crown ached fiercely as she fought against his grip. “Not until you’re dead.”
The fake Regent raised his fist. Oriana braced herself for the blow, but it never came.
Charles had caught the man’s hand and was glaring down at her with disdain. “Ye’re a bit overdressed.”
Her stomach roiled as a cold chill settled into her bones. Hands tingling, she fought the dizziness threatening to consume her and spit on him. “I prepared for your funeral.”
Charles looked at his men, then wiped the spittle off his face. “So ye’ve changed little since I last saw ye. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Charles hadn’t reformed. He’d been cut of dead wood and scythed out of a bog. Massive, muscular, and hard where a pirate needed to be, he was armed to the teeth. At his belted waist, he wore a pearl-handled pistol and dagger. A sheathed cutlass flapped against his side, and his dingy-gray shirt and tight-fitting brown jacket were crossed with a leather strap laden with dirks.
Oriana inwardly cringed standing this close to her brother again as the past between them came rushing back. Thoughts of John being held on the deck above assailed her. In the past, when dealing with Charles, she’d had nothing to lose but her own life. Now she bemoaned what would happen to John.
Her fears fed off themselves, making Charles grow more powerful than the reality of his nearly six-foot height in her mind. He’d killed his own lover. He tolerated nothing and no one, especially when he didn’t get his way. And she was in his way now. She’d hidden his gold and Eliza’s things. She’d risen against him, had given some of his blood money away, and had tried to kill him and failed.
“Sister.” The moniker was choked off by a menacing growl. A demonic smile tightened across his face, enhancing the scar trailing from his temple to his chin.
She stared into Charles’s cold, dead eyes, finding no compassion there. “Brother,” she snapped.
“Can’t say that I’ve missed ye,” he stated, the annoyance in his voice rising.
Her blood boiled as she fidgeted before him. “Neither can I.”
He slapped her hard across the face.
Oriana reeled to the right, struggling to maintain her balance. She raised her bound hands to her cheek, soothing the sting as unbidden tears welled in her eyes. She gritted her teeth, turned on him, and smiled, feeling her lip crack.