arm went around her waist and a pistol pressed against her temple. She stared at Perkin’s grim profile with a cry of shock.
‘Sorry, Miss Fulton,’ he muttered. ‘Do as you are bid and no harm will befall you.’
‘Captain Dareth,’ he roared. ‘Surrender.’ Her ears rang with his bellow.
The rise of Perkin’s chest with each indrawn breath pressed hot against her back. Sparks ran down her spine and lit a glow low in her stomach in a most inappropriate way. How could she respond to this criminal with such unladylike heat?
She jabbed Perkin’s ribs with her elbow. She might as well have poked a granite rock with her baby finger for all the notice he took. Come to think of it, his stomach gave less than granite, although she did hear a faint grunt.
‘Dareth,’ he yelled again.
The captain turned, his eyes as round as marbles, his jaw dropping to his neatly knotted cravat. He stood stock-still and stared.
Perkin cursed harshly. ‘Strike your colours, man, before someone gets hurt.’
Even dazed with astonishment, Alice couldn’t help but notice the change in the cook from common sailor to a man used to command.
She twisted in his grip. ‘You’re part of this.’
‘Silence,’ he snarled.
A cannon boomed. A tearing rush of air whistled overhead. Then the ship seemed to disintegrate in the sound of splintering wood and the shouts. A spar, tangled with ropes and sail, slammed on to the deck. One end knocked Richard sideways. He collapsed.
The breath rushed from Alice’s throat. She struggled to find her voice, fought to break the iron grip around her waist.
‘Richard,’ she screamed. She stilled at the pistol’s increased pressure. ‘Hold still,’ he growled in her ear.
‘Let me go. My brother needs help.’ She stamped down on his bare instep.
He uttered a foul curse, but the rock-hard grip didn’t ease a smidgeon.
Beside the helm, their captain’s face blanched. He gave the order to strike their colours.
‘About bloody time,’ Perkin muttered as their flag fluttered to the deck. ‘Heave to,’ he shouted. The helmsman brought the ship around and the sails hung limp. The other ship drew alongside and men leaped across the gap into the Conchita’s ratlines. Privateers poured on to their ship.
‘Get your brother below,’ Perkin said, pushing her forwards. He strode for the rail.
Heart faltering, terrified of what she would find, she ran to Richard’s side. One end of the spar lay across his chest. Ropes and canvas littered the deck around his still body. A blue lump marred his temple. ‘Richard,’ she cried, shaking his shoulder. He didn’t move.
She pressed her ear to his heart. A strong steady heartbeat. Thank God.
Now if she could move this timber…With shaking hands, she crouched and grabbed one end of the huge spar. Too heavy. It didn’t move. Muscles straining, she heaved again. Hopeless. She needed help.
She looked around wildly. For all that they looked like a motley crew, the privateers were swiftly and efficiently rounding up Conchita’s crew at pistol and sabre point. Not one of them looked her way.
A sailor ran past. She caught his arm. ‘You. Give me a hand here.’ The grey-haired, barrel-chested gnome of a man stopped in his tracks. His button-black eyes blinked.
‘Help me move this spar,’ she said.
He glanced down at Richard. ‘Aye, aye, miss.’ He pulled out a knife, held it over her brother.
Alice’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Please. No.’
The man slashed the ropes free and glanced up. ‘Did you say something, miss?’
Panting, her heart still thundering too hard for speech, Alice shook her head.
The man proceeded to lift one end of the spar and to drag it clear.
‘Perkin told me to get him below deck,’ she said, going to Richard’s feet. ‘You must help me.’
The man looked blank. ‘Can’t, miss. Speak to the captain.’ He rushed off.
She glanced around for someone else. Within the few short minutes she’d been busy with Richard, the privateers, twenty or more of them and all as rough as Perkin, had taken command of her father’s ship and were clearing the deck of torn sails, broken spars and damaged rigging. An acrid smell lingered in the air, the smell of gunpowder from the shots they had fired.
Oh Lord, what a disaster. And they could have been killed. An enormous lump rose up from her chest and stuck firm in her throat. She swallowed the rush of panic. Richard needed help. But who would give it?
A blond Viking of a man was striding aft issuing orders as he went. This must be the captain. She started towards him. He paused to speak to the traitorous Perkin, who appeared to have grown a foot since the privateers came on board. She marched across the deck and planted herself in front of both men. ‘My brother needs help.’
The blond man recoiled. ‘Good God. A woman? What’s she doing on deck?’
A shade taller than his captain and as dark as the other man was fair, Perkin muttered into the blond giant’s ear.
‘You, Perkin,’ she said. ‘Tell your captain this is an honest merchant ship carrying civilian passengers.’
The blond giant raised a brow at his accomplice. ‘Michael?’
‘You know what to do,’ Perkin said and strode away.
‘Simpson,’ the captain shouted. ‘Get your sorry self over here.’
The grey-bearded man who had freed Richard ran over.
‘He wants her on the Gryphon,’ the captain said.
Her?
Simpson’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘Aye, aye, sir. This way, miss.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Alice said. ‘My brother is injured.’ She dodged around the portly fellow and dashed back to her pale and still brother.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked around to find a rough-looking sailor with a drooping moustache and a tarry pigtail staring at her from mud-coloured eyes. He grinned.
She tried not to notice the blackened stumps of his teeth. ‘Take him below.’
The sailor’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll be happy to take ye below, missy.’
‘Get away from her, Kale.’
Perkin again, with a pistol in his hand and his eyes blazing fury.
Her insides did a strange kind of somersault. The kind that shouldn’t
