Dawn had brushed the heavens in deep magenta before the sun, rising golden on the horizon, bleached it to a softer pink and sharply etched the detail of the craft in its gilded light. The morning bloomed into full day. The sky faded to a subdued blue, and the translucent aquamarine that rose and fell in a languid, heaving motion became the sea beneath it. Triangular sails billowed with the full breath of a brisk wind, and the schooner skimmed the waters like a gull in effortless flight.
Tied with the other prisoners to the pinrail at the base of the main mast, Shanna found little comfort. She dozed fitfully, rousing whenever footsteps paced near. Usually it was Pellier who came to stand above her, his legs braced apart and arms set akimbo. His dark face twisted in a malevolent grin as his black eyes bored into her. Shanna shivered in apprehension as she sensed in him a twisted, vengeful desire to see her writhing in agony while he had her in some perverted way.
Noon cast Shanna in the shade of the sails, protected at last from the glaring sun, but it had already brightened the pale, slim nose and brought a deeper flush to her cheeks. Her long, curling hair, lifting on the freshening zephyrs, swirled about her face and bosom, the ends entangling in their abandon.
Pellier’s men paused often to stare at her with more than a longing glance, but they knew their captain and held a deep fear of him. His temper could rise without warning, and his skill with weapons had earned a healthy respect bordering on fear from them. Long ago they had learned to stay well away from the half-breed and that which belonged to him. It was only Gaitlier who brought her an occasional bit of cheese or bread or a drink of water, and even these minor ministrations were wont to draw Pellier’s disapproval.
Ruark kept his own vigil at a more distant spot, viewing Shanna through slitted eyelids while he appeared to slumber peacefully, his back braced against the rail, and his legs stretched out before him.
In the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, the schooner trimmed her sails and slipped cautiously along a string of small, swampy islands, little more than reefs choked with sand and crowded with cypress and occasional groups of palms. A dark, blood-red flag slashed with a black bar sinister was hoisted, and the ship passed a slightly larger island where, on a placid white beach, a single hut could be seen beneath an overhanging thatch of palms. A shiny surface reflected the light of the waning sun, and the signal was answered with waves from the pirates on the schooner. Shanna and the other hostages were loosed from their tethers and grouped together near the gangport. Ruark roused from where he catnapped near the prow and set his gaze toward the lay of the land and reefs, carefully noting details.
When the Good Hound had cleared the end of the point, she was faced with an open stretch of shallow water spotted with breakers which signaled reefs and sandbars. Ahead of them lay a much larger island that sprouted a low hill overlooking a shallow, half-protected cove. A scattering of ramshackle huts could be seen on the shoulders of the higher ground. In the center and on the brow of the dune squatted a large, once whitewashed structure surrounded by a low stone wall which enclosed a barren courtyard. Behind the port and for several miles on either side, a mangrove swamp extended, which combined with the reefs and bars beyond the shoreline to provide a good half mile of protection from attack.
Harripen joined Ruark by the rail and leaned beside him. The whole side of the Englishman’s face seemed to compress in a weird smirk as he squinted his eye at the younger man.
“Well, me lad, ye see our haven. Mare’s ‘Ead she be. What do ye think of ’er?”
He observed Ruark closely, but he only shrugged noncommittally. “Appears safe enough.”
“Aye, ‘at ye can say.” Harripen’s arm stretched out toward a spot where the broken ribs of a ship rose amid the shoals. “Ye see ’at ‘ere wreck? ’Twas part of a Spanish fleet what tried to warp a galleon through the shallows near enough to bombard our town, but the currents at ‘igh tide are strong and treacherous.” He chuckled heartily and grated a hand across the heavy, coarse bristles darkening his scarred chin. “After the ship hung up ’ere, we floated a raft with a single gun into range and chewed ‘er to bits.”
Ruark noted the man’s obvious relish of the event but pointed out, “If a determined man covered his ship with another and went carefully, he could succeed, and other ships could stand off and intercept anyone trying to escape. You’d be trapped in there.”
“Aye, lad.” Harripen laughed briefly. “And so ‘twould seem. But ’tis only fair to say, the wisest rat sees to ‘is hole ’fore ‘e builds the nest.”