The True One (One and Only Series Book 2) Read online

  The ship was badly damaged and already taking on water. He’d send Serpent’s Ghost to her grave before he let these assailants take his ship.

  “There’s too many of ‘em, Captain. Even for us.” His second-in-command told him what he already knew.

  “Damn it to hell,” Stephen barked.

  “I’m with you. The men will fight to the death.”

  “I know that, Abe. I don’t plan to surrender, but I won’t serve these men up like lambs to a slaughter. Serpent’s Ghost is going down. Our only choice is to jump ship.”

  “Aye, Captain.” While Abe swung his sword, he made his way to the center of the action.

  “Abandon ship,” Stephen shouted. The order tasted like bile as the words rolled off his tongue. At all times the crew followed his orders without question, but their hesitation portrayed their reluctance to obey—never before having to forsake their ship.

  Three of the enemy devils confronted him at once. With a cutlass in one hand and his sword in the other, Stephen braced his feet and took a stand for their onslaught.

  “Come on, you slimy devils. The man hasna been born who can take me down.” They charged and he swung with all his might. The first man dropped. Stephen thrust his sword into the second while slashing the third. The cutthroat screamed as blood poured from his face. Another swipe and down he went to the fate of his mates.

  Pain seared Stephen’s side. With a ferocious growl, he spun to face another attacker. More thrusts, and more. They kept coming. Abe signaled, letting Stephen know those left of his crew now tread water. He leaped forward, slashing his way across the deck littered with lifeless bodies. During the skirmish, his crew had slain their share. He hoped most, if not all of them, escaped over the side. He fought like a madman, desperate to reach the stern. The last thing he saw, just before he jumped, was a flash of steel too damn close to his neck.

  The cold sea sucked him down into her powerful depth. Rays of light pricked overhead. With determined strength, he wrestled away from the swirling current and headed for the beach, staying below the surface. Only when his lungs demanded air, he made his way topside. He gasped for air and found his men crawling onto shore.

  Thank the merciful heavens.

  He clawed his way to the water’s edge only to find more heathens waiting for them. His gut curled as he watched his men being bashed and slammed to the ground. Fury drove him. He bounded from the surf, the breakers tugging him back. Men grabbed his arms. Already winded, he had little fight left. But it took six to hold him.

  One man stood out, obviously the leader of this bunch. Dressed in an array of colorful robes. Clumps of black hair sprung down from a winding turban. Eyes just as black, glowed from a sense of triumph the cur must surely feel.

  Stephen lunged, taking his holders off guard. But they struck him with the butt of a gun before he’d gone two feet. Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him to his knees.

  “Which one of you is the cap-i-tan?” The leader looked down the line of kowtowing males.

  Serpent’s Ghost’s crew may look defeated, but Stephen knew hatred filled their eyes. For their sake he must handle the situation carefully.

  “I am,” he replied, his voice strong and sturdy.

  “Well, well.” The man’s eyes took on a gleam as if he’d just found a tasty meal. “So you are the commander.”

  He sauntered closer, but kept a good measure of distance between them. He met Stephen’s gaze without tipping his chin above his nose. No easy feat since the man barely stood to Stephen mid-chest.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve come to trade.” Stephen answered with as much calm as he could muster, when what he really wanted was to strangle the man till his eyes popped out of his damned head.

  “Trade? What cargo do you have on your ship?”

  “Sugar.” Even if the man found out he lied, Stephen would not disclose the guns hidden in the hold.

  “You have entered into territory you should not have discovered.”

  “A storm blew us off course. We were headed for the East India Port.”

  “But, Cap-i-tan, you sailed into my cove.” His grin twisted with malice.

  His cove? Stephen glared, but held his tongue. This must be one of the Rajput princes who defied the emperor. One still clinging to his religious identity and resenting the English.

  “We were hoping for the Bay of Bengal,” Stephen said. “We anticipated making our way to the Port of Tuticorin by following the coast line.”

  “Ahh, you expect me to believe this tale?”

  “I speak the truth.”

  “We will see how much of what you speak is the truth.” The prince twisted to the right, and raised his hand.

  A shot rang out. One shipmate toppled to the ground with a gaping hole in his chest.

  Rage seeped through Stephen’s bones.

  The bloody whoreson.

  He lunged in a roaring frenzy, his intention to kill. The pounding he received rivaled a bunch of bees pricking his hide, until their sting finally plummeted him onto the wet sand.

  “Now. Has your answer changed?”

  He spit blood from his mouth. “I will kill you with my bare hands.”

  “I will never understand you Englishmen. Foolish words. As you can see, you are at my mercy.”

  No matter how much he hated the idea, the bloody bastard was right.

  The man raised his arm in the air and with a flick of his fingers, several of his men moved forward.

  To Stephen’s horror, he saw chains. The bastard was going to put them in chains.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I want to know how you found my secluded cove.”

  “I told you . . .”

  Another shot rang out.

  Judas Priest!

  Before the smoking gun cooled, his band of men placed shackles on the remaining crew. Stephen’s gut twisted. If they thought they could chain him . . .

  Agony speared his temple. Darkness descended.

  Pain rolled over him in crashing waves. He prayed devoutly for the return of sweet, blissful unconsciousness—but it was not to be. There was that moaning again. How very strange. It seemed to be coming from him.

  His arms were stretched over his head, his wrists bound by chains. Muscles strained where he hung, nearly pulling his arms from their sockets. The ache in his shoulders had dulled to a smarting throb. His legs hung loose even though his ankles were tethered. Rage shattered his skull. The pounding in his brain caused nausea to fill his throat.

  Mindful his ribs were more than likely broken, he slowly gasped for breath.

  His men.

  Slaughtered before him. Their suffering increased his guilt. He’d brought them here. To a land of chaos and bloodthirsty bastards who surely were spawned from the devil himself.

  He wondered how long he’d hung here this time. Every few days the bleedin’ dogs would suspend him in these manacles like a prize trophy, take him down, throw him in a filthy corner of a cell, only to take him out and start the process all over again.

  When would he wake from this horrendous nightmare? It seemed he’d been in this hell-pit forever. Between the beatings and other indescribable torture, he’d lost count after the first few months. His body a shadow of what it used to be.

  His size had always intimidated men. There was nothing intimidating about him now.

  He enjoyed pounding his fist in a man’s face now and again. But, when a man was chained to a wall, the only blows he got were the ones he received. Time—and the Rajput prince—had taken their toll. For his legs were unable to carry him out of this bloody asylum.

  Men’s voices drew his attention. They were back.

  Their native tongue was unknown to h
is ears. He didn’t need to speak their language to know their intent. His worn muscles—what was left of them—continued to flex even though his limbs were limp from hunger. How much longer could his body hold out?

  Flickering light bounced off the dungeon walls creating shadows. The shuffle of footsteps and then, the man he’d come to hate, appeared from the dimness. He stopped, just out of reach. He motioned to a sentry. The man dipped a ladle into a jug and poured water into a cup.

  So they were to play that game, again.

  From swollen lids, he kept his stare straight forward. His empty belly ached. The prince thought starving him would . . . what? Make him crack? The bloody vultures sunk his ship. They’d murdered his men. There was nothing left.

  The bastard simply tortured him for his own senseless pleasure.

  The man stood with his arms crossed over his big belly concealed by layers of silk. With eyes as dark as his black hair, his sinister gaze glowed with a sense of triumph the deuced man must surely feel. A sickening smile, more like a sneer brandished the harsh angles of his face. Stephen hoped the man choked on his own spittle.

  “Now, Cap-i-tan. Are you ready to talk?”

  “Go to hell.” Although Stephen growled through gritted teeth, his voice emerged barely more than a croak.

  The Rajput prince raised his arms. “What else can I do? You allowed your men to die when all I seek are answers.”

  “Devil curse you for your vile acts.”

  “Vile? You, Cap-i-tan, are responsible. You sentenced your men to death rather than tell me what I want to know. Tell me how you found my secluded cove.”

  Stephen held his tongue as the worthless monster raised one arm and gave a slight flick of his hand. Fire lanced Stephen’s back. Too weak to remain quiet, he cried out. Damn his fragile state.

  “I would think, Cap-i-tan, you would do anything to end this.”

  “And then you will spare my life?” Stephen rasped from his dry throat. “Like you did my crew?” Nothing could erase the images in his mind. The screams of his crew—tortured and slaughtered like animals—their bodies drug across the stone floor. His shame in knowing he could not save them. He’d begged for their lives, and eventually their welcoming death.

  The whoreson smiled in triumph as his eyes narrowed. “You choose a slow miserable death?”

  He sprang forward with what energy he had left, his shackles jangled. He wished he could rip the chains from the damp rock and wrap them around the bloody man’s neck, and send his soul to hell.

  Laughter echoed off the walls. “Your actions are foolish. Tell me what I want to know.”

  For a harrowing moment, the man’s eyes held a crazed madness. Then, his chin lifted and he gave another flick of his wrist.

  Pain exploded. His damn lapdog packed a hell of a punch. By the force of the blow, the devil incarnate must have fractured his jaw. The only bone in his body the bastard probably had not broken, up to now. Agony seared his face and sparks flashed before his eyes.

  “You are a stubborn one.” The Rajput prince nodded again to his companion, turned in a flurry of colors and strode back into the darkened tunnel.

  Stephen braced himself for what came next.

  A mallet pounded in his brain. Stephen lay on his side, his face upon cold stone, his hip against bars set in walls of rock. Eyelids swollen from the most recent beating, he couldn’t get them open enough to see even a glimmer of light. Not that there would be more than a flickering flame from the wall outside his cell. Still he struggled to raise his lids in hope the dizzy spinning would slow somewhat before he retched again.

  The stench alone was enough to make an ordinary man hurl. He’d been given very little to eat. He tried to swallow but his enlarged tongue assured that his throat was bone dry. Something trickled down his cheek. He knew it wasn’t sweat. He tried to raise his arm to wipe the blood—instant agony assured him it was broken. He did a mental check of other body parts. With this much pain, they all had to be present and accounted for. Although, it just might be worth getting rid of a few if he could shed the pain right along with a few limbs.

  Sorrow clogged his lungs.

  His shipmates. Men he’d been responsible for. He should be with them. Lying in the ground beside them. But he would not give up. He lived for the day when he could rip the guts out of the evil monster, make him suffer as he had made Stephen’s crew suffer. He would afflict such pain and torment the bastard would prefer hell instead of being at Stephen’s mercy.

  He couldn’t move an inch, a limb, a muscle. A limp mass on top of filth. Weak as a new born kitten. Every curse word imaginable crossed his lips. The bastard gave no chance for escape. His damn dogs kept a close watch. Even when they took him down from his restraints and threw him in his prison, they never left him alone. These cutthroats were worse than rabid animals.

  Now his chances were even dimmer. With two broken ankles he wouldn’t be running away. Hell, he couldn’t even stand. And thanks to the latest beating, he had no idea how long it would be before he could eat again—when they allowed it. Not that you could call the swill they served as food. When was the last time he’d eaten?

  Stephen urged his mind to other things. Pleasant things. Anything to provide the distraction he needed to survive the anguish that consumed him.

  Home—Aunt Elizabeth—Uncle Albert—Katherine.

  Sometimes, Kat was too much for his weary mind to handle. Ever since their parents’ deaths, he’d tried to give her what she wanted. Hell. Every time he looked at her, he saw the pain of loss in her young, sad eyes. They pulled at his heart strings. He had made his sister his priority, her needs his own.

  True he’d spoiled her since she was a baby. He’d let her have her way many times. With a temper to match that fiery red hair, like him, she wouldn’t stop until she got exactly what she wanted. And Stephen had never been able to deny her.

  She looked so much like their mother.

  While he sailed the seas, his little sister had grown. A beautiful young woman dancing at parties and balls. He imagined her in a whirl of lace and petticoats. No more freckles or running around in pigtails. If for no other reason, he needed to get out of this hell for her. Get back to England and keep her safe from rogues. And men like him.

  Home.

  Voices again. Oh God. Terror held him in its grip even though he tried to shove it away. Footsteps. A guard bent to retrieve something from the floor. What could it be? They’d already exhausted everything imaginable. Death didn’t scare him, but he’d thought his end would come while on his ship. Maybe sink to a watery grave. Not die like a mutilated rat in a hellish dungeon. He’d rather go down fighting—even if they had already bled his strength.

  A heavy thud. A body landed on the floor. What the devil? Unable to see clearly, his other senses sharpened. He listened intently. Someone moved outside his cell, and not the usual trio who guarded him. Enthusiastic whispers rendered him to consciousness. The concerned voices were not the ones of his enemies. To his disgust, he would have to be carried if someone were to free him from this hellhole. It would be a miracle, if after all this, he would escape still a man. Movement, and the stench of his own blood, caused his stomach to roll. Unable to fight the dizziness any longer, he thankfully sank to a world of darkness.

  “It’s about time you got here. Hurry up.” Clothed in black, the rebel leader’s men were hard to see. But Tarak’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. A clinking sound and the cell bars opened. He stepped through.

  “Took us a while to find you, Tarak,” his second-in-command said.

  “Did you silence the guards?”

  “They’re all dead. Couldn’t leave anyone to sound the alarm.”

  “Give me those keys.” He jerked the metal ring from Dinar’s hand and hurried to the captain’s cell.

 
“Tarak, what are you doing?”

  “He’s going with us.” Keys clanked against callous steel. Tarak hurried, his shaky fingers made opening the lock more difficult.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  Maybe he had. Who wouldn’t after the torture he’d witnessed. “I said he’s coming with us.”

  “You’re the boss,” Dinar conceded.

  Once the lock clicked, Tarak jerked the cell door open and rushed inside.

  “Not much left of ‘em.” Dinar spoke over Tarak’s shoulder. “He looks like he’s dead.”

  “Any other man would be.” Tarak knelt on one knee and put a hand to the captain’s throat. “He’s still alive. Help me get him up.”

  “He’s a tall ‘un. Limp like he is, how we going to do this and not make him worse?”

  Tarak turned and gave a harsh whisper. “Gafur!”

  A large man filling the doorway, ducked his head and squeezed inside.

  “Gafur. Take him. If you have to carry him on your horse, do it. I’ll not leave him behind.”

  Silent as a crypt, and with the ease of picking up a boot, the large man hefted the captain in his arms and carried him like a babe. Shifting his weight from side to side, he made his way through the cell doorway.

  “There are other prisoners.” Tarak said.

  “Apu is releasing every last one. The prince will have a fine time trying to round them up again. Course the only one he may come after is you.”

  “Then let’s put some distance between us.” With purposeful strides, Tarak rushed down the dark corridor. Once outside, he found more of his men waiting with horses. He jumped onto a saddle and grabbed the reins. Kicking the animal’s sides, he fled into the night.