Free The Ransom by MaryLu Tyndall Page A

ship’s colors flapping from the mainhead. French. Good. A French merchantman. Snapping the glass shut, he shared a grin with Larkin. “I trust you’ve not partaken since last night. I need clear heads.”
    Larkin gave a shrug. “When have I let you down?”
    Thus far, the man had not. Though a residual sting of alcohol still hovered around him.
    Alex stormed to waist. “All hands on deck! Helm, hard aport! Up tops and gallants!”
    Larkin nodded and turned, bellowing orders to the crew. Topmen leapt into the ratlines and raced up the shrouds.
    “Stations for stays! Bring her about. Helms alee!” Larkin continued, sending more men scrambling over the deck. Within minutes, the ship tacked slowly about, cordage straining and blocks creaking, and the railing flirting dangerously with the rushing sea as the ship canted to starboard. Suddenly, nothing but the mad dash of water and groan of wood could be heard as sails drooped impotent, mourning their momentary loss of wind with angry flaps and flutters, only to glut themselves fully with a thunderous clap when the ship turned to catch the breeze.
    “Brace up the weather yards! All canvas out!” Alex commanded. Then facing his sailing master, “Bring us to windward of them, if you please, Larkin.”
    Larkin examined the Fluyt before bellowing further orders to the excited crew. Jonas appeared from below. Strapping a belt and cutlass to his hip, he nodded to Alex. Though the quartermaster made no effort to hide his disapproval of pirating, he fulfilled his duties with more heart and skill than most of the crew, fighting alongside them during battle and stitching up the injured afterward.
    Close-hauled to the eastern wind and listing to starboard under the force of it, the Vanity rose and plunged through the turquoise waters. Sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, stabbing the scene with shafts of light as the storm retreated on the horizon.
    Grabbing the backstay, Alex leapt onto the bulwarks, allowing the wind to whip him as he gazed intently at their prey. The French merchants had spotted him, and with all sail crowded in a bloated mass of grey and white, they swung about, wagging their foamy stern in defiance. No doubt they had recognized the Pirate Earl’s flag—a skull and a shield, both pierced by a sword—and were shivering in their froggish skins. Alex’s reputation as a fierce and relentless pirate spanned the entire Spanish Main.
    The Vanity dipped into the trough of a wave, and Alex tightened his grip on the stay, closing his eyes for a moment and relishing in the wind and salty spray and the smell of life and brine and the shouts of his men. Blood dashed through his veins, his senses heightened, his dormant heart sparked to life. Had his father felt this same thrill when he’d been king of the Caribbean? Would he be proud of his only son? Or would he feel naught but shame and disgust? Most likely the latter, which leeched some of his excitement. Would that his father had remained a pirate, and he and Alex could rule these seas together. But Merrick had taken another path, devotion to an invisible God. And though Alex had started down that path, it had ended in darkness and disappointment.
    Nigh an hour later, as they fast approached the much slower ship, Alex gathered the men on deck and glared down at them from his position by the helm. They were a fierce crew, some barely wet behind the ears, some who’d lived on the sea more than on land—all with greed and malice dripping from their eyes. They were filthy, fetid, sporting mismatched articles of stolen attire, and adorned with every kind of weapon known to man, the metal of which now blinked in the sunlight. But they were his crew. Men he had made rich, and because of that, men who obeyed his every command. At first the power had intoxicated him. But after a while, even that had become commonplace. Nevertheless, he must use that power now to keep these miscreants under control.
    “You well know the