Wherever You Are Page 3

  Dirty men crowded around, closing in on her, their stench gagging her as tears pooled in her eyes. This was really going to happen. Splinters of the wooden mast pressed into the skin of her arms. The wood was wet beneath her feet and the harsh sun shone down on her, heating her shoulders. The smell of brine and the scent of unwashed men nearly gagged her.

  “Cat out o’ bag!” someone yelled.

  “What say, mates? How many lashes d’ye think?”

  “Ten,” one yelled, followed by a loud raucous of laughter and jeers.

  “Twenty!” someone else yelled. A chorus of boos erupted.

  The taunts vibrated around her.

  “Nah, he’s a strong bugger. I say thirty.”

  Juliana’s eyes snapped open.

  He’s a strong bugger.

  Flog him.

  Him? She took another look at the men betting on her ability to stand upright while beaten with a rope. With her shoulder length hair, black pants and white silk shirt she looked like them. In fact, they all wore some sort of silk shirt and pants. With the exception of clean-cut Thomas, every one of them had long hair. The only difference seemed to be that she had all her teeth and had taken a bath sometime within the last six months.

  “Wait!” she tried to pull away from the mast but the rope cut into her wrists. “Stop, please. You’re making a mistake. I didn’t set fire to the ship. I swear. I’m not what you think. I’m…” The men stopped jeering and were looking at her in surprise and anger.

  The one who’d kept her from jumping stepped forward. “You set the cap’n’s ship afire?” His voice was low, laced with fury.

  She was bound so tight to the mast it was hard to breathe, but her mind whirled. For some reason these men hadn’t known why she was being flogged and they definitely didn’t know she was a woman. A woman among a ship full of men who looked like they hadn’t seen a female in months. Who looked as if even if they had seen one they had no honor in them to treat her with respect and they surely didn’t respect her if they thought she set their ship on fire.

  Thomas stepped into her line of sight. “Tell me who sent you. I’ll give you one last chance.” There was no warmth in his eyes, no remorse for tying a person, a human being, to a pole with the intent to beat him—or her.

  Tell him. Tell him you’re a woman.

  What was worse? To be flogged or gang raped?

  He ran the roped whip through his hands.

  “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.

  His eyes flickered over her face and after a moment he nodded. “So be it.”

  She lifted her gaze to the crowd of men and immediately noticed a newcomer. A woman with a long, black braid draped over her shoulder but dressed like the other men. Her expression was not one of anticipation like most of the men placing wagers, but hard acceptance, her lips a thin line. She placed one hand on her hip while the other rested comfortably on a sword at her other hip.

  Juliana didn’t see Thomas raise his arm, but she heard the whip whiz through the air. The knots dug into her skin, ripping through the sensitive flesh on her back. She arched her body and pulled against her bindings. Pain erupted. Pain like she’d never felt before. It buckled her knees and set every nerve ending on fire.

  Her screams echoed off the billowing sails, reverberated through the watchful crowd. And ascended to the heavens.

  Chapter Three

  Juliana slumped forward. She tried to breathe through the pain but there was no breathing through this pain. White-hot, the searing agony stole her breath. It engulfed her, took over her senses until her stomach heaved.

  The second lash tore her shirt in half and ripped through already shredded skin. Juliana threw her head back and screamed again. If she could have found her voice she would have begged Thomas to stop, would have admitted to setting fire to the ship. Anything to stop the agony of her skin being torn from her body.

  She gritted her teeth and ground her forehead into the mast.

  Thomas loomed in front of her. His face faded in and out of focus. His voice came from far away. “Tell me who sent you.”

  She licked dry lips, trying to think of a name. Any name. She didn’t remember her own at the moment.

  The noise from the betting sailors rose until the wooden deck vibrated. Thomas stepped away and Juliana heard the rope fly through the air.

  “Cease!”

  The rope whizzed past Juliana’s head and hit the mast high above her. In a great whoosh she let out her breath. Only the ropes lashing her to the mast kept her upright.

  Forehead pressed to the weathered wood, she turned her head and opened her eyes. The woman she’d seen earlier strode forward. The men, who just moments ago were tossing around bets and laughing, fell silent but watched avidly. The slap of the waves against the hull and the clink of the sails above filled the sudden silence.

  Aqua-colored eyes flashed fire as the woman yanked the rope from Thomas’s hands. Afraid she would swing the rope at her, Juliana cringed and gasped at the tremendous pain of the slight movement.

  Thomas stepped into her line of sight, next to the black-haired woman.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” The woman’s voice was all hard fury.

  Thomas took a hesitant step back. “Captain’s orders, Cap’n. Ma’am.”

  One finely curved black brow inched upward. “Captain’s orders?”

  Thomas swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Captain Morgan, ma’am.”

  Both eyebrows shot up. “Captain Morgan ordered you to flog a woman?”

  Thomas’s gaze swung to Juliana. His mouth fell open and his eyes went wide with shock. “A woman, ma’am?”

  The black-haired lady ripped Juliana’s shirt away from her back and pointed to the sides of her exposed breasts. Juliana was in far too much pain to object. “Obviously, that is a woman.”

  She pulled her wicked-looking sword from its sheath and raised it high. Juliana flinched and closed her eyes.

  Please, God, a quick end. Please stop this agony. She relished the thought of ending this torture and if she could find her voice, would thank the woman for killing her.

  But the sword silently cut her bindings and without the support of the ropes, Juliana collapsed onto the deck, not caring that dozens of men were leaning forward, staring at her as if they’d just pulled an alien from the ocean. A wet sticky substance covered the front of her and she realized with sick certainty that she was lying in a pool of her own blood.

  Hands touched her arm and with a cry, Juliana shrank from them.

  “It’s all right,” the lady whispered in her ear. “No one else will hurt you.”

  She let the woman help her stand. Immediately her world went dark. Her stomach heaved and she threw up all over the deck. The woman held her gently, waiting for the spasms to abate. She began to shiver even though the wind was balmy, almost hot.

  Hot wind.

  Come inside, sweetheart. It’s too cold to talk out here.

  Emily Langtree. Zach’s mom had said that when Juliana visited. It’d been cold. And now it was hot.

  Slowly she straightened. The skin on her back screamed in agony, causing her stomach to churn even more but blessedly she didn’t throw up again. Her vision faded and all she concentrated on was standing upright.

  “Give me your shirt,” the woman said to Thomas.

  “My shirt?”

  “Your shirt, damn it.”

  Thomas yanked his shirt over his head. Carefully the woman pulled it over Juliana, covering her bloody back and exposed breasts. Juliana whimpered. Every sigh of the wind, every dip of the ship on the ocean, every muscle twitch added to her misery until there was nothing but pain.

  She wished the woman would put her out of her misery. Her rescuer turned to the unruly mob who now watched silently. “Back to work,” she barked out, and the frightening men scrambled away.

  Morgan sat at his desk with his sextant and map in front of him. He needed to chart their course to London
, but his mind kept wandering to the past.

  Barun.

  The man was like a black cloud on Morgan’s horizon. Death nipping at his heels.

  He buried his fingers in his hair and hung his head to massage his aching temples. His hand fell to the scar on the inside of his arm and he rubbed it. Sometimes he still felt the hot poker searing his skin, still smelled the stench of his burning flesh.

  Get the Parkers’ ship to London. That was his plan. And then…

  Morgan feared the “and then”, because he had no plan. He was weary of constantly looking over his shoulder, of knowing Barun lurked in his future just as he lurked in Morgan’s past.

  He would never rid himself of his enemy and the thought tired him.

  He’d escaped once but had no energy for a second time. He was thirty-two years old, had lived far longer than most men in his profession, and had nothing to show for it. Nothing to live for. No home. No family. Nothing but a lot of ill-gotten money he couldn’t spend in two lifetimes.

  With a tired sigh he crossed his arms on top of his maps and laid his head down. First he had to get Isabelle and Reed’s cargo to London. And then—

  The door to his cabin banged against the wall. Morgan grabbed the cutlass leaning against the desk and rose to a fighting stance in one smooth motion. Isabelle marched in, the young stowaway stumbling behind.

  “I should have you flogged.” Isabelle pointed her sword at him.

  Morgan’s cutlass dipped until the point hit the floor. “Pardon?”

  She advanced and his curiosity gave way to trepidation. He knew that look. She was beyond angry, and if he was smart he’d get the hell out of there. But Isabelle rounded his desk, her eyes blazing, and trapped him behind it.

  “Do you make it a habit to flog women?”

  The softness of her voice and the fury in her eyes caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

  She reached behind her for the stowaway, but the boy recoiled and tried to hide behind Isabelle.

  Isabelle pulled the whelp forward. With a show of defiance, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Morgan through red-rimmed eyes.

  Morgan looked from Isabelle’s angry face, back to the boy.

  He stared at the outline of her breasts and his heart damn near stopped beating.

  Her breasts?

  What the hell?

  He took a step around the desk. The woman’s expression went from defiance to fear, and Isabelle stepped between them, her hand on the hilt of her sword. The fact that Isabelle felt the need to touch her weapon as a warning for him hurt more than Morgan would admit.

  “I am ashamed to call you friend,” she said. “After all we’ve been through, never once have you touched a woman in anger, never once have you hit a woman.”

  The mysterious woman closed her eyes, her body held carefully still as if each breath hurt. Morgan knew the sting of the cat-o’-nine-tails. He’d seen grown men cry like babies after the first lash and he’d seen men die from the after-effects. That a woman had suffered this at his hand made his stomach turn.

  “You’ve changed, Morgan. The man I knew would never have done something like this.”

  “I had no idea.” They were the only words he managed out of his numb mouth. He’d had a woman flogged. A woman.

  He closed his eyes, fighting despair and self-hatred and felt himself slipping over the edge. Is this what Barun had reduced him to? Seeing spies in everyone? Blind in his paranoia?

  He carefully leaned his sword against the side of the desk. The woman’s terrified gaze followed his weapon. How had he not known, not seen what was before his very eyes?

  “Please tell me you’re speaking the truth,” Isabelle whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t know.” She pierced him with a bewildered stare. “Tell me you would never have ordered her flogged if you had known. I’m tolerant of many things, Morgan, but having a woman flogged is not one of them.”

  “Good God, Isabelle, of course I didn’t know. I would never hurt a woman on purpose.”

  He walked toward the mysterious female. The sight of her blood dripping from beneath the hem of her shirt onto his floor made him change course to walk a few paces away and run a weary hand through his hair.

  “I’ll take her to Reed’s ship and care for her there,” Isabelle said.

  “No,” he said.

  She paused in the act of reaching for the woman and looked at him in surprise.

  “I did this to her, I’ll take care of her.”

  “Morgan—”

  “I’ll take care of her.” He forced himself to look at the woman and what he had done to her. “I have to.”

  The woman was shivering. Beneath the tear tracks that carved furrows through the soot from the fire, her face was pale. Her eyes were wide, the pupils huge. Morgan knew the signs of shock when he saw them. Carefully, slowly, he reached for the blanket at the end of his bunk and held it out to her. She stared at the offering as if she didn’t know what it was before tentatively reaching for it. Morgan didn’t miss the wince of pain or the small whimper she tried to bite back.

  She clutched the blanket to her chest, turning wide, blank eyes to him.

  “Leave her with me, Isabelle.”

  The woman made a strangled sound, her terrified gaze going to Isabelle.

  “I don’t trust you, Morgan. I’m sorry…”

  Isabelle might as well have taken the sword and stabbed him through his stomach. After all they’d been through, the words tore through him. Yet, he couldn’t blame her. Three years ago he’d returned to his best friend and sailing partner a broken man, unable to speak of the horrors inflicted on him. Slowly his silence and moodiness had eaten away at their friendship until it hung by one thin strand. Morgan feared he’d just broken that strand.

  “I swear on my sword I will not hurt her.” No, he needed to heal her. Needed to do this. To right this wrong.

  Every so often a drop of the woman’s blood hit the floor, each splatter an ice pick to his heart.

  “I’ll check on her before I leave.” Isabelle walked out of the cabin and shut the door softly behind her.

  Slowly the woman looked around, her gaze stopping at the wall of windows behind him and the vast ocean spread before them. She turned her blank gaze to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not knowing what else to say.

  Her fingers tightened on the blanket. She needed to get out of her clothes so he could tend her back, yet asking her to disrobe was out of the question. She began to sink to the ground, as if her legs couldn’t hold her. Morgan reached for her, ready to catch her, but she recoiled and settled on her knees, her wide-eyed gaze never straying from his.

  Morgan, too, sank to his knees before her.

  In his lifetime as a pirate he’d had many people look on him in fear. Fear was a powerful weapon he’d ruthlessly cultivated to get what he wanted. But this woman’s fear was far more than he could take.

  He reached into his boot with careful, slow movements. She tore her gaze from his face to follow his hand, gasping when he pulled out a sharp dagger.

  “Easy,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He turned the dagger and offered it to her hilt first. Again her eyes searched out his. The reddened skin between her brows puckered.

  “Take it.” He kept his voice soft. “It’s yours. I won’t harm you again, but if you should feel threatened, feel free to use it.”

  It was an attempt to show good faith yet guilt pricked him. Even if she tried to use it against him, he was faster, bigger and more powerful. He could easily strip the small weapon from her. He’d given her false hope and somehow that seemed worse than no hope at all.

  Her fingers unfurled themselves from the blanket and she slowly reached forward to take the dagger.

  “I need to get supplies in order to tend your…injuries.”

  She swayed. Morgan reached for her, but she batted his hand away with the hand holding the dagger. He pulled back before
he found himself sliced to ribbons.

  Fresh blood dripped to the floor and he had to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Funny, he’d seen damn near everything one human could do to another and never before had his stomach turned so.

  “You need to be in bed. It’s more comfortable than the floor.”

  She gave him a look that said if he thought she was getting in that bed, he was crazy.

  “Fair enough.” He stood. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. Always keep your enemy in sight, it was a good motto to live by and it seemed she’d learned it well. “I’ll be gone a short while to get some supplies.”

  Her eyes widened, the fear turning to terror. Disgusted with himself he grabbed his sword and left, smacking into Thomas who was standing in the doorway bare-chested.

  “How is she?” Thomas craned his neck to look inside the cabin but Morgan drew the door closed. Thomas’s nose was swollen to almost twice its size and blood was smeared across his cheek. She’d fought hard. Strangely Morgan was proud of her spunk.

  “Stand outside this door. Let no one in. And for God’s sake don’t let her out.”

  When he opened the door to the cabin with the supplies in hand, Thomas was right on his heels. Morgan knew Thomas felt guilty for being the one to wield the rope, yet it wasn’t his fault. He’d been acting on Morgan’s orders and so the guilt lay on Morgan’s shoulders.

  Morgan stopped and Thomas barreled into his back. “Where is she? Damn it, Thomas, I specifically left orders that she was not to leave.”

  Good God she was in excruciating pain yet she’d found the fortitude to walk out? Had she jumped ship like Thomas said she’d tried to do before?

  “No one left, Cap’n. I swear.” Thomas stepped around him and looked at the spot where the woman had been. There was nothing but splatters of blood on the floor.

  They found her curled in a corner, her bloody back pressed against the wall. There were smears of blood on the wood behind her. How in the world was she withstanding the pain?

  Thomas pulled in a breath and muttered, “Dear God.” He took a step toward her but she whimpered and pulled back. Fresh blood dripped onto the floor.