Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  This last more than anything seemed to inflame him for he suddenly caught her face between his two hands and stared into her eyes as his tempo increased. She tried to keep her eyes open but the wave of pleasure suddenly crashing over her shut them as soundly as if she had fainted. As the last ripples were washing over her body, she heard his groan of “I love you” as he found his release.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It took Ford two days to find a minister to marry them. Finally, he was directed to a Baptist preacher on the outskirts of Havana. William Spurgeon was a stooped white gentleman who would have stood no taller than five feet even had his spine not curved forward. His limbs had not an ounce of fat on them and even his wispy hair was thin and frail. But when Pastor Spurgeon shook Ford’s hand and spoke, his personality was such that he seemed like a much bigger, more vibrant man than he actually was.

  “My betrothed is white,” Ford said abruptly. His previous six encounters with church men over the last two days had taught him to mention this right away to save him the trouble of booking the church only to be told after indicating in the registry that the and Jo were not of the same race and that they could not be served by that parish.

  Even the black pastor Ford had tracked down had tried to talk him out of his choice of bride.

  “No good will come of it, son,” the man had said kindly but firmly.

  Ford waited for Spurgeon’s refusal. “And does she love you?” was the man’s first question.

  “She does,” Ford replied firmly, forcing his body not to think of the way Jo had expressed her love just a few hours ago.

  “And do you love her?”

  “I do.”

  “And neither of you are married already to another?”

  Ford hesitated. “My betrothed is a widow.”

  Pastor Spurgeon flapped a bony hand in dismissal. “A living spouse is the only impediment to my performing a wedding. It is simply my own romantic nature that hopes the couples I join in matrimony also care for each other.”

  “Oh,” Ford said, surprised and relieved. “We do. Very much.”

  The old man smiled. “Then let us make the arrangements.

  And so it was that Ford found himself flanked by Jorge and Bodega while Odysseus claimed the honor of escorting the bride down the aisle. Monsieur Pallet stood in as her bridesmaid despite the ribbing of Ford’s crew.

  Pallet had shrugged, unconcerned when Jo had tried to apologize for the men’s jokes. “Ma chere, it is only that they are mad at themselves for not thinking of it first. You see, I get to stand next to the most beautiful woman in Cuba all day while they must observe from a distance.

  Jo had laughed at his ridiculousness and impulsively kissed the Frenchman’s cheek.

  “You see?” Pallet shouted to Ford’s men. “I do not see any of you receiving a kiss from la dame belle del capitan!”

  Now Ford watched as Pallet took his place on the bride’s side of the altar and his first mate proceeded slowly down the aisle, a radiant Jo on his arm.

  She was dressed in a gown very similar to the red one he had purchased in Antigua except this one was white. Pink ribbon edged the tiers of her skirt and twined through the braid crown atop her head. A warm flush crept through his body; a sense of unreality that there was no way he could possibly be standing at the front of a church awaiting the strongest, most beautiful woman he had ever known to join him.

  It was his fingers that trembled as he reached for her, her hand that, warm and steady, reassured him. He smiled down into her upturned face, thinking he’d never felt like a green lad, even when he had been one. But now he felt naïve and raw, his feelings exposed for the world to see. But as she gazed at him with her clear blue eyes, so full of love and certainty, he suddenly didn’t care if the world knew just how vulnerable he was to this woman.

  The ceremony was brief—he scarcely heard a word of it except for when the minister asked his response and he said firmly and loudly, “I will.”

  Jo’s response was also engrained in his memory as were the words, “Man and wife,” uttered just before she threw herself into his arms and kissed him to the accompanying cheers of the men who’d been his only family for the last six years.

  A hearty feast awaited them in the courtyard behind the inn, accompanied by musicians, the majority of his crew, and a half-dozen guests of the inn who’d invited themselves.

  The Baptist minister sat as guest of honor at the head table as platter after platter of food was brought from the kitchens. The tiny older man’s nose and cheeks were rosy from the rum punch that sat in metal pitchers along the tables, cool drops of condensation bejeweling their surface.

  Ford’s crew preferred their rum straight and so the preacher found himself with an entire pitcher to himself. Ford instructed Odysseus to see that the churchman was safely escorted home later. Odysseus could be trusted to see to the task as he refused all alcohol but Russian vodka—a distillation difficult to come by in the West Indies.

  His duty to the minister’s safety dispatched, Ford turned his attention to his wife whose cheeks were also bright, though he suspected that was more from her status as bride than spirits. Her own cup was full and he’d only seen her touch her lips to it whenever a toast was raised in her honor.

  She must have felt his gaze upon her for Jo turned to look at him, the rowdy crowd around them disappearing and the laughter and yelling suddenly muted as the newlyweds were caught in a spell of their own making. Ford felt his mouth go dry with anticipation of what was to come. Jo would not be denied while she’d waited for him to find an officiant and as a result, the past two nights had been ones of sensuous bliss. Nonetheless, tonight he would be making love to his wife and somehow that seemed different.

  He finally tore his gaze from hers to turn back to Odysseus, who sat beside him, the lone sober sentinel.

  “What time is it Odysseus? Past eleven, surely.”

  The normally taciturn Russian’s lips twitched in what was almost a smile. When he spoke, it was only slightly teasing. “It is not yet nine, but no one will think you too eager to take your woman to her bridal chamber.”

  Ford grinned at his first mate. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Odysseus.”

  “No doubt you make wrong turn and end up shipwrecked on iceberg,” the man said in his droll, matter-of-fact accent.

  Ford laughed. “No doubt you are correct.” He turned to whisper in Jo’s ear, but instantly turned back. “You don’t suppose you could create a diversion, could you? I fear in their current state, the crew may make Mrs. Spooner uncomfortable with their, ah, good wishes.”

  Odysseus inclined his head slightly, and instantly began signing loudly in Russian, stomping his feet and banging the table rhythmically.

  Ford grabbed Jo’s hand to prevent her from clapping along. When he nodded toward the door, she smiled and followed him. The sounds of a roomful of inebriated men singing very badly in even worse Russian followed them into the inn and up the stairs.

  Ford sighed with contentment as the Nightingale passed between the port’s sentinel castles. The ship’s repairs were completed and the open sea was before them. Monsieur Pallet had been charged with taking Appleton’s profits back to St. Kitts. Most importantly of all, Jo was his wife.

  Perhaps only in his wildest imaginings had he thought they could marry. He still had deep reservations about where they would be able to settle and be accepted, but for now, they were safe and at home aboard his ship.

  Ford knew of a few couples who’d married outside their race. He feared Jo would face more ramifications than he and it burned in his belly to know he could do little to prevent the cruel remarks and social rejection she would suffer beyond search for a place to live that was more tolerant of interracial marriages. Where that would be, he knew not.

  Jo came on deck, crossing to him and stealing his breath again with her dazzling, happy smile. He drew her arm through his.

  “How long will it take us to reach Caracas?”
she asked. Odysseus had found a tobacco farmer with a shipment that needed to reach Venezuela, and when Jo had said she’d like to see Venezuela, it was decided.

  “Two weeks at the most,” he replied with a silent prayer that they not encounter another hurricane.

  He glanced down at his wife’s face and saw worry crease her brow. He wondered if she was thinking of their brush with a hurricane as well.

  “Is slavery still legal in Venezuela?”

  “No,” he answered. “They abolished it a few years ago after gaining independence from Spain.”

  She nodded and turned her gaze back to the horizon. “That’s good.”

  “Jo…I am well-used to surviving in this world as I am. Comments and suspicion are nothing I haven’t dealt with every day of my life. Even when my father was alive, I had people question my legitimacy, my rights.”

  Her gaze returned to his face. “I know. I just—I feel so—I don’t know how to describe how I feel,” she finished lamely. “In England, I never considered the issue of slavery, and once here, I suppose I thought it was a thing of the past. I feel so ignorant, so naïve to have—”

  “Shh,” he interrupted, smoothing a wisp of silky hair behind her ear. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he murmured. “You had your own safety to worry about.”

  “But—” she began and this time he interrupted her with a quick kiss.

  “One day at a time. I imagine you’ll have many instances to learn about bigotry in the years to come, and for that I am sorry.”

  “You should not apologize,” she said fiercely. “Besides, I don’t care what anyone else says. I only care that we’ll be together.”

  Ford smiled as he gazed into her upturned face. He would do everything in his power to shield her from the unpleasantness of life, and love her through the things he could not protect her from.

  As it had recently been wont to do, his body was oblivious to the gravity of the conversation and chose that moment to remind him that he was a newly married man with a beautiful, loving, and eager wife. Ford took a quick survey of the ship, saw everything in order, and turned back to Jo with a devilish grin.

  “You look weary, wife. Perhaps you should retire to our cabin.”

  “Oh I’m not the least bit—”

  He saw the moment his meaning became clear. Her skin took on a dewiness that had nothing to do with the humidity of the sea air, her cheeks and neck flushing, her eyes sparkling. She bit her lower lip.

  “But it’s not yet noon!” she whispered urgently.

  He chuckled softly. “We’re at sea, love. There’s no law against marital relations in the daylight hours.”

  A slight frown puckered her forehead. “Is there such a law on land?”

  Ford suppressed his chuckle and pretended to consider her question. “I don’t believe there is. We can, of course, consult a legal expert when we reach shore.”

  By the quirk of her lips he could tell she had caught on to his jest. But instead of laughing, she lowered her eyelids slightly, leaned closer to him, and in a seductive voice murmured, “Good.”

  Ford felt the word race over his skin, not unlike St. Elmo’s fire up amongst the rigging during a thunderstorm. He cleared a throat suddenly gone tight. “Shall I escort you, my lady?” he asked, offering his arm.

  “I think that would be best,” she replied, taking his arm as if they were back in the Lieutenant Governor’s ball. Ford pointedly ignored the glances from his crew as they crossed the deck and climbed down the narrow staircase.

  Ford came awake with a start, trying to figure out what had woken him. He heard the usual creaks and clangs, the padding of sailor’s feet as they went about their business. But something was amiss: he was sure of it. He gently disentangled himself from Jo’s arms, tucking the sheet up over her shoulders as he climbed out of bed and drew his clothes on. He had just pulled his second boot on when he straightened abruptly. There were too many feet on deck. He was sure of it.

  He raced out of the cabin, realizing that the ship was not moving and nearly ran into Bodega who was coming to fetch him.

  “What’s happened?”

  “We were hailed by another ship,” the man panted. “Thought they needed help, but—”

  Ford ducked back into his cabin and grabbed his pistol before racing up on deck, Bodega at his heels.

  He saw the other ship—a schooner—tied off to the Nightingale’s starboard deck. At least a dozen men who were not his crew and who were heavily armed spread out on his deck.

  Odysseus looked furious as he stood beside a man Ford assumed was the other ship’s captain.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ford demanded as he crossed to his first mate and the other captain. The man was tall and clearly strong. He was several days past a shave and his clothes, while of expensive cut and fabric, were soiled and crumpled.

  The man smiled broadly as Ford stopped in front of him. “And who might you be, boy?”

  Ford felt the pulse in his cheek from clenching his jaw too tightly and forced himself to relax enough to bite out, “I am the captain and owner of this vessel. Who the hell are you?”

  “A freedman with his own ship? I can die happy now, boys!” he called out. “I’ve seen it all. I am Jan Degroot, at your service,” he finished with a mocking bow. As the man straightened, he continued his brash dialogue. “Imagine going from chopping cane to steering a ship. Perhaps someday you’ll tell me how a slave managed to get your hands on such a fine ship. I’m sure it’s a riveting story.”

  “The captain was never a slave,” Odysseus bit out. Ford looked at his first mate and saw the man’s hands clenched into tight fists. A pulse beat visibly at his temple and his ruddy complexion was nearly purple with suppressed rage. Ford frowned and shook his head slightly, trying to tell the man to keep hold of his temper. Degroot’s men were too heavily armed—with more in the rigging of the other ship—to have any physical confrontation end well. Ford would need to try and negotiate with these pirates.

  “Not ever a slave you say?” He peered at Ford. “A mulatto, eh? Your pappy must have taken a liking to your mama. Lucky you. That must explain why you feel no compunction about being a slaver.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ford snapped. “I am no such thing.” He forced the hand holding his pistol to relax and willed the pounding in his head to quiet so he could focus.

  “That’s not how I hear it in Havana. Word there is you turn quite the handsome profit bringing slaves to Brazil. Don’t know why I haven’t heard of you before.”

  Ford forced himself to inhale slowly through his nose. “That’s because I don’t run slaves. Whoever told you otherwise was either a fool or believed you were.” He made sure the man knew exactly which version Ford believed.

  The broad smile on Degroot’s face faded into an ugly sneer as Ford’s meaning sunk in. The man stepped forward with a swing of his arm but Ford anticipated it. He ducked aside, stepping forward himself to come up behind his foe, his left arm circling round the man’s neck and pressing his pistol to the man’s temple with his right.

  Odysseus bellowed a Slavic war cry and began pummeling everyone around him. As if it were planned, the rest of Ford’s crew attacked the invading sailors and the deck erupted into a roiling mass of wrestling, punching, fighting men. The other captain drove his elbow into Ford’s midriff. Ford grunted but held on, delivering a glancing blow to the other man’s head with his pistol.

  Shots rang out, fired by the sailors in the rigging of the slaver ship but Ford knew they were simply trying to threaten his men. As tightly enmeshed as the fighting men were, there was no way the armed men could aim accurately without risking hitting one of their own.

  “Call your men off!” Ford shouted. “Tell them to stand down!”

  “Fuck off!” The other captain snarled. Ford cocked his pistol, prepared to end this once and for all.

  “As you wish,” he said, his finger slowly squeezing on the trigger. At that moment, however, a
flash of red caught his eye as a tingle of awareness rippled down his spine. He glanced over to see Jo being dragged onto the deck by two of the enemy sailors. He felt every muscle in his body tense as he prepared to launch himself across the deck and destroy the men who dared lay a hand on Jo.

  Degroot must have felt the change in Ford’s stance and thinking he was about to shoot, or realizing he was distracted by Jo’s appearance, the man let his body go limp, slipping from Ford’s grasp and immediately coming up to clock Ford beneath the chin with his elbow.

  Ford’s head rocked back and his teeth clacked painfully. He swung blindly, feeling his knuckles connect with the side of Degroot’s face. He pushed the man aside, intent on reaching his wife. He was halfway across the deck when Degroot tackled him from behind. He pummeled whatever body part he could reach of his opponent while struggling to keep his gaze on Jo.

  She pulled against her captors, clawing and scratching as she screamed like a banshee. Pride grew apace with his fury and he kneed Degroot in the stomach before scrambling closer to his wife.

  The two men who held her must have finally realized they each outweighed her. One shouted instructions to the other and before Ford could climb to his feet, one of their men scooped up Jo’s kicking feet while the other bear-hugged her from behind, trapping her flailing arms. She managed to fling her head back, cracking the man’s nose and making it gush blood, but the men quickly moved to the rail and made to throw her over.

  “No!” Ford bellowed. The men glanced over, looking not at Ford, but at their captain who had regained his feet.

  “Wait,” Degroot ordered. “Call off your men,” he told Ford. “Call them off and we’ll spare her. Otherwise, she’s an anchor.”

  Ford hesitated. If he acceded, Jo might face a fate worse than death. He and his men could probably defeat their attackers but he had no idea if his wife could swim, if she could manage to stay afloat long enough for them to gain the upper hand and rescue her.