The Huntress ✓

21. Duel Intentions

Encountering a pirate was easy. But laying a trap for a one—while trying not to be blown to bits—was no simple business.

Lucien paced the deck of the Falcon anxiously awaiting his prey. He didn't want the confrontation to be bloody and had planned carefully to avoid that. So far everything had gone perfectly. The old captain stayed in Port Royal to waylay an oncoming bought of scurvy, Johnstone dutifully remaining with the captain while Lucien sailed off to finish the trade route. Christmas had come and gone while he was at sea. They celebrated by making a meal only slightly more palatable than usual, and Lucien had read the Christmas story to an inattentive crew. There really was not too much one could do to observe it properly while at sea.

He was on his return trip and came across a ship who'd marked a curious vessel with indigo sails, bearing the name in question. Now he lay in wait.

All he had to do now was get his ship back with as little bloodshed as possible. His plan would accomplish those ends. Victory was almost certain. But something, anything, could go wrong and cause the deaths of countless people. It wasn't too late to change his plan. But even as he thought it he knew getting his ship wasn't his only design that day. He wouldn't be satisfied with that. He couldn't get the pirate lady out of his mind, and he intended to figure out why. The truth was, once he captured her, he wasn't sure he could let her go.

At last, his man aloft gave the long awaited cry, "Blue sails ahead!"

For better or worse, he couldn't back out now.

***

Clear skies the color of a robin's egg surrounded the indigo vessel. The sun bounced off the aquamarine waves making a dazzling display as the sun neared its zenith. A fresh breeze cooled the surfaces the sun beat down on and brought smells of the salt sea. A perfect day. On such a day one could easily believe nothing dark or evil dwelled in all the world.

But for some unknown reason, Bronte felt a tension, deep in the pit of her stomach. Something that made her sure that evil did exist and even now crept, steadily closing on her.

The Huntress bounced through the waves as it steered toward a ship bobbing complacently in the distance. Captain Bronte Farrow stood on the foredeck with her hands on her hips. Her new blackened leather knee-boots squeaked as she shifted, staring out at the drifting sloop. The sails weren't drawn and there appeared to be no crew aboard. She held up her telescope for a closer look. It revealed the bodies of a few sailors lying prone on the main deck. It appeared to be English, but had no flag flying for confirmation. It could be a chance for some easy pickings.

"Bring us close aboard!" she ordered.

She looked again, but couldn't see the faces of the men lying on the deck, nor could she determine the cause of their apparent deaths. The only sound coming from the ship was the groaning and creaking of the hull as it drifted listlessly in the waves. Something about it made her feel uneasy.

"Bring to! Drop anchor!" she ordered.

The crew was unusually quiet as they arranged the sails to make the Huntress stationary. No one seemed to wish to break the eerie silence cast in the shadow of this floating tomb.

Sam stood silently beside her, a stark contrast with light breeches, tan leather boots, a navy sash around his waist, and a white blouse open to his naval. Chestnut curls danced in the wind as he held his arms crossed over his chest, a contemplative expression on his face. "Bronte, does that ship not look familiar to you?"

"Should it? I don't recall a ship by that name."

"Not the name, but blast my eyes, look at the lines and the cut of his jib!"