Heart's Safe Passage

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “But they taught you Scripture.”

  “And you don’t beat or starve me.”

  Rafe’s muscles relaxed, and he tweaked the end of Mel’s nose. “Nay, I simply expose you to danger every day.”

  “’Tis still better than being alone on land.”

  “You would feel differently if you suffered from the seasickness.”

  “Like you do?” Mel’s eyes twinkled.

  Rafe responded with a narrow-eyed glare. “Insolence will get you naught but a caning.”

  Laughing, Mel scooped Fiona off the hammock and darted past Rafe, out the makeshift door, and into the darkness of the lower deck. “Bring the ginger water to me when you’ve made it,” Rafe called softly to the retreating figure, “and then you can recite your lessons to me, if you cannot sleep.”

  Mel would stay with Rafe and recite. Neither of them ever slept during a storm. Mel didn’t remember why, having been but three years old when a storm ripped through their lives, but Rafe did. So he ensured they knew how to spend the wakeful hours in the dark and wet, in the heaving seas and lashing winds. Mel recited lessons and Rafe concentrated on listening, correcting, teaching until the sun returned.

  The sun should return with the dawn. Already rain fell only in spurts, though the waves loomed before the prow and white-rimmed mountains climbed and slid down the other side.

  Rafe’s stomach rolled with them. He’d never gotten used to heavy seas, never lost the nausea that kept him surviving on ginger water and ship’s biscuit for days on end. Unlike he had done for the lady below, he never dosed himself with the merest hint of poppy juice. He needed his head completely clear. A drugged privateer captain meant death for himself and his crew at the hands of the enemy.

  The enemies.

  He sighed as he climbed to the main deck and strode aft to the quarterdeck ladder, his boat cloak flapping around his legs in the gale, his hair catching on his wet cheeks and eyelashes. He disliked the notion of Britain fighting more than one country at a time. War with America was a mistake. They were only a generation removed from being Englishmen, Scots, Welshmen, and half a dozen other nationalities. Yet if the Americans hadn’t declared war on England the previous year, he might never have found out how to run James Brock—merchant, politician, murderer—to earth with a scheme so unscrupulous, so craven, he couldn’t do enough to make up for his actions of the next two months, if he acknowledged a conscience.

  He preferred to keep that suppressed. A conscience had brought him nothing but grief.

  And his latest actions had brought him another enemy. No doubt James Brock had learned something by now, might even be considering an action against the captain of the Davina.

  And in a moment of weakness, he’d allowed Mel to come aboard.

  Loneliness, like a conscience, was no good for a man’s safety.

  Rafe grasped the taffrail hard enough to nearly rip it from its bolts. “You will pay for that too.” He glared at the distant lights gleaming from the eastern shore of Virginia, a sign they were out of the Chesapeake. His breathing eased. In a few hours, the chances of them running into trouble with an American vessel would come close to disappearing. Mrs. Phoebe Carter Lee and her powerful friends on shore would be of no danger. He just needed to get through the night, through the storm, beyond where the woman would think he would dare set her—onto land anywhere this side of Bermuda.

  He strode to the wheel, where Jordy held the Davina on a steady course east. “I can take the wheel for you if you want to seek your bunk.”

  “I’d rather be here till we’re far from land.” Jordy spat to leeward. “I do not trust those Americans not to chase us down and pick a fight at dawn.”

  “Let them try.” Rafe rested a hand on the binnacle. “We’re not fighting the Yankees on this voyage.”

  Jordy snorted. “Aye, and how do you plan to let them know that? Or our own lads, for that matter. We’ve not taken a prize in three months, and they’re growing restless.”

  “Greedy, are they not?” Rafe tried to laugh.

  His mirth fell flat. Restless men on a privateer spelled potential danger. They didn’t know what their captain intended, and they wanted to fight, accumulate more wealth, perhaps buy vessels of their own. No one got wealthy sailing back and forth across the Atlantic, risking life and limb, enduring cold, damp, and bad food for no purpose. He would have to compensate them somehow, or be worrying about mutiny.

  “No Americans,” Rafe said. “’Tis like fighting our cousins.”

  “Aye, but—” Jordy stopped.

  Feet pattered up the quarter ladder, and Mel appeared from the gloom, Fiona clicking behind. “I have the ginger water, Captain Rafe.”

  Rafe flinched at the sobriquet his crew had adopted from Mel. He didn’t mind it from the crew; he disliked it from the child. He wasn’t Mel’s captain, for all he demanded obedience while on board.

  “Are you feeling poorly, sir?” Jordy asked.

  “’Tis not for me.” Rafe took the tankard from Mel and did consider drinking it himself for a moment. “Mrs. Lee has not taken to the sea so well as her sister-in-law.”

  “Hasn’t she now. I had no notion of it aboard the cutter.” Jordy leaned over the wheel, staring at the binnacle compass. “We’re getting pulled to the north. Can we get a man or two up top to set some sail? The wind is dropping.”

  Rafe shook his head. “As much as I’d like to be away from the coast in a trice, I’d prefer no more sail until light. We’ll not be that far off course that ’tis worth the risk. And with an ailing passenger . . .”

  “Why would she not be sick aboard the cutter?” Mel asked. “It bounces around like a cork in boiling water.”

  “And when have you been boiling corks in water?” Rafe tugged Mel’s shorn hair and frowned. “I told you to wear a cap on deck.”

  “I cannot find one.”

  “Ha. You’re going to regret doing this.”

  “Aye,” Jordy agreed, “I said it deserves a thrashing.”

  “Ha.” Mel tossed back the ragged locks. “Neither of you ever did such a thing to me.”

  “Aye, and it shows. As for Mrs. Lee not being sick aboard the cutter, the weather was not so bad until right before she came aboard. And speaking of the lady, I should see how she fares.”

  “Do you think you should go down there alone?” Jordy lifted one hand from the wheel and rubbed his belly.

  “Ah, yes, she got you too?” Rafe pictured those small, high-arched feet curving into delicate ankles.

  Abraded ankles.

  “Mel, fetch the comfrey salve. Jordy here tied Mrs. Lee a wee bit too tightly and she has some scrapes that need tending.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mel executed a perfect acrobatic flip despite the canting brig and landed on the main deck.

  Jordy grimaced. “That bairn is going to break a limb one of these days.”

  “Or give me an apoplexy before I’m five and thirty.” Holding the tankard of ginger water, Rafe paced across the quarterdeck, his body shifting to the roll of the brig, until he reached the skylight. It was closed to keep out sea and rain, and the glass was colored green for privacy, but light glowed through from his cabin, a reminder of Phoebe Lee’s eyes glittering with suppressed emotion despite her calm exterior.

  He understood her illness, the roiling of rage and frustration suppressed to make the body sick. Absently, he sipped at the ginger water and listened, one hand on the taffrail for balance. No sound rose from the chamber below, nothing loud enough to penetrate deck planks and creaking timbers, or the roar of the sea and whistle of wind through rigging.

  Quiet didn’t mean all was well. She might sleep, but he hadn’t dosed her earlier draught with enough opiate to guarantee sleep. She might very well be awake, plotting, scheming, trying to work out a way to escape.

  There is none, my dear lass.

  As if in reassurance to him, the last glimpse of light from shore winked out behind a wave. When the Davina lifted to the crest of the
next swell, the horizon remained a line of black between sooty sky and phosphorescent sea. Gone. The threat of Phoebe Lee’s friends vanished beyond the waves.

  But Rafe remained tense, ears straining for sound, nostrils flaring for a scent wrong amidst the effluvium aboard a vessel, eyes straining for the darker bulk of a ship or schooner swooping out of the night to challenge his presence so close to the coast of Virginia, or engage him in a fight.

  At that moment, a fight sounded grand, gun smoke and powder flashes to wipe out the sight of her green eyes and tumbled golden hair, her silken skin and warm cream voice. For a moment, while she sobbed from the discomfort and humiliation of seasickness, he considered setting her ashore. But he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t take the chance of her reaching Cherrett too soon for Rafe.

  Nothing must stop Rafe. No one must warn James Brock that his years of pillaging in the name of the privateers in which he had invested, like George Chapman, neared their end.

  Scampering footfalls sounded on the deck. Rafe turned back to find Mel and Fi leaping up the quarter ladder.

  “Can you carry all this, old man? Shouldn’t I go down to protect you?”

  “I do not need the protection of a wee bairn. Now, either get yourself to your cabin or be prepared to recite your lessons.”

  “But I want to see the ladies. Watt says the one is ever so bonnie, even if she is a virago.”

  Rafe took the jar of salve from Mel. “’Tis no way to speak of a lady.”

  “If she’s a virago, she’s not a lady.”

  “Mel.”

  “All right then. Is she pretty?”

  “If you like them as substantial as spindrift.” Rafe headed for the companionway. “If you wish to do your lessons by the binnacle light, you may. The storm is abating.”

  Mel said nothing.

  Let the child sulk over being thwarted. Rafe needed the reassurance that the ladies below were settled for the night, not to concern himself with the wants of an adolescent.

  Balancing the salve and tankard of ginger water in one hand, he turned the key to the cabin with the other. Beyond the panels, someone exclaimed and the other one responded, the words indistinct above the creak of timbers.

  “Is it a’right if I come in?” he asked before lifting the latch.

  “Of course, Captain.” Mrs. Lee’s sweet voice responded from close to the door.

  Too close to the door. Before he stepped over the coaming, Rafe knew he should have taken Jordy’s advice. But two unarmed females were harmless against nothing more than his size and strength, not to mention the dirk he kept in his belt.

  Except they weren’t unarmed.

  He noted the missing fiddle board from the desk, slammed the jar and tankard onto the mahogany surface, and spun. His hand dropped to his knife—too late. A blade slipped through his hair and beneath the collar of his cloak to lie with its point against his jugular vein.

  4

  The brig rolled beneath Phoebe’s feet, and she grasped the captain’s shoulder for balance. She kept the flat of the blade against his neck so she didn’t slice him open by accident. She needed him alive and cooperative until she got her way, or lost her nerve.

  Or just got sick, though she felt considerably better with the door open.

  “Tell your men to turn this brig around and take us back to Virginia.” Phoebe kept her voice low, calm despite her pounding heart.

  “Or you will be slitting my jugular?” Docherty snorted. “And where will that be getting you, lass? Tossed overboard, I’m thinking.”

  Phoebe nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “A risk I’ve calculated. But you’ll still be dead.”

  “I don’t want to be dead,” Belinda whimpered from where she’d retreated to the furthest end of the window seat. “I want to stay alive.”

  “No one will harm you, Bel.” Phoebe tightened her grip on Docherty’s shoulder. “Will you?”

  “Not a lady with a bairn coming.” His hand still rested on the hilt of his dirk. “I’d prefer not to harm any lady.”

  “You’ve already done that by bringing us aboard an enemy ship.”

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “Then drop the knife.” Phoebe hardened her voice.

  “If you insist.” He drew the dirk from its sheath.

  Phoebe tensed. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder, and with one flick backward, he could gut her like a trout.

  He tossed the knife onto the desk, his head turning to follow the trajectory. The blade slid into the slot cut to hold the fiddle board. “Foolish of me not to remove the key. Clever of you to find its hiding place. But you’re not clever enough if you think that one wee lass can get a whole crew of fighting men to do her bidding.”

  Phoebe tossed her head and laughed, a little too high, a little forced. “Only if they don’t care for their captain.”

  “At present, they are not so happy with me.” He sighed, the motion pushing the folds of his damp boat cloak into Phoebe’s face, smothering her with aromas of wet wool and tar, salt and man, a dizzying bouquet of scents.

  She breathed through her mouth so she couldn’t inhale the aromas, and closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the sway of the lantern light. “Maybe they’re unhappy with you because you abducted two ladies.”

  “Nay, ’tis because I have not let them take a prize for the past three months and will not let them take one for another two.”

  “Until we rescue George?” Belinda asked.

  “Aye, ’tis so.”

  “See, Phoebe, I told you he is a good man.”

  “Me being aboard this brig says he is not a good man.” Phoebe slid her left hand toward his neck, grabbed a handful of his hair, thick and soft and so warm beneath that she realized she’d been chilled until that moment. “Give the orders, and all will be well.”

  “You said you were not a violent person. Which leads me to something to ponder. Either you are too kind to harm me and thus this is naught more than a ruse, and your word is good regarding that, or you will slit my throat and take the consequences, and your word is good on that. Which is true, madam?”

  Bile choked Phoebe like the words she could not speak. Of course the former was true. If she spoke the truth, she wanted to rest her head against the broad, strong back in front of her and weep, pleading for him to take her ashore, let her go to Tabitha and Dominick, who would surely be able to welcome her back after a year, take her to freedom to practice midwifery and be a useful female.

  But pleading with men only got a body hurt.

  She swallowed the bile. “Are you willing to take the risk that the latter is the truth?”

  “Aye, I do believe I—” He broke off on a muttered oath as a tapping sound rattled in the companionway.

  “Get her, Fi,” a child’s voice cried.

  Belinda screamed. Phoebe jumped and dropped the dagger. With a swirl of fabric like mammoth wings, Docherty’s cloak sailed through the air and around Phoebe’s shoulders. And around, trapping her in a cocoon of warm, damp wool.

  “Fi, do not—”

  Docherty’s command came too late. Growling, a black-and-white dog no larger than a barn cat sank its teeth into the hem of Phoebe’s gown and through to her ankle.

  To her shame, she screamed too. The lantern light blurred, blackened before her eyes, then flared brighter than ever. She sagged in the enveloping cloak, in Docherty’s supporting arms. “Stop it.” She croaked the command. Tears of pain and mortification spilled down her cheeks.

  “She only listens to me and Captain Rafe.” A youth of perhaps eleven or twelve trotted into the cabin, crouched, and disengaged the dog from Phoebe’s ankle. “You’re a grand girl, Fiona McCloud.”

  “And you’re a disobedient imp.” Docherty’s tone was dry. “I told you to go to your cabin.”

  “Aye, sir, and I had to come down here to do so, and I could not help but listen in the companionway.” Grass-green eyes in a too-thin face glanced up. They twinkled. The full lips cur
ved into a three-cornered smile like an elf. “And ’tis a grand thing I did or you’d be eating your dinner through your gullet ’stead of your mouth.”

  Phoebe blinked down at the child. “You not only force innocent women aboard, you force children too?”

  “He did not force me.” The lad rose and planted his hands on his hips. “I came aboard of my own free will and stay of my own free will.”

  “If not mine,” Docherty muttered. “But if you do not vacate this cabin with that wee beastie, Mel, I’ll be putting you ashore first chance I’m granted.”

  “Virginia can’t be far off,” Phoebe suggested in dulcet tones.

  Docherty’s arms tightened their imprisoning hold. “’Tis not close enough for going back. And I would not leave the la—the lad on enemy soil.”

  “We’re not enemies to children.” Belinda made her way forward, gripping a chair then the desk for support. “You should be our cabin steward for the voyage. I’d like that.”

  “I would too.” The lad rose with the dog in his arms.

  Phoebe’s ankle throbbed at the mere sight of the little mouth of the beast, but she felt no warm trickle of blood, only the nauseating ache of the impact of teeth through her gown and onto her flesh. She rather welcomed Docherty’s supportive hold. Without it, she might be spinning with the cabin, the swaying lantern light, Belinda plump and smiling in her lavender-soaked gown, the child and dog shifting with the motion of the deck. Spinning. Spinning. Darkening—

  “Do not faint on me, Mrs. Lee,” Docherty said into her ear. “You’ll be disappointing me.”

  “With all reverence, God forbid I should do that.” Phoebe blinked hard, tried to move her arms.

  The cloak held them captive. Her lungs felt compressed with air too difficult to breathe. She gasped.

  “She’s gone all funny colored,” the elfin child cried.

  The next moment, the cloak fell away. One hand pushed her onto the window seat. Another pressed on the back of her head, lowering her face to her knees.

  “Breathe,” Docherty commanded. “Mel, get that cur out of here, and if I learn you taught her to bite, you’ll be spending the voyage below deck with Mrs. Lee.”