Falcon's Angel Page 2

  Standing over him was the radiant spirit he'd seen earlier. At least, he thought she must be the same angel. Now, it was obvious that he'd been mistaken. This was a flesh-and-blood woman... as real as the grains of sand clinging to his damp hands.

  Garbed now in a thin, cotton shift, soaked by sea and spray, his barefoot guardian stood between him and two hard-faced men. The brilliant rays of the morning sun illuminated the tumbled mass of her copper-gilt hair and gleamed on the filleting knife she gripped in one hand.

  "Stand aside, ye reeking notch!" the closest thug snarled as he fumbled for his own weapon at his belt. "Them boots looks prime. I mean to have'm." The pock-faced ruffian was near Will's age, somewhere in his early thirties. He stood at least six feet, with burly shoulders, legs like mooring posts, and raw hams for fists.

  "Back off, Dyce," the woman warned.

  "If it's the boots you want, you can have them," Will said, fighting for time. He blinked, trying to steady his wits. He had no doubt that the brute meant to kill him, but if he could just get to his feet, he might have a chance.

  Dyce's shrewd eyes glittered from under a thatch of greasy, dark hair. The knife looked like a child's toy in his massive hand.

  "A plague on you, Dyce Towser!" the angel flung back. "He's mine. I took him from the sea, and you'll not have him."

  "He's seen our faces," Dyce said. "I won't end on the gibbet for a wench's soft heart."

  "Best do as Dyce says," the second man called. "He's right. None what sees us can leave here alive. Would ye have us dance the Tyburn jig?" He was short and rail-thin, with one walleye, and a tarred pigtail that stuck out from under a seaman's striped cap.

  "Are you naught but a lickspittle toad, Tom?" she replied. "You know the law. Go for the cap'n. He'll settle this before blood is spilled."

  Reaching for his sword, Will struggled to his knees. He was nauseated and light-headed, but not so far gone as to lie helpless while they gutted him like a fish. He swore as his right hand closed on an empty scabbard. "Get back!" Will said to the woman. "Don't put yourself in harm's way for me!"

  With an oath, the big man charged.

  "No!" Will lurched up, determined to meet the attack on his feet.

  Angel held her ground until the last instant, then, knife flashing, she danced between him and Dyce. With almost fluid motion, she struck so swiftly that Will couldn't be certain what he'd seen.

  Dyce howled and clutched his wrist as his blade spun away and landed in the sand. A sheet of crimson dripped down the giant's arm. "Bitch!" he cried. "You'll pay fer this!" Swearing, he twisted toward his companion. "Get her, you yellow-backed—"

  "'Tis nay me what's to blame, ye niding lout," Angel cried. "He's mine, I say. Booty taken fair and square from—"

  The sailor rushed at her, knotted fists drawn back to strike. Will grabbed for the discarded weapon, snatched it up, and tried to put himself between her and danger.

  But she was too quick for him. In an eye-blink, she slashed Tom's shirt, tripped him, and pressed a high-arched bare foot against his Adam's apple. "Give over, Tom," she cried. "Hurt a hair of his head, and I'll send you to a narrow grave."

  A shout sounded from the scrub pines, and Will's heart sank as he saw three heavily armed pirates pounding down the beach toward them.

  "Ye got yer wish," Dyce shouted. "Cap'n comin'! He'll slice this dandy bow to stern and feed his guts to the sharks."

  Chapter 2

  Will straightened. If he had to die, it would be on his feet and fighting. More brigands spilled from the dunes and ran toward him. Will had no doubt that he'd found his outlaw wreckers. The trouble was, he'd intended to face them with his crew and the Katherine's cannon at his back. Now, it seemed there was only one fallen angel to stand beside him in his final battle.

  Forcing his voice to some semblance of normal, he said, "I'm Will Falcon, captain of the—"

  "Nay!" Swiftly, Angel removed her foot from her prisoner's throat and turned to hiss a warning. "Hold your tongue, handsome sir. Do you wish to walk away with your head on your shoulders, you must leave the fine words to me."

  Still gasping for air, Tom rolled onto his belly, coughed, and crawled crablike out of her reach. "Cap'n! Ye must do somethin'!" he croaked. Still coughing, face contorted with wrath, Tom jabbed the air in Angel's direction. "Attacked Dyce with a knife! Cut him—"

  "Pay no heed to their lyin' tongues," Angel exclaimed. "'Twas these yellow-backed curs that tried to steal my goods."

  Will studied the man he assumed must be in command. Cap'n was a middling man, middle-aged, and average in height and build, with short-cropped, reddish hair graying at the sides and temples. A faint smile played over his thin lips as his gaze swept from one player to the other, missing nothing.

  For the barest instant, the two men stared into each other's eyes. Then the pirate folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment. "The bitch took a knife to me," Dyce railed.

  The air around Will crackled with tension as more belligerent figures swarmed around them. Not a peaceful fisherman in the lot, Will thought. Some carried muskets, others pistols. Every one, including the females, had the fierce look of predators and bore the heavy weight of knives or cutlasses belted at their hips. Their clothes and speech were strangely old-fashioned, as though they all belonged in his grandfather's time. But there was no doubt in Will's mind that his life hung by a thread.

  He glanced at his defiant angel standing so boldly without a hint of fear on her beautiful face. "Stand back," he cautioned. "You're a brave wench, but I'd not have you trade your life for mine. I'm no man to hide behind a woman's petticoats."

  "What are you waitin' for?" Dyce demanded. "The law is clear. He's an outsider. None can come among us and leave to bear witness."

  "Aye!" cried a blond woman in a tattered yellow skirt. "What Dyce says is true. No strangers among us!" The loudmouthed jade was little older than sixteen, and far gone with child. The brass buttons on her red military waistcoat were strained to the point of popping over her swollen belly.

  "Kill him!" cried a strapping ruffian behind her.

  "Ye canna speak fer us, Angel!"

  "Be you cap'n, now, Watt Cook?" A tall, full-bosomed woman shouldered through the crowd. "Since when do you give orders? You're naught but a jug-bitten turd who cannot tell his arse from a hole in the sand! Was I sleepin' when ye were elected captain?"

  Guffaws erupted from rogues on either side of her. More voices chimed in, some in support of Dyce's case, others opposed. An aging seaman with a harelip brandished a cutlass.

  "Put that cheese knife away, Jonas," the big woman scolded as she stopped beside the captain and nudged him in the ribs with an easy familiarity. "Brother, can you not put an end to this prattle? Yon stranger's no danger to the lot of us. But they won't cease their bickerin' until ye set them down."

  Standing side by side, Will could see a clear resemblance. The ample-hipped, outspoken woman had the same reddish-blond hair and gray eyes as the captain. Since she was too near in age to be either mother or daughter, Will assumed she must be his sister.

  "Aye, Bett's right," agreed a muscular, one-armed man who had not yet spoken for either side. "We all know that Watt cannot tell his arse from a hole in the sand."

  "That's truth, Nehemiah," the pregnant girl agreed, adding an off-color jest of her own.

  Nehemiah paused long enough for his comrades' laughter to ebb before asking, "What say ye, Cap'n? What's to be done with this booty?"

  "He's mine," Angel repeated firmly. "He washed in on the tide. I found him, and my claim is upheld by our code."

  "A keg of ale ye may claim." Nehemiah nodded agreement. "But not a stranger. He could be the death of us all."

  "I say kill him." Dyce spat on the sand. "Kill him and give me Angel for my trouble. I'll take her to wife and put an end to her troublesome ways."

  "Nay! I will not! I'd sooner wed mad King George!" Angel exclaimed.

  "Hist, his
t, all of ye," Bett said. "Look at'm!" She pointed at Will. "Be those the clothes of a poor sailor? He's a gent, he is. We could cut his throat, but how much profit will we see from a corpse? A lordling with such boots must have rich relatives who will pay hard silver to get him back in one piece."

  "Ransom? Bett's thinking sound," cried a spare, dark-haired woman with a babe in her arms. "Are we honest wreckers or murderers?"

  "Listen to Dyce," Tom whined. "Dyce thinks we oughta cut..." Tom trailed off as the captain raised a hand for quiet.

  "What we have here is a difference of opinion," the leader said in a low, gravelly voice. "We will do what we always do."

  "Vote!"

  "Nay, hear Angel out."

  "I say, we should—"

  "Silence." Cap'n nodded to Angel. "Step away from him and sheath your blade." He motioned to two of the younger men. "Disarm the prisoner and bind his hands—"

  "Will you not hear me?" Angel demanded as Will tightened his grip on his weapon. "If you mean to have a vote, at least let me—"

  "You will have your chance." Cap'n glanced at Dyce. "As will you and Tom. But what will be decided will be for the good of all, not one. Drop the knife, stranger, or I'll have them put a musket ball through your heart."

  "Wait!" Angel turned her back on her captain. "Do ye trust me, Will Falcon?" she asked.

  Will looked into her eyes. "Should I?"

  "Aye," she said. "For sure ye should. I'm all that stands between you and eternity." She was so close that he could feel her warm breath on his face, smell the clean, salt-sweet scent of her glorious hair. "Would you live, sir?"

  "I would."

  "Marry me, and ye shall live."

  Will blinked. "What?"

  "Quick!" she hissed. "A bargain. There is no time to argue. It will save your life. Will you, or will you not?"

  He nodded, and she whirled on the closing circle.

  "Hold!" she cried. "I claim this salvage as husband. If he weds me, he will be one of us. Outlaw. As liable to hang as any!"

  "There!" Bett thrust both hands into the air. "'Tis her right, Brother. If he takes Angel to wife, the law will build as high a gallows tree for him as fer you."

  "Damn if he will!" Dyce swore. "'Tis a trick. The wench is spoke fer. Does he wish to gainsay my claim, let him take her from me with fist and steel!"

  "Aye!" Tom agreed. "Let's see whether his bullocks be brass or water."

  "Nay," Angel protested. "I refused Dyce. Not once, but a dozen times. A member of the Brethren cannot be forced—"

  "Ye be no full sister of the Brethren yet," Watt sputtered. "So long as you remain unwed, ye count as no woman, but a maid. Only them with a strong husband can sign the contract."

  "Fie on ye," Angel retorted. "He's weak and near to dyin'. He's swallowed half the Atlantic. How can any man go into the circle and fight when—"

  "He can't," Bett agreed. "Come, Brother. Be fair about it. Give the poor soul time to get back his wind. T'will make not a smidgen of difference in the end."

  "What are they talking about?" Will asked Angel. "What circle?"

  "I'll give him until noon," the captain said. "Put down your weapon, stranger. No harm will come to you until then unless you bring it on yourself."

  "Hell shall find him inside that circle," Dyce jeered. "I'll slit that fine white shirt from dawn till Sunday and spill his innards for the gulls."

  "Cut his throat and spare the cloth," Jonah cried. "I've a mind to have them breeches."

  Angel gripped Will's hand. "'Tis the best I can do for you. You heard the cap'n. You have until the sun is high." She paused. "Two men go into the circle drawn in the sand. Each has but a knife, and only one comes out."

  "The rules?" he asked.

  Her eyes grew moist. "That is the pity, sir," she murmured. "There are no rules."

  * * *

  "You've gone mazy-headed, sweeting." Bett lowered her voice to speak privately to Angel as two of their men bound the stranger's hands behind his back and tied a length of cloth over his eyes. "In all these years you've never chosen a man. This morning you swim addle-headed into a storm surf to haul in an outlander that will bring ye naught but grief."

  "Ye cannot judge him half-drowned," Angel replied. "Perhaps he's canny with a knife. Those blue eyes of his are hard as flint."

  "Atch. It's his blue eyes, is it?" Bett's broad face split into a grin revealing one shiny gold incisor. "Eyes and not arse? He is fair to look at, I'll give you that. Long-legged and lovely as my first husband, Shadrack. But..." She sighed. "This one is a gentleman. I know them and their fancy ways. Don't pin your hopes on a rising fog. Dyce Towser may be a suck-egg knave, but he's the devil's imp with a knife." The grin became a deep belly chuckle. "Near as good as you, I reckon."

  Angel shrugged. "I was lucky. And I had a good master."

  "Aye, Cap'n be the master of the blade. He would not have led the Brethren so long without that skill. But you, luck be praised, ye be far too strong-headed a wench for her own good."

  "So you've often told me."

  Bett slipped a meaty arm around Angel's shoulder. "I wish your fine gentleman some of that fortune tomorrow. I wager Brother will shed no tear for either of them."

  Angel nodded and walked down the beach to the spot where she'd left her dugout canoe. Wadded up in the bow were her striped linen skirt and short, laced waistcoat. Dressing was as simple as casting off her garments had been when she'd made the decision to save the stranger. It was May, and she'd have no need of stockings or shoes until autumn.

  The Brethren had seen the schooner in trouble during the storm. Lightning strikes had illuminated the ship as she struggled to avoid the sandbars. Watt Cook had bet four bits that wind and tide would sink her.

  Had the vessel gone down, Angel would have helped to salvage whatever valuables the sea brought them, but she would have no part of murder. It was Dyce and his followers she suspected of such foul tricks.

  The Brethren of the Coast were wreckers, true enough. They lived on goods that washed ashore. That was fact. But what people said of them, that they lured vessels to their doom by building fires or carrying lanterns along the strand in foul weather, was untrue.

  The ship and the long night of watching had been no different from many others. But something about this schooner had tugged at Angel's heart. Since she was a child she had learned to follow her instincts, no matter how unreasonable they might seem. Many of the Brethren called her fey, and more than one had whispered the word witch.

  When the fury of the storm had passed, the urge to take her dugout and paddle out beyond the sandbars had been irresistible. She feared neither tide nor waves, and she could swim like a dolphin.

  Thus, she had been out far enough to see Will Falcon's battle to keep his head above water in those first moments of dawn. And she had made the decision to save him.

  The Brethren claimed it was bad cess to steal a life that the ocean had claimed. "Take what belongs to the sea, and ye will pay a terrible price," Bett had always told her.

  Angel glanced out at the gray rolling waves and shivered. Quickly, she crossed herself. "St. Jonah protect me," she murmured, wondering if she'd lost her mind and didn't have the sense to realize it.

  She'd known what risk she was taking when she'd turned her dugout toward Will's struggling figure. But she couldn't help herself. Knowing that it would be impossible to heave the weight of a grown man over the side of her boat without capsizing, she'd stripped off her clothing and had dived in after him.

  She'd caught the outlander by his hair and dragged him back to the dugout. Whitecaps still boiled, threatening to drag them both down to the depths, but she'd managed to get both the boat and her prize to a sand spit a quarter mile off the beach.

  Once there, she'd given him a sound pounding on his back to get the sea out of him and had waited until his breathing was strong and steady before bringing him back to shore.

  Bett's shout broke into Angel's reverie. "Need help with your boat
?"

  "No, I can manage," she replied. "Go on with the others. I'll be along directly." She wanted to be alone for a while longer to collect her thoughts.

  Bett waved and strode inland toward the low trees.

  Angel waited for an incoming wave, then used the water's force to shove her dugout farther up onto the sand beyond the reach of the tide. Using driftwood and brush, she covered the little vessel so that it wasn't visible from the water.

  Brushing the sand off her hands, she straightened and loosened her hair. It was still damp from her swim and might not dry for hours if she didn't shake it out. Combing out the tangles, she allowed Will Falcon's image to take shape in her mind's eye.

  He was beautiful... surely, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The combination of dark brown hair and bright blue eyes were at once striking and rare. For blue did not begin to describe the proper color of them, Angel decided. They were a raw blue, a blue such as the Almighty had mixed for sea and sky on the first day of creation. And looking into those eyes was as scary and thrilling as staring into the curl of a huge storm wave just before it broke over your boat.

  And then, there was the way the man was put together. Will was tall and broad of shoulder, long of leg, flat-bellied, and firm of buttocks. His nose was straight and strong, flared just enough at the nostrils to give him boldness. His chin was firm and square, his mouth...

  A curious ribbon of excitement twisted in the pit of Angel's stomach as she imagined what it might feel like to be kissed by those lips.

  Or touched by those callused hands....

  Will Falcon's hands were lean and hard. She had expected a gentleman's hands to be as soft-white as fish belly, but his were not. They were the hands of a strong and lusty sailor, but one whose ringless fingers were both long and very clean. Even his nails were filed straight across, not broken off as her own. She had always been a woman to notice a man's hands, and those of her sea-gifting were pleasing indeed.