leather vest, a brace of pistols in his belt. Thick strands of dark brown hair hung loose from the leather queue that bound the rest, hair so long it looked as though he had never cut it, like Samson, as if he had no scissors or blade, which I could see was not the case. The curved, razor-sharp cutlass was sheaved, but still hung at his side.
I didn't notice the crude bottle in his hand, until he raised it up, saying something that made them all laugh. He set it on the table, smiling, his eyes glancing over me. Then he snapped something in a low voice that sounded like get out in any language, jerking his head toward the door. The room began to clear, the mass of unwashed villainy shuffling out, obviously disappointed. Only two remained, as if they had the right, one seemingly a European as well, the other darker, like a Turk.
Only three now. Small comfort. The pain was passing, and for good or ill, my head was beginning to clear. The darker one had my arm, and he took my shoulders to pull me back against his chest. I realized he was offering me for inspection to this man so obviously in charge standing before us.
I was startled to hear my own tongue from him. He sauntered back to the table and picked up my book, examining the spine curiously as he said, "I was told there was a woman. I thought it would be the captain's fat wife."
As soon as he spoke I knew him for a Frenchman. The tall man near him laughed, and I assumed he was French, as well.
He tossed the book aside, then stepped closer. His hand swept through my hair that had tumbled down in the fray, then brazenly over my breast, murmuring, "A face like an angel." I pretended not to understand. I didn't want to understand him, or communicate in any way, feeling it the best tactic. He smiled pleasantly, as if we were taking tea.
"A delightful surprise. I didn't expect such good fortune."
I said nothing, staring though him.
"I've been in your captain's cabin. My cabin now. This ship is outbound from Martinique. You speak French, do you not, Mademoiselle?"
I refused him a reply, avoiding his eyes.
"Mademoiselle, I repeat, do you speak French?"
My heart racing, I clung to my defiant silence.
He leaned forward, as if imparting a secret, and said, "I think that you do. And it would be most unwise to lie to me."
I bit my lip, terrified by his silken tone. With cat-like speed, he yanked me away from the man holding me, taking one of my wrists in his hand, twisting it behind me and upward, his voice brutal as I was slammed against his chest.
"Parle-tu Francais? Dites-moi! Maintenant !"
"Yes!" I cried in our now shared language, defeated.
He softened at once, releasing me, and I stood before him, sullenly rubbing my arm. As if in apology, he passed his hand so gently over my cheek I barely felt anything but the air. It was then I met his eyes, and wished I hadn't. Set in the perfect symmetry of his face, hard lines and angled planes, they were dark green eyes, glowing with a burst of amber at the center, looking almost feral. It was a devilish, compelling feature, and a disturbing one. His voice was low and throaty, as if set in a permanent whisper, and a thin veneer of false civility.
"You remind me of someone I saw, long ago. Before I came to Salé. I'd been broken, and was only a mate. We were transporting a great lady to Le Havre. I was on my knees, swabbing the deck, and I looked up into the sunlight and watched her come aboard. It was as if an angel had descended from above."
He paused, with a bitter smile. "But apparently I looked too long at the sun. The light was not for me. One of her escort said I had no right to stare. He gave me this," he added, running his thumb along a slim scar that ran the length of his cheek. "He laid my face open with a horsewhip."
He reached out now for my own unscarred cheek, smoothing his hand over it. In the deep, rasping voice, the soothing sounds he made were insinuating. It was as if he were trying to gentle me, like a
I didn't notice the crude bottle in his hand, until he raised it up, saying something that made them all laugh. He set it on the table, smiling, his eyes glancing over me. Then he snapped something in a low voice that sounded like get out in any language, jerking his head toward the door. The room began to clear, the mass of unwashed villainy shuffling out, obviously disappointed. Only two remained, as if they had the right, one seemingly a European as well, the other darker, like a Turk.
Only three now. Small comfort. The pain was passing, and for good or ill, my head was beginning to clear. The darker one had my arm, and he took my shoulders to pull me back against his chest. I realized he was offering me for inspection to this man so obviously in charge standing before us.
I was startled to hear my own tongue from him. He sauntered back to the table and picked up my book, examining the spine curiously as he said, "I was told there was a woman. I thought it would be the captain's fat wife."
As soon as he spoke I knew him for a Frenchman. The tall man near him laughed, and I assumed he was French, as well.
He tossed the book aside, then stepped closer. His hand swept through my hair that had tumbled down in the fray, then brazenly over my breast, murmuring, "A face like an angel." I pretended not to understand. I didn't want to understand him, or communicate in any way, feeling it the best tactic. He smiled pleasantly, as if we were taking tea.
"A delightful surprise. I didn't expect such good fortune."
I said nothing, staring though him.
"I've been in your captain's cabin. My cabin now. This ship is outbound from Martinique. You speak French, do you not, Mademoiselle?"
I refused him a reply, avoiding his eyes.
"Mademoiselle, I repeat, do you speak French?"
My heart racing, I clung to my defiant silence.
He leaned forward, as if imparting a secret, and said, "I think that you do. And it would be most unwise to lie to me."
I bit my lip, terrified by his silken tone. With cat-like speed, he yanked me away from the man holding me, taking one of my wrists in his hand, twisting it behind me and upward, his voice brutal as I was slammed against his chest.
"Parle-tu Francais? Dites-moi! Maintenant !"
"Yes!" I cried in our now shared language, defeated.
He softened at once, releasing me, and I stood before him, sullenly rubbing my arm. As if in apology, he passed his hand so gently over my cheek I barely felt anything but the air. It was then I met his eyes, and wished I hadn't. Set in the perfect symmetry of his face, hard lines and angled planes, they were dark green eyes, glowing with a burst of amber at the center, looking almost feral. It was a devilish, compelling feature, and a disturbing one. His voice was low and throaty, as if set in a permanent whisper, and a thin veneer of false civility.
"You remind me of someone I saw, long ago. Before I came to Salé. I'd been broken, and was only a mate. We were transporting a great lady to Le Havre. I was on my knees, swabbing the deck, and I looked up into the sunlight and watched her come aboard. It was as if an angel had descended from above."
He paused, with a bitter smile. "But apparently I looked too long at the sun. The light was not for me. One of her escort said I had no right to stare. He gave me this," he added, running his thumb along a slim scar that ran the length of his cheek. "He laid my face open with a horsewhip."
He reached out now for my own unscarred cheek, smoothing his hand over it. In the deep, rasping voice, the soothing sounds he made were insinuating. It was as if he were trying to gentle me, like a
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