Page 95 of The Sea of Zemira (The Zemiran Chronicles 1)

Afaint moan left Nola’s lips in her sleep. The heat of her breath tickled over Lincoln’s muscular, bare chest. As he leaned in to draw in her scent, his ears honed in on the explosive sound of pattered footsteps scurrying across the deck.

Lincoln sat bolt upright, instinctively gripping Nola’s arm to wake her.

“Don’t move,” he barked in a subtle yet firm tone as her eyes sprang open. His mouth formed a hard line as he listened again intently. “No matter what you hear, do not leave this room.”

Without enough time to think about the commotion above, she sat on the edge of the bed, still waking from her slumber. Lincoln’s eyes stayed fixed on the door as if someone would come storming into the room at any given moment. Nola felt her panic begin to rise; the aching stab of her fast-beating heart caught painfully in her throat.

Lincoln crawled out of the covers and rummaged through their clothes, which were scattered across the floor. He found his trousers and quickly put them on. Then, peeked through the porthole.

“Blimey!” he whispered quietly to himself, then turned to Nola.“Pirates!”

“The not-so-friendly kind?” Her voice quivered when she spoke.

Lincoln nodded slowly, not wanting to terrify her. Still, she needed to know the grave danger unexpected visitors posed when sailing the seas.

“Most likely,” he said, watching her stand up straight, pulling the sheet to her chest. “Please, Nola,” he begged, “get under the bed and do not come out unless you hear my voice.”

Nola squinted, looking towards the door.

“Nola!” his voice hardened that time, causing her to look up.

She put on the dress Kitten had given her and looked back over to him. “Is it someone you know?” she asked.

“I have to go see!” Lincoln moved swiftly in her direction and grabbed her arm but loosened his grip. “But get under the bed, my love,” he implored. “Please.”

Nola glanced up to meet his eyes; she nodded, then turned swiftly to crawl under the bed.

Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck vigorously before he removed his coat from the hook and hurried upstairs. The approaching pirate ship crashed against the side of the Sybil Curse, causing the crew to grip the ledge to keep from falling overboard.

“Sorry, Captain,” Boots said, “We were shittin’ around in the cannon room. We didn’t see them comin’.”

“Hoist the black flag, Boots,” Lincoln instructed. He turned to the crew standing behind him. “Do not attack unless it is clear to be an ambush.”

The Sybil Curse’s crew nodded. Ardley placed his hand on his cutlass, ready to withdraw the moment his captain gave the order.

The crew stayed poised.

“We’ve got this captain.” The redheaded buccaneer gave his captain a curt nod while his hand rested on the hilt.

A deafening sound of gunfire shot across the ship. Mazie muffled her ears as they all squatted down. Lincoln winced as he heard the agitating voice of his old captain calling out his name.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! It can’t be him,he cursed in his mind as one of Wentworth’s men tossed their grappling hook over to the Sybil Curse.

Lincoln looked over the railing towards the opposing ship’s deck. He spotted the captain and shot the old bastard a scathing look.

“Damn you, Wentworth. What are you doin’?!” Lincoln shouted, signaling for his crew to raise their weapons.

Wisps of smoke hovered near his old foe’s lips as he tossed his pipe onto his deck. Wentworth always had appeared cordial at first. However, Lincoln knew the malice behind those eyes. The trust between the two buccaneers shattered the day they parted over ten years ago.

Captain Lincoln glanced at his crew, watching Hill stagger on his feet with his hand over his right cheek. A bullet had grazed his skin, and though it did not imbed itself, it had fueled Lincoln with rage.

Wentworth was an evil son of a bitch, but he had never tried to kill them. Resources were too valuable to any pirate who sailed the Portland Sea. Most, if not all crews, knew of the Sybil Curse and the consequences for those who dared cross them.

“Sorry, mate, this lad ’ere is new to our ship. He can’t even ’andle ’is own pistol,” Wentworth said, turning to a young boy, shaking in his boots. A taller lad tossed a pistol over to Wentworth, who caught it mid-air. The clearly terrified boy stepped back as Wentworth tipped his hat, then shot at the boy, grazing his cheek to match Hill’s.

Lincoln exhaled, pressing his lips together to hold his tongue. It was none of his business how Wentworth punished his crew, and he was not about to get involved in his affairs.

The boy squealed, backed up another foot, and tripped over his own feet. He was shaking and shielded his bleeding, boyish face as Wentworth slowly approached him, crouching down to meet his terror-stricken eyes. He took the pistol and pointed it at the boy’s chin, using it to lift his face. His broad nostrils flared.

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