‘Then you can try to lock me in my cabin.’ He was answered by a crack of laughter as the Count strode off.
‘There is another ship behind us,’ Frances called. She was leaning on the rail, holding on to the brim of her wide sun hat. The young lieutenant, with whom she had been flirting mildly, stared back at the sleek shape drawing up on the starboard side. On deck the men who were working on the splintered spar glanced up, then went back to their task.
Alessa came over to join them, grateful for the distraction from her churning thoughts. ‘What is it?’
‘A coastal vessel of some sort, ma’am. Not British. A trader, I have no doubt, curious for a look at us. If we were not hampered by that dashed spar splintering, we would soon show him a clean pair of heels.’
‘How odd those grey sails are,’ Frances commented. ‘You can hardly see them against the sea. She shivered. ‘Like a ghost ship, so quiet and fast.’
The young man smiled, patronisingly. ‘There are all sorts out here, ma’am, no need to be alarmed.’
‘Is there not? There is something so…’ Alessa stared as the other ship altered course, slicing though the water between them. With a thud that carried across the narrowing gap, the gun ports fell open and the black muzzles ran out.
‘Hell, pirates!’ The lieutenant seized them both by the arm, dragging them urgently towards the companionway. ‘Get below, stay there.’
The merchantman was in uproar, orders being shouted, the wheel spinning, the rumble of guns being run out. Alessa pushed Frances unceremoniously down the companionway and pulled the two slanting hatch doors almost closed. Through the small gap that remained she could just see the deck. Below there was screaming, the sound of someone having hysterics and the slam of doors. Keys turned. She would stay out here, come what may, not huddle in a tiny cabin like a rat in a trap.
The chaos on deck was settling down to something more purposeful now, and Alessa felt her confidence returning. The damaged spar was cleared out of the way, hands ran to run up more sail, a gun was trundled across the deck and men were loading it in a disciplined manner.
The roar of the cannon when it came was so sudden that Alessa almost lost her footing and tumbled back. There was a strange screeching sound, cracking, and the entire mainsail began to collapse on to the deck.
‘Chain shot!’ she heard an officer shout. ‘They got the top mast, cut this free.’ But the ship was wallowing now, sails flapping, and with a grinding crunch their attacker was alongside.
Alessa slammed the door shut and swung down the bar. Much good that will do, she thought grimly. I need a weapon.
And then the recollection of sitting on the chair looking at her father’s pistol and pushing it into the leather satchel came to her. Where is it? She scrambled down the companionway and ran to her cabin, wrenched open the door and began to dig through the pile of luggage for which, up to now, she had spared only a cursory thought. There, at the bottom, was the satchel, and in it the reassuring bulk of the box containing the pistol.
She loaded it slowly, forcing herself to take care, ignoring the racket on deck overhead and the shrieks from the cabins further along. The last thing she needed now was a misfire.
When the pistol was loaded Alessa stood for a moment, just looking at it. Could she fire it? She knew she was a good shot against a static target. But could she fire on a man? Yes, she told herself firmly. Yes, if it was that or rape. Yes, if by shooting from a hiding place she could aid the ship’s defenders.
No one had tried to come down below yet. The action was all still on deck. Cautiously Alessa eased her way up the companionway and reached the barred door just as everything went silent. Her heart was thudding, her mouth dry, as she took hold of the bar and began to lift it up. The quiet was terrifying, far worse than the shooting and shouts had been. She lifted the bar with hands that shook, and cracked open the door.
Ranged before her, their backs to her, was the boarding party, their clothes an exotic mixture of east and west. They were barefoot, their baggy trousers and wide sashes splashing ragged colour against the white-scrubbed deck and the heaped wreckage. Knives and curved swords were grasped by some, others held long-barrelled guns. Through the gaps between them she could see the ship’s crew, disarmed and scowling.
The man in the centre was talking, the wind whipping his words away from her, towards the captives. For a moment she thought she recognised his voice, then realised it must be the accent; these would be Albanian pirates—no wonder she had mistaken the man for the Count of Kurateni.
Alessa eased back the doors and stepped over the sill on to the deck—if she could surprise them, hold their leader for even a minute or two, the crew might be able to rush them.
&
nbsp; ‘Stand still! I have a gun on your leader’s back! Put down your weapons or I will fire.’
No one moved. The boarders, with a discipline she had not expected, faced forward still, their weapons steady. The broad shoulders in front of her moved: she might have mistaken it for a laugh under other circumstances. Then the man turned round.
‘My dear Alessa, I am glad to see you unharmed.’
‘Count!’ The muzzle of the pistol drooped and she jerked it back to point squarely at his chest. ‘Stop this at once, or I will shoot.’
‘But, no, of course you would not! Shoot me in cold blood? I do not believe it, my sweet.’ It was the same mocking, charming, dangerous man as before, only now she had not the slightest inclination to flirt with him.
Alessa lifted her other hand to steady her aim. ‘I am a good shot: I can hardly miss you at this range.’ Indeed, she was so close she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest under the flamboyantly draped shirt.
‘Shoot a friend?’
‘Shoot a pirate, you mean. I will count to five. One…two…’
The Count reached out a hand and drew a man forward, a tall man who had been concealed behind the wall of Zagrede’s crew.