Gold Eye's Captive (Forbidden Men #28)

1 A Flag on the Horizon

The Caribbean sun hung high in the sky like a blazing coin, casting its relentless heat over the endless expanse of turquoise water that stretched out in every direction.

Aaron Reeves wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, feeling the coarse fabric of his linen shirt cling to his skin as he hauled on the thick rope, securing yet another coil of rigging on the deck of the merchant ship Endeavor.

At twenty-four, Aaron had grown accustomed to the rhythm of life at sea, the constant creak of timber beneath his feet, the snap of sails catching the wind, and the salty tang that coated his lips and tongue with every breath.

His body, honed by years of labor, moved with a natural grace; broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, his chest and arms defined from endless days of pulling lines and climbing masts.

His dark hair, cropped short to keep it from the wind's grasp, framed a face that carried the quiet handsomeness of youth, sharp jawline, full lips, and eyes the color of storm-tossed seas, a deep gray that often hid more than they revealed.

Yet beneath that steady exterior, Aaron harbored a secret that gnawed at him like the slow rot in a ship's hull.

He was drawn to men, had always been, though he'd buried it deep in a world where such desires could mean ruin or worse.

In the close quarters of the crew, he'd learned to avert his gaze from the sweat-glistened backs of his fellow deckhands, from the way their muscles flexed under sun-bronzed skin as they worked side by side.

Fantasies crept in during the quiet watches at night, when the ship rocked gently and the stars wheeled overhead, imagined touches, rough hands, the heat of another man's body pressed against his own.

But Aaron kept it locked away, focusing instead on the pay that waited at the end of this voyage, enough perhaps to buy a small plot of land far from the sea and its temptations.

The Endeavor was no ordinary merchant vessel on this run.

She carried a fortune in gold ingots hidden deep in her hold, bound for the Bahamas where her owners planned to trade it for land rights on untamed islands.

The crew knew it, of course; whispers had spread like wildfire below decks from the moment they'd loaded the crates in Florida.

And with that knowledge came fear. The waters between Florida and the Bahamas were infested with pirates, ruthless men who preyed on the trade routes like sharks circling wounded prey.

No escort had been hired, no naval frigate to guard them, because the captains argued it would only draw attention, signaling to any watchful eye that the ship carried something worth stealing.

Better to slip through quietly, they said, hugging the currents and praying for clear skies.

But not everyone agreed. As Aaron paused to catch his breath, leaning against the rail and gazing out at the shimmering horizon, he overheard the familiar grumbling from a cluster of sailors nearby.

Old Harlan, a grizzled veteran with a face like weathered oak, spat over the side and muttered to the others.

"Fools, the lot of 'em. Sailing these waters with a hold full of gold and no guns to speak of beyond our poxy cannons.

We've got more chance of kissing a mermaid than making Nassau without trouble. "

Young Tom, barely eighteen and still wide-eyed about the sea, nodded vigorously while coiling a line.

"Heard tell of Gold Eye Tye himself prowling these parts.

They say he can smell gold from leagues away, like some devil's gift.

His flag, that golden eye on black, means death to any ship it spots. "

The name sent a ripple through the group, and even Aaron felt a chill despite the heat.

Gold Eye Tye was a legend whispered in every port from Jamaica to Charleston, a pirate captain who'd risen to notoriety in just a few short years.

At twenty-eight, Tye was said to be as ruthless as he was cunning, his ship The Storm a sleek predator that struck with terrifying speed.

The flag bore a stylized golden eye, a mocking emblem of his uncanny knack for targeting vessels heavy with treasure.

Ships that flew honest colors one moment found themselves shattered the next, their crews slaughtered or pressed into service, their gold vanished into Tye's coffers.

No one knew how he did it, some claimed sorcery, others a network of spies, but the result was always the same: fear.

Many a sailor crossed themselves at the mention of his name, and Aaron, though he tried to dismiss it as superstition, couldn't shake the unease that settled in his gut.

"Escort would've marked us sure enough," countered Elias, the bosun, a burly man with arms like tree trunks.

He glanced around warily before lowering his voice.

"But alone? We've a fighting chance to sneak by.

Tye can't raid every ship in these waters.

And besides, the winds are fair. We'll make Bahamas in three days if we hold course. "

The men fell silent at that, returning to their tasks with renewed vigor, though the tension lingered like a gathering cloud.

Aaron pushed off the rail and joined them, his hands callused and strong as he helped reef a sail.

The day wore on, the sun dipping toward the west, painting the waves in hues of orange and gold.

Dinner was salt pork and hardtack below decks, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and tar.

Aaron ate quietly, listening to the banter that masked the crew's growing anxiety.

By nightfall, the ship sailed under a canopy of stars, the lookout posted high in the crow's nest scanning the darkness.

It was midday the next day when the cry came. Aaron was scrubbing the deck on his knees, the holystone grating against the planks, when the lookout's voice shattered the calm. "Sail ho! On the horizon, bearing down fast!"

Heads snapped up across the deck. The captain emerged from his cabin, telescope in hand, and trained it on the distant speck.

Aaron rose slowly, his heart pounding as he shaded his eyes.

At first, it was just a shadow against the blue, but it grew swiftly, unnaturally swift, as if driven by some unholy wind.

The crew gathered at the rails, murmurs turning to shouts as the ship took shape, a sleek vessel with black sails billowing, cutting through the water like a knife.

"Colors?" the captain barked.

The lookout paused, then his voice cracked with terror. "Gold... it's a golden eye on black! It's The Storm! Gold Eye Tye!"

Panic erupted like cannon fire. Men scrambled for weapons, cutlasses, pistols, whatever scraps of armament the merchant ship carried.

Aaron's blood ran cold, his mind racing as he grabbed a belaying pin for defense.

The legends were true; Tye had found them, sensed the gold somehow across the vast sea.

The Endeavor heeled as the captain ordered evasive maneuvers, but it was futile.

The Storm closed the distance with terrifying speed, her hull rising like a beast from the depths.

The first cannon boom thundered across the water, and Aaron ducked instinctively as a ball smashed into the sea nearby, sending up a geyser of spray.

Return fire from the Endeavor was sporadic and weak, their guns outmatched in number and skill.

Wood splintered, rigging tore, and screams filled the air as men were hurled overboard or crushed by falling spars.

Aaron fought his way to the rail, firing a borrowed pistol at the approaching pirates, but his hands shook.

Grappling hooks flew, biting into the wood, and then they were upon them, boarders swinging over with roars of triumph, cutlasses gleaming.

The clash was brutal and chaotic. Aaron swung his pin wildly, connecting with a pirate's arm and drawing blood, but the invaders were seasoned killers, moving with coordinated ferocity.

Swords clashed against improvised weapons, pistols cracked, and bodies fell in heaps.

Blood slicked the deck, mixing with seawater that poured through shattered hull planks.

Aaron caught glimpses of the enemy captain directing from The Storm's deck, a tall figure in a dark coat, one eye catching the sun in an unnatural gleam, but there was no time to stare.

A pirate lunged at him, blade flashing, and Aaron parried desperately before Elias came to his aid, only to take a shot to the chest and crumple.

It was over quicker than Aaron could have imagined.

The merchant crew, outnumbered and outfought, surrendered in ragged groups, hands raised as pirates rounded them up.

Aaron dropped his weapon when a blade pressed to his throat, the cold steel a promise of death.

He and a handful of others, five in total, were bound and herded across a plank to The Storm, while the rest were dispatched with merciless efficiency or left to drown as the Endeavor burned and sank behind them.

The pirate ship was a world unto itself, darker and more alive than the merchant vessel.

The deck reeked of tar, gunpowder, and sweat, the crew a rough assemblage of scarred, tattooed men cheering their victory as they hauled crates of gold from the hold below.

Aaron was shoved down a hatch into the brig, a dank space with iron bars and the stench of mold and despair.

His companions huddled together, faces pale, but Aaron sat apart, his mind reeling from the sudden turn of fate.

One by one, the prisoners were dragged out for "questioning," as the pirates jeered.

Screams echoed faintly from above, followed by splashes, bodies consigned to the deep.

Aaron's stomach twisted; he knew his turn would come.