‘Are you insane? Do you hope to get away with this?’ Chance strode furiously along the deck of the Ghost as the Count made his dispositions. Men were coming on board with guns slung over their shoulders, a strange mix of antiques with immensely long barrels and the latest modern rifles. All had a sword and a long knife thrust through their belts; all looked as though they knew exactly what they were about.
‘Away with what?’ Zagrede grinned as he stopped aside to allow several baskets of bread to be carried below.
‘With kidnapping an English Earl, for a start, let alone whatever else you are intending.’
‘My dear Benedict, you are not being kidnapped! What an idea. You came on board willingly, in broad daylight under the eyes of the sentries on the fort. No, you will be carried on precisely the journey you wished to take—the pursuit of the merchant ship Plymouth Sound.’
They were casting off now, the strange grey sails were lowered, shouted orders floated up from below decks and there was the rumble of gun carriages. ‘There is no need to fire on her, for God’s sake.’ Chance seized the Count’s arm. ‘Outrun her, hail her. I will go aboard and explain to the captain that Alessa has been taken against her will—that is all that is required.’
‘It is all you require.’ The Count squinted up at the set of the sails as the Ghost slid out of the inlet. ‘I want that ship, and all the ladies on it.’
‘Have you got a death wish?’ Chance demanded, dodging to keep beside Zagrede as he strode through the mass of seamen to look at the rigging. ‘Those ladies are the kin of a senior British diplomat, they are under the protection of the Lord High Commissioner. When news of this gets out there will be hell to pay. How do you expect to continue your business in British-controlled ports after this?’
The Count dropped his eyes from the sails, apparently satisfied with what he could see. ‘Stop this display of outrage,’he said genially, dropping one hand on to Chance’s shoulder. Chance shrugged it off. ‘My—what is the word?—legitimate trade is of little consequence to my wealth, and is of less now the British are filling the sea with their merchant ships. My freebooting brings in the money, and that improves with the number of your ships—they are rich pickings, my friend. And so many of them!
‘But now I have a fight on my hands. This Lord Blackstone in Venice is out to sweep pirates off the surface of the Ionian Sea. My agents tell me that a naval cutter is due into Corfu in days, with orders that would make life very difficult indeed for me and my compatriots. Already the British are stirring; all this fuss at the Residency is but the beginning. Time to cut my losses and leave, I think.’
‘They know who you are?’
‘Not yet. They will when that cutter gets here.’ A man appeared with a tray with bread and wine and olives and set it down on a hatch cover. ‘Here, eat and stop trying to think of ways a single man armed with a sword and two pistols can take this ship.’
Chance regarded his infuriating captor. He was quite correct—ideas, all of them wildly impractical, had been rushing through his brain. But so far he was on deck, not restrained and having a civil conversation; better to keep it that way than for any of the alternatives he could imagine. He tore off some bread, dipped it in the olive oil and chewed.
‘What do you want with the women?’ He had no fear for himself, but the thought of Alessa in the power of this crew made his blood run cold.
‘Lady Blackstone and her pretty daughter? Now, they are quite safe with me, for they are valuable hostages. I shall have to put them somewhere so that I do not have to listen to that woman’s sharp tongue, but they will be very comfortable.’
‘And if the British do not do what you expect? If Lord Blackstone and Sir Thomas do their duty, at whatever the cost to the women?’
‘Then I move the ladies further inland and all communication from them ceases. I am not a murderer of innocent women, Benedict, but neither do I surrender. They will come in handy eventually.’
‘And Alessa?’He had to force himself not to run his tongue around his dry lips.
‘Oh, I think I will marry her.’ Chance was on his feet, the wine bottle in his hand before two seamen had him by the arms. ‘Marry, I said, not rape.’ The Count said something to the men and they let go, stepping back warily. ‘She thinks you only want her as a mistress, my trusting friend.’ He grinned. ‘You really should not believe everything another man tells you, not when a lovely woman is involved. And who knows what that man is saying to the lady? She knows that her background is smudged enough for things to be difficult for her in England. When she comes to believe that marrying me will make life easier for her aunt and cousin, she will agree.’
‘Blackmail her into it? And you do not call that rape?’ Chance felt his fingers cramping around the bottle and made himself relax. He poured wine and set the bottle down.
‘I call it seduction, my friend, and I will be most ashamed of myself if the lady does not thoroughly enjoy it.’ He twitched the glass out of Chance’s hand and raised it in a mocking toast before draining it. ‘And it is no good looking at me with murder in your eyes, my dear Benedict: you would be dead before you could reach me.’
‘As I doubtless will be by the end of this voyage.’
‘But why should you think that? I have no wish to harm you—I like you. You will find yourself dropped off on some remote island when it is no longer convenient to carry you with us. If you try anything foolish, I will have you locked in your cabin. If it is very foolish, in chains. You understand?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Chance stretched his lips into a parody of the Count’s insouciant smile. ‘I understand.’
He filled the other glass and drank, his eyes roaming over what he could see. How many men? Impossible to tell at the moment, when many were below and he could not yet differentiate between one moustachioed face and another. He studied the rigging and the set of the sails. Could I sail her? Yes, with a skeleton crew who knew what they were doing.
Weapons. I need something to give me an edge. His sword and pistols were in the cabin where he had left them. ‘I need my hat,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Is there a problem with my going below decks?’
‘None in the world, dear friend. But they have gone, you know. Such a nice pair of pistols.’
‘Indeed they are,’ Chance said civilly, trying not to grind his teeth, ‘but I still require a hat.’
He went down to the cabin, unmolested by any of the crew he passed on the way. The pistols had indeed gone—so had the sword, his penknife and his razors. Everything else was neatly stowed.
Chance shut the door quietly, stood in the middle of the cabin and allowed himself the luxury of losing his temper for a solid minute of vicious swearing. Then he sat down at the writing ledge and tried to think logically and calmly. And failed.
All he could do was to try to fight the cold panic that seemed to paralyse his guts and his brain whenever he thought about Alessa. Now she would be frantic about the children; that was bad enough. Soon she would find herself in the clutches of a crew of eastern Mediterranean pirates, and in the bed of Voltar Zagrede.