Cast In Dark Waters Read Free

You've repaid some of a long-standing arrears, though I suppose you've a good deal more to pay out. From what I know, the former first mate of the Baranaro was a well-liked chap and competent at his post. You, I reckon, won't last to see Rum Cay."
    "You think not?"
    "As I say."
    Rubbing at his unshapely belly as though he were ready for a good meal, he asked, "So which one of these putrid sons of strumpets put you on to me, eh? I'll have that out of ya before I go on."
    Crimson tried hard not to sigh but failed. She let out a stream of breath that tousled hair from the corner of her mouth, shaking her head slowly side to side. She often wondered why it was so often forced to come to this—the men unable to admit defeat even when so close to getting their throats cut. What compulsion drove them to such stupidity?
    "Answer me now, girl."
    "Here, have it." Crimson gave the cur a sizable gash on the side of his neck to remind him of who was in control here. Jessup cringed and squawked like a chicken, finally dropping his arrogant demeanor.
    "Blood!"
    "You'll get nothing but your heart plucked out if you don't leave now while I'm still in a good mood."
    "She bleeds me!"
    "The whiskey in this place is thin as pond water so I doubt I'll be quite so benevolent in a short while. You can run back to your ship and face your mates or you can catch board upon some passing vessel. I suggest the latter choice, if you want to live out the week."
    "You hussy witch—"
    "None of that." She cut him again in the same spot, deepening the wound. Jessup cried out and hit a nice high squalling note that even the squeeze-box musician couldn't reach on his instrument.
    It had been a fine spectacle. Almost everyone in the shadowy, lantern-lit tavern applauded and kicked up a ruckus. Especially loud were the other women freebooters, a few of the fishwives and whores. Though they dressed, swore, and even fought like men, it was still easy to see—with a few notable exceptions—that they too were ladies who needed their liberties. No man should be allowed to speak to a woman thusly in these parts. They raised tankards and cups in salute as Jessup stumbled out of the Hog's Head Inn, whimpering and holding his collar tightly closed as the blood pulsed between his fingers.
    Owlstead gave her one brief nod and was gone, possibly to finish off the job, now that Jessup was beaten down and scurrying for cover.
    When Crimson was done with the chubby sod, she sheathed her sword and returned to her table to sit over her cold supper. An old bearded man with a wild shock of white hair and a black leather eye patch sat beside her sipping whiskey.
    "I thought ye'd have a harder time with him," he said.
    "He was just an overconfident ass, like most of them."
    "True, but he's still a butcher, truth be known. Some time ago I saw him cut the sex off a merchant in Mayaguana and stuff it in the dying man's mouth."
    "Ah, well, and here I was hoping he'd marry me. Pity my na
ï
ve dreams. I need more grog."
    Welsh—he'd never used another name in front of her—grinned with rotted stumps of teeth. His tangled beard smelled of gunpowder. Like Edward Teach, the notorious Blackbeard, Welsh often intimidated foes in battle by wrapping slow-burning lighted coils in his long hair. It was a good trick and kept their minds focused elsewhere. He had trembling hands but they were thick and powerful. "You've a poisonous tongue on ye, ye do."
    "I inherited it from my father."
    Ten years ago, while Crimson's mother lay dying of consumption, she had claimed that Crimson had come from the loins of Welsh. It was a blow she'd never quite fully recovered from, whether it was truth or not. Nobody wanted to hear that they'd been born to that pirate. Welsh denied being Crimson's father, but once you got past the scruffy white beard, the seamed skin and broken nose, you could see a definite resemblance. At least she could.
    "Now don't go spoutin ' that nonsense again, child. Order a second bowl