“Does God answer the prayers of a Campbell?” The deep, now familiar rumble of the privateer captain came from the door.
She turned around. “Do you have a better idea, my lord?”
“My lord?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Do you deny you have a title?”
“I do not have to deny anything to you,” he said curtly. He walked over to Meg and knelt beside the bed, his fingers touching her cheek. Meg’s eyes opened. “Will,” she said.
The easy use of his name startled Jenna. She’d always heard the children refer to him as “the captain” before. He did not seem to notice, though. “Aye, it’s me, lass.”
“Don’t leave us.”
Something like anguish, naked and raw, passed over the man’s face. Jenna looked away. It had not been for anyone to see. So he does care.
Malfour brushed back Meg’s short, ragged hair, his hand lingering on her forehead. “Ah, Meg,” he said. “I have need of your sharp eyes.”
Meg smiled wanly. “I have the best sight of all,” she said.
“Aye, you do,” he assured her. “I’ve never seen better, especially to spy a red coat.” He moved his hand. “But next time you will do as I say.”
“Aye, sir,” she said.
“I doubt it,” he said, but there was a gentle wink connected to it, and for the first time Jenna saw what others must see in the captain: a subdued charm, a self-deprecation that emerged from under the dark, sardonic, and often harsh exterior.
He looked up at her, and the moment of whimsy fled from his face.
Meg’s gaze also turned to her. There was not the hostility that had been there before. Jenna did not like the listlessness in her eyes, though.
Her gaze met Hamish’s and she saw her concern reflected there.
Still, she thought a lie would do. “You look better.”
Meg looked dubious.
Jenna searched her mind frantically for something she could do to help. “Perhaps a bit of soup …?”
“I am not hungry,” Meg said.
“Soup would be just the thing,” Hamish said. “But I dinna think the cook is much good at it.”
“I am,” Jenna said, grateful to be of help and sure that a small lie in a good cause would be forgiven by God. She had watched Cook make soup back in Scotland, but she had never actually turned her hand to it.
The captain shrugged. “Rob will go with you.”
So she still wasn’t trusted, not even enough to go to the galley alone.
Rob was already at the door. “Meg and I have been helping the cook,” he said. It was more than he’d said at any other time. Apparently some of his hostility was fading, too.
She so much wanted someone to value her for what she was rather than for who she was. Or how she looked.
Robin led the way into space hotter than the rest of the ship. A large pot sat on a stove, and the smells coming from it did not tempt the appetite. She’d noticed that what food she’d received consisted mostly of tasteless beans, boiled potatoes, and hard biscuits.
The man bustling around the area was small with lively eyes and a mouth that lacked some teeth. She wondered whether it was the result of his biscuits.
“Meg needs soup,” Robin said.
“Whatever the lass needs,” the cook said, then turned to Jenna. “Hamish said you ha’ been helpin’ with Meg.” It was obvious he approved.
She shrugged away her approval. “I thought some hot broth might help.”
He looked dubious. “We have no fresh meat.”
“Potatoes?”
“Aye.”
“Any herbs?”
He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads.
“Some salt pork?”
“Aye.”
With his help she added some water to chunks of salt pork, along with potatoes and a poor onion she found. She longed for spices to make it more palatable but at least it would be nourishing. As it slowly boiled, she wanted to ask Rob more about him and Meg. Why had they not stayed in Paris and instead chased after a pirate?
What was it about the man that commanded that kind of loyalty and affection? And trust? Or was it just an adventure that ended badly?
While she stirred her poor concoction, Robin perched on a stool and began peeling and cutting potatoes. Still, his eyes always seemed to be on her. Watching. Judging. Weighing.
She wanted to know more about him, but she feared asking. It seemed everyone on the ship had some terrible story to tell, and blamed it all on her family.
Did her family deserve that blame?
Even in the hot galley, a shiver ran down her back. How could she answer charges she knew little about?
Why should she feel the necessity to do so?
She had been an innocent sailing on an English ship. Captain Malfour was in the wrong, not her. He was the one who had taken two children on a dangerous voyage. He was the one who had shot first.
Yet she felt terribly guilty.
It amazed her how important Meg had become to her. Despite her outward rebellion there was a vulnerability in her eyes that went straight to Jenna’s heart. She knew that vulnerability, knew about steeling herself so no one could see her fears or reach inside her heart and hurt her.
“She will be all right, won’t she?” Robin’s question was like a thrust into her stomach.
“I think so,” she said, wishing there was more confidence in her voice.
“She pretends that nothing bothers her, but she’s always afraid. That’s why she … does some of the things she does.” Then his lips snapped shut.
“Trying to fool God,” Jenna said. She had done the same thing too many times, tried to pretend an indifference when her heart was breaking.
Robin ducked his head, obviously feeling as if he’d betrayed a confidence.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said. “You want to help her, and she has nothing to be ashamed of, either. It takes much more courage to do something when you are afraid than if you have no fear at all.”
“I tried to tell her that, but I do not think she believes it. Maybe you—”
“I don’t think she wishes to hear that from a Campbell.”
“You are not like the others. They would not sing to a Jacobite,” Robin said, then added a little shyly, “You have a bonny voice.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “’Tis fine when someone enjoys it.”
“They did not enjoy it in Scotland?”
He was far too perceptive.
“I was not … favored.”
His steady gaze met hers. He seemed so much older than his years. “Why?” he asked.
“The marks on my arm,” she said. “Some believe they are marks of the devil.”
His brows drew together. “I do not think that at all. I had a brother with a birthmark. It was not quite as—” He stopped suddenly as if he feared saying something hurtful.
“As large,” she finished for him. She found talking about it not as painful as usual. He had accepted it as part of her, not something for which to shun her. Her family’s name did that.
There was an odd kind of comfort to that.
“I did not even notice,” he said diplomatically. In thinking back, she realized he had not once stared. Neither had the girl or Hamish or the captain. Because they had larger grudges against her?
Still, despite being a prisoner, she felt freer than she had in years, ever since she had realized her family intended to hide her away from visitors and that they never expected a good marriage for her. And that, for the Campbells, was the only value women had.
Being as she was had had one advantage, though. While her sisters were paraded in front of Scottish and English families, and taught all the manners expected of a young woman, she’d learned to read. She took her pleasure in books, in faraway places and in the adventures of others.
She had thought the journey to Barbados would be an adventure, but there had always been the specter at the en
d, the meeting with someone who might well reject her.
And now she was in a different kind of adventure altogether.
She’d read a few romances that young women had brought to the manor. The hero had always been noble, beset by evil men who wanted to take away what he had.
The hero was never a man who admitted to stealing, who did not seem to mind a murder or two in the process. She could have been killed in the bombardment of her ship. A child might have died because of it.
Malfour—whoever he was—did not have a single heroic bone in his body. And he could well destroy any chance she had for a normal life.
Anger welled inside her again. She had been foolish to believe, even for a few moments, that a few soft words belied what the man was.
She stirred the broth. She did not expect much from it, but at least it would be warm.
An hour had gone by. Perhaps even two. Robin continued to peel potatoes. He did it extraordinarily well. His well-formed features were tight with concentration. A young lord. Although he had never mentioned a title, it was written all over him. He had a natural grace and air of confidence, even command, that couldn’t be dimmed, no matter what he was today. He wasn’t “just” a Macdonald.
“Tell me about your family,” she said.
His eyes lost their friendliness, becoming wary. “I have none left.”
Still no trust. Not in a Campbell. Did he think that she would inform on him once she was released? But then why wouldn’t he believe that?
Could they even afford to let her go?
She looked at the knife in Robin’s hands. His gaze followed hers. She read his thoughts as his hand tightened on it.
Jenna looked back at the cook, at the crooked teeth with its gaps, and was surprised by a slight smile. She remembered when she first came aboard the Ami. Everyone had looked like brigands, as if they would kill if she so much as sneezed. Now she saw how much they cared for Meg, how they treated Robin. Not as a young lord but as a lad doing a job. They showed respect for that.
They care for their own. The observation caused a pang of loneliness. No one cared for her.
She finally decided the broth would do. The cook offered a bowl, and she filled it.
Robin took it. “I am used to the roll of the ship,” he said.
She was too, after three weeks at sea. But there was nothing to gain by arguing with him.
She turned to the cook. “Thank you.”
He nodded, the smallest glint of approval in his eyes. She wondered then what they knew about her. How many cared that she was a Campbell, or Scottish? Were there allies among the crew?
But then she remembered again the respect they all showed the captain.
She followed Rob back to the sick bay. The captain was still there, pacing back and forth with a restlessness that balked at the small confines of the space. Meg’s eyes were closed, but they were closed too tightly. She-was awake.
Jenna took the bowl from Rob and sat down next to her. “Meg.”
Meg did not move.
Jenna looked at the anxious faces around Meg. No wonder the child was pretending to be asleep. “Go,” she said. “All of you.”
The captain gave her a disbelieving look and started to say something. Hamish shook his head and led the way out. Robin followed. After a pause, so did the captain.
“They are all gone, Meg.”
The lass opened her eyes. They were filled with pain and also urgency. “Miss … I need—”
“I know,” Jenna said. She looked around and finally found an object she could use. Then she helped Meg perform the necessities. Each movement cost the lass.
When Meg had finished, she fell exhausted back onto the cot.
Jenna waited patiently, aware that Meg wrapped independence and pride around her as protection.
Finally, Meg gave her a faltering smile.
“Can you take some food?” Jenna asked.
“I dinna know.”
“You must,” Jenna said. “You have to keep your strength.”
Pale blue eyes stared at her. “Why do you care?”
“I just do.” She put all the feeling she had into those words. All her fear for the child, for herself, for the circumstances. All the hope she had for children of her own. For children everywhere. Jenna had never linked them altogether like that before. She should have. She should have fought for those who could not fight for themselves. She did not know how, but she should have made the attempt.
She’d had enough food, enough clothing. She’d had maids. Now it all seemed wicked as she pictured children hungry and alone in forests and caves with only a bandit to look after them.
She lifted a spoon of the broth to Meg’s mouth, and the child obediently opened her mouth and drank it. Then another and another until nearly the entire bowl was gone.
Finally, Meg turned away. Jenna looked at the wound. It was still red and ugly, still secreting fluids. The poultice, though, had obviously been newly placed.
There was little more she could do. She took a cloth and poured water onto it, then washed Meg’s face and thin chest.
Meg’s lashes were fluttering.
“Go to sleep, love,” Jenna said, saying the last word so softly she didn’t believe the child heard.
“Will you sing to me again?”
“Of course.”
“The same song,” Meg demanded.
“Aye,” Jenna said. She started to hum, then sang the words she knew so well. Her nanny had sung them to her. Mary had been her name, and she had been the one person who had been kind, who had told Jenna she was pretty. And special. God’s chosen, she’d said about the mark. Not the devil’s handiwork, but God’s.
She had tried to remember that.
Jenna soon saw Meg’s tense little body relax. Her hand reached out and clutched Jenna’s.
As she sang softly, she felt tears flow down her face, tears that she knew had been there for years but had never been shed. Tears for every child that had been wounded, orphaned, killed.
She sang until Meg’s eyes closed, and even then she continued.
“What does the likes of her know about children?” Alex strode up and down the area outside the sick bay.
“She is a woman,” Hamish said. “The most likely of the group. The lass needs a female touch.”
Alex glared at him. “She has never been shy before.”
“Has Meg ever been hurt like this before?”
“Her mother died,” Alex said flatly.
“And what did you do?”
Walked away. He had walked away and let Robin comfort her. He had seen too much death. He could not force himself to say all would be all right. Scotland would never be right again. And so he had stepped out into the freezing mist of a Scottish storm and mourned in his own way. No, not mourned. He’d raged. He’d raged against God, and against Cumberland and all who assisted him, especially the Scots who cold-bloodedly killed their fellow Scots.
She had not been a part of that.
But her family had been.
The argument warred in his head. He knew he was being unfair. Women in this world had little say in political matters and none in the conduct of war. Yet every time he looked at her he saw the men wearing Campbell colors systematically killing the wounded.
He heard the melody coming through the door. A lullaby was always lyrical, sometimes sad, always wistful, usually hopeful. But this one reverberated with loneliness and sadness, and every note hurt.
“Sail ho!”
Even down here, he heard the call.
He took the steep stairs two at a time and emerged through the hatchway onto the quarterdeck.
Claude stood next to the sailor at the wheel, and the. lookout clung to rigging far above.
“An English man-o-war,” Claude said.
“Has she spotted us yet?”
“Non. I ordered the British flag hoisted.”
“What about the Charlotte?”
“She’s far enough ahead
to escape notice,” Claude said.
Alex looked to the west. Clouds billowed across the sky, some dark purple, full of rain.
And cover for an escape.
“Change course,” he said. “Westward.”
“It looks like a strong squall,” Claude said.
“I hope to God so.”
“And Mademoiselle Meg?”
“She will have no life at all if we are taken,” Alex said. “Neither Rob nor Meg. Change course now.”
“Oui,” Claude replied. He shouted orders, and the seamen scurried over the deck, putting on more sail.
Alex took the spyglass and looked through it. The British ship had obviously just seen them. He saw activity on their decks.
They were out of firing range. Would be for several more hours. But the British ship had both more speed and more gun power than the Ami. Their only chance was losing the warship in the storm.
Then take an easterly course to reach Martinique. He would lose a day but that was preferable to losing to the British.
The question was whether the Ami could make it to the squall in time.
Chapter Nine
Jenna felt the sudden surges of speed as more sail was added. The ship kicked more, and she said a brief prayer of thanks that she was not prone to seasickness. She worried about Celia, though.
She wanted to see, make sure she was not being mistreated by Blanche Carrefour. In fact, she’d thought earlier that she would ask the captain whether Celia could stay with her, but she’d been so concerned with Meg.
Sleep, she willed the child. Sleep. It was the best thing for her now.
She heard the noises above: the snap of sails, the footfalls of sailors, the shouted orders.
What was happening?
Another ship to capture? Or an English warship ready to take the Ami?
The thought inspired mixed emotions.
Rescue?
At what price?
What would England do to the sailors—and children—of the Ami? She now knew the children and the captain and probably others had run for their lives from Scotland, had experienced great hardships to escape the country.
She found it hard to believe that England—and her country—would execute children. But the fear was there in them. It was alive. She’d felt it.
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