Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  The conversation flowed around him, his men realizing that he did not wish to participate. He felt someone’s staring at him and knew it was Jo. He would have to face her, and soon. She deserved an explanation, some excuse for his behavior.

  She’d risked her life to rescue him. Christ, she’d nearly been raped! The thought of what she’d gone through made him physically ill , and he pushed his plate away. The food roiled in his gut and he thought he might have to flee the table. A short knock on the door heralded the entrance of Bodega, who was on watch.

  He leaned next to Ford and said, “Capitain, Thomas requests your presence on deck. He is unsure of which route you wish to take. I can tell him—”

  “No, no. I’ll see to it. Thank you, Bodega.”

  Ford stood abruptly, nodding at the table in general. As he reached the door, he saw from the corner of his eye Jo half-stand as if to follow him. He also saw Odysseus place a gentle restraining hand on her arm. Then he was out the door, bolting down the passageway and up the steep stairs to the deck.

  He was ten kinds of fool and a coward to boot, he told himself, to be relieved to be out of the saloon and away from Jo’s wounded gaze. He knew it and yet he was unable to stifle the urge.

  He turned to answer another question from one of his men, glad for the distraction from his thoughts. He offered to take first watch and later stumbled to sleep, curled up on a pallet in the saloon.

  By the end of the third day at sea, Ford had slipped into a safe routine of busy-ness that kept him moving from first light until dinner. When he entered the saloon for the evening meal, he noticed Jo was absent.

  “Madame, she is not feeling so well,” Pallet offered. “She retired early.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he murmured, hating the relief that coursed through his veins. His appetite had returned and he was glad to be able to linger over his meal without having to invent an excuse to leave before it was over.

  Tonight it was Odysseus’ gaze that weighed heavily on him. He looked to his first mate with raised brows, daring him to speak, but the compassion and understanding in the other man’s eyes was so disconcerting, Ford found his own gaze dropping to study the food on his plate. The conversation flowed around him, a low monotone without Jo’s lighter voice in harmony as she laughed and conversed with his men. He experienced a helpless longing for her presence, her light touch, her gentle smile. Even before he could form the notion of seeking her out, however, he felt his body start to shake and knew he could not be near her. Not now, not—well, not now. Some primitive, wounded part of his brain urged him to flee, to protect himself, even though his reason told him he was safe. And why would he need to flee from Jo in the first place? She was not responsible for his imprisonment. He shook his head, pulling himself out of his dark thoughts, to discover most of the men had finished their meal and were preparing to disperse to their stations or their bunks.

  He shoveled a few more bites of food into his mouth, preparatory to heading up on deck when Odysseus’ low voice stopped him.

  “A woman no like to be kept away from someone who needs her,” he said evenly, as he methodically pared an orange.

  “What are you talking about?” Ford asked sharply, though he knew what the man meant. God help him, he knew.

  Odysseus slowly ate a section of the fruit and Ford wanted to shout at the man to hurry up and say what he wanted to say.

  “It is a woman’ nature to care for those she loves,” he finally said. “When she is denied that, she dies a little inside.”

  “Pallet said she was only tired.” Ford racked his memory but wasn’t sure that was exactly what the Frenchman said.

  Odysseus shrugged and ate another slice of orange. “You know the missus better than me, Captain.”

  “That’s right,” Ford snapped. “I do.” But even as he said it, he knew his first mate was right.

  He shoved back from the table and stood. He paused to say something but no words came, so he stomped out of the room and went up on deck.

  Unfortunately tonight, the wind and the ocean and the Nightingale did not soothe his soul as they normally did, and by the time he returned to the now-empty saloon to make up his bed, he felt prickly and irritable.

  But when he opened the door, the saloon wasn’t empty. Jo stood at the long, narrow set of windows, her gaze turned to the stars. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, and she was wrapped in a large shawl he’d bought for her in Havana. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen but she was as far from him as the stars at which she was gazing.

  He cleared the tightness from his throat, but his voice was still raspy as he said, “Is there something you need?”

  She turned her head slowly, as if she’d known he was there all along. In the light of the one lantern, her eyes looked as dark as the sea.

  “I need my husband,” she said quietly.

  His blood was rushing in his ears as he shook his head slightly. “No you don’t,” he rasped.

  She turned fully toward him. “Yes I do,” she contradicted. “And he needs me.”

  He tried to shake his head again, but he was frozen in place. She took a small step toward him and then two more, coming around the table until only empty space was between them.

  He felt dizzy from lack of air and forced himself to take a deep breath and then another. He needed to be outside, up on deck. The walls of the room were suddenly too close, the air too thick.

  She was only a step away from him. He closed his eyes but he could feel her. He opened them again to find her reaching a tentative hand toward him.

  “No!” he gasped, taking a rapid succession of backward steps until he felt the closed door at his back. He looked around the room—anywhere but at the hurt in her eyes.

  “You don’t understand,” he finally managed.

  “What don’t I understand?” she asked. “Tell me. Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do to reach you.” She held her hands palms up in supplication, her expression pleading, but he turned away and stalked to the other side of the room, putting the table back between them.

  “Ford, you have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything!” he bellowed. “You don’t know what it’s like, what it was like. To be—to have that absolute prick treating me like—” he couldn’t manage to complete a sentence before the next words tumbled out. Images flashed in front of his eyes, not only of the things he’d endured, but stories he’d heard as a child, terrible horror stories from former slaves. They roiled together in his mind, mingled with the physical torture he’d endured, until he could not discern what was real: what were his experiences and what were those of his ancestors.

  “You don’t understand,” he snarled. “You could never understand.”

  It was difficult to tell, but even in the wan lantern light, it seemed her face drained of all color, until it was as bleached as bone. Or perhaps it was her sudden stillness that struck him—the rigidity that held her as immobile as a carved statue.

  When she spoke, it was low and fierce and raised the hairs on his arms with its power.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to sit chained in a shed. I don’t know what it’s like to be deemed inferior because of the color of my skin

  “But I do know what it’s like to be beaten for the smallest infraction. To be grabbed by my arms and shaken because I dropped a teaspoon. Or to be struck because I didn’t wear the gown I was instructed.”

  Her fingers lightly touched her temple, as if gingerly touching a bruise and at the sight, Ford’s stomach plummeted sickly.

  Her voice grew in intensity, though the volume remained low. “I know what it’s like to be thrown against a dresser, to hear a rib crack not because I’d done anything wrong, but simply because his business deal had fallen through.

  “And I know what it’s like to be told you are someone’s property, to know they can do whatever they want to you and no one will stop them. They could kill you if they chose
and the servants would not lift a finger to help and the police wouldn’t even inquire because you are considered his property.”

  She took a ragged breath and this time her voice was loud, filling the small cabin. “I may not know all the things you’re feeling right now, but I understand, at least a little, what you’ve gone through. And I know that shutting out the person who loves you the most only means you are allowing Degroot and Ramsey to win!”

  She drew another audible, shuddering breath as they stared at one another. Ford’s face and fingers felt numb and he realized that he’d been breathing rapidly and shallowly during her outburst. He forced himself to take a slow deep breath and found it was as ragged as Jo’s.

  “It’s not just that,” he said finally, though the words felt pulled from him by force.

  “Then what is it?” she asked gently.

  He clenched his jaw until he felt muscles bulge in his cheeks. He did not want to admit his deepest, most vulnerable fears with her. It took a physical effort to release his jaw so he could answer.

  “It’s not the physical punishments, he began. “It’s not just being taken prisoner. I mean—” he expelled a harsh breath. “Fuck this is hard,” he muttered.

  He glanced at Jo and her steady gaze helped him focus, though he found he could not look at her for long.

  “There are…emotions tied to my mother’s past, her people—my people—that have always been at odds with the life I lived as my father’s son. And in that dark fucking shed, I came face to face with them.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching his jaw as if it still itched from his beard.

  “Go on,” she said softly.

  He stared at the scarred surface of the table and forced himself to continue.

  “Degroot didn’t just take my freedom or that of my men. He took you.”

  “What? He didn’t—”

  “I was powerless to protect you!” he snarled.

  “But you gave yourself up to save me,” she cried.

  He ignored her and continued, “I was a helpless pawn who was forced to wait while you and Odysseus and Pallet rescued my men. I should have been protecting you, keeping you from harm instead of waiting while you put yourself at risk in the hands of that prick Ramsey. God I wish I could kill him for hurting you!”

  “He’s dead—”

  “Yes, because a girl saved you. Not me!”

  He chanced a look at Jo and found her sympathetic gaze had turned fierce, as if she was angry.

  “Is this—” she paused and a look of realization came over her face. “You’re angry because I saved myself? And you? Because I didn’t just wring my hands and wait for you to save me yet again?” Her voice had risen in pitch until it was shrill.

  “What? That’s not—”

  “It is!” she cried. “Do you—do you not want a wife who is capable? Who loves you so much that she would risk everything for you? Do you wish for me to—” she glanced frantically around the salon as if searching for an example. “To quake at shadows as I did when you first met me? Do you only wish to save me from myself like when I shot Livingston? Rescue me from unpleasantness and perhaps imprisonment on St. Kitts?”

  “Stop,” he said hoarsely.

  “Is that my appeal? That I am a perpetual maiden in distress and the notion that I might be capable of more is so distasteful that you no longer want anything to do with me?”

  “No! That’s not—you just don’t—”

  “I know; I just don’t understand. But here’s what you don’t understand, Ford. I am no longer that woman who needs saving. I may need help from time to time, and you may even have to help me get out of a disaster now and again, though not, I pray from having shot a man. But never again will I be afraid to be myself, to save myself or those I love. Never will I fear opening myself, trusting, and loving. And that is in large part because of you. You taught me that I was worthy and interesting and so much more than a pitiful wife or a bothersome responsibility.”

  “Of course you’re more than that,” he said softly.

  “But now you won’t even look me in the eye! You can concoct a story about ‘failing to protect me,’ or whatever else you wish to blame, but the truth is obvious. You don’t want a wife who is an equal partner!”

  A million thoughts crowded to the front of Ford’s mind and he couldn’t sort them out fast enough to speak. He felt like a fish on land, his mouth gaping, trying to form a sentence.

  Across the short distance between them, his wife stared at him expectantly, and when he still said nothing, her expression changed. The passion that had suffused her face with color and purpose faded until she was pale and expressionless. She lifted a shaking hand to her lips, as if they’d gone numb.

  Unable to bear her pain, hating that he was the cause of it, he was just about to reach for her when she suddenly jerked and fled from the room, leaving him staring at an empty doorway, cursing himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jo spent the next few days alternating between feeling heartbroken for her husband’s pain and tortured thoughts, and angry at him for keeping them apart, for refusing to talk to her. As the days progressed, however, and he continued to maintain a distance between them, her anger began to win out over her compassion.

  She wasn’t the only one affected by their estrangement. She wondered if word of their conversation had got out, for the entire crew with the exception of Odysseus seemed to be walking on eggshells whenever the two of them were in the same place. On deck, if Jo came up to stretch her legs, jokes and laughter would become unnaturally loud as the crew engaged in an exaggerated bonhomie, as if that would make everything seem more normal.

  Jo couldn’t help but notice that Ford also joined in the forced normalcy, suddenly becoming immersed in a task like checking their position with the sextan. As she saw him scurry to lift the brass instrument yet again as soon as she came on deck one evening, she almost laughed. Either they were plotting the most intricate route, or they were hopelessly lost and he was desperately trying to find their way home.

  Odysseus approached her, bidding her good evening and inquiring if she’d enjoyed her dinner. She’d eaten in her cabin tonight, not having the energy for the forced joviality of the men at the table. Odysseus alone of the crew did not try to pretend everything was normal. He was, as always, friendly and deeply respectful of her, but he’d also spoken frankly about her and Ford’s estrangement, urging her to understand her husband’s perspective, but admonishing her not to roll over and accept Ford’s distance.

  “We arrive in Barbados tomorrow, afternoon at latest.”

  Odysseus’ news broke through the muffled haze in her mind “Barbados? Do we need supplies? I thought we were well stocked.”

  “The Frenchman found a small shipment that needed delivery. It will turn us nice profit to replace Appleton’s money and replenish your dowry.”

  “My—I don’t care about that,” Jo said, focusing on the pale blue-green of the horizon, noting the ephemeral deepening of the color as she lifted her gaze: cerulean to peacock to indigo.

  “A lady should always have her own money,” the Russian said, a note of teasing in his voice. “She never knows when she will have to rescue husband from one scrape or other.”

  An involuntary laugh escaped Jo at his irreverent joke.

  “Yes, well, I trust we won’t encounter any more illegal slave traders, on this voyage at least.”

  Odysseus shrugged. “If we do, we will not be out-armed this time.” At Jo’s raised brows, he explained, “The shipment we carry is a load of rifles. A box of pistols, too, I believe.”

  Jo felt her eyes widen. “How did we come to acquire such a commission? And didn’t we have a cargo of tobacco from Havana?”

  His heavy brows lifted slightly, “The Frenchman is very canny. He make friends and business arrangements as easy as most men drink ale. He arrange sale of tobacco and commission of firearms in less than an hour back in Rio.”

  “He is very, ah, i
ndustrious,” she remarked with a smile. She hadn’t even realized Pallet was not with her the entire time they were in Brazil.

  A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched the indigo sky above them grow in velvety darkness, sparkling to life with the diamond shine of stars and the luminescent glow of the half moon.

  “What if he doesn’t come back to me, Odysseus?” Jo whispered, a hitch in her voice.

  She heard the rustle of his clothes and could feel the weight of his gaze as he stared at her in the moonlight. He said nothing, simply laid a warm, comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “Captain!” the man in the crow’s nest called as the Nightingale slowly approached the port at Bridgetown.

  Jo could make out at least a dozen other ships in the harbor in the waning rays of the sun. Across the deck she saw Ford glance up. The man scrambled down so quickly he nearly fell. Ford frowned and Jo’s heart leapt in fear. She glanced all around them, but the night was peaceful and quiet. As casually as she could, she continued her walk, arranging her path so she could end up out of sight behind Ford, but still able to hear what had startled the seaman so.

  “Cap’n!” the man said again once he’d reached the deck. “It’s her!”

  “Who?” Ford asked, his voice calm but tight and Jo wondered if he knew what the man meant.

  “The slaver ship!”

  Ford’s voice when he answered was still quiet, but the tension had increased so that it was like the hiss of a venomous snake.

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Recognize her sails, sir. Remember when she first came upon us what a strange sail configuration she had.”

  “Surely it wasn’t that unique,” Ford said. “I certainly don’t remember the sail placement and I was on the damned ship.”