Heart's Safe Passage

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “Get out of here, Mrs. Lee.” Rafe spoke in an undertone. “This won’t be fit for a lady.”

  “I can’t leave alone, my dear. I’m afraid to go into these streets on my own.”

  When she’d been leading him on a merry chase down alley after avenue moments earlier?

  Rafe barely suppressed a snort of amusement. “They’re safer than this store.” He advanced another step toward Brock. “Call off your ruffians and pay what you owe me.”

  “Get rid of him,” Brock growled.

  “The lady—” one henchman began.

  “If she’s with this man,” Brock drawled, “she’s no lady.”

  Rafe closed the distance in two strides and slapped Brock’s face with the flat of his palm. “You will be meeting me for that if naught else, and there’s plenty else for you to—”

  “Rafe, beware!” Phoebe cried his name, the warning.

  Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. He spun, threw up his arm, blocked the cudgel swinging toward his head. His arm went numb. Pain seared through his ribs on the other side. He swung, landed a fist in the second man’s face. Another to the first, a kick at Brock’s knee.

  Brock went down with a cry. The others charged at Rafe, one flourishing his sword, the other a pistol.

  “Run!” Phoebe shoved between Rafe and the advancing guards. A roll of fabric flew through the air, sailed over the two men. Then she grabbed Rafe’s hand and began to drag him from the store.

  They darted through the piles of material, scattering them behind in fluttering clouds of color, a trap to coil around unwary feet. The alley received them with its noisome odors of rotting fruit. Another alley reeked of sewage, and a twisting lane carried them past shops and pedestrians, produce piled in pyramids, and ribbons flying from hooks like birds. They raced, twisting and turning around obstacles, never losing hold of one another’s hands, gasping for breath in the cool night air. A glance back showed pursuit—a brute gaining on them, pistol in hand.

  They reached the market square. Despite the hour, sailors, bawds, and fine ladies and gentlemen from the plantations swam around them, headed to and from vessels, to and from entertainments, heading home. They could no longer run. Neither could the guard on their heels. Nor could he fire his pistol.

  Breathless, Rafe drew Phoebe between two booths and onto the harbor side of the vendors. A cool breeze off the sea fanned over them. Rafe stumbled to a halt in a pool of darkness between the lights of the market and the harbor. Phoebe collapsed against him, gasping, sobbing.

  “Are you all right?” He touched her cheek, slid his fingers beneath her chin to raise her face.

  She blinked up at him. “That was quite terrifying. I thought—” She paused and brushed his hair away from his face. “You’re injured.”

  “’Tis naught.”

  Her touching him wasn’t, though. Pleasure radiated from the contact. He grasped her hand in his, drew it away from his face, then brought it back to kiss her palm.

  She no longer smelled of lavender. The delicate aroma of jasmine wafted from her skin. He inhaled, and something inside him gave way, snapped, dissolved. The raucous tumult of the market and harbor vanished. Phoebe stood before him with soft eyes and softer lips. Eyes meant for gazing into. Lips intended for kissing.

  So he kissed her. He slipped his arms around her, drew her close to him, and covered her lips with his.

  She tasted of apples, of ambrosia, of a future he didn’t think he had. Yet he took it then in the sweet contact, and she made no resistance. She clung to his shoulders and kissed him back.

  And his heart softened from a sharp pain to a dull ache in his chest. If he kept on kissing her, the discomfort might vanish forever, dissolved in the tenderness of a lady determined to take actions that could destroy him.

  If he kept on kissing her, she might forget her intention to leave.

  When she thought he might kiss her the other night, she knew then she would have slapped his face for his audacity. But this time he hadn’t given her a chance to think, time to prepare for the contact. One moment they were running from men who wanted to harm Rafe. The next he held her in his arms and robbed her of breath, of reason, of everything but the need to stay where she was—safe and warm.

  Well, maybe not safe. Wanting this man to continue to hold her seemed the antithesis of safe. She should run from attraction to him, run from the melting effect of his hands in her hair, his hair thick and soft beneath her fingers—contact like she’d never experienced from her husband, where a kiss meant power over her, not affection.

  Surely Rafe Docherty didn’t mean affection either. He couldn’t. He was chasing her down to stop her from escaping to those who could get her home. He wanted, needed, to keep her aboard his brig, where she couldn’t divulge information about what he’d done to her and how he intended to use Belinda to somehow free George Chapman from prison.

  And what better way to keep her than to invite a liaison.

  She planted her palms in the middle of his chest and pushed. “Stop. Stop. I can’t breathe.”

  He freed her at once, but both corners of his firm mouth turned up in a near smile that tilted the corners of his eyes. “I was thinking breathing might not be necessary.”

  “No. I mean, yes. That is—” Her hands flew to her cheeks. They burned. “I shouldn’t have let you do that.”

  “Nay, and I shouldn’t have done it.” His voice dropped to a purr. “But I do not regret it just the same.”

  Neither did she. With a glance, a touch, she might be tempted to kiss him again.

  She took a step back. They were in public. Surrounding men and women came into focus, most of whom paid them no attention at all. A few grinned and called encouragement.

  Phoebe’s face would surely burst into flame at any moment if it grew any hotter. She absolutely must obtain transportation to the American vessel or British frigate, get far away from Rafe Docherty and temptation as fast as she could.

  He caught hold of one of her hands and drew it into the crook of his elbow, holding it in place with his fingers laced through hers. “I cannot let you go, Phoebe.”

  He called her Phoebe. She couldn’t object without sounding like a priggish hypocrite. She couldn’t object to a number of things now that she’d let him hold her in his arms and kiss her.

  “I have to go.” Her voice held a note of desperation from the very fact that she wasn’t angry, frightened, indignant. Quite the opposite, the true difficulty for her. “Please.”

  “Phoebe, ’tis not safe for you now that Brock has seen you with me.” His voice, his face, his calm demeanor held no guile.

  A chill ran through Phoebe. That man with the pistol had chased them both. He wasn’t around now, or remained lost in the crowd running, strolling, stumbling around them, yet he’d been there, burly and too well armed. James Brock, George Chapman’s primary investor, was Rafe Docherty’s enemy.

  “Why?” was all she could manage.

  “I cannot say now. We must be returning to the Davina.” He headed toward the end of the wharf. “Where’s Derrick?”

  “I don’t know. I gave him the slip.”

  “That was unkind of you. By rights I could have him flogged for that.”

  “But you wouldn’t.”

  The muscles in the arm beneath her hand rippled as though emotion so strong he couldn’t contain it in his chest ran through him. He said nothing until they reached the place where the cutter bobbed, moored to a piling. Then he paused and faced her, his face soft in the yellow glow of the lanterns slung from boats. “Thank you for that. I am uncertain I deserve your confidence.”

  So he felt guilty for taking her with him against her will?

  Phoebe’s stomach knotted. She jerked her hand free of his and crossed her arms over her middle, a poor shield between her and the man who frightened her for the sake of her soul, for her heart, not her physical being.

  “How did you give him the slip?”

  “I—oh my!�
� Her hand flew to her lips. “My patient. Mrs. Torren. A nursemaid. Please, take me out to their ship.”

  “’Tis a brigantine, not a ship.”

  Phoebe screwed up her mouth. “It has masts and sails and there’s a new mother aboard with too little help. Please take me.”

  “Aye, right away, madam, though I do not see Watt about. Can you handle a sail?”

  Phoebe laughed.

  “Nay, I suppose I did not think you could. A’right then, I’ll get—ah, here’s Watt.”

  Watt ran down the wharf, boots clattering. “Captain, Mrs. Lee, ’tis sorry I am not to have been here sooner. I saw Derrick with a lass and wanted to ken what he was about.”

  “Aye, I should think you would.” Rafe eyed Phoebe.

  “We hired a nursemaid for Mrs. Torren. That’s why we came ashore.” Phoebe lifted her chin, daring him to argue with her action.

  He simply nodded, then picked her up and set her on the cutter’s deck. Her skin felt cold where his hands had rested on her waist for only those moments. More proof she must get away. Only one man had caught her interest since her husband’s death, and that had gone nowhere. His heart had belonged to another before she even met him.

  Rafe Docherty didn’t have a heart, or not one he would ever be willing to share. He would toy with her, use her attraction to his advantage, and leave her aching inside with longings she had no business feeling. Seeing him day in and day out could do nothing beyond harming her spirit, now that her heart had so carefully healed after the treatment she had received at the hands of a spoiled, selfish, and just plain mean man.

  She moved as far away from Rafe as she could on the tiny sailboat and began to recite Scripture in her head to keep herself from hearing his voice, so rumbling and soft like a cat’s purr, tingling from her ears to her toes.

  “Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us.” She murmured the thirty-seventh verse of Romans chapter eight. “More than conquerors. More than—”

  He touched her shoulder. “Are you a’right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m well.” She edged away from him.

  “I’ll give you a bit of explanation when we return to the Davina. Since you’re now involved, you deserve it.”

  No, she didn’t want an explanation, more involvement in his life. She said nothing.

  He strode away from her to take control of the tiller. He and Watt talked over the minor work of hoisting the single sail and heading across the harbor to the merchantman.

  “I saw Derrick getting into the longboat,” Watt was explaining. “He had a pretty tale about taking the young lady to that merchantman. She seemed to trust him. But I do not ken what the true story is.”

  “Mrs. Lee concurs. ’Tis why she was on shore.”

  And to get away from him, another failed opportunity. And she’d neglected her patient to do so.

  She sank to her knees and buried her face in her arms. “God, what are You letting happen to me?”

  “Mrs. Lee, are you unwell?” Rafe asked.

  He’d called her Phoebe moments earlier, the very sound of her name a near caress on his lips.

  She shook her head and continued to pray, moving her lips in silent supplication. I so want to serve You and have failed in this chance I’ve gotten.

  She needed forgiveness, guidance, release from her predicament, especially the way her ears, her eyes, her entire being strained toward a certain man, but those words of supplication would not come to her.

  I don’t want to care that way again. He seems to have no use for You. He’s everything I don’t want in my life.

  The cutter bumped the side of the merchantman. Watt called up to the deck. A moment later, two sailors appeared to make the cutter fast and help the arrivals aboard.

  “How is Mrs. Torren?” Phoebe asked the men.

  They exchanged glances and grimaces.

  “I think she’s well,” said an older man with a harelip, his words difficult to understand. “But those babies never stop their fussing.”

  “We’ll never get no sleep,” the younger one said.

  “Not within earshot, that’s likely.” Phoebe smiled at them. “I expect quarters below deck will become more valuable.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” the younger one agreed. “Can you maybe take ’em aboard your brig?”

  Rafe laughed. “I am thinking no.”

  A good thing, as they might end up with their own wailing infant.

  The thought gave Phoebe a certain satisfaction. Served him right for taking Belinda aboard.

  “Go on aft,” the older sailor said. “Your other man is here with the girl.”

  Phoebe went aft, Rafe trailing behind, dawdling at the top of the companionway ladder. Guarding the top of the companionway ladder. Phoebe kept her back to him, her distance from him, and looked in on her patient.

  Mrs. Torren lay half propped up on her bunk, one baby in her arms, the other in the arms of the new nursemaid. Both infants were, for the moment, quiet.

  “I’d like to examine you to make sure all is well,” Phoebe said by way of greeting.

  “I can’t thank you enough for sending this girl along.” Mrs. Torren glanced at the maid. “She had the baby quiet in a moment.”

  “I like babies.” The maid glowed as though she were the new mother.

  “You should have brought a maid along with you. Or perhaps a midwife. There are women who will hire themselves out, you know.”

  But of course the young woman didn’t know or couldn’t have done so, or she might have taken the necessary steps to have company and help ready.

  Phoebe began to examine the young mother, who wasn’t in the least embarrassed by the intimacy with another female in the room. The babies continued to sleep. Phoebe began to gnaw her lower lip as she contemplated her own words and disliked them heartily.

  Certain all was well—with the new mother at any rate—she bade mother and maid good night. “I’ll return in the morning.”

  If Rafe Docherty let her off the Davina again. If she could bear to be near him long enough to ask.

  Bear to be? No, she liked being with him. Risk being with him was more the truth.

  Seeing him standing in the glow of a lantern, his hair burnished crimson satin in the flickering light, his face a silhouette of strong bones and smooth planes, she accepted she had two reasons to get away from the privateer as fast and as far as possible—she hated being at sea, and she was losing her heart to him.

  And as much as she wanted away so badly she contemplated the idea of jumping overboard and swimming for the American diplomatic vessel, she had one major reason to remain within the danger Rafe Docherty could prove to her heart, her soul. She couldn’t leave Belinda, a patient, to inexperienced sailors. Doing so went against every vow she’d taken when Tabitha accepted her as an apprentice and Phoebe moved into her home to be at hand whenever someone needed the midwife.

  Phoebe stepped onto the deck and held her hands out to Rafe. “I’m ready to return.”

  “Are you now?” He didn’t take her hands but stood with his fingers stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. “I do not think you ken what you are accepting. I will not—I cannot—give you the freedom of the brig after you tried to run to my enemy.”

  “I didn’t know he was your enemy.” Phoebe spoke each word with care to keep the panic edge from her tone. But panic clenched at her middle at the notion of confinement in the cabin, Belinda’s whining, the stale air. The sickness.

  She clutched at the folds of her skirt. “You don’t need to make me a prisoner, Captain. I—” she swallowed against dryness in her throat—“I give you my word I won’t run away again.”

  9

  James Brock had eluded Rafe again. As he waited for Phoebe aboard the merchantman, he watched the activity aboard the American schooner. Too much activity for an evening in harbor. They were sailing on the outgoing tide, and because of the flag of truce, Rafe could do nothing about it.
r />   “Coward.” He spat over the rail of his own vessel two hours later as the sails of the schooner caught the wind and bellied out, sending the graceful craft skimming into the Atlantic. “You will not face your crimes.”

  Though he might try again to kill Rafe in cold blood. Or rather have one of his henchmen kill the man who could expose him for what he was—a liar, a cheat, a thief, a murderer. He’d tried before, in the early days after Rafe escaped the Barbary pirates with Mel and a rage so deep it still burned in his gut, burned so hot it dried any tears he might have shed for his wife.

  It blazed again now, roared inside him until he feared his hands would rip the taffrail from the deck. He shook with it, with his inability to give chase and bring the man down once and for all.

  But he wasn’t going to lose Phoebe.

  He caught a whiff of her delicate jasmine scent, soap from the merchantman, before he heard the whisper of her slippers and skirt on the deck blend with the sigh of rippling wavelets against the brig’s hull. With all his will, he managed not to turn around and draw her to him and kiss her again. For those few minutes on the docks, he’d forgotten Brock and hatred and even Davina. With the fire of rage now ablaze afresh, the temptation to seek solace from the beautiful widow tightened every nerve in his body.

  He would not disrespect her that way.

  But she’d promised to stay. And now she’d come to him. For the past two hours she’d been below, soothing Belinda’s histrionics over being left behind all day and knowing nothing of what was afoot. Now Phoebe glided up beside him within touching distance.

  He continued to grip the taffrail so he didn’t touch her. “’Tis late for you to be up and about. Should you not be in your bed?”

  “When there’s a caged lion pacing overhead?” She smiled at him in the blend of silvery moonlight and golden binnacle lantern glow. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  “A braw lady to approach a lion in his lair.” He allowed himself the luxury of one ghost of a touch on her face, the merest hint of his fingertips skimming across the curve of her cheekbone.