Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(183)

“Be damned!” the swarthy pirate slurred. “The hawk has fled his nest and left the little bird ripe for the plucking.”



Shanna huddled in the corner of the bed as she listened to the muffled voices in the hall. Only a few moments before, Gaitlier had whispered through the door that he had overheard the pirates plotting to invade the room to seize her. One of them had seen Ruark slip away. She had bade the servant hurry to seek out Ruark since Gaitlier’s slight frame would delay the miscreants only a small while. Testing the heavy bar on the door and the weight of the large chest Ruark had placed to further block the entrance, she had found them both sturdy bulwarks for her protection. Still, she had prepared for attack. The smaller of the two pistols, along with her dagger, went beneath the pillow; the oversize flintlock she held in both hands, its long muzzle resting on the bed before her. She braced herself for the worst the pillagers could deliver.

A stealthy testing of the portal, followed by a creak of the wood as someone leaned a shoulder against it, soon brought a meaty fist pounding on the planks as the man outside found the door both bolted and barred.

Making her voice sound as though she had just roused from slumber, Shanna called out. “Who is it?”

A gruff clearing of the throat came before the answer. “Captain ‘Arripen, milady. I bid ye open the door. I have a bit o’ news to discuss with ye.”

Shanna gave no credence to the crude ruse. “On a cold day in hell,” she replied. “But you’re welcome to test this bit of lead I hold.”

Her voice had barely stilled before a loud crash resounded from the door, trembling the planks. The bolts, bar, and hinges groaned in protest. Then another jarring of the thick planks followed and still another, which was heavier than those before. Another deafening crunch, and the wood began to splinter away from the hasps and bolts.

The bar jumped and began to crack as it took the full weight of the assault. With trembling hands Shanna raised the horse pistol until it centered on the door. Closing her eyes tightly, she squeezed. The flintlock went off with a roar that numbed her ears. The shot seemed to shatter the door asunder, and it caved inward with a mighty crash. Though one of the picaroons was flung backward against the far wall, the others charged through with a rush, the mulatto, Harripen, and the Dutchman squeezing through before the last two followed.

Shanna threw the useless weapon at them and fumbled with her numbed fingers, but before she could find the other pistol they were upon her. She snarled, shrieked in rage and fought like a demon in a frenzy, kicking, scratching, biting, but desperate as it was, her strength was not such to prevail against the five who had fallen upon her.

The Dutchman seized his fingers in her long hair, and she was cruelly jerked back upon the bed. Hands clawed at her thrashing limbs, stretching them on the bed. Harripen twisted a towel across her mouth to stifle her cries and bent low until his ale-soured breath smothered her.

“We’ve come for our share, wench. We cast lots for ye to see what one of us will go first on ye. And there’s no Mister Ruark saving ye this time. We’ve seen to that.”

Shanna’s eyes were wide with outrage and horror. Her mind raged on in fear. Had they killed Ruark? Is that what he meant? She lunged beneath their pawing hands and writhed frantically to escape their rough caresses.

“Hold her!” a younger man snarled when Shanna’s knee struck his groin. He retreated from the side of the bed where he had tried to mount her and glared at his companions. “She ain’t but a little thing, and you can’t even hold her still.”

“ ‘Ell’s bells, boy! Move aside and let a real man show you what to do,” chortled Harripen.

“Like hell I will!” the youth railed. “Now hold her!”

The meaty hands bruised Shanna’s wrists and ankles, spreading her out on the bed. The pirates leered down at her, and the fetid stench that clung to them nearly made Shanna retch in revulsion. The dark-skinned mulatto withdrew from the fray and lounged beside the door, while the young one, having boasted much of his prowess with women throughout the night, began to unfasten his garments while he laughingly bragged.

“No need to trouble yerself with any more show of struggles, milady. I’ll make you forget that bastard bondsman.”

“Get on with it!” Harripen sneered. “Or I’ll see ye made last. I’ve ‘ad it hot for the wench long enough.”

The Dutchman chortled. “Just yer luck, Harripen, to draw the last lot.”

Shanna squealed beneath the towel as the youth reached out his hand toward her blouse. Though she tried to twist away, the other three held her, and she could not move. The sound of rending cloth went through her very soul, and she was filled with a sickening horror. Again she tried to scream as the young man’s grasping fingers began tearing at her shift and pulling up her skirts. Suddenly he was lifted as if by a giant hand and thrown from the bed. Before he touched the floor, the room reverberated with the deafening crash of a shot, and all eyes flew to Ruark as he charged through the door, raising the other pistol as he flung the empty one aside to reach for his sword. It was obvious that Gaitlier had found him just in time. But now the mulatto stepped from behind the door and swung a heavy belaying pin across Ruark’s shoulders, sending him sprawling forward; the pistol flew from his grasp. The sword was pinned beneath him, and half dazed, Ruark tried to roll and free his blade, but all four of the captains fell upon him. It was a wild melee as Ruark fought to regain his feet, but he was lifted up and pinned against the wall. Harripen stood free, snatching out his cutlass. He raised it for the blow.