Heart's Safe Passage

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Five minutes. Ten. Jordy was likely cursing Rafe’s name and saying, “I told him so,” while sighing relief that for once, Rafe Docherty wasn’t going to get his own way.

  No, not for once. If he’d gotten his own way nine years earlier, he wouldn’t be riding at anchor much too close to the shore of Virginia on the eve of a full moon, awaiting three of his best men to return with the wife of one of the most important merchants in Virginia.

  All of them about to commit treason.

  Another lap of the deck. Two. A scan of sea and sky. Rain began to patter onto the planks, cold for October.

  Another circuit. Midnight was nearly upon them. His men had been gone for four days, leaving him riding vulnerable at the mouth of the Chesapeake, or hiding out as best he could in inlets during the day.

  Rafe paused at the quarter rail and opened his mouth to give the order to up anchor, then heard the creak of rigging, a muffled command, a thud felt more than heard.

  The cutter had returned.

  Rafe leaped to the main deck and ran to the entry port, one hand on his dirk, the other on his pistol in the event the arrivals weren’t his crew and passenger after all. They hadn’t hailed him.

  He gave the challenge. “Who goes there?”

  “’Tis I, Captain Rafe.” Though low-pitched, Jordy’s voice rolled up from the boat, unmistakable with its highland burr.

  “And well past time you got yourselves here.” Rafe dropped the rope ladder over the side. “We were about to leave you.”

  “Aye, weel, you’ll be wanting to leave soon enough, I’m thinking.” Jordy headed up the ladder, his face a pale blur in the phosphorescent glow from the sea, their only light. “We had a time of it with the two of them.”

  “Two?” Rafe stepped back as though struck. “What are you saying, mon?”

  “More’n you want to hear.” Jordy landed on the deck, then turned back to assist the next man.

  Derrick, a full head taller than Rafe and half again as wide, rose through the port with a burden on his back. With a sigh of relief, he set the bundle on the deck and descended the ladder again, muttering, “I’ll fetch t’other one.”

  “Other?” Rafe stared at the package at his feet. It looked like a bulging burlap sack, but it moved. It let out a squeal, which, though wordless, conveyed protest, objection, and outrage in a handful of notes.

  “What—did—you—do?” Rafe gave each word a distinct enunciation as he dropped into a crouch and reached for the bag. The scent of lavender rose from its folds, and he wrinkled his nose.

  “It couldn’t be helped.” Jordy ran his words together in his haste to talk. “Mrs. Chapman said she wouldn’t come without her, but she didn’t want to come with us, so we had to bring her along like this or she’d have raised the alarm.”

  “She who?” Rafe slit the sack open with his dirk.

  A fair face and gossamer hair emerged. The squeals increased, and she drummed her bound feet on the deck.

  “Mrs. Phoebe Lee,” Jordy said. “She’s Mrs. Chapman’s sister-in-law.”

  Rafe hadn’t sworn in front of a lady since he was fifteen and said something unacceptable in his mother’s hearing. Though he’d been twice her size already, she grabbed him by his hair queue and dragged him to her boudoir, where she proceeded to wash his mouth out with lavender soap. He had been vilely sick, to this day couldn’t bear the scent of lavender, and watched his tongue around females of all ages and social rank.

  Until that moment.

  The words slipped out unbidden, not repented. More crowded into his throat. He swallowed them down and clamped his teeth shut to stem a surge of burning in his throat.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Jordy repeated. “You said to ensure Mrs. Chapman didn’t change her mind about joining us, and she said she must have this one with her.”

  Another thud hit the deck. Rafe glanced toward the source, brows raised in query.

  “Along with her cabin stores,” Jordy added. “Should I be taking this one down to your cabin?”

  “Aye.” It was all Rafe dared say.

  He rose and turned his back on the boat crew and their cargo. If he counted to one hundred—nay, one thousand—he might not toss his first mate overboard. He might not assign the other four men to the worst duties on the brig—scrubbing decks and cleaning bilges.

  No, that would take counting to two thousand.

  With a measured gait, he paced to the prow, stood gripping the forestay for balance. At that moment, he could have ripped it away from its belaying pins and yards with one twist of his wrist.

  “Phoebe Lee indeed.” He ground the name between his teeth.

  Mrs. Phoebe Carter Lee, widow. Wealthy widow with a somewhat cloudy reputation because of how she’d spent the past four years of her life. When Rafe had slipped ashore in Williamsburg to find Belinda Chapman, more than one man in the waterfront taverns mentioned the Chapman lady’s sister-in-law, who had likely driven her husband to his death, then allied herself with some interesting people on the eastern shore. One interesting person in particular. Possibly the one person in America Rafe feared.

  No amount of counting drove away his desire to send Jordy McPherson sailing headfirst off the crosstrees for coming within ten yards of Phoebe Lee, let alone trussing her up like a Christmas goose and hauling her aboard his majesty’s privateer Davina. Counting did, however, afford him a measure of control. He managed to uncurl his hand from the stay and stride aft.

  “Winch that cutter aboard, then up anchor,” he directed the men on watch. “Set course for the Atlantic. This storm is going to get worse, and we need to be out of the Chesapeake before daybreak. And keep Mel and Fiona below until I say otherwise.”

  He didn’t wait to see if his orders would be obeyed. He took the companionway ladder in two steps and shoved open his cabin door.

  Light from two swinging lanterns blazed into his eyes. He closed the door behind him and leaned his shoulders against it. “Are you going to offer her to Cook to cook up for tomorrow’s dinner, Jordy, or cut her bonds?”

  Across the cabin, upon the comfortable bunk he intended to give up for the voyage for Mrs. Chapman’s convenience, the still bound and gagged Mrs. Lee met his glance with green eyes that blazed like sunlight through stained glass. Green eyes, hair like moonlight reflected in gold.

  Rafe’s stomach seized up, and he ripped his gaze away to settle on Mrs. Chapman. “Are you a’right, madam?”

  “Yes, but I want him to free Phoebe.” Mrs. Chapman huddled on the window seat beneath the stern lights. She wore a woolen cloak large enough to fit two of her, and her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, giving her the appearance of a girl of ten rather than a woman of—what? Twenty?

  Rafe smiled at her. “I apologize for your companion’s rough treatment. Jordy, free Mrs. Lee, then see to navigating us out of the bay.”

  “Do you think I should, Captain?” Jordy looked dubious. “She gave Watt a black eye when we took her. And she kicked me hard enough to make me lose my dinner the first time I set her free aboard the cutter so she could be more comfortable.”

  Rafe gave Mrs. Lee a sidelong glance. “Shame on Watt and you for getting in the way of such a little fist and foot.”

  She pounded the little fist, along with the companion to which it was attached, on the mattress.

  “And bit a hole in Watt’s hand,” Jordy added.

  “Let us trust she’s not rabid.”

  She squealed like she might be.

  “Aye, you may have at Mr. McPherson if you like.” Rafe stepped away from the door. “When I’m through with him.”

  “Don’t harm anyone.” Mrs. Chapman started to cry. “I told your men Phoebe wouldn’t want me to come and would try to stop me if I gave her a chance, but I couldn’t come without her. I just couldn’t.”

  “You should have warned me.” Rafe chose to remove the gag first. He could exact a promise of no violence if the woman could speak. “I need to untie the kerchief.”


  He needed to be close to her despite the abhorrent aroma of lavender. He moved her hair to untie the kerchief. The pale gold tresses lay across her shoulders and over the coverlet like a cascade of silk thread. He tried to brush it aside with the back of his hand. The strands clung and coiled and tangled in his fingers.

  Perhaps dropping Jordy headfirst from the crosstrees wasn’t punishment enough.

  Rafe extricated his fingers from the woman’s hair and slipped the sharp edge of his dirk between her pale skin and the kerchief.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Mrs. Chapman cried.

  Mrs. Lee lay still and quiet. He would have too with a dirk at his throat.

  A few deft strokes split the linen kerchief. It fell away, and she spit out the handkerchief gagging her mouth. “Water.” It was a mere croak.

  “Phoebe, your voice! What happened to your voice?” Mrs. Chapman leaped from the window seat. The Davina twisted down the side of a wave, and Mrs. Chapman flew forward.

  Rafe caught her shoulders before she struck the deck. “Have a care, madam. You do not have your sea legs yet.”

  “Nor will she get them.” Raspy, Mrs. Lee’s voice still held the bite of venom.

  Perhaps providing her with water for her probably parched throat was a poor idea. Who knew what she would sound like with her voice clear. Sound like or say.

  Rafe guided Mrs. Chapman backward to one of the chairs bolted to the deck around the table. It had arms and would hold her better. “Stay here until someone can help you.”

  “But Phoebe—”

  “I’ll see to your friend.”

  But not as he liked. He couldn’t risk putting her ashore.

  He patted Mrs. Chapman’s shoulder, then returned to the bound woman. “I am going to cut your bindings now, madam, but do not get violent.”

  “I am not a violent person,” she whispered.

  “Aye, and Watt walked into your fist?” Rafe lifted her hands and slit the ropes, then crouched to do the same with her ankles.

  The ropes fell away, revealing red marks and a few bleeding sores marring the creamy smoothness of her skin. He must tend to them. No, he would allow Mrs. Chapman to tend to them. Having an unattached and beautiful female aboard was bad enough without adding touching her to the bargain.

  He turned his back on Mrs. Lee and crossed to the table. A carafe of fresh water crouched between the fiddle boards slotted perpendicular to the tabletop to keep beverages and cups from sliding with the vessel’s roll. He poured water for Mrs. Chapman first, then carried a second cupful to Phoebe Lee.

  She lay huddled on the bed as though the ropes continued to bind her. If possible, her face—at least what he could see behind the spill of her hair—had grown paler, and her breath rasped between her lips.

  “Are you ill then, lass?” He crouched before her, the cup in both hands.

  “Phoebe, you can’t be seasick,” Mrs. Chapman protested. “I need you well, and I feel perfectly fine.”

  “I’m all right.” Mrs. Lee’s voice sounded a bit stronger. “Just . . . my hands and feet. I can’t feel them.”

  “Oh no. Let me.” Mrs. Chapman started to rise again.

  “Sit down before you fall.” Rafe waved her back.

  He braced the cup of water between his knees and the chest beneath the bunk and lifted one of Mrs. Lee’s hands. A small hand as smooth as porcelain and just as cold. He began to chafe it between his palms. His calluses, earned from nine years at sea, grated on her delicate skin. He winced with each scrape. She didn’t move. Her fingers warmed beneath his. He grew warm. He started on her other hand. Their eyes met through her curtain of hair. His mouth went dry, and he released her fingers.

  “That’ll do. You can manage your feet yourself, no?”

  She nodded and pushed herself upright. “May I have that water first?”

  “Aye, of course.”

  He needed the water. Gallons of it in him. Over him.

  He handed her the cup, then backed away, half expecting her to throw it at him.

  She drank several dainty sips. “Thank you. That’s much better.” Her voice proved as light as sea foam and sweet as ripe peaches.

  Rafe took another step backward, closer to the door. “Let me fetch some ointment for your wrists and . . . er . . . ankles.”

  “Do you have any comfrey?” she asked.

  Rafe started at the question, then remembered she was a midwife, a healer. Not so odd for her to ask what sort of salve he had, or for Mrs. Chapman to want it if she fell ill.

  Or were in need of a midwife.

  He nearly groaned aloud. The brig pitched and rolled through the next wave, and Rafe’s stomach joined it. Surely not. Surely she wasn’t—

  He glanced at Mrs. Chapman. He couldn’t tell beneath her cloak and with her well-fed physique. And no matter if she were expecting Chapman’s bairn now that the dice were cast and this friend of a well-connected man had come aboard. He couldn’t let either of them go and just might find the lady’s condition useful to his plans.

  A prickling started in his middle. Not his conscience. He didn’t have one of those anymore. Not that he knew of.

  But the smell of lavender reminded him of his mother, so he maintained courtesy. “Aye, madam, ’tis a comfrey salve.”

  “I’m surprised.” Phoebe Lee glanced toward the wall, where a rack held a sword, two pistols, and a selection of knives. “Or maybe I shouldn’t be.”

  “Nay, madam, you should not be surprised we can manage wounds here. We’re part of this war.” He grimaced. “These wars.”

  “Which is why you have no business having Mrs. Chapman aboard.”

  “He needs me to free George,” Mrs. Chapman said.

  “Ha.” Mrs. Lee looked him in the eye, her glance shards of green ice. “You shouldn’t lie to an innocent like Belinda, Captain. You don’t need her help to free her husband. In truth, I doubt you have any intention of freeing her husband.”

  “Of course I do.” Rafe fingered the hilt of his dirk.

  Mrs. Lee curled her full upper lip. “Because you’re such a kindhearted man? Because you’re on the side of the Americans after all? Do please tell me of your altruism, sir.”

  “Phoebe, be nice.” Mrs. Chapman had paled, and her knuckles gleamed white on the arms of the chair. “He may change his mind if we’re unkind to him.”

  “No, he won’t. He holds all the cards in this game.” Phoebe Lee skewered him again. “Don’t you?”

  “Aye, I suppose I hold a winning hand now that I hold Mrs. Chapman.”

  “What—what do you mean?” The young woman licked her lips. “I thought I—I was going to help somehow.”

  “You will, lass.” Rafe gave her his best smile—a mere tilting of the corners of his lips. “After he’s freed, you will ensure his good behavior until I get what I want from him.”

  “I thought as much.” Mrs. Lee bared her teeth. “You have no scruples, do you?”

  “Nay, madam, I do not. I lost them on the deck of a Barbary pirate’s boat nine years ago.” He backed to the door and grasped the handle. “Of course, once my mission is complete, Mr. and Mrs. Chapman may have a long and prosperous life together. Now, if you’ll be excusing me, I’ll fetch that comfrey salve.”

  “Wait.” Mrs. Lee shot out a hand.

  “Aye?” Rafe arched his brows in query.

  She took a hobbling step toward him, lost her balance, and grasped the edge of his desk a mere yard from him.

  Did the woman bathe in, wash her clothes in, and wear bags of lavender?

  Rafe’s nostrils pinched. “What?” His tone was sharp.

  “I insist you set me ashore and allow Belinda the same courtesy.”

  “You’re not in a position to do any insisting, madam.” He gave her a mocking bow. “Now that you’re here, you must be my guest. I can’t release you to tell your friend Lord Dominick Cherrett anything of me.”

  “Ah, so you know of him.”

  “I’ve stayed alive knowing suc
h things, and ’tis too possible Cherrett’s uncle the admiral in the British Navy will work out who I am and have my letters of marque removed. And no woman, especially not one your size, is going to make me a pirate.”

  “And no Englishman is going to make Belinda and me traitors to our country.”

  “I’m no Englishman, and I don’t want you here any more than you want to be here, but now that you are, you’re going all the way to England with us.”

  2

  “You can’t keep me aboard.” Phoebe’s breath rasped in her throat.

  “Aye, but I can.” Docherty’s nostrils pinched as though he smelled something foul. “I have no choice.”

  “Of course you have a choice.” Phoebe dug her fingers into the desk so she didn’t gouge them into his eyes. “You can set me ashore.”

  “Nay, lass, I cannot risk it.” He started to turn away.

  “If you don’t set me ashore, I—I’ll—” She snatched a penknife from its rack on the desk.

  Docherty caught her wrist. “Do not you dare, madam.”

  “Phoebe, no,” Belinda cried from her chair. “I need you.”

  “Not aboard this brig.”

  “Let go of the knife,” Docherty repeated in a burr rolling like distant thunder. “If you harm me, my crew will lock you in the hold until the end of this voyage. Do you like the notion of being a prisoner of war?”

  Their gazes met, locked, held.

  Phoebe’s knees sagged, and she leaned her hip against the carved mahogany edge of the desk. Going back to the bed and feigning illness seemed like her best escape. No, not feigning. She felt ill—knotted stomach, spinning head, a brain that must have lost its powers of reason.

  She couldn’t look away from the man’s eyes. They were gray. Not blue-gray. Not hazel. Just pure gray like the sea on a stormy day. They pierced into her eyes from beneath straight dark brows that contrasted with the red of his hair. Rich, dark red like garnets. Like blood. Though wind-tossed, it hung to his shoulders and swung forward against the plains of his cheeks in a sheen of satin without a hint of curl.

  Her hand itched to reach out and smooth the glossy locks. Out and up. She barely came to the middle of his chest. He was too tall to stand upright in the low-ceilinged cabin. And he appeared strong enough to lift her in one arm and Belinda in the other.