Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Four: How Not to Seduce a Bounty Hunter

A/N: Hey there! So the media is Aidan Turner, who is my inspiration for our new character. Let me know your thoughts...

Plan B, Plan B, I think.

Plan A: kick the shit out of the bastard. Current status: failing.

Internally, I sigh. Plan A isn't plausible. The man holding Mercer is armed, and I'm in a dress designed to weigh me down. Run away? Not without leaving that idiot, and not in this dress. That leaves me with one option, and it's my weakest, and I loathe the idea.

It can't be helped. Do it for Mercer. I open my mouth and suck in a huge breath of air.

'HELP!' I scream, managing to swoon convincingly towards the decking. 'Help us, please, anybody! We're being attacked!'

To my delight, the man looks irritated and shocked. I hadn't counted on both. 'Shut up!' he hisses. 'You're not getting away.'

I scream again, cowering towards the boat, looking very much as though I'm frozen in fear. I'm wondering if I'd be able to captain the boat without falling into the river of certain death. I pretend to cower and cover my head with my hands and elbows, blocking my searching gaze. The Ferryman is spread eagle across the boat, giving me no choice but to step amongst remains if I wish to get in.

'What in hell's name—' I hear the man curse; a struggle is occurring behind me. Considering throwing the Ferryman's remains into the water, I debate whether he'll simply crumble into a gooey mess if I attempt to pick his body up. But as I'm frowning at his broken body, I realise that he has a weapon locked with rigor mortis into his bony hand.

Behind me, Mercer lets out a hurting cry, and my head and body spin to look.

He's on the floor, clutching his arm, and the man stands above him, a knife in hand. I'm impressed to see that Mercer has wounded his attacker; blood drips from a single shallow scratch above the man's eye, but it's causing him discomfort as he shuts one eye. My hands reach around the back of my dress, to where those stupid button trails lie.

They say on a woman's wedding night her dress is ripped off.

I twist my hands onto the sleeves, and pull, as hard as I can. A wonderful popping as I tear away the buttons ensues. While Mercer and the man are distracted, I demolish my beautiful dress by shredding the sleeves and shoulders, and stepping out of it.

They told me it would be a good thing, I think. I can move better: must be a positive.

I stretch nimbly, having had a literal weight lifted from my body. I crouch to the Ferryman, and snap open his fingers to reveal the handle of the blade, still in its sheath. The basket-shaped hilt is strangely familiar, and I roll my eyes as I pull it out.

A cutlass, I think, like a goddamn pirate.

As I stand, I extend the cutlass excitedly, feeling its lightness beneath my touch. When I turn to face the attacker and Mercer again, they've stopped fighting. Instead, they're both staring at me, their mouths flopping open in surprise. Mercer's still on the floor, and the man above him is grabbing him by his shirt, as if he's about to butt the boy.

Neither move an inch. They're frozen in shock as I stand in my underwear, the only cutlass-wielding bride they've ever seen. From my filthy ivory stockings, to my lacy white corset pulled in at the waist with force, to my barely concealed chest, they don't know what to do.

And I swing the blade onto my shoulder. I've always wanted to do that, I think.

'Put him down,' I command the stranger. 'I'm your enemy now.'