Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

The fear in Jo’s face as she stared over the rail was answer enough.

  “Hold!” he shouted. “Crew of the Nightingale, stand down!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jo shook her head at Ford’s command, trying to tell him not to surrender on her account. She was reasonably sure she could remain afloat if thrown overboard. A massive, grimy hand clamped over her mouth prevented her from calling out and she watched in helpless fury as Ford’s men stopped fighting. The other ship’s crew delivered several extra blows to their opponents.

  “That’s enough, boys,” Degroot called out finally. “It seems our good captain here has come to his senses. Discretion and valor and all that shite, am I right?” he asked with a leering grin at Ford.

  Jo struggled in the clasp of her two captors.

  “Oi!” one of them called to the captain. “Wot ye want us to do wif ‘er?”

  The other captain strolled across the deck and motioned for the men to set her down.

  Jo stumbled, but straightened up to glare at the captain who was eyeing her as if she were a new type of pastry.

  “Well I’ll be. A white woman. Of quality, I’d guess, judging by your skin. Tell me, love, what brought you to be sailing with this lot?” Before she could answer, he turned to her captors. “Any other passengers below?”

  “No sir.”

  “And all alone?” He tsked several times. “You must have fallen on hard times indeed.”

  “I’m not—” Jo began, but the rough man continued as if she’d not spoken.

  “Worry not, sweet lady. You’ve fallen in with a much more…accommodating captain. I’ll see that you get just what you need.”

  Jo’s skin crawled as the intent of his words sank in. She forced her face to remain impassive, allowing only a small snarl of disgust to wrinkle her nose.

  “Like that, is it? Well then, let’s—”

  “Leave her be!” Ford bellowed and the ferocity in his voice made everyone freeze.

  “We will…cooperate with your demands, Degroot, but only if the lady remains unharmed. Untouched,” he clarified sharply.

  “You’ll cooperate regardless. I’ve men armed with pistons in the rigging. They’ll pick you lot off like fish in a barrel.”

  “Derringer percussion cap pistols,” Ford said, unimpressed. “U.S. Navy issue. A good weapon when they were first released, but two decades at sea makes them a bit unreliable. At least in my experience,” Ford added. “As close quarters as we are here, your men are just as likely to be shot as mine. Of course the gun may backfire if it’s not been properly cleaned on a regular basis, though I’m sure your crew are meticulous in their weapon maintenance.”

  Jo heard the sarcastic tone in Ford’s voice and glanced at Degroot’s crew. They were a soiled, ragged lot, for all that they were clearly well fed. Looking at Degroot, she saw his jaw clench in fury as he realized Ford was right.

  Ford raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Now why don’t we discuss this situation like—”

  “Where are the slaves?” Degroot demanded.

  “There are no slaves,” Ford said tightly.

  “You’ve a secret hold where you keep them?” the other man said obstinately.

  “I’ve a bit of tobacco I’m delivering to Venezuela. I don’t trade in humans.” Ford articulated this last sentence with implacable finality.

  Jo saw—as no doubt everyone else on deck did—when the truth sank in his thick skull, for Degroot’s jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth and his complexion took on a mottled hue.

  “Then your gold,” he demanded. “For taking the tobacco.”

  “Won’t receive payment until delivery,” Ford said lightly. “Now we do have a new barrel of salt pork your men might like. Peppercorns in the brine mix give it a nice—”

  “I don’t want your fucking salt pork!” Degroot roared. “I need some fucking slaves to take to Brazil!”

  “As you can see, we haven’t any slaves,” Ford said calmly.

  Jo studied Degroot as his gaze flicked about the deck. He was clearly thinking furiously. The men who stood on either side of her shifted from foot to foot. Except for the wind, the waves, and the creak of rigging, all was quiet on deck. Degroot’s gaze snapped from man to man. At long last, he spoke, a sneer curling his lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I see a handful of healthy, strong bucks that will fetch me top dollar on the auction block.”

  Degroot’s men seemed confused at their captain’s words, but ice filled Jo’s veins and she felt the blood rush from her head as the man spread his hands wide and grinned vilely.

  A hundred things seemed to happen at once: the slaver crew finally grasped what Degroot meant, Ford’s crew resumed fighting, Ford began a sprint across the deck and Degroot turned and grabbed Jo, flinging his arm around her neck and pulling her back flush against him.

  Ford bellowed her name as he slid to a stop. Jo knew he would do anything to protect her, but she would not allow him to give up his life for hers.

  With an unholy scream, she began fighting with everything she had. For several moments she caught Degroot off guard and she managed to kick his shin and claw his face before he recovered.

  “Get that black bastard!” he yelled to the two men beside them, then he clotted her alongside her head, causing bright flashes of light to dance across her vision. Her knees buckled as she heard him snarl, “That’ll teach you, you stupid bitch!”

  Jo felt a feral snarl curl her lips. She’d suffered four years at the hands of Thomas Kent, and had long ago learned how to survive them and that was with only herself to protect. Now, with Ford’s life at stake, she found a strength she’d never before experienced. She pushed against the deck, straightening her legs powerfully and flinging her head back. She was rewarded with a loud crack behind her. She didn’t know if it was Degroot’s teeth clacking together or his nose breaking. What she did know was that his arm around her neck loosened as he cried out in surprise or pain.

  Whirling around, she began kicking and hitting any part of him she could reach.

  “Fucking whoo—Ah!” he yelled as her nails raked along his face, scratching eyelid and cheek. He backhanded her and she felt the familiar sting of a split lip as she fell to the deck.

  She glanced up to see Ford battling two men at once. A cut over one eye sent blood down his face, but if it impeded his vision, she couldn’t tell as he punched and jabbed and ducked.

  She turned back just in time to see Degroot about to deliver a kick to her prone form. She was able to roll just enough that his boot connected with her ribs instead of her stomach, but the impact was enough to rob her of her breath.

  Her eyes watered and there was a roaring in her ears that she realized was Ford. She lifted her head to see him lunging for Degroot, his two other assailants dragging behind as if they weighed no more than a kitten. In spite of the man clinging to his arm, Ford landed a solid punch on Degroot’s chin. The slaver captain returned blow for blow and Ford slowly went down beneath the half dozen swinging arms.

  Ignoring the fire in her ribs, Jo pushed herself to her feet and staggered forward to help. Without conscious thought, she scooped up a wooden mallet and swung it at the back of the closest man in front of her. When the assailant swung around, she caught sight of Ford’s bloodied face as he fought. In her moment of distraction, Degroot tackled her. He threw her over his shoulder, causing her ribs to scream in protest. The world was topsy-turvy as she pummeled his legs and tried to throw herself off his shoulder. Behind him, she saw Ford’s crew slowly going down under the much greater numbers of the slave ship crew. Degroot carried her toward the rail and she realized he meant to throw her over. She fought desperately to escape him, but his fury-driven strength easily overwhelmed her. She felt herself hefted high and in that moment before she dropped, she made eye contact with Ford.

  Time seemed to freeze as they stared at one another and Jo was acutely aware of that visceral connection they always shared even as her heart screa
med at the unfairness of losing him so soon after finding him.

  The last thing she saw before plummeting into the water below was a meaty fist delivering a final blow to her husband. Then the world was surprisingly cold water and rushing bubbles and her split lip stinging from the salt.

  She broke the surface, gasping for breath but quickly went under again. She was not an experienced swimmer, but she kicked as much as her skirts would allow. She pushed her face out of the water, just enough to inhale quickly before once more sinking beneath the waves. Her legs were tangled in the yards of fabric that billowed about her.

  I’m going to die, she thought, and as she struggled to get her face above water for one more breath, she thought of Ford, battered and beaten, about to be taken aboard a slaver ship. She felt a jolt through her veins and despite the tangle of wet fabric, forced herself to the surface where she took a huge gulp of air. She also saw that she’d drifted from the side of the Nightingale. It was still close, but if she kept drifting, she would be lost. She had to rid herself of her skirt, she realized, and as she went underwater again, she closed her eyes and willed herself to be calm. She found the ties to her skirt and fumbled to unknot them. Swollen with water, the tapes were bound tight. She felt panic threatening to overwhelm her and forced it down. One more push to the surface, another gulp of air. She found the edge of a loop of the knot and worked at it, feeling her nail bend back painfully. She kept on, even as her lungs screamed for air. In a rush, the knot came loose and she pulled the ties free, feeling the waistband fall free. Her legs were still wrapped in fabric as she struggled to the surface for a breath, but as she kicked and pushed, she felt the fabric float away and she was suddenly much more buoyant.

  In the intervening minutes, she’d drifted even farther from the Nightingale and the distance allowed her to see that the slaver ship had pulled away, it’s sails billowing. She traced the line of smoke in the sky back to the Ford’s ship and watched in horror as the crew battled a fire, no doubt set by that wretched captain.

  She paddled and kicked inexpertly, feeling her strength wane. She paused to rest, floating on her back, but noticed when she did so, the current carried her back. Then, realizing she might never reach the ship filled her with terror that translated into a boost of energy. At long last, she felt her hand brush the rough wood of the ship.

  Had she breath to spare, she would have sobbed in relief. Above her she heard the men shouting, but there didn’t seem to be a panicked tone to their voices—she hoped that meant they’d put the fire out.

  She realized she couldn’t see the deck, nor could anyone see her when she was pressed up against the ship. She pushed away, letting the waves carry her back again.

  “Odysseus!” she screamed when she saw the Russian at the rail. He was searching the horizon with a telescope, perhaps looking for her.

  “Odysseus!” she called again, then choked as she swallowed seawater. When she tried to call out again, her voice was weak and raspy. She beat the water with her hands, ignoring the sting as she slapped the surface.

  “My lady!” Odysseus called when he saw her. He turned from the rail and disappeared and she almost sobbed in despair until she saw him return with three other men and a length of rope.

  One of the men took the end of the rope and climbed over the rail, jumping neatly into the water.

  Jo’s muscles screamed in exhaustion, but she forced herself to keep kicking to stay afloat as she swam clumsily toward the sailor whose powerful strokes quickly overtook her.

  “I have you, Mrs. Captain,” the man said, wrapping his arm about her as he tied the rope around her waist.

  “We’ll have ye aboard ship in a blink,” he said, towing her back to the ship. He tugged on the rope and a moment later, Jo felt it go taut and then lift her out of the water. She struggled to pull her chemise about her knees but beyond that, she was simply too exhausted to care.

  A minute or perhaps ten later, she felt herself being pulled over the rail.

  “Fetch a blanket!” She heard Odysseus call. He quickly untied the rope and scooped her up into his arms as someone draped a blanket over her bare legs.

  She closed her eyes in relief as the first mate carried her below deck.

  “Ford!” she gasped, opening them again and struggling to lift her head.

  “Easy, my lady, easy.” He pushed the captain’s cabin door open and gently deposited her on the berth, but she scrambled immediately to her feet, her exhaustion forgotten as she worried about her husband.

  “Ford! Did they take him? Is he hurt?”

  She could see that Odysseus wanted to placate her. She could also see the moment he realized she deserved the truth.

  “He was unconscious when they took him aboard their ship, but I do not believe his injuries were serious.”

  She nodded shortly and turned to grab a length of linen to wrap around her dripping hair. Despite the terror and exhaustion pulling at her mind, she felt acutely focused, no detail of the room, her bedraggled state, or Odysseus missing her notice.

  “Here,” she said, once her hair was in a turban and the blanket secured around her. “Let me clean that cut on your cheek.”

  “It is nothing, my lady.”

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I need to be able to do something.”

  The large Russian sat and as she cleaned and inspected the bloody cut on his cheek, she questioned him. “Hold still. I don’t want to hurt you. Where are they taking him, do you know?”

  “He mentioned Brazil. I guess Valongo in Rio de Janeiro. It is biggest slave market there.”

  “He means to…to sell them, then?”

  She could see the look of anguish streak across his face. “I think so, my lady.”

  She nodded shortly, pressing her lips together. “How far is it to—I said don’t move!” she ordered again, ignoring the twitching of Odysseus’ mouth, a movement that was tantamount to a smile for him.

  “Perhaps six or seven days.”

  “Is Degroot’s boat much faster than ours?”

  A frown gathered his heavy brows.

  “The Nightingale is a fast ship, my lady. She could overtake Degroot’s vessel, but it would do no good as we are outnumbered and unarmed. They seized all our weapons when they left.”

  Jo chewed on her lower lip as she stared at the now clean cut along his cheekbone. She didn’t think it would require stitches, which was just as well as she didn’t think she could bring herself to repeat that procedure in her current state.

  “How many of our men did they take?”

  “Five in total.”

  “Ford and Bodega,” she named. “What were the other men’s names?”

  “Thomas, Bussa, and Jean-Jacques.”

  She nodded. She’d met them all, but had only spoken with the ever-cheerful Bodega.

  “And you think Degroot intends to—” she could not bring herself to say the words.”

  “Sell them into slavery. Da,” Odysseus said grimly.

  “But they’re free men!” she cried. “Isn’t there a way to prove that?”

  “To someone who sells another human, do you think such things matter?” Odysseus asked bitterly.

  “Sell them,” Jo murmured absently, removing the towel turban and twisting her wet hair into a knot. She rummaged through the chest containing her and Ford’s clothes. She had her wedding gown and the dress she’d worn when she fled St. Kitts. And the trousers Ford had thought might come in handy. She untangled them from her dresses and also pulled out one of Ford’s shirts while she thought frantically. At the bottom of the chest, its edge peeking out from a pair of Ford’s underclothes, she saw her leather pouch with the funds Theo had sent her. How the pirates had missed it when they’d clearly torn through the chest was a miracle indeed.

  She turned back to Odysseus, the clothes clutched to her chest.

  “Ford gave Mr. Appleton’s money to Monsieur Pallet to deliver, didn’t he?”

  “Da,”

  “And Mons
ieur Pallet said he was not returning to St. Kitts right away.”

  “Da,” Odysseus said, drawing the word out in question.

  “We’re less than a day out from Havana. We will return there, fetch the money and purchase weapons to replace the ones Degroot’s men took.”

  Odysseus nodded, a frown wrinkling his heavy brow. “You propose to use Appleton’s money to purchase their freedom? I do not think he will be happy to hear that, no matter how highly he regards the captain.”

  “I will use his money only to make up what I don’t have. My brother sent me some,” she explained, handing the heavy pouch to Odysseus.

  He looked inside and his thick eyebrows wriggled like newly awakened caterpillars.

  “What—” she paused at the bitter taste suddenly flooding her mouth. “How much does a slave cost?”

  Odysseus shrugged. “It varies greatly. Perhaps as much as four hundred pounds.”

  “Times five,” she murmured, calculating. “I will count my brother’s money, though I’m sure it will not be enough. We need money and Appleton’s is the easiest and fastest to get our hands on. I will find a way to pay him back,” she said resolutely.

  Odysseus nodded and stood. “I will check on our repairs and set our course.”

  “Odysseus?” Jo called as he opened the door. The large Russian turned back.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. It was hard to tell through her blurred vision, but it appeared the first mate’s eyes were also suspiciously damp and he muttered hoarsely, “Vashim uslugam.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jo felt foolish as she strode across the deck, but her determination far outweighed any misgivings she had about her outfit. She wore the trousers Ford had bought her, rolled up at the ankles as they were rather long. Ford’s shirt, which reached nearly to her knees, had required her to roll the sleeves several times as well. She’d strapped a belt around her waist to both keep the trousers up and the billowing shirt in place. Her boots were certainly worse for wear after their time at sea, but they were in one piece and sturdy. She bound her hair ruthlessly at the nape of her neck and wound a kerchief around her head to keep the wind from blowing distracting hairs about her face. She felt like a pirate of two centuries past.