The Diamond King

by Patricia Potter

  What about the woman?

  He would leave her and her maid with enough money to get to Barbados. The rest they could manage on their own.

  He owed it to her. As much as he disliked acknowledging it, she had helped Meg. He paid his debts, particularly when owed to the Campbells and their English allies.

  The sun streamed into the captain’s cabin, waking Jenna.

  Celia was still sleeping next to the wall.

  Leaving her maid to rest, Jenna rolled off the bed and stood. The ship seemed to be skimming over the sea now, rather than rolling or floundering in it.

  She chose a dress she could don without help, then looked for something to use to transfer the jewelry from the stained dress she’d worn when captured to the one she was wearing. Jenna wanted her jewels with her. They were her only safety now, her only means of escape and survival. At best, she would have to pay passage to Barbados for herself and Celia.

  She should have arrived today. Would her prospective husband worry when she did not arrive today, or tomorrow, or even weeks from now?

  She found her sewing kit intact and quickly sewed the jewels into the dress she intended to wear. Then she stepped into the dress and laced up the front, trying to be as quiet as possible. Like most of her dresses, this one had long sleeves. After a moment’s thought, she discarded the matching gloves. What difference did it make if anyone here saw her birthmark? Many had already seen it. Word of the devil’s mark had probably already traveled throughout the ship.

  She tried the door. To her surprise it was unlocked.

  She’d been warned last night—or was it this morning—not to leave the cabin without permission. But she had to know how Meg was doing, and she had no idea when someone would remember—or care about—her existence. Opening the door a bit wider, she looked in both directions, seeing no one.

  She cautiously made her way to the area used as a sick bay, fearing that any moment the captain would appear.

  Light streamed through the passageways, which meant all the hatches were open. The warmth felt good after the chill of last night. She reached the door of the sick bay and hesitated, listening for voices. When she heard none, she knocked lightly, then went inside.

  The man called Burke was trying to spoon some food into Meg’s mouth. The girl was sitting up, and her face looked far better than it had earlier. Serious blue eyes regarded her cautiously.

  “Hello,” Jenna said. “I came to see how you are.”

  “Burke says I am better.”

  “You look much better.” She leaned over and lifted the poultice. Some of the inflammation had subsided. Maybe the oil worked as well as the milk she always used in poultices.

  She felt Meg’s cheek. It was warm still but not like early this morning, and the lass’s obvious appetite was a good sign.

  Rob stood in a corner. He swallowed, then approached her. “Thank you for looking after Meg last night,” he finally said, the words obviously difficult for him.

  “You helped just as much,” Jenna said. “You are a good friend.” She hesitated, then asked, “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Aye, I did.”

  They faced one another awkwardly, a woman and lad separated by a war, by a battle, by prejudice, by so many things. They had worked together last night, yet in the glow of day, that bond had frayed. His eyes were cool. It was clear that her name was a major obstacle, even with these children.

  “I want to help,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked bluntly.

  “Is it so impossible to think a Campbell might want to help?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “I like …” She started to say children, but these two were no longer children. “To be useful,” she finally finished.

  “We no longer need ye,” Burke said roughly.

  Surprisingly, tears gathered behind her eyes. She had not cried since she was a very small child. She had always felt alone, but that had been all she had known. But now this particular rebuff was especially painful, perhaps when delivered by children.

  She backed out, then turned and walked down the passageway. She stopped at the hatch. She could go back to the captain’s cabin and possibly wake Celia, or she could go up on deck and breathe in the fresh air.

  She proceeded carefully. She was not up to meeting with the captain, though she supposed he was probably asleep.

  On deck, a number of sailors were sewing and repairing sails under the watchful eyes of Hamish. A carpenter was repairing a quarter boat that had been ripped from its moorings. Four men were up in the rigging.

  No one paid her any mind.

  She found a secluded place out of sight of most of the crew and sat on a coil of rope. It was damp, but she did not care. The rain-washed sky was as pure a blue as she had ever seen. Heavy dark clouds roiled in the distance, but the few above scudded across the sky like balls being kicked by a child.

  Why did she keep thinking of children?

  She breathed deeply. The air was cool with a tangy and fresh scent. Overhead, a seagull circled with a lonely cry that seemed to echo across the endless sea.

  They must be close to land if seagulls reached them.

  Land that belonged to the French, or the English, or the Dutch?

  It was strange how attached she had become to young Meg in the past days. Would she feel that way about David Murray’s children?

  But somehow that seemed a long way, a long time, from this ship and the man who had captured her.

  She took another deep breath of air as she rose. How she would like to drink a cup of tea out here as the wind blew free!

  A gust of wind hit her, taking with it the ribbon securing her hair at the nape of her neck. Jenna pushed her hair back, plaiting it roughly, knowing it would soon blow free again, yet not caring to return to the captain’s cabin. The sea wind had, from the day they left England, awakened something inside her, giving her a sense of freedom she’d never had before.

  As she finished braiding her hair, she took several more steps away from the forecastle and halted to stare at the man who seemed to dominate sea and sky alike.

  He was at the wheel of the ship, the unscarred side of his face toward her. It was stubbled, but that seemed to add a dash of intrigue to him. From this side, he looked uncommonly handsome, his face all angles and strength. He easily handled the wheel, which she knew required enormous strength, as if it weighed little more than a pound.

  He wore an open-necked white linen shirt with flowing sleeves and tight breeches that gloved his long legs. His eyes were fixed on the distance as if seeing something no one else could see.

  He looked powerful and wild and free.

  Magnificent.

  The impression hit her so strongly, she reached out to catch a corner of the forecastle to keep from falling.

  In that instant, she knew she would always think of him this way. Not with the frown, or the limp, or even the scar. But as someone free and grand.

  Her heart suddenly jerked. How could she feel that way about a pirate? A thief? Possibly a murderer?

  A man who hated everything she was?

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex treasured the spectacular hours that often followed a storm. The sea was still restless, the wind brisk, filling the sails and sending the Ami skimming across the waves. The sky seemed especially blue, the air fresher.

  He’d traded places with Claude, who had accepted relief gratefully. They had gone over the maps and navigation and decided they were within a day’s sail of Martinique. There they could make repairs, replenish supplies, and be rid of their unwanted passengers.

  The last should have elated him. Unaccountably it did not.

  He kept hearing the Campbell’s soft voice in his mind, even as he willed the wind to carry it away. The melody of the lullaby would not leave him.

  The memory brought back visions of Janet, the smile on her face the last time he had seen her. Her husband had turned out to be a far better man than Alex thought poss
ible of a Scot turncoat.

  But Neil Forbes was an exception.

  Where there was one, were there others?

  He should stop making judgments.

  Against anyone but a Campbell.

  He saw a slash of red carried by the wind and his gaze searched the deck, settling on the slim figure standing next to the forecastle. Hair with the sheen of gold flew around a lightly tanned face.

  Strange he had not noticed that before. His first impression had been of mousy brown hair under a bonnet, but now as the sun’s rays touched and caressed it, it looked bewitching. She did not look mousy, either, though there was an uncertainty in her eyes, even in the way she stood. And yet there was spirit in the way she braced herself against the wind, the color in her cheeks.

  He recognized her own pleasure in the day, even in the ship. It seemed to echo his own.

  She had been told not to leave his cabin.

  For some reason he could not find it within him to order her back. Not after she had spent the night caring for Meg in a way that went beyond what he had expected.

  He turned to the helmsman behind him. “Take the wheel.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He approached the Campbell. He saw her flinch as he neared but she did not give ground. She had courage, at least. He’d noted that last night. She hadn’t screamed or pleaded or surrendered in fear to the storm. Instead, she’d held steady.

  “I wanted some fresh air,” she said defiantly.

  “It’s a fine morning after a poor night,” he said mildly. He saw surprise flicker in her eyes.

  “Aye,” she said carefully.

  “How is your maid?”

  “My friend and companion,” she corrected.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You probably do not know much about friends,” she said. “I suppose a cutthroat rarely does.”

  “I have lost enough of them to know their worth,” he replied. He did not have to say more. The thrust had hit its mark.

  She turned away and looked back at the sea.

  “You appear to like the sea,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Aye.”

  The short answer dismissed him effectively. The prisoner dismissing her captor. He thought he should be offended, but strangely enough he was not. He’d always liked heart, even in a Campbell.

  “You can come and go as you like,” he said, then turned and left, as startled by his surrender as she was.

  Having permission to remain made the top deck just a little less attractive, Jenna admitted to herself. Especially since, in the past few seconds, she thought the storm winds were approaching again.

  The air had become dense, thick, electric.

  She would almost swear lightning had leapt from the captain to her.

  She did not want to think that he was the cause of such sudden heat. ’Twas the sun’s rays and her imagination. Instead, she tried to tell herself that she had won one small battle, one of the few she’d won in her life.

  But it was dimmed by the overwhelming presence of the man, a presence that lingered just like clouds often lingered after a blow. She realized her arms crossed each other, fingers clasped around her arms in a self-protective pose. When had she done that?

  Had he seen it?

  She did not want him to think she feared him, or had any other emotions concerning him. But her legs were shaky. How could a man—particularly this one—affect her so?

  Maybe she was far more tired than she thought.

  She tried not to look toward the wheel. He had returned there, she knew. She did not want to see that quiet power, the authority with which he mastered the helm. She did not want her eyes to meet his dark blue gaze again. Nor did she want to feel the heat rushing through her blood.

  She hesitated. He could not know he affected her in such a way. In any way.

  She remained, trying to regain the brief pleasure she’d felt earlier. She did not want the new uncertainty, nor the sudden instability of her legs. How could she—for a moment—believe the pirate was appealing in any way?

  He’d been unshaven, his lips pulled up in that mocking half smile. But there had been something in those dark blue eyes that had caught her off guard, a small, self-deprecating apology that had inexplicably warmed her through and through.

  Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time in her life, she had felt the warm rush of lust. She hadn’t known what it was until now, and she was sure her face went red when her analytical mind finally identified it.

  Abruptly, she turned and headed toward the sick bay, trying to keep her legs steady enough so she wouldn’t fall to the bottom of the stairs.

  Perhaps Meg would like a story. Or a song. Anything to take away the awareness that had taken over her mind. Her body. Her very soul.

  The door was open. Rob was sitting in a chair, reading the medical manual. He looked up when he saw her, then went back to the book. Meg’s eyes were closed. No help there. She took the chair where Hamish sat when he was present and looked at the children.

  “Les enfants,” the first mate had called them. But they weren’t. They were short adults who had no one but a pirate to care for them. It was still difficult to understand, or even envision.

  She wanted to look at the wound, but did not want to wake Meg. Rest was by far the best thing for her. Jenna’s eyes started to close, then flew back open. Every time she closed them, she saw the infernal pirate. How long before she could leave the ship?

  And Meg?

  As if the child heard her thoughts, she moved, then cried out in pain.

  Jenna flew to her. “Meg?”

  “It hurts.”

  It was the first complaint she’d heard from Meg. She felt the child’s forehead again. It was still warm, but she did not think it as hot as earlier. Then she checked the wound. The poultice needed replacement again. The wound had been torn last night, and evidently Hamish had not had time to sew it closed.

  It needed to be done. She thought about calling Hamish, then hesitated. He was busy, and she had sewn wounds in both people and animal.

  “Will you allow me to fix it?” she asked softly.

  Meg looked at her with big eyes full of pain and uncertainty. She had given up some of her dislike and hostility yesterday, but Jenna saw lingering distrust. “Aye,” the girl finally said in a low voice. “I do not want to bother Hamish.”

  “I do not believe you bother anyone,” Jenna said. “Everyone, including the captain, is very concerned about you.”

  “He will leave me,” Meg said despondently.

  “He will make sure you are safe,” Jenna said in a soft voice.

  “I do not want to be safe. I want to be with Will.”

  Will again.

  She wanted to ask the lass whether she knew Will’s real last name, but that would be taking advantage of a sick child and she was not ready to do that.

  She knew where Hamish kept the needle and thread. But first she wanted to give the lass something to relieve the pain. More laudanum? How much had she had?

  “Have you had a draft of anything this morning?” she asked.

  “Nay,” Meg said. “And I don’t need anything.” But her lips quivered. Bravery apparently went only so far.

  Rob woke up then, blinking his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand, looking his age for the first time. “Meg?”

  “I should sew up her wound,” Jenna said. “Can you convince her to take a draft of laudanum?”

  “Rather have rum,” Meg said.

  Jenna tried to suppress her surprise. She wasn’t sure whether Meg was saying it for effect or was serious. And if she was? A lass?

  A glass of sherry or wine at supper was permissible for a young lady. But a child? And rum?

  She hesitated.

  “It’s all right,” Rob said. “We sneaked some when we stowed away.”

  At least the captain hadn’t given it to him. Still she hesitated. She had no idea where the rum was.

/>   “I’ll get it,” Robin said, and was out the door before she could say nay.

  She sat down next to Meg. She was not the child’s mother or guardian. Not even a friend. Not yet, though she hoped to be. She had no right to correct or criticize. Still, she would love to find a proper dress for Meg, and see her hair grow. She could be quite lovely, Jenna thought. Her hair, now darkened by dirt, looked as if it might be light brown. Her eyes were large and expressive, though expressively suspicious at the moment.

  Jenna knew her observations would not be welcomed, might even destroy what little headway she had made.

  A bit of rum to take the pain from the stitches would not be a sin.

  She started humming a song, and Meg’s eyes were rapt on her. “Sing it,” Meg demanded.

  Jenna knew she should not. It was a song she’d heard a servant sing and soon after, that servant had been dismissed. But she loved the melody, and she loved the optimism, and it was a song she’d secretly harbored in her soul.

  “The Gypsy rover come over the hill,

  Bound through the valley so shady.

  He whistled and he sang till the green woods rang, and

  He won the heart of a lady …”

  Meg listened intently until she finished.

  “I know a song, too,” she said. “I learned it in Paris.”

  “Sing it,” Jenna said, hoping it would take her mind off the pain.

  “Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling …

  Charlie is my darling, the young chevalier …”

  Jenna knew immediately the song was meant to provoke her. Charlie was obviously the prince now in France, the man most despised by the English and the Campbells.

  But not Jenna. She had always been fascinated by the man. He was said to have great charisma. Unfortunately his military ability, according to her father, had not been as impressive.

  “You have a good voice,” Jenna said mildly. And she did. Weak and thin now, but it had a purity that was God’s gift.

  Meg looked disappointed. She seemed to alternate between wanting to start a fight and wanting comfort. A small war waged in a heart badly damaged. Everything was a small test. Jenna was not sure whether she had won this one or not.

  Then Rob was back with a mug of foul-smelling rum.