by Deeanne Gist
“She’s a gen-u-ine lady, mate, but no bloke’s a forcin’ you to claim her. We already got us a bid for her, we do.”
Emmett furrowed his brows. “From who?”
“Drew O’Connor.”
Woodrum and his silent companion looked at each other, caution evident in their expressions. Emmett’s eyes took on an unnatural brilliance. Constance didn’t know what game the first mate was playing, but she would hold her tongue for now.
“O’Connor, you say?” Emmett asked. “How much did he offer?”
“Two hundred.”
“Then why’s the maid still here?”
“She has to be paid for in tobaccy only. No vouchers. The capt’n wouldn’t release her or take her off the block before collecting payment. O’Connor went to collect his sot weed.”
As far as she knew, that was an outright lie, but she couldn’t be certain.
The merciless sun beat down upon them. Sweat trickled down Emmett’s face and into his snarled beard. “Well, ain’t that interesting.” He wiped his hands against his backside, then looked to the first mate. “May I?”
“Help yourself,” Cooper replied.
Emmett reached for her.
She leaned away from him. “Touch me and I’ll see you flogged before the morrow’s sun appears on the horizon.”
Emmett’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Ho, ho! Would you listen to that? A saucy one, ain’t she? ” Cackling, he rubbed his hands together.
Constance tensed.
“Leave off, Emmett,” Woodrum said, grabbing Emmett’s arm. “It’s clear that she is healthy and there is no padding beneath her garment.”
Emmett’s lip curled. “What’s it to you, Woodrum?”
“Either up Drew’s wager or keep your hands to yourself.”
“I ain’t makin’ no bid till I test the goods.”
Without taking his eyes off Emmett, Woodrum handed his hat to his companion, removed his coat, and handed that over as well. He slowly began to roll up his sleeves.
The man’s belly may have been round, but his arms and chest appeared to be solid rock. “You’ll not touch her unless you pay for the privilege.”
Smelling a fight, the farmers on the upper deck had begun to crowd close.
Emmett slowly lowered his hands. “Two hundred twenty, Cooper. I’ll give you two hundred twenty pounds for her.”
“Two twenty-five,” Woodrum countered.
It was time to speak up. “Gentlemen,” she interjected, “this is really all quite unnecessary. I am not a tobacco bride. I am the daughter of an earl. The captain kidnapped me and is trying to sell me unlawfully. As soon as the governor comes aboard, I will have an audience with him and will then be freed and on my way back to London.”
Her statement, made during one of those unfortunate moments when every person in the crowd, for whatever reason, is silent all at once, carried across the entire breadth of the ship.
The quiet that followed her pronouncement was fraught with shock. On the heels of that, a huge swell of laughter and guffaws from the whole company of men rose to alarming levels. Even Woodrum was amused.
“Oh, she’s a wicked one, she is,” Emmett cackled. “Where’s the capt’n?”
The crowd parted and the captain took the steps two at a time. Woodrum and his friend receded into the crowd.
Emmett grasped the captain’s hand. “I’ll give you a whole hogshead for her, capt’n, and while my field boy rolls it down here, I’ll be celebrating at the meetinghouse.”
The captain pursed his lips for a moment, then broke into a grin. “Three hundred pounds it is, then. Gentlemen, Goodman Emmett here has purchased himself one high-born bride.”
The men roared their approval and surged forward, encircling Emmett. He put an X on the voucher and exchanged it for a receipt from the captain. The excitement escalated and the crowd pulled Emmett off the half deck and further away from her. He twisted around. The depraved promise in his eyes projected itself into her very soul.
Bile converged in her throat. She was going to be sick. Forsooth, she was going to be sick right here, right now.
Help me, Lord, help me. Where is the governor? Where are you, Lord? Please, please. Help me.
As one, the company moved from the ship to the shore. And on, she supposed, to the celebration.
Chills from within shot through her body, causing a series of bumps to erupt along her arms and legs. Then an all-consuming anger at the incredible injustice of it all made her blood surge. Her resolve solidified and she focused in on the captain.
“How dare you!” she cried. “You will not get away with this. Mark you, if you do not arrange an audience with the governor at once, I will create a commotion of such magnitude they will write legends about it.”
The captain did not even bother to acknowledge her. “Throw her back in the hold, Cooper,” he said over his shoulder as he descended the steps.
She filled her lungs with the intention of letting out a scream the likes of which would not be ignored. Before she could release it, the first mate squeezed a band of skin between her neck and her shoulder.
Debilitating pain cut off her scream and buckled her knees. She crumpled to the ground. Cooper did not let go but followed her to the floor. She whimpered, trying to pull away from the torturous vice his fingers created.
His hot, foul breath invaded her ear. “Not one sound, dovey. Not one.”
CHAPTER TWO
Constance lay shivering and alone belowdecks. Darkness entombed the hold. Midnight had passed, but morning was still more than a few hours away.
She felt certain the men’s celebration was over, for the balance of brides had been picked up long ago. All except for her.
She tried not to let desperation fill her. If the governor had put in an appearance, it was after Cooper had forced her back into the hold and secured her to the wall. With that opportunity gone, she knew there would be no other. At least not anytime soon. And by the time she did see the governor, it would be too late.
She would belong to a man. An odious, vulgar man who inspired revulsion, loathing, and horror. A man who, in the eyes of this colony, would have complete dominion over her. Who would have the right to do with her as he saw fit.
Her stomach clinched and she pushed herself up off the rough planks and heaved once again. Nothing left.
She’d managed to hold her fears at bay until the last bride had been led to her doom. When the trapdoor had closed behind that poor woman, it was the first time in over eight weeks that Constance had been completely alone. And it terrified her. The dark, damp, malodorous deck that had felt so cramped and hemmed in now loomed over her with a soundless assault.
The irons around her waist and wrists weighted her down. Collapsing onto the slats, she vaguely heard the scurrying of a rat echo off the walls of the hold. A fresh rush of tears spilled from her eyes.
Have you heard my cries, Lord? Have you destroyed my enemy? Is that why I am still here?
As if in answer, the squeak of the trapdoor reached her ears just as light from a lantern reached her eyes. She covered her eyes with her arm, the clanking of her chains ricocheting around her.
The heavy tread of the mate clomping down the steps sent her heart into a terrible gallop. She curled into a tight ball. Please. Please. Spare me, Lord. Rescue me. Please!
The crewman’s smell reached her before he did. “The call to reckoning has come, wench. Up with ye, now. Yer man’s arrived and it’s anxious he is to take possession of ye.”
In a pig’s eye, she thought. A great calm settled upon her. She slowly unfurled, pulled herself into a sitting position, and looked up to see who had the late night watch. Arman. A beastly excuse of a man.
He removed the lock attaching her to the wall and pulled the chain from around her waist. Grabbing the irons around her wrists, he yanked her to her feet. The room swirled round, but Arman gave her no time to gain her sea legs.
She stumbled. He shoved her forward.
She fell hard on her knees, pain shooting up her legs to her back and neck.
“Get up,” he snarled, jerking her back to her feet. “You’ll not be playing yer high-and-mighty games with me, missy. Ye might work yer wiles upon Cooper, but yer nothin’ more than a hen to that struttin’ rooster on the uppers, and if ye think to be givin’ him or me any troubles, it’ll go the worse for ye.”
She kept her face expressionless, but she would not cooperate with Arman or the rooster. And she was prepared to do whatever it took to free herself from the knave.
When they made the upper deck, she scanned the area for the despicable Emmett man that had purchased her. He was not there. Instead, Arman led her to stand in front of the dark-haired farmer they called Drew O’Connor.
What was he doing here? Was he to take her to Emmett? But, no, it had been clear those two were not on friendly terms. Confusion clouded her thoughts.
“Remove the fetters,” O’Connor said.
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir. The dove has been a bit of a trial.”
O’Connor scrutinized her. “A strong gust of wind would knock her over. From what I hear about the victuals you serve the felons, I would imagine she’s too weak to put up much of a fight.”
Arman stiffened. “She was fed.”
“Um. Let me guess. Pease and loblolly?”
“Once a day.”
“Remove the fetters,” O’Connor repeated.
“You remove ’em.”
O’Connor snatched the keys from Arman’s hand and reached for her wrists. She jerked them back.
He paused. Moonbeams glanced off the ship’s metal bell, throwing his features into dark relief. “Do you not want to be released?”
“I, of course, want to be released, but not only from these irons. I want to be granted my freedom. The captain of this ship kidnapped me.
I did not come here voluntarily as a tobacco bride, nor am I a felon.”
“Then how is it you stand before me bound with shackles?”
The irons surrounding her wrists rattled as the wooden deck shifted beneath her feet. “My uncle was a prisoner on this ship. I came to bid him good-bye--”
“Lies,” Arman growled.
“Hold, man,” O’Connor snapped. “I’ll hear what she has to say.”
A whisper of hope flickered within her. “My uncle was sentenced to seven years of indentured servitude for not subscribing to the king’s supremacy. By the time I learned of his sentence, he was already on board the Randolph. I hastened to this vessel. No sooner had I located Uncle Skelly than the captain grabbed me and threw me in the hold.”
“What of your escort?”
She hesitated. “I escaped from my maid’s watchful eye. Had she known of my destination, she never would have permitted it.”
“And the other visitors on board? Surely someone saw this atrocity occur?”
“The last of the visitors were leaving by the time I arrived and boarded.”
“Did not your driver notice you failed to return?”
She sighed. ”I hired a hackney. My own driver is loyal to my father and would not have brought me to see Uncle Skelly. I’m sure the captain saw to my hired conveyance for me.”
O’Connor arched a brow. ”You were alone?”
Deflecting her gaze to the side, she nodded.
“On the docks?”
The disbelief in his tone brought her chin up. “Uncle Skelly was like a father to me. He’d raised me since my mother’s death. I was hardly more than a babe. My real father didn’t bother to make an appearance until he needed me for a marriage alliance. An alliance I refused to accept.”
“Who’s your father?”
“The Earl of Greyhame.” The tackle creaked and whined against the water’s pull but held the slaver fast to the dock.
O’Connor glanced at Arman. ”I’ll speak with the prisoner she calls Uncle Skelly.”
Arman snorted. “There ain’t no such person.”
“He’s dead.” The words fell flat from her lips. She still couldn’t quite believe it. Forcing down the lump in her throat, she contemplated the vast watery cemetery beyond the dark horizon. “He didn’t survive the passage over.”
O’Connor scratched the back of his head, knocking his hat askew. “Let me make sure I understand this. You came to the docks alone and boarded a ship of felons just to give your uncle a peck on the cheek? An uncle who is, for all practical purposes, nonexistent?”
She jerked her focus back to his face. “He died!”
“How convenient.” O’
O’Connor straightened his hat, his narrowed eyes quickly sluicing up and down her body before resting upon her visage.
She returned the favor. His bronzed skin was too dark, his blue eyes too pale, his jaw too square.
That jaw tightened. “I suppose you will now tell me peers of the realm no longer dress in the manner they used to.”
She fingered the lacings digging into her waist. The bodice was ridiculously tight. “This gown is not mine.”
“No? You mean you wore someone else’s clothing when you came on board to visit your notorious uncle?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then where are your clothes?”
A good question. Before they docked yesterday, all prisoners were expected to bathe. On the upper deck. In the open. She had resisted, of course. But with the help of another sailor, Arman had stripped her of her clothing, shoved her into a filthy barrel, dumped a torrent of salt water atop her, then yanked her out by her hair.
She had kicked and bit and clawed until the captain shoved an unfamiliar bodice, skirt, and headcloth into her arms. No chemise. No stockings. No shoes.
Clutching the items to her frame, she had questioned the absence of the undergarments and the soiled condition of the clothing. In response, the captain threatened to take them back and leave her with nothing.
It was then she had demanded the return of her diary. It lay in the pocket of her old skirt. The captain’s eyes had narrowed. The diary would be returned to her in exchange for a more satisfying sport with the men, he had said, starting with him.
She was shrewd enough to know when to retreat. Remembering that retreat fed her anger. She tipped her head toward Arman. “Ask him.”
O’Connor turned to him. “Where are her clothes?”
“Below.”
“Bring them to me.”
“They’re rags, matey, and not fit for man nor beast, they ain’t.”
“The clothing, if you please.”
“I want my diary back too,” Constance said.
Arman’s black eyes impaled her.
“I’ll review any belongings she brought on board,” O’Connor interjected.
Arman spun around and headed toward the companionway. O’Connor stopped him. “Tell your captain I’ll have a word with him as well.”
The rhythmic lapping of the water against the shallop accentuated their sudden silence. O’Connor did not look her way. Standing with his head bowed and shoulders slumped, he rubbed his eyes. His sleeveless leather jerkin covered thick, broad shoulders. Its laces opened at the chest, revealing a well-worn shirt underneath, while a cloth pouch hung from the leather belt at his trim waist. Full breeches fastened just below his knees, where long stockings hugged muscular calves. Unadorned braid laced up the square shoes on his feet.
At the sound of Arman’s return, O’Connor lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. The sailor handed him a wad of fabric.
Stepping closer to a lantern, O’Connor unfurled and examined the once-beautiful silk dress she had worn that long ago day of her kidnapping. His hands, massive and strong, explored the hollows of the garment, gliding over the soft curves custom-made for her. The faded green bodice fluttered beneath the ministrations of his adept tanned fingers. An unwelcome burning crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
Finally, he allowed the dress to slither from his hands to the deck. Dragging her gaze from the bundle of silk pooled at his
feet, she watched him shake out her chemise. Another inspection of seams and construction followed.
He held up the undergarment by its shoulders and squinted over at her. “Are these your things?”
She nodded.
“Did this fit you when you boarded the ship?”
She blushed anew. “It did.”
Cocking his head to the side, he scrutinized the chemise again. “You have lost a considerable amount of poundage.”
She said nothing. His strapping frame dwarfed the chemise, hanging limp within his grasp. Even so, he was right. The only fullness left on her body was that across her chest, and even that had diminished in size a bit.
As if reading her thoughts, he regarded the area in question. She resisted the urge to shield herself. She had worn gowns at home cut every bit as low as this one without a moment of self-consciousness.
In time, he retrieved the dress from the deck and fingered its finely woven fabric. After checking the pockets, he shoved the clothing beneath his arm. “The diary?”
Arman handed O‘Connor a small, worn book. O’Connor spent several minutes studying the publication. “Where is her diary?”
“That’s all we found,” Arman answered.
“That is the diary I spoke of,” Constance said.
“This is no diary. This is a collection of nonsense.”
She bristled. “It is an almanac containing many delightful and entertaining particulars.”
He snorted. “For what purpose?”
“It provides me and a great number of other ladies with a wealth of scientific information.”
He opened the volume and turned to one of the leaves. Holding it up to the lantern, he read an entry.
“At London one morning ‘neath the sun’s shining glow,
I found my cane’s length in its own shadow,
As I held it upright; ‘twas the tenth day of May:
Now tell me exactly the time of the day?”
He looked at her over the rim of the book. “You must be jesting.”
“Can you provide the solution?”
“Nine hours, thirteen minutes, and sixteen seconds into the morning.”
She rolled her eyes. “You saw my answer.”
“Your answer? These are your figures scribbled in the margins?”
