Chapter 14: The Challenge

Captain Merrick stood at the main deck railing and squinted at the setting sun. The Redemption gently bobbed in the shallow waters among the cluster of islands, safe for the moment behind the natural barriers of reef and cay.

Sloane handed the telescope back to him. "The galleon's anchored herself as close to the islands as her keel will take her. But thanks be to God, we be out of her gun range, eh?"

Merrick took a look as well. "Yes indeed." He lowered the glass. "It appears they hope to wait us out." He sighed. "I've neither mind nor inclination to sit idly by while our food and wateralready in short supplydwindle away."

Kent joined the two men. The sun dragged its last rays of daylight below the horizon, leaving behind fuzzy images that grew dimmer in the twilight. Soon they would see nothing save what the tiny crescent moon allowed.

"Surely we can escape them in the darkness," Kent offered.

Merrick shook his head. "It would be suicide to navigate these reefs and cays without light."

A few pirates gathered behind them.

Sloane shifted his stance. "Then they've got us trapped here, eh?"

Growls sounded. Merrick turned around.

"Cap'n's got us caught like a fish in a net," exclaimed one of the pirates, glancing over his fellow mates. "Told ye he was as soft as the underbelly of an eel. We shoulda stood our ground and fought them Spanish jackanapes, says I." He spat on the deck near Merrick's boots. Grunts of approval followed.

"Har, I be agreein'," added Royce. He hunched forward, his profile that of a hungry raven eyeing a promising morsel. "Now all's we can do is sit an' wait till we either starve to death or make a run fer it, an' they pluck us out o' the water and send us to Spanish dungeons."

Sloane jumped in front of his captain, hand on the hilt of his cutlass. "Listen to me, ye young jackals," he growled. "Cap'n's ne'er done ye wrong so far. He be gettin' us out o' this fer sure. Ye all be as squawky as nervous hens."

Stepping forward, Merrick laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. His firm gaze landed on each of the pirates in turn. They were a dangerous and fickle band of men, but he knew how to handle them. The dark figure slithering up on his left was another story.

Kent squirmed past Merrick to stand in front of the pirates, a look of anticipation on his face. "It appears the men have lost faith in you, sir." He smirked. "Perhaps they're in need of a better captain." He glanced over the crowd with cool assurance. "I would have fought the galleon and defeated the Spaniards, not run away like a coward."

"Aye, aye," several pirates agreed.

The rambunctious mob continued grunting their approval of Kent's declaration when Jackson appeared behind them, a head taller than most, and parted the crowd as Moses had the Red Sea. He reached Merrick and turned to face the men. Silence descended upon the mob. The ex-slave rarely spoke, but when he did, everyone stopped to listen.

He crossed his arms and stood firmly. "Cap'n's done naught to make ye turn on 'im. We'd be at the bottom of the sea right now if Master Kent was the cap'n." His voice boomed across the deck. "I stand wit' the cap'n."

"Cowards come in all sizes." Kent's eyes glinted with humor as he glanced across the pirates, who chuckled in response.

"That'll be quite enough, Master Kent." Merrick stepped forward. "You men know fair well that only by trickery, deceit, or surprise can a ship our size hope to obtain victory over a galleon. I have proven that to you on more than one occasion." He looked each of them in the eye with such intensity that some dropped their gazes. "That was not the case today. If any of you scalawags think you could have done better, then egad, you are bigger fools than I gave you credit for." He glared at his first mate. "I'll not defend myself to the likes of you, Kent. If you're up to it, then challenge me fair and square and be done with it. I grow tired of your whining."

In the long silence that followed, the pirates looked toward Kent.

"As you wish, Captain." The first mate bowed gracefully and drew his cutlass, a look of grim determination on his face.

Charlisse had gone below as soon as she knew they were safely within the haven of the islands. After enduring the torturous heat, the struggle to remain upright on the heaving ship, and the excitement of the chase, she was exhausted.

She lay down on the soft feather bed that smelled like Captain Merrick and breathed in the musky scent. A smile came to her lips before she realized it, and she bolted upright, alarmed at the unfamiliar emotions sweeping over her.

Rubbing her fingers where his warm hand had clasped, she remembered the way his nearness brought every cell in her body to life, waking each one as if from a deep, long sleep.

What was happening to her? Was she nothing more than the trollop her uncle had always told her she was? Was she so wanton, so lacking in self-control, that she succumbed to any man graced with looks and charm, regardless of the degradation of his character?

Falling back on the bed, Charlisse's thoughts drifted to another man: Richard Farrow, son of Winston Farrow, Earl of Rutherford, the only other manfrom a past deprived of such acquaintanceswho had evoked similar feelings. She had just turned sixteen. Although her uncle had kept her away from most formal occasions, she had convinced him to allow her to attend a ball thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Galchester.

Weeks in advance, she'd chosen her gown: sapphire satin trimmed with cream lace and lined with pearlsthe most exquisite garment she had ever seen. On the night of the ball, she pinned up her hair with pearl combs inlaid with rubies, allowing a few delicate curls to dance about her shoulders. She had never felt more beautiful.

She'd spotted Richard as soon as she entered the ballroom on her uncle's arm. He was the most handsome, eligible man in London society and heir to the Rutherford fortune. He stood across the candlelit room in a suit of black Flemish silk. She had seen him on several different occasions, and a graceful bow or nod to her each time indicated he had seen her as well. Now, under his eloquent perusal, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

Fortunately, her uncle had been whisked away by a man wishing to speak with him on some important matter, leaving Charlisse uncharacteristically alone.

Richard walked up to her and bowed. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss Bristol. Forgive me for not waiting until we are properly introduced. Richard Farrow, at your service." He smiled, took her gloved hand, and kissed it gently.

Several young ladies across the room glared at her behind outspread fans.

She curtsied politely. "'Tis a great pleasure to meet you, milord."

He smiled, flashing exquisite white teeth beneath a black mustache. His eyes were as blue as hers and full of life. His hair, chestnut brown and wavy, was pulled back revealing a strong, handsome face. Not releasing her hand, he placed it in the crook of his elbow and drew her out onto the dance floor, where a minuet was playing. "Wherever does your uncle keep you, Miss Bristol? I must admit, I search for you most ardently at these drab events, but this is the first time in many months I've had the pleasure of gazing upon your beauty."

Charlisse smiled politely, not sure how to answer. "My uncle keeps me under his watchful eye, I'm afraid."

Richard took her hand and swirled her over the floor as if they were floating on a cloud. Young Lord Farrow was apparently as good at dancing as he was at everything else. "What a pity," he said. "The very room lights up in your presence."

For the first time in her life, Charlisse felt cherishedlike a princess. Those few minutes with Richard gliding gracefully across the roomthe envy of all those around themwere the best moments of her life.

But like all fairy tales, this one came to an abrupt end. From the corner of her eye Charlisse saw the red, angry face of her uncle as he pushed through the crowd. Clutching her arm, he yanked her away from Richard and hauled her out the door under the curious glares of the nobility.

Charlisse glanced back at Richard, who stood forlornly, a look of shock on his handsome face.

Back home, her uncle shoved her into her bedchamber. Piece by piece, he ripped off her gown until the floor around her was littered with azure satin. "I should have known not to leave you alone. You are a whore just like your mother. How could you let that man touch you?"

Once he had stripped her bare, he glared at her as he always did. And as always, staring at her unclad body incensed him further. He opened the drawer of her walnut credenza and grabbed the familiar whip. Forcing her down to her knees beside her bed in repentance, he beat her across the back. "Everyone at the ball will know you for the tramp that you are. Is that what you want?"

The whip was small, but its sting was not. With each strike, Charlisse leaned over her bed in agony, feeling the burn of the leather as it shredded her delicate skin. She did not scream. She would not give her uncle the satisfaction. But she could not stop the flood of tears that spilled onto her bedspread and soaked into the fabric leaving stains of painful memories. What had she done to deserve such repeated beatings? Was she a harlot like he said? Had her mother truly been a tramp?

After the whipping, under her uncle's direction, she climbed into a hot bath, where he scrubbed her with a hard bristle brush, everywhere but her back. He scrubbed until she was red and raw, quoting passages from the Bible about sexual immorality, lust, and impurity. Afterward, he locked her in her chamber and left her there alone for days. The ritual was repeated with more frequency and fury as she grew older.

That was the first and last ball she ever attended. A year later, she heard Richard Farrow had married a young lady from Yorkshire. She never saw him again.

Angry shouts rescued Charlisse from her morbid memories. After rising from the bed, she crept up the companionway to see what trouble was brewing aboard this maddening ship.

As she neared the main deck, she heard the deep, commanding voice of the captain issue a challenge, but she was unable to see him through the mob of pirates.

The scraping of a sword against its scabbard rang. The horde of men parted, backing away from some perceived threat. Instantly, Charlisse saw Merrick, his dark eyes smoldering like coals, facing Kent who held the tip of his sword to his captain's heart.

Fear froze Charlisse in place.

"Are you sure you want to do this, mate?" Merrick asked.

"Afraid you'll lose the ship to me?" Kent flashed an arrogant smile. Something in the way he was standing, fidgeting back and forth, with a tight grip on the hilt of his cutlass, gave Charlisse the impression he was more frightened than he let on.

Merrick stood with calm assurance, sizing up his challenger. Then with lightning speed, he drew his cutlass. He whipped it against Kent's blade with a loud clank, sending the first mate tumbling backward.

Recovering, Kent lunged at his opponent.

The pirates shouted and howled as the two battled in skillful swordplay. But it wasn't just play. Theirs was a deadly game. The thought that Merrick might lose the battle caused Charlisse's heart to race uncontrollably. Not only would she be left alone with his crew, but she hadn't forgotten his strange reaction to the mention of her father's name. He had heard of her father before, she was sure of it. If Merrick were to die tonight, she would never know what he knew.

Hilt to hilt they fought with strength and speed. The clanging of swords echoed through the humid night. Kent rushed Merrick. The captain cleared the foredeck railing with a graceful leap, barely evading a deadly thrust. Frustrated, Kent stormed up the ladder and charged his captain, slashing his sword before him. Blow after blow, he pushed Merrick back. He lunged. The tip of his blade sliced through Merrick's shirt, leaving a trail of blood that glistened black in the moonlight.

Charlisse gasped.

Kent grinned. "I'm too fast for you, eh?" he said, panting.

"Come and see." Merrick motioned with his fingers for Kent to approach.

The pirates shouted and placed bets, each for his chosen victor. Charlisse felt sick watching their greed and callous disregard for their captain and first mate. One of them would most likely die tonight.