Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(66)

“No.” Gray’s face was hard. “No men with wives or children.” His gaze darted toward Sophia, then quickly away. If he read the desperate plea in her eyes, he did not acknowledge it. She winced, feeling the meaning of that dismissive glance. What ever she was to him, she was something less than a wife. And he would never allow her to be more. She wasn’t reason enough for him to live.

I don’t want you.

Something inside her splintered and cracked. Sophia wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, as if she could hold the pieces together. Gray turned back to his brother. “Fall back as soon as we’re aboard, you hear? We’ll signal when all’s clear.”

He hoisted his body’s weight on the rope, the powerful brawn of his arms and back straining against the seams of his wet shirt. “The Aphrodite’s yours, Joss. Take care of her for me.”

“Aye, I will.” A knowing look passed between them. “I’ll look after the ship, too.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gray’s boots hit the Kestrel’s deck with a hollow thud. Once the other three dropped over the rail, he began giving orders. The howling wind forced him to shout.

“O’Shea, take the wheel. Keep her steady, pointed into the gale. Otherwise, she’ll be on her beam ends before we even get a whiff of smoke.” The Irishman nodded and raced to the helm.

Gray looked to Levi. “Find some axes and start chopping down the mainmast. I’ll join you.”

His men dispatched, Gray peered up, squinting at the darkened sky rent by a line of bright flame. The fire was halfway down the mast now. With this unholy wind fanning the flames, they had only a matter of minutes before the fire reached the deck. No time to waste.

“I’ll chop with Levi.” Davy stood at his elbow. “I’m strong.”

“No.” Gray looked around. Where were the damn axes, anyhow? “I need you to search the ship. See if there are blazes in the hold. Look for injured, or anyone trapped. If you come across anything flammable—spirits, powder, medicines—you’re to heave it overboard immediately, do you understand?”

The boy nodded, his face pale but determined. “Aye, captain.” Davy’s voice cracked, and Gray felt a twinge of guilt. He should have insisted the boy stay aboard the Aphrodite.

“I’m not your captain,” Gray called after him.

“On this ship, you are.” With a shrug, Davy hurried toward the hatch. Gray strode toward the mainmast, looking for Levi. His boots crunched over something metallic. He stared down at the deck. Nails. Bent, fused together, some gnarled as tree roots. Good Lord, he’d heard of lightning strikes like this—jolts strong enough to rip nails right out of the mast and send them clattering to the deck—but he’d never seen such a thing, in all his years at sea. He hoped he’d never see it again.

A misshapen hunk of metal rolled to a stop at his feet, still smoking. Gray  kicked the roundish lump. “What the devil is that?”

“I think it used to be the bell.”

Gray’s head snapped up, and he found two bedraggled sailors standing before him.

“What can we do?” the shorter of the two asked, rubbing his shoulder as though it ached.

“Are you unharmed?” Gray eyed the men from head to toe. Tattered clothing hung from their gaunt frames, and their hands were black with tar and soot. The acrid odor of singed hair assaulted his nostrils. The sailors nodded. “Just rattled, is all,” the taller one said. “Others weren

’t so lucky.” He tilted his head toward a lifeless heap of rags on the opposite side of the deck. Mercifully, the dead sailor’s face was hidden from view, but a charred hand still clutched the rigging. Gray swallowed hard, tasting bile. “Where’s your captain?” He brushed past the sailors. “And where the devil are your axes?”

“Don’t know where the captain’s at,” one sailor answered. “Probably rummin’ in his cabin. I’d like to think the bastard’s dead, but we wouldn’t be that lucky.”

“As for the axes …” The taller seaman nodded toward the rail, and Gray followed his gaze. A row of wooden hatchet handles stood at attention. Their hatchet blades, however, lay on the deck. Jolted from their handles, still smoking, half-melted … and completely, utterly useless. Gray swore. Levi came bounding out from the galley, some sort of meat cleaver in one hand and a carving knife in the other. It was all Gray could do not to laugh till he cried. They were going to take down the mast with a meat cleaver?

Without a word, Levi handed him the knife and began attacking the mainmast with the cleaver. Well, apparently they were going to try. Gray ran to the standing rigging, using the knife to saw through the ropes that connected mast and ship. If by some miracle Levi managed to cut through the mainmast, it couldn’t fall clear with the rigging intact. The two sailors drew knives from their belts and began to assist. Despite the spray and wind, Gray’s body quickly heated with the exertion. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he dabbed at it with his sleeve between blows. Eventually, he gave up the sawing motion in favor of full-armed swipes of the knife.

“How many crewmen?” he yelled at the sailors, hacking away at another rope. “Dead.” Thwack. “Alive.”

“There’s eleven of us. Five were in the forecastle. Don’t know how they fared. Two dead here on deck. A few others got blasted, but they’re still alive. So far.”