Josephine watched him go before turning to enter the quiet, dark house. She had just lied to her brother. At least in part. Though it was true she didn’t see how she would run into Mr. Spooner by chance during her daily routine, she fully intended to make sure she and the handsome captain crossed paths.
She climbed the stairs to her room and peeled off the confining ball gown and corset. She pushed her shutters open, her skin rippling in gooseflesh as an ocean breeze caressed her damp skin.
She could not explain, even to herself, why she needed to see Mr. Spooner again. She only knew that she must.
Chapter Five
Ford helped the last passenger board his ship, The Marianna, and cast a quick glance around to see if anyone was about this early in the morning. Sunrise was more than an hour away, but the tide was about to go out and it wouldn’t be unexpected to see other ships preparing to depart. He felt his shoulders relax when he saw that his crew was the only one about this morning.
He was not doing anything illegal, but his passengers’ motives would certainly raise uncomfortable questions.
He returned to his warehouse and updated his ledgers before heading into the main part of town for breakfast. The market was bustling by the time he arrived and he allowed himself to be pulled into the flow of people purchasing papayas, mangos, and other fruits, fresh-baked rolls, cured meats, coffee and tea, and spices. He decided to finish his breakfast with a coffee from a tiny stand in the corner of the market when he spied Miss Barclay sniffing spices at a booth across the plaza. She smiled at something the merchant said, and obligingly tasted the spice in question.
Ford found his feet taking him closer, dodging people in the crowd to keep her in sight. He smiled when he saw her eyes widen in surprise at whatever she was tasting. She quickly took the cup the merchant offered and drained its contents.
Out of the blue, a prickle of danger ran up Ford’s neck and he quickly scanned the crowd.
Women, black, white, and shades in between, were purchasing foodstuffs. Men were gathered around shop fronts selling tobacco, leather goods, and liquor. Children ran from parents and nannies, laughing and mingling, regardless of race until they were chastised to behave.
There was nothing that should have set off Ford’s—ah, there he was. A man short of stature but built solidly, like a brick wall. Though Ford could not say he knew everyone on St. Kitts, he could certainly say he knew almost everyone at least by sight. This man was definitely a newcomer and he was watching Miss Barclay with a squint-eyed intensity, making sure he was never within her direct line of sight.
Ford glanced back at Miss Barclay. She was accompanied by Molly, whom Ford knew well, and an older man who went by the name of Charles? No, Ford remembered, Chester. Miss Barclay had mentioned him the other night at the ball. The ginger-haired Chester appeared to be acting as a footman or guard. Miss Barclay should be safe enough, he thought. Yet the ripple of warning continued to tickle the back of his neck. It was an instinct he’d learned long ago not to discount and so he continued to follow the suspicious man as he in turn followed Miss Barclay from the spice merchant to the fishmonger.
Molly and Miss Barclay appeared to be finished with the shopping, having handed their packages to Chester. Ford decided he would trail the squat man, perhaps have a word with him about following ladies, and urge him to seek another island on which to reside.
“Mr. Spooner! How fortuitous that I should run into you!”
Ford turned to find a portly, balding, white man hastening over to him. Ford smiled to himself. “White” was a misnomer for Mr. Appleton. The poor fellow was perpetually red-faced and constantly mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. His general roundness and redness made his name all the more amusing. The man’s body was clearly made for the brisk climate of his native Scotland, even though his heart belonged in the West Indies.
“Mr. Appleton. How may I assist you?”
“Well you see, I had made arrangements with Hobart’s Shipping Company to relay the last of my sugar crop.
Ford raised his brows, anticipating the man’s next words. “But they received an offer of a more lucrative cargo?”
“Indeed! Their word means nothing, apparently. They havena any honor!” Mr. Appleton sputtered, though after twenty years on the island, he should not have been surprised at the greed of some of the shipping companies. There was always the very real danger of loss of men, cargo, and even ships, and profits were not guaranteed. Between the dangers of sailing against the trade winds, the pirates who still occasionally roamed the tropical waters, or any of the various illnesses such as dysentery or cholera that could strike the close confines of a ship, an exporter had to make the most of his shipments. Mr. Appleton’s small shipment of coarsely refined sugar would naturally be bumped for a more lucrative cargo.
“How may I assist you, Mr. Appleton?” Ford glanced over his shoulder and saw Miss Barclay and Molly speaking just before Molly turned and went in an opposite direction. He glanced about the square but saw no sign of the stalker. With a frown he turned back to Mr. Appleton.
“Well I’m hoping you’ll help me get my sugar to Havana. My brother needs money to keep the family farm going in Scotland, ye ken.”
A flicker of movement at one of the smaller lanes leading into the marketplace caught Ford’s eye and he turned to see the back of a man duck furtively around a corner.
Ford’s muscles tightened with the need to chase the man down. He turned impatiently back to Appleton. “I can take it to Cuba and find a buyer then send the money to Scotland for you. Will that do?”
“Aye, that will do!” Appleton said, mopping his shiny brow beneath the wide brim of his hat.
“Stop by the warehouse later and we’ll settle the details,” Ford said over his shoulder as he moved to pursue Miss Barclay’s follower.
“Yer a true gentleman!” Appleton called after him.
Ford threaded his way through the growing crowd, feeling a bit like a dancer as he sidestepped a round matron, then hopped over a small child, before reaching the narrow lane that he knew would meet up with the wider road Miss Barclay had taken. When he reached the empty path, he burst into a sprint, his booted feet thudding on the hard-packed dirt. He pushed his legs to run faster, pumping his arms furiously while the coolly logical part of his brain tried to calculate how much time had passed and if the burly man would have reached Miss Barclay by now.
He rounded the last corner and had his answer: Miss Barclay was struggling to hold the squat man’s arm as he struck Chester repeatedly. The manservant went down in a heap and the assailant turned to grab Miss Barclay. She did not cry out or struggle, only threw her hands up over her face.
In that instant, Ford was on the man, tackling him to the ground. Ford made sure he landed on top and took advantage of the man’s struggle to catch his breath after the impact to pummel him. A final uppercut to the man’s jaw knocked him out and Ford sprang up, turning to check on Miss Barclay.
She flinched as he took a step toward her and he could see that the terror in her eyes went far beyond today’s episode. She was staring with a scarred gaze at someone who was not here.
“It’s ok,” he said softly, holding his hands up and staying where he was. “He won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.” He kept his voice low, his posture relaxed. He saw her eyes focus slowly, returning to this hot patch of road.
“Chester!” she exclaimed, throwing herself to the ground and drawing the older man’s head onto her lap.
Ford knelt beside the man and checked to see that he was breathing, then inspected him for other injuries.
“He—he came out of nowhere,” Miss Barclay whispered. “Chester and I were waking home and suddenly he was upon us! He hit Chester with something—” Ford found the knot on Chester’s head and Chester moaned. “And he just wouldn’t stop hitting him. I tried to intervene but—” Her voice cracked and she took a deep gasping breath.
Ford tugged off his cravat and
used it to dab at the blood flowing freely from Chester’s nose. The man began to stir, his eyes blinking open, his eyes bleary.
“Easy, man,” Ford said when Chester tried to sit up. “Rest a bit. Your mistress is safe.”
“I’m here Chester,” Miss Barclay said, resting a slim, bare hand on his forehead.
The tension in Chester’s body eased and he closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, their gaze was clear. “The bloke?” he asked, his voice raw from the blood in his throat.
Ford glanced over at the assailant. “Still out.”
Chester nodded and then frowned at the pain the movement caused. When he tried to sit up this time, Ford helped him, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“If you’re able to walk, my warehouse is close by. You can clean up and Miss Barclay can get out of the sun.”
“I’m—” she began, clearly intending to protest, then realizing that he was using her as an excuse to get Chester off the street. “It is terribly hot today. I should like something to drink as well.”
Chester bobbed his head gingerly and Ford and Miss Barclay helped him to his feet.
“What about him?” Chester asked with a nod at the still-unconscious assailant.
Ford glanced up to see Miss Barclay take a hesitant step toward the prone man. Her body went rigid and when her gaze snapped back to Chester, Ford could tell she’d recognized the man.
“Is it Kent?” the manservant asked.
She shook her head and started to speak. Her voice froze and she had to clear it before trying again. “One of his associates.”
Ford glanced from Miss Barclay to Chester and back.
“Right, so we need to keep him,” Ford said briskly.
Miss Barclay’s attention returned to him, her blue eyes wide, her face pale despite the heat of midday.
“Tell me later,” Ford said, and she nodded. “Help Chester if you’re able.” When she had the man’s arm over her shoulder despite his protests that it wasn’t proper, Ford bent and hoisted the dead weight of the assailant over his shoulder. He stood with a grunt; the man was heavier than he looked. “It’s not too far.”
Miss Barclay scooped up her market basket and followed him, helping Chester who was rapidly recovering his senses.
Once inside Ford’s warehouse, he unceremoniously dumped the unconscious man on the floor before going to locate a length of rope.
Miss Barclay forced the now cantankerous Chester to sit.
“Can’t believe I was blindsided like a wet-behind-the-ears boy,” he grumbled.
“How could you expect to be attacked like that, Chester?” Miss Barclay protested.
“I always expect the worst. Then I’m not caught off guard. Or at least not usually,” he finished bitterly.
Ford stood from securing the hands and feet of the now-rousing man.
“I’ve found that no man is invincible. Best not to berate yourself too much or the guilt will distract you from future threats.”
These words seemed to resonate with the older man for after a moment he nodded shortly, took the cloth Miss Barclay was using to dab the blood, and swabbed his face.
From his ignominious heap on the floor, the squat man regained consciousness. “Oi! Untie me! What the bloody fek do you think yer doing?” When he spotted Miss Barclay, he grew furious. “You little bitch! That’s two I owe ye! I was just gonna kill you before but now I’m gonna make it hurt.”
Ford roughly pulled the man’s kerchief from his neck.
“Give off, ye black bastard. I’m killing you next!”
Ford stuffed the sweat soaked wad of fabric into the man’s mouth, effectively stemming the flow of threats. He turned back to Miss Barclay, and she gave him a shaky smile.
“Thank you. Again,” she said softly.
“I take it you know this man?” he asked.
She glanced at Chester who looked steadily back at her. After a moment he shrugged. Some silent means of communication passed between them and after another moment, Miss Barclay took a breath.
“His name is Jeremiah Benjamin. He is an associate of my…my husband’s.”
Ford felt an odd clench in his gut at the news she was married. Or was it higher? Beneath his breastbone? Stupid, really, that it should feel like disappointment. A thought occurred to him.
“Husband? And yet you are called Miss Barclay.”
The lady in question pressed her lips together before replying. “I—I left him. He is…not a kind man. I did not wish him to know where I’d gone.”
There were a thousand words unspoken in that explanation and Ford wanted to know each of them almost as much as he wanted to break the man behind them. That anyone would hurt a woman…but that a man had hurt this woman infuriated him.
He forced his mind back to their present circumstances. “Do you think this man is here at your husband’s behest?”
“I—” her voice was a squeak and she looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know.”
Ford stalked over to the bound man and yanked the gag out of his mouth.
“Why are you here? Did you attack Miss Barclay on another’s orders?”
“Fek off! I’ll not tell you anything, ye great black—”
In a flash, Chester’s hand shot out. He grabbed the other man’s little finger and snapped it backward without so much as a by-your-leave. The sickening sound was immediately followed by a scream from the bound man.
“Chester!” Miss Barclay exclaimed, but the servant ignored her.
“Answer Mr. Spooner’s question, aye?”
Ford glanced at Miss Barclay. Her face was a pale oval in the dimness of the warehouse and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, but she seemed calm otherwise. He turned back to their prisoner.
As soon as the man stopped cursing, he snarled. “I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about Thomas Kent’s wants. I gutted him in the hull of a prison bulk, didn’t I?”
Miss Barclay gasped but Ford didn’t take his eyes from the man’s face. “Then why do you seek to bring harm to this lady?”
“Cause it was her fault as much as her pox-ridden husband’s that I ended up in a prison bulk waiting to be shipped off to Australia.”
Miss Barclay found her voice. “My fault?” Though it shook to begin with, it grew stronger and louder as she spoke. “My fault that you helped Thomas Kent force those who’d sought refuge in a workhouse to produce opium pills? My fault you caused the deaths of countless men, women, and children for the sake of your profit? I suppose it’s my fault as well that you’re a great lump of a man!”
Ford pressed his lips together so he would not smile. He was learning a great deal about Miss Barclay today, the most important being that she had a backbone of steel in spite of, or perhaps because of some dreadful experiences at the hand of this Thomas Kent, for he knew without a doubt that there was a reason she was half-way around the world from her husband. Ford flexed his right hand, wishing Kent were here in front of him instead of this lout so he could teach the man the meaning of hurt.
“Bugger off you stupid cu—” The rest of Benjamin’s words were lost as Ford’s fist connected with the man’s nose.
“I am loathe to strike a man who’s unable to defend himself,” Ford said conversationally, though it took an effort to speak calmly. “But your mum obviously didn’t teach you good manners, did she? Now,” he continued, deliberately softening his voice. “Why don’t you apologize to the lady here so that we may get on to the next order of business?”
Benjamin spat a mouthful of blood at Ford who calmly watched it splatter on the floor a few inches short of his boots.
Chester reached out to grab another of Benjamin’s fingers and the man yelled, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Ford nodded at Chester, who seemed disappointed but obligingly stepped back.
Ford turned to Miss Barclay. “What do you wish done with him?”
She appeared taken aback for she stammered, “Me? I don’t—th
at is, I’m sure I don’t know!”
Jerking his head in Benjamin’s direction, Ford said, “This man has confessed to attempting to kill you. If we turn him over to the constable with all of our testimony—” he paused. “Well, with at least the testimony of you two, the man will hang. Or if you prefer, Mr. Chester and I can take care of the matter immediately.”
Miss Barclay’s eyes widened and she looked from Ford to Chester to Benjamin before stepping closer to the bound man.
“You say you were sentenced to be transported to Australia. How did you arrive in St. Kitts?”
The blood had stopped flowing from his nose, but now it was swollen and misshapen and when he answered it sounded like he had a head cold.
“I dumped ship, didn’ I? In Pordugal.”
“Dumped?” Miss Barclay asked.
“I think he means jumped,” Ford interjected.
Benjamin shook his head in disgust. “Were easy do escape. For me, anyway. I caught duh first ship headed west. Ended up here.”
“So you didn’t know I was here when you arrived?”
Benjamin spat out another glob of blood, this time to the side, away from Miss Barclay. “Didn’t give a fek where you were. But when I saw you, I decided to taste a little vengeance.”
She nodded, distracted. “And is Thomas Kent dead?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t know. Sank my blade in deep, I did. He squealed like a pig when I stuck him. Dey took me to another ship after. Ain’t no doctor comes to the bulks.”
The other three fell silent and Ford watched miss Barclay chew on her lower lip as she contemplated Benjamin’s words. When she released her lip, it was damp and swollen and Ford had the unnerving and overwhelming urge to taste its plush sweetness. He blinked rapidly and forced his attention back to the situation at hand.
“What do you wish done with him?” he asked her again.
“I’d advise killing him, miss,” Chester said. “It’s the safest thing to do, else he’ll just try to harm you again.”
Josiah Benjamin hawked another mouthful of blood but said nothing.
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 78
