Fire Raven

  Fire Raven

  by

  Patricia McAllister

  Copyright © 2013 Patricia McAllister

  Kindle Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  May, 1598

  The Irish Sea, off the coast of Wales

  “CAPTAIN! LOOK OUT!”

  The first mate’s cry spun Kat around on the balls of her feet. She was just in time to deflect the savage downswing of the Spaniard. Sparks flew when their blades met and clashed.

  She staggered back against the mainmast, every muscle in her sword arm screaming for reprieve. She saw the mad gleam in the Spaniard’s dark eyes and knew he meant to kill her. England’s old enemy was now her own.

  Her mind grappled to understand the motive behind the attack as she struck a defensive posture in preparation for the next blow of her assailant’s sword. Fiach Teine was a merchant ship. She was peacefully crossing the Irish Sea. Transporting goods for the Eastland Company was her trade — not war. This unprovoked, savage attack made no sense.

  When Kat first heard the lookout — Corby, reporting another ship coming astern upon them — she’d paid him no heed. Not until he added the fact that the ship flew Spain’s colors.

  Even then, she had not been unduly concerned. Perhaps the other ship was in trouble. It appeared to be listing to one side. As the galleon drifted closer, Kat saw she was right. The Spanish crew waved to them and signaled that they needed help. Kat ordered her own men to ready the grappling hooks and boarding planks.

  Normally she was not a trusting sort, but she had been raised somewhat unconventionally at sea by her parents, and her father, in particular, had always stressed the need for rules governing civility and formalities, even on the high seas. Besides, the Armada was long past. King Philip was on his deathbed. There was no reason for Spain to attack a lone merchant vessel.

  How wrong she had been! Kat’s temper burned with the memory of her folly. The Spaniards turned on her crew the moment the ships were linked together. The bloody pirates came streaming across the boarding planks, swinging over on the ratlines, like the dirty rats they were. Half Kat’s crew had been murdered before her eyes, and only Rory, bless him, had managed to buy her a moment of reprieve — time enough to dash to the captain’s cabin and retrieve a weapon.

  Sweet Jesu! Rory! She dared not glance at his inert figure, lying silent and too still on the deck near the mainmast. If she did, Kat knew she would lose her concentration, and hence her life.

  Damme, she was weakening. The Spaniard hacking so gracelessly away at her seemed enraged that he could not best a mere female. His blows became wilder, undisciplined. Inch by inch, Kat felt herself losing ground on the slippery deck. Soon she was trapped, pinned against the mainmast, her disciplined slash-and-parry style was ineffective against the Spaniard’s reckless assault.

  Skkkreee … their swords met again, grappled, then slid apart again with a too-human shriek and the mournful echo of steel. For a moment, the two combatants paused, panting, staring at each other with a mixture of hate and grudging respect.

  Kat was the first to break eye contact. Rory’s body came into her sweeping line of vision instead. Did he stir, or had she only imagined it? Oh, Sweet Jesu, please! she prayed, and to her astonishment, the red-haired man moaned slightly. She faltered. Only for a second. It was enough. Her sword flew from her hand with a metallic clatter and skidded across the deck.

  Just before her triumphant attacker lunged, a male voice rang out from the melee.

  “Halte ‘la!”

  Kat’s head snapped around to find the source of the order. Wind whipped her dark hair back from her face, and she stared in shock as a man jauntily stepped over dead bodies on the deck, headed in her direction. He was dressed like a court dandy, in a black doublet and fine Venetian hose. His velvet breeches were lined with gold braid and silk panes. It seemed incongruous: he was so elegantly attired while his crew wore little more than rags. Even more mystifying was the fact that he spoke fluent French instead of Spanish.

  He stopped before Kat, elbowing her former adversary, the Spaniard, out of his way. A low chuckle rose to the Frenchman’s lips as he gazed at Kat defiantly facing her death.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Katherine. May I compliment you on your fine swordplay? You almost make me regret my duty.”

  Kat felt a nameless terror rising to clutch her by the throat. The other pirates were mere rabble, but there was something truly frightening about this man’s emotionless black eyes, his small moustache so carefully groomed and waxed, his precise and dignified speech.

  She swallowed hard and finally found her voice. “How do you know my name?”

  He smiled. It was a perfunctory smile. It stretched his lips into a thin, bloodless line, yet never quite reached his glittering black eyes. He waved his hand in a dismissing fashion.

  “’Tis of no importance now. What matters is I have found you, and at last I shall have my revenge.”

  Revenge? Kat had never seen the man before. She opened her mouth to tell him so, as he reached down to pluck up a rapier from one of her dead crew.

  “I will not be denied the satisfaction of killing you myself,” he said pleasantly, as he straightened and hefted the weapon in well-manicured hands. “Je regrette; you are more intriguing a woman than I ever imagined.”

  Kat flicked a desperate glance at her own lost sword, lying some feet away. There was no way she might reach it before he moved. She braced her hands against the mainmast, her nails scoring the wood. The wind sent the rope ladder swinging in the breeze, and she felt it brush against her sweaty hands.

  The crow’s nest! It was her only chance. Kat prided herself on being able to climb quickly and nimbly. She had no fear of heights. Somehow she had to bolt up the main-mast and fend off her attacker long enough to attract the attention of another passing ship. God’s nightshirt! she swore. A difficult feat, if not downright impossible. Kat had always been known for her reckless nature, though. Hadn’t the O’Neill always teased her she should have been born a man? Mayhap if she had, she could have saved them all ….

  She forced the agonizing thought aside before it clutched her in its iron grip. She had no time to grieve now, and if she succeeded in eluding these murderers long enough for Rory to recover, perhaps all was not lost.

  This reckless gamble appealed to Kat as well as any. While her mind made some quick calculations, perspiration broke out on her brow, and she desperately tried to outwit her unknown enemy.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur, I cannot grasp your motives. Why would you want to harm me or my crew? I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She spoke perfect French, the better to surprise and disarm him. She hoped, in his fascination with her, he might not note the fact that Rory was rousing. She saw the redheaded man out of the corner of her eye; he appeared to be clutching the wound in his side. Coming round, slowly but surely. Sweet Mother and Mary, Rory, hurry!

  “If I must die by a stranger’s hand, Monsieur, I deserve to kn
ow why,” she added, stalling for more time.

  The Frenchman seemed reluctant to answer her demand. “You might say this is a family matter, Mademoiselle. Or may I be so bold as to call you Petite Chatte, as does your crew?”

  “My men are dead, thanks to you. You are no more than a coldblooded murderer.”

  He ignored her fury. “Such a pity,” he said, reaching out to toy with a lock of dark hair blowing across Kat’s face. She snarled and jerked her head away. His laughter was thin and cold, like the sea wind biting through her canvas shirt. “You even hiss like an angry kitten. Are your claws as sharp?”

  “D’you wish to find out?” Her challenge caught the Frenchman by surprise. She deliberately made her tone seductive, her steady gaze locked with his and smoldered with promise.

  His momentary hesitation was enough. Kat reached for her right boot and snagged up her scian, an ornate Celtic dagger. The gift from her Irish grandfather had served as little more than a letter-opener until now. It molded to her tight fist like a lover, and she clutched it fiercely as she lunged for the Frenchman.

  He raised his arms to block her bold attack, stumbling back with visible shock. He was not a physical sort, as Kat already surmised. She scored his sleeve, shredding the fine silk, and leaving a trail of bloody beads on his left forearm. To his credit, he recovered rapidly, lashing out with his own foil as she leapt deftly out of range.

  Kat knew she had but moments to choose her course. She clamped the scian between her teeth and flung herself up on the rope ladder tied to the mainmast. She shimmied up the sagging steps, not daring to look down. She heard the Frenchman’s bellow of frustrated rage below her.

  Safe for the moment in the crow’s nest, Kat peered down and saw him ordering one of his crewmen to pursue her. The other little fellow looked spry and agile as a monkey. He was halfway up the ladder before Kat’s trembling hands sawed her dagger’s blade through the final knot anchoring the ladder to the crow’s nest. With a scream, both man and ladder fell and hit the main deck below. The sickening thud made Kat shiver. She heard the Frenchman curse again.

  A moment later he chuckled, a cunning sound. It raised the hair on the back of her neck. “’Twill do you no good, Petite Chatte!” he shouted up at her. There are other ways to … ah, how do the English say … skin a cat?”

  Kat’s eyes widened as she watched him remove a small case from his doublet. Humming merrily, he opened the silver box and removed a flint stone. With calm, deliberate precision, he struck a spark and lit a cigar.

  Mesmerized by his movements, Kat nervously licked her lips. Fire at sea meant death, as everyone knew well. She cried out when a bit of burning tobacco dropped to the wooden deck. He carelessly let it smolder there.

  The Frenchman glanced up at her in faux surprise, once again speaking English. “You must forgive my clumsiness, Little Cat. I shall take care to dispose of this properly.” He moved to place the still-burning cigar atop a wooden casket. Kat’s hands whitened where she gripped the rail. The keg was full of whale oil!

  He ignored her furious cries and pleas as he crossed the deck to the boarding planks still linking his ship to the Fiach Teine. Pausing only once, he turned to eye the smoking casket, then raised his malignant gaze to where she huddled atop the mainmast.

  “Au revoir,” he called out, with a peculiar mixture of triumph and regret. The unmarked Spanish galleon drifted away on the evening tide, while the Fiach Teine began to burn.

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, ON the Continent, the Frenchman relayed the success of his journey to another. He saw the woman seated before the blazing hearth listened without comment, but as he continued the tale, her gloved hands clenched in her lap. She wore a rich gown of tawny velvet, long sleeves slashed to show cloth-of-gold inserts, the hem and neckline trimmed with pearls. Her garb was beautiful, the height of Paris fashion.

  Her face remained averted while he relayed his news, but he heard her soft intake of breath when he described the fire.

  “Are you certain the ship was destroyed?” Her voice was low and throaty, as enticing as her generous display of snow-white cleavage. He licked his lips at the sight and sound.

  “Oui. I waited just long enough to watch the Fiach Teine and her dead crew sink beneath the cold black waves.”

  She shivered. He knew it was from excitement, rather than horror. “At last!” she whispered, her husky voice trembling. “At long last I have found a way to revenge myself upon those who ruined my life.”

  She looked at him directly then. Pale blue eyes gleamed above the yellow silk facial veil covering the rest of her face. “When Slade Tanner gets word of his precious daughter’s death, he will doubtless be prostrate with grief. We must strike again, Adrien, while the iron is still hot.”

  “As you wish,” he said. He could deny her nothing. He adored this woman, the only family he might claim. Long ago, an English cur named Slade Tanner had stolen this lady’s famous beauty, and hence her life. She had been banished to France, poor creature, to live in penury for years, but in compensation, she had raised Adrien with a thirst for vengeance, nourished him on the heady milk of revenge.

  He sensed her smile, though he saw only the faintest outline of her lips through the opaque veil.

  “’Twill be so easy,” she whispered. “So easy to destroy Slade’s life as he did mine; to take from him everything he holds dear and to make the rest of his days a living hell.”

  “You have already begun,” Adrien reminded her.

  “Aye.” There was bitter satisfaction in her husky voice. “So I have. I could not have done it without you, ma doux.” The smile reached her eyes this time, and her gaze visibly softened on him. Adrien felt a familiar frisson of anticipation and stepped forward to stroke her hair. Once, she told him, her hair had been silvery as the moon, the envy of all Englishwomen. Now it was pure white, another lingering legacy of Tanner’s evil act.

  Suddenly a vision of hair dark as night crept across his mind. Green eyes, the color of the Irish sea she sailed. Those damned eyes! Sea-green, tinged with blue foam. He had planned to kill the Englishman’s daughter without a qualm. Kat Tanner was too much a woman to be so lightly dismissed, however. Adrien felt a fleeting regret. Too late. She was gone forever. Only one possession remained to him now. Or was he the possession, in truth?

  He bent and fervently pressed his lips to Gillian’s pale hair. Her quick intake of breath excited them both. They were in each other’s blood, in more ways than one.

  “You know I would do anything for you, ma chère Gillian,” he whispered in her ear, emboldening himself to caress her half-bared breasts.

  “Oui, my darling boy.” She reached up to stroke Adrien’s face. Her gaze was both wicked and inviting. “Aye, little brother, I know.”

  Chapter One

  “EASY, BOY.”

  Morgan Trelane calmed the fractious black as he rode the stallion down the rocky slope to the seashore. The sound of his voice soothed the blooded animal. Idris responded with alacrity when Morgan pressed his heels to the horse’s ebony flanks.

  Soon they were galloping along the Welsh coastline, Morgan’s wool mandilion snapping behind him in the breeze. It was still cold in the early spring, and he was glad he’d taken the short cloak at the last minute. He clamped his thighs against the saddle, letting the exhilaration of the wild ride wash over him as the horse’s hooves sprayed sand in every direction. Idris thundered across the low plateau, extending his neck for more speed.

  Abruptly, the stallion veered away from the waves rushing in about his ankles, and bugled in alarm. Morgan fought for control. Despite his efforts, the black reared up and pawed the air. Horses are as unpredictable as women, Morgan thought wryly. He gathered the animal up. After several minutes of alternate coaxing and scolding, Idris was calm enough for Morgan to dismount and make sure the horse hadn’t injured himself.

  “What spooked you, boy? The water?” Morgan knelt and examined each of his steed’s trembling legs in turn. One was twisted,
perhaps, but not broken. He let out a sigh as he straightened up again. Out of the question for him to ride the animal now. It was a good five leagues back to Falcon’s Lair.

  Absently patting his stallion’s sweaty neck, he glanced out over the water. Today the Irish Sea seemed moodier than usual, slate-gray foam rushing up to curl with a hiss around his riding boots. His attention focused on several wooden boards being dashed against some shoreline rocks. His gaze narrowed as he recognized several kegs bobbing along in nearby tidal pools. Had there been a recent shipwreck?

  It would not be the first time. Cardigan Bay was dangerous even during mild weather, and the coastline looked deceptively benign. As local fisherman knew, however, deep waters became shallow in a second, and hidden rocks could pierce a ship’s hull like parchment in the wrong tide.

  Idris shifted restively again and pawed the sand. Morgan retrieved the reins to walk his mount back home. He stiffened and froze. He was sure he’d heard a slight moan.

  He knew it wasn’t the wind or water. He’d lived beside the tempestuous sea long enough to know her every sigh and sound, as one lover might recognize another. He pivoted, noticing Idris’s ears also flattened back against his head at the noise.

  “Whoa, boy.” Morgan rolled a sizable rock over the stallion’s reins, pinning him to the sand. He got out of the way of the prancing hooves. “I think I’ll just take a look around for your spook.”

  There was a lightness to Morgan’s step. It disappeared when he caught sight of a boot sticking out from behind a lichen-covered boulder. Curiously enough, his first reaction was outrage. He lived alone by choice and necessity, and the thought of finding anyone on his private shore — shipwrecked sailor or not — made him angry.

  After the briefest of hesitations, he approached the boot and the body belonging to it.

  His gaze traveled up a pair of legs. Pale white flesh gleamed under the late afternoon sun where the seaman’s canvas trews were torn. Long, bloody gashes adorned two tanned arms splayed across the victim’s face. Morgan felt a pang of pity.