KNIGHTS OF THE RUBY ORDER.

LOCK.

KATE HILL.

For Mum.

Prologue.

The Archipelago of SothSea shone like green jewels upon rippled blue satin. The most beautiful islands in the world existed in that tropical sea, but their name alone raised fear and apprehension in the strongest men and women. The Archipelago was home to the Pirates of SothSea, the largest group of thieves and murderers in the tropics. Their reputation extended to lands far north, into waters of ice and kingdoms scattered across the tundra. If the Pirates of SothSea organized, they would rival the conquering kingdom of Zaltana, but the seafaring warriors were too independent and greedy to unite under one ruler, though some were looked to as unspoken leaders during times of crisis. A few were grudgingly respected for their prowess and cunning, but only one was feared by even the worst of the lot.

Lock the White, tall, long-limbed, with a body formed of big bones and hard muscle, stood on the water's edge of a secluded cove behind his home on SeaSpider Island, south most in the Archipelago. Cutoff trousers covered his legs just past the knee. As waves broke on sh.o.r.e, they buried his bare feet and splashed his calves, pasting spa.r.s.e, dark hair to the curve of muscle and bone. Lock's face remained stoic as he stared at the sun-speckled water, his eyes, the same clear, pale blue as the sea, a stark contrast with his dark brown skin. His face was a sculpture of sharp angles and planes, his cheekbones like those of some great cat, his forehead broad. Tendrils of long, kinky hair grabbed the muscles of his perspiring chest. He wore a beard, wiry in spite of constant tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. Though Lock had only recently past his thirty-first year, white streaks had seeped into his bark-colored hair and beard a decade earlier and had continued to spread each year since, inspiring his name among the Pirates of SothSea.

The scourge landed hard across Lock's broad back. The blow upon already torn and bleeding flesh should have staggered him, but his posture remained straight, only his pale eyes blinking slowly with each strike revealed that his mind was not floating in some merciful trance.

The whip fell again. Blood sprayed into the sea, dripped down his back, and stained the waist of his trousers, belted around his narrow waist with a rope of braided leather.

"That's enough," said Karl, the dark-skinned, green-eyed first mate of Lock's ship. The man dropped his arm to his side, the bloodied whip dragging across the packed, wet sand.

Lock turned, his blue eyes glistening like broken gla.s.s. "You'll stop when I say. Raise that scourge, or it will be the last thing you ever feel on your own body!"

Karl knew better than to hesitate. Lock's threat wasn't empty, and if his order was disobeyed, he wouldn't hesitate to have his first mate whipped to death.

Turning back to the sea, Lock counted ten more blows before he jerked the whip from Karl's callused hand. He tossed the leather device back at the seaman and motioned with his head for Karl to disappear.

The darker man melted into the jungle, his thickly muscled body soon indiscernible through the trees and vines as he took the quickest route to the village.

Lock stared into the water for a moment, willing his heartbeat to slow. He knew what came next, understood the pain, as he'd felt it so many times before. He strode directly into the sea, gasping as his lacerated back immersed in salt water. He felt momentarily dizzy from the pain, but recouped quickly and waded in deeper. The water would cleanse his wounds and help prevent infection.

He knew his sailors and servants thought his self-punishment was madness, but to Lock it was a way of life. Pain tolerance was required to survive in a vicious world. He'd begun with small tests, burning with hot wax and candle flames, scarring with needles. During his travels to the Kennas, he learned a system of empty-handed fighting arts and practiced barefoot on the rocky sh.o.r.e at the opposite side of the island until his soles were tough enough to walk across beds of hot coals. For the past five years he'd trained himself to tolerate flogging, pushing himself to endure past the moment when he needed to scream, but kept his silence. He'd had a nightmare years before -- a nightmare so real that he'd awakened gasping, drenched in sweat, his entire body trembling. He'd been amidst a crowd of foreigners, shackled to a platform in a village square while bounty hunters' whips slashed him nearly senseless. Others were punished with him, but women paid their fines and bought them as slaves, taking away their freedom, but also their pain. No one made a motion to pay for Lock, and the bounty hunters waited to hear him shriek...

They'll never have the pleasure, Lock thought, stepping out of the ocean. He climbed over sand dunes and rocks to his home overlooking the dock where his ship, The Shana Wh.o.r.e, spitefully named after his mother, awaited its next trip to pillage.

Speaking of his mother, he and his servants had a delivery to make to her brothel. His last excursion had been a pleasant success without even sailing out of the Archipelago. He'd taken an Empress's ship laden with silks, spices, and precious metal that could be melted down, made into weapons, or sold. After he'd taken what he wanted, he'd ordered the ship's sails ripped and the crew left drifting. He'd run the Captain through with his own sword, just to warn others who dared venture into the Pirates of SothSea's domain. He might have spared the man had he not flung useless threats. He'd acted like a single magistrate attempting to arrest a thousand thieves in their own den. Royalty and those who served them were so smug, so self-a.s.sured, though most of them thieved as much as any pirate. How often had he been paid handsomely by queens, mistresses, kings, and emperors to steal and plunder one another's kingdoms? They smiled and made treaties to each other's faces while secretly raiding the land of sworn allies.

Not that Lock didn't appreciate a good betrayal, but he couldn't be bothered with lies, not when he had the power to live as he chose, to take what he wanted, and defend himself with sword and hand. It was simpler to be loyal only to himself, and no one had ever given him reason to believe otherwise. He'd learned long ago, before he was old enough to take up a weapon in defense, that if he didn't take first, he'd be taken from-and more likely than not left for dead.

Two floors fashioned from clay, wood, and colored tiles made the bordello. The roof was shaped at a wide slant, like the caps worn by the village fisherman. Narrow wooden porches surrounded both floors. Women of all ages, shapes, and coloring lingered outside dressed in sheer pantaloons and multi-colored scarves barely covering their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Some wore nothing at all, just long hair draped over their shoulders, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s bouncing in the sunlight as they waved at patrons. Several young men wearing scanty loincloths strutted among the women, parading their wares to those who preferred masculine flesh. Lock knew from experience how many of the pirates paid for the use of boys as often as women. His childhood had been spent catering to their desires while his mother, then a simple working wh.o.r.e, had collected a fee from the madam each time Lock had been rented. Lock had left the bordello when he was twelve years old, after slitting the throat of a patron who had used him many times before. Afterward, he'd signed on a ship as a cabin boy and learned the ways of the sea and pirating.

As he approached the bordello, the mingling smells of perfumed oils, pipe smoke, and sweat struck him with the force of a whip, except flogging didn't sour his stomach as much as the odor of the wh.o.r.ehouse.

He strode past several women who called to him, wiggled their hips, and shook their bosoms, more as a joke than a solicitation. It wasn't that Lock didn't use wh.o.r.es when the mood took him, but he was not a man to be lured by anyone or anything, except the desires of his own dark heart. Everyone in the Archipelago knew about Lock, and most cleared the path when he pa.s.sed. His temper was as foul and spontaneous as a tropical storm, and no one wanted to be caught in the vicinity of either.

The front door of the bordello led to a main hall where more women waited, some sharing chairs with patrons, others sipping the wine and smoking the pipes arranged on a wooden table at the back of the room.

Lock's mother-who was also the madam-sat on a chair by the winding staircase leading to the bedchambers. Though a woman of late middle-age, she retained a youthful body, full, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and blue eyes lovely enough to sink a man to the bottom of the sea. Like Lock, she was tall and long-limbed with dark brown hair she regularly treated with herbal dyes to wash out the patches of gray. Her hair wasn't as sensually streaked as her son's, and several times she'd revealed her jealousy over his curly, two-toned locks.

She stood upon seeing him, her voluptuous body draped in a sheer black gown adorned with a silver girdle.

"My crew is carrying in the silks," Lock told her. "You can pay me as soon as you've inspected them."

"h.e.l.lo to you, too," she said in a husky voice, approaching him and stopping so close that their bodies almost touched. She tilted her face up to his, her eyes tracing the shape of his lips while her fingertip trailed down one of his sharp cheekbones.

"Do you want to inspect the goods or not?" he demanded.

"I thought I was."

Lock took a step back, his features arranged in his usual impa.s.sive expression. He wondered if his disgust was apparent in his eyes.

"You weren't gone very long this time," she continued. He didn't reply. She took a step closer and slid her arms around him, her palms slipping up his back, her fingers gripping solid muscle.

He drew a sharp breath, her touch sending a streak of pain down his lacerated back. She took his gasp for one of desire and smiled.

Lock grasped her shoulders and shoved her back into the chair, nearly sending both her and the delicate piece of furniture crashing to the floor. "When you're ready, I'll be outside with the cargo. Don't take too long. I don't want to spend the rest of the night in the village, and there are plenty of other people on these islands willing to pay for what I have."

"You always did have a way of bringing the best price."

"I wonder where I got that from?" Lock snarled over his shoulder as he left the stinking bordello, drawing deep breaths of the hot, but fresh, air outside.

In the jungle behind Lock's home flowed a freshwater cascade. That night, Lock stood naked beneath the fall, his eyes closed. Cool water crashed over his face and body, numbing the discomfort on his back and cleansing away the reek of the bordello. Swimming in the cascade was one of the only real pleasures Lock felt in his life. He made a point to limit his happiness. Contentment bred complacency, and complacency caused death. It made a man lose his drive, desert his skills, and sink into the illusion that life was good.

He stepped out of the water, tugged on cut-off trousers, and walked the pathway home.

His house, like the bordello, contained two floors made of wood and clay. It didn't reek of perfume, pipes, and wine, however, but smelled of the surrounding jungle since he'd ordered his servants to keep all the windows open, except during a storm. He liked the wind. He liked the feeling of freedom that accompanied it, which was why he liked sailing so much. In truth, he felt better at sea than he ever did on land. He'd overheard old sailors talking in the village tavern, heard his own crew when they thought they were alone on deck or below. So many sailors said they hadn't chosen the sea, but the sea had chosen them. It was part of their soul-if pirates had souls. Lock often wondered. What was a soul, anyway? No one could see it or touch it, yet most people believed it existed. Even the bloodiest thieves and cutthroats he'd ever known mentioned their souls when death neared. How many men had he heard call upon G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses in times of crisis?

Lock climbed the steps to his chamber, tugged off his trousers, and flopped on his bed, not even bothering to pull down the sheets.

Tapping sounded outside his room. Lock's eyes fixed on the slender, pale-skinned maid standing, naked, in his doorway. Lock employed several maids who visited his bed on rotation. The idea of keeping a single mistress had never occurred to him. Fondness for a woman would lead to weakness and weakness led to self-destruction. Relieving s.e.xual tension was enough for him, and he generally preferred the comfort of his own home to the stench of the bordello. At least with his own private stock, he could avoid the diseases running rampant through the wh.o.r.ehouse. He also preferred the wh.o.r.e herself to reap her full reward, rather than handing most of her hard-earned coins over to the madam. Shanna had more than her share of profits from peddling flesh. Lock knew that all too well.

The maid approached, her gaze sweeping Lock's body and focusing on his thick c.o.c.k and hair-dusted b.a.l.l.s beneath. She knelt at the foot of the bed and crawled between his spread legs, her slender fingers ma.s.saging his thighs.

"Are you hungry, master?" she asked.

"I could use a bite." Lock's gaze fixed on her as she bent and ran her tongue along his shaft. One of her hands squeezed his sac while the other clasped the base of his c.o.c.k. Her tongue and lips teased and stroked while he grew bigger and harder, his eyes half-closing as he watched her work.

Lock treated his wh.o.r.es well. He never hit them and tried not to be overly rough when he flung them on their backs and rutted out his pleasure. Many men enjoyed inflicting pain on their s.l.u.ts, but Lock found no stimulation in s.e.xual abuse. Punishment should be reserved for disobedient crewmen and prisoners, not simple wh.o.r.es doing a night's work.

Lock sighed, his hands gripping the thick wooden headboard as the maid sucked him so deep into her mouth that his c.o.c.k brushed the back of her throat. She clasped the root of his staff as she sucked and licked until Lock's heart pounded and his hips nearly bucked with impending o.r.g.a.s.m.

With a l.u.s.ty growl, he grasped the maid's shoulders and flung her onto her back. She stared at him, her lips parted, her eyes intent on his. Her head lifted the slightest bit, as if she meant to kiss him, but Lock had no interest in kissing her. He dipped his fingers into the pottery bowl on the table by his bed and removed several reddish leaves. The maid opened her mouth and swallowed the leaves Lock placed on her tongue. All his wh.o.r.es knew he required them to take the herbs to prevent conception. No child of his would grow up as he had, not when he could prevent it. He reached between their bodies, fondling her c.l.i.t and p.u.s.s.y, making sure she was wet enough to comfortably accept him. His c.o.c.k slipped into her p.u.s.s.y and he braced his hands on both sides of her head as he thrust, fast and hard. The maid's eyes closed and she clung to him, her arms locked around his neck, her legs squeezing his waist as she ground her hips against his.

Lock plunged into her, making his thrusts longer and slower, then short and fast. His lips slid into a grin as he pushed the panting woman to o.r.g.a.s.m. Her hot, wet body pulsed around his engorged c.o.c.k, and he slammed into her with several rapid thrusts that hurled him into ecstasy.

He rolled off her and sprawled flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling as he caught his breath.

After a moment, the woman stood. She gazed at him over her shoulder as she left the room, "Sleep well, master."

Lock nodded slightly. "Close the door."

Lying alone in the moonlit room, Lock considered his earlier thoughts about men and their deities. He still refused to believe in any power greater than himself. The only ent.i.ty who can change my fate is myself, he thought, and my fate is to sail again the day after next.

Chapter One.

One Month Later.

Lightning ripped a jagged streak through the sky, disappearing into the rolling black ocean. Thunder was disguised only by the crash of waves as they washed over the deck of the Shana Wh.o.r.e.

Cursing, Lock clung to the mast as another wave completely covered the fast sinking ship. It had taken him years to afford this ship. Now within moments it would be a haven for fish at the bottom of a cold, northern sea.

"She's going down! Get me off!" Karl bellowed from where he'd tied himself to the mast. Unable to free himself, the man clawed at the ropes in panic, his eyes wild as he squinted at Lock through the storm. "Get me off!"

More angry than panicked, Lock's stomach tightened with disgust at his first mate's terror. Whether they were lashed to the boat or out at sea, they were all going to die. Still, his boots skidded on the water-slicked deck as he climbed the short distance toward Karl. Slipping the dagger from the sheath at his waist, Lock slashed the rope, freeing Karl in time for the next wave to wash the man overboard.

Lock smiled, squinting against the rain and seawater blurring his eyes. Born in violence to die in violence. At least his life had been consistent.

Lock awoke with stinging eyes, every muscle in his body aching. He first noticed the smell. Heat as powerful as in the tropics but without the warm, cleansing breeze made breathing uncomfortable. The stagnant air reeked of moldy water, rotten sc.r.a.ps, and body odor. There were no scents of a ship, nor was there a gentle rocking motion.

Then he remembered. The Shana Wh.o.r.e had sunk, and Lock had swum for what seemed like hours in the chilly, stormy sea, amazed each time he managed to gasp salty air and swim another stroke, defying nature herself.

He must have washed up on sh.o.r.e, but where?

He detected the sound of others breathing in the dark room, heard their snores and murmurs. He tried sitting up, but found himself bound to a flat wooden platform, bodies close on either side of him. It was then, he realized, his difficulty breathing wasn't necessarily from the heat but from the chain across his chest. He attempted to shift position to relieve some of the heaviness, but he hadn't enough s.p.a.ce to move.

Throwing himself upward in his fury, he roused the men beside him who shouted and tried scooting away.

"What the h.e.l.l is it?" one of them bellowed.

"Don't tell me they started putting animals in with us now?" cried another.

"Hey, guards!" several screamed in unison.

By the time the guards stepped inside, carrying torches, Lock had yanked away several of the chains and sat up. He wound his hands around the chain on his feet and pulled until his palms bled.

The guards, dressed in leather and mail, stared at him for a dumfounded moment before two of them flew at him, their swords drawn.

Lock reached up a shackled hand, grabbed one guard by the throat, and pinned him to the wall beside him. The guard's feet trampled on a prisoner's chest in an attempt to free himself from the choke-hold.

The second guard struck Lock in the back of the head with a sword. Lock dropped the man he was strangling and jerked his elbow backwards, staggering the guard who'd struck him.

Through a gush of blood from his split lips, the guard shouted for reinforcements. Three more guards, two half-dressed from their bedrolls, charged inside, all armed with small wooden clubs. Lock jerked two of the clubs from the guards and swung them with expertise learned from years of studying weapons. Finally, several guards dragged in heavier chains and dropped them over Lock, binding him from shoulder to ankle.

He lay panting and sweat-soaked, rage tearing at his insides.

The guards, their breathing ragged, picked up their weapons and dragged themselves out of the hut, taking the torches with them. Lock had seen enough in the light to realize he was in a long, windowless room containing platforms of prisoners stacked so close together their arms and legs touched.

"Where are we?" Lock demanded.

When no answer came, his fury renewed. He was accustomed to receiving answers to his questions. Then he remembered that he had no idea how far from his original destination he was. Perhaps these people didn't understand him.

"Are you all deaf, or don't you speak my language?"

"I speak it," came a voice from across the room. "And you ain't getting out of here. All you did was make life harder for yourself...until you die, that is."

"Who are those men? Slave traders?" The thought of being sold into slavery made him sick. He's spent too many years being used for his body and would sooner die than live like a slave again.

"Bounty hunters. Might as well be slavers, though."

Bounty hunters. They sought out criminals wanted in any kingdom in the world and collected the rewards on their heads. Lock wondered which kingdom he'd be taken to. He was wanted in countless lands. Pirates were most coveted by bounty hunters. Lock had killed his share of the grubby b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the past.

"We'll be stopping in Blue Hollow in the morning," the other prisoner continued. "You know what happens there?"

"Does it matter?"

"You know the agreement the bounty hunters have with the kingdoms in these parts? They can sell us to the highest bidder, if their price exceeds the one on our heads. However the rules are, we receive our stated punishment until someone buys us."

"I'd rather get my punishment."

"Do you know what it is? Maybe slavery would be better."

"I'm sure mine is death, and that is better than slavery."

"But how are you going to die? Is it something easy, like beheading or hanging? Or will it be burning alive, the lash, or disembowelment?"

"Slavery can include all of the above."

"You're either brave or stupid. All I know is, I hope I get bought. My sentence is fifty lashes, unless someone buys me."

Fifty lashes! Lock prayed his sentence would be so light. Fifty lashes he could endure.