Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  “I’m traveling to London for an extended visit with my Aunt Prudence,” she answered. She tried and failed to inject any enthusiasm into her tone. Daring a quick look at him, Bristol hastily dropped her eyes. Crisp dark hair curled from the throat of his snowy shirt.

  “Prudence?” he mused. A spark of interest lit his gray eyes. “I’m acquainted with a Prudence in London. Could she be your aunt, I wonder?” He lifted his glass to sensual lips, but lips with a hint of cruelty in the contours, Bristol noticed.

  With a frown, she decided his manners had not improved. On the one hand, she resented his prying questions; on the other, she dreaded a silence between them. In a silence, his eyes... She lowered her head, confused by the thoughts and the flush of warmth in her cheeks. This was maddening; she bit the inside of her cheek. “I doubt it,” she finally said. Truthfully, she couldn’t conceive of any situation in which this man might encounter her aunt. “Prudence Adams isn’t likely to frequent such places as you.” Her face flamed; she’d insulted him without intending to do so. “What I mean is...”

  La Crosse threw back his head and laughed delightedly. “Prudence Adams. And you don’t see her frequenting the same degenerate haunts as I.”

  The color in Bristol’s face deepened to scarlet, and frustration and anger clogged her throat. “No! I... I base that opinion on having seen the richness of your clothing. My aunt would not move in the circles of the wealthy.” She wanted to drop through the floor. Now she was discussing a man’s clothing. She felt embarrassed and infuriated, believing herself maneuvered into an area of questionable respectability. And so easily. Her inexperience galled her.

  “Ah. So this... Prudence Adams is of reduced circumstance?”

  Bristol’s green eyes flashed. He passed the limits of polite conversation. “I can’t see how my aunt’s financial status is of any concern to a stranger!” she snapped. She’d not set aside her pride to the extent of tolerating such personal probing. His manners were appalling.

  Grinning, Jean Pierre watched her, not the least perturbed and appearing to enjoy her discomfort. “You’re quite correct, of course. May I make one further observation regarding your unfortunate aunt, then we’ll leave the topic?” Supremely confident, he continued without waiting for Bristol’s assent. “I’ll venture a wager that you have not met the lady.”

  Taken aback, Bristol narrowed her eyes. How he guessed, she couldn’t imagine. Thinking furiously, she could see no harm in admitting he was right. She relaxed somewhat in the chair and felt an easing of the tensions between them. “I can’t imagine why you’d think so, but as it happens, you’re correct. I’ve not met Aunt Prudence.”

  “Perhaps she’ll prove a pleasant surprise.”

  Bristol stared curiously. “I don’t recall mentioning any apprehensions,” she said finally. He said nothing, but his steady gray gaze indicated he sensed her dread. Bristol drew a breath and sipped her wine. Perhaps she’d misjudged him, perhaps he possessed a keener insight than she’d first suspected. “I... I hope you’re right about that too,” she answered in a less guarded tone. Captain La Crosse confounded her. Hard one moment, charming the next. She wondered if others found him as perplexing as she did.

  “Enter,” he called in response to a knock at the door.

  A young boy, perhaps twelve years old, pushed through the doorway, balancing a tray on one thin shoulder. “Supper, sir.”

  Jean Pierre waved his glass toward a table glittering with silver. “Mistress Adams?”

  Bristol stepped forward, waiting while the boy cleared Goodwife Able’s place and lit a wax candle. She slid into a chair bolted to the planking and looked at the table, trying not to gape. The table setting was richer than any she’d imagined.

  Instead of wooden trenchers, delicate china plates gleamed before her and each person was provided a fork of polished silver. Awed, Bristol thought of the solitary china saucer in Hannah’s cupboard, a treasured item. What would Hannah think of this rich display? Bristol shook her curls, dry-eyed. She refused to dwell on thoughts of home.

  Young Master Boyd snapped a square of linen and draped it across Bristol’s lap, doing the same for Captain La Crosse. Wide-eyed, Bristol studied the table and inhaled the scents of better food than she’d expected to taste on board ship. Captain La Crosse lived very well indeed. After a moment she shifted her attention to the casual flow of conversation between Captain La Crosse and the boy.

  “... any appointments tonight?” Jean Pierre teased, pouring more wine into his glass, then Bristol’s.

  “Aye, sir.” The boy brushed at a lock of blond hair falling across his forehead.

  La Crosse laughed. “One would think shore leave had satisfied the men for a while. I’d have supposed business would be slow for at least a week.”

  The boy grinned, his fresh scrubbed face angelic beneath a knit cap. “No, sir. I’m much in demand,” he answered with a hint of pride. Master Boyd served a platter of roast capons in orange sauce and added an array of additional dishes, all steaming deliciously.

  Bristol smiled. Had the boy been red-haired, he would have resembled her second brother, Josh. “How nice,” she murmured, wishing Josh were alive and proud of something.

  The boy started, then dropped his eyes with a blush. Captain La Crosse’s brow rose, and he smiled at Bristol curiously. “I’d have expected a scowl of disapproval Mistress Adams.”

  Uneasily Bristol lifted her wineglass, wishing she’d paid greater attention to the start of the conversation. She felt a growing sense of discomfort. “I’m afraid I misunderstand. Would you be kind enough to explain, Captain?” She stressed the word “Captain,” reminding him of his earlier instruction.

  La Crosse ignored the implication. He flicked a glance at the boy, who fled the room. A sardonic smile played about La Crosse’s lips. “The boy is a whore,” he said flatly, refilling his glass.

  Bristol choked, wine spilling into her lap. She looked quickly toward the closed door, then back to Jean Pierre. Her wide green eyes registered disbelief. “A... a...?” She couldn’t say the word.

  “A whore,” La Crosse finished for her, amusement in his eyes. He shrugged and tore a capon in two. “Master Boyd is a most enterprising young lad. Most cabin boys are subjected to certain... indignities... by force. Master Boyd submits willingly. But for a price, and on his own terms. The lad makes a handsome business of it.” La Crosse laughed. “By the time he reaches his majority, Master Boyd will be a wealthy young man.”

  Bristol sputtered. “Bu... that... that’s terrible! How can you allow such an abomination?” She set her shaking glass on the table. Suddenly she lost interest in the food. An unbidden picture leaped to the front of her thoughts: Master Boyd’s sweet face and the sailor with the black eye patch. She pressed her linen hard against her lips.

  Leaning back in his chair, La Crosse studied her with an expressionless face. “Mistress Adams. You’re speaking from youthful innocence. The world is not a pretty place. Nor moral, according to the concepts you’ve been taught. These things occur... and worse.”

  “But... but... that little boy and the others...” She fought a lump of revulsion. “They can be hanged for... for...” She waved a helpless hand, hating herself for a prudish reluctance to say the words; but never had she imagined herself discussing such topics. The words stuck in her Puritan throat.

  “Homosexuality,” he said in an amused tone. “However, you are speaking of New England. Other countries aren’t so rigid.” His broad shoulders rose and fell. “Why concern yourself? One person cannot change a hundred years of custom. Besides, the arrangement is agreeable to all involved.”

  “But it’s wrong! A hanging offense!” Her voice rose. “You must stop this at once. As captain of this ship, it’s your responsibility to save Josh... I mean, that boy!” She leaned forward, meeting his gaze.

  La Crosse stared, and his eyes darkened to flint. “Mistress Adams, I do not need you or anyone else to interpret morality on board my ship, nor to
dictate my responsibilities.” His voice turned to ice. “Master Boyd would defend his right of choice to his dying breath. What he does is of his own choosing. Would you prefer him raped? The path he’s chosen will one day ensure a comfortable future he would not otherwise have.”

  Bristol lifted her hands, dinner forgotten. “But how can you look at that little boy and show such inhuman disregard? You should—”

  “That is quite enough, Mistress Adams.” His voice was soft and dangerous, cutting to bone. His eyes glittered. “I did not invite you to share my table with any thought of enduring a lecture. Don’t meddle in things you know nothing about.”

  Bristol’s face colored, and she dropped her eyes, feeling about ten years old. Her hands curled into tight balls. How could she have thought for a moment that Captain Jean Pierre La Crosse possessed any charm? He elevated himself above morality and church law and state; outside everything Bristol understood. If God were indeed merciful, then this would be the last she saw of Captain La Crosse during this voyage. And the meal couldn’t end quickly enough to please her.

  They ate in strained silence. Bristol yearned to leave; even her sour cell was preferable to sitting in Captain La Crosse’s company. She was appalled by his libertine attitudes and shocked at seeing the results. Each bite stuck in her throat, and her chest constricted with disgust.

  Once she lifted her face, determined to say more, but seeing the warning in his stormy eyes, she stopped the words on her lips. Why didn’t he close the collar of his shirt or wear a cravat? The dark hair curling from his chest was oddly disturbing. She resented the sheer maleness of Captain La Crosse, the lack of softening qualities. And his clear gray eyes unnerved her, causing a tension in the pit of her stomach. She stabbed at her capon, irritated by the confused jumble of conflicting emotion.

  The instant she’d eaten what she could, Bristol threw down her linen and slid from the chair. “Thank you, Captain,” she said curtly. She tossed her head and reached for her cloak. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  His eyebrow rose, and he smiled. “As you wish. I’ll ring for Mr. Aykroyd.” He tugged a rope near the table and stood.

  “I’d rather not wait,” Bristol snapped impatiently. She wanted a breath of fresh air; she wanted to be away from his eyes and his authority. Her hand touched the door latch.

  “Foolish little girl,” he said softly. A blush climbed Bristol’s neck. “That is not only idiotic but also dangerous.”

  Each time she’d encountered Jean Pierre La Crosse, he’d called her a fool. It was not to be borne. Bristol’s chin rose in defiance and pride; her green eyes flashed fire. “I assure you I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you?”

  Suddenly she was in his arms, iron bands pressing her body tightly against his. His steady eyes laughed into her face. Outraged, Bristol squirmed against his lean, taut body, struggling in his arms. “Let me go!” she hissed, her fists striking his chest. She thrashed, her body moving against hard, unyielding flesh. Her eyes flared wide as she felt the quick hardening response growing between his legs. A sure hand cupped her buttocks and pressed her against that demanding heat.

  “Can you?” he repeated, his eyes on her mouth.

  A bolt of lightning shot through Bristol’s body, and her lips trembled helplessly in a hot face. She felt the fire between their bodies, and her expression froze in horror.

  His hand lifted her chin, and smoldering eyes stared into her wide green gaze. “Can you take care of yourself, Mistress Adams?” he asked softly. “So beautiful,” he murmured. His eyes lingered on the curve of her lips. Pushing against his arms, Bristol wrenched her face violently to the side. Her breath spurted in short frightened gasps.

  He stroked her cheek with his thumb and pulled her roughly to his body, molding her to his hard frame. Then, laughing lightly, La Crosse stepped away, releasing her. He’d succeeded in demonstrating her lack of power.

  Bristol staggered against a row of books, her breath emerging in ragged whispers of fright and outrage. “How dare you!” Her voice was embarrassingly shaky. “How dare you!”

  Her rebellious body burned where his flesh had pressed hers, and she hated herself for this revolting and confusing response. Frightened at her helplessness, she wondered what might have happened if La Crosse had decided to press his advantage. He was master of the ship; there was no one to beg for assistance, no one who would dare help her.

  “You... you...” Words eluded her in the rush of fury at the slow grin lifting his mouth. “I’ll never come here again!” Her cheeks burned at the pallid threat, but it was all she had. Bristol smoothed her brown gown with trembling fingers, fighting for a semblance of dignity.

  Behind her, the door cracked, and Mr. Aykroyd called.

  But before Bristol could respond, La Crosse’s hand shot forward, capturing her wrist. His eyes touched her breasts and thighs, a dark flicker in the depths. “It’s a long voyage. You will be back,” he said softly. “There are depths in you that you don’t yet recognize.” He pulled her against his body, letting her feel the hard readiness of his need; then he released her. Bristol heard him laugh as she fled into the passageway.

  6

  A week out of Salem harbor, Jane Able felt well enough to sit up and attempt solid food. Mercifully, she held it on her stomach. Bristol watched each bite with tired eyes and drooping shoulders. Goodwife Able’s seasickness had been an ordeal. In her heart, Bristol felt if Jane cried out in her nasal voice, “I want to die,” just once more, Bristol would be tempted to oblige her.

  Sighing, Bristol pushed at a strand of limp red hair. She’d reached a point of desperate longing for one uninterrupted night of sleep—without the assault of moans and retching. And fighting.

  Nearly every night had been interrupted by midnight scufflings outside their locked door. Each time, Bristol and Jane had bolted upright in their cots and stared at the door, wide-eyed with fright, listening to muffled swearing and the clash of brawling along the passageway. Even when a creaking silence returned, neither woman could sleep. The wakeful nights had resulted in smudged eyes and frayed tempers.

  But, Bristol thought gratefully, at least tonight she could rest without listening for Jane, as Goody Able seemed on the mend. Jane had proved out as Bristol first suspected. Not a warm woman, but a pious one. Even throughout the worst of her sickness, Jane prayed twice daily, and her pinched disapproval drove Bristol to the planks as well. Jane seemed determined to use the voyage to better Bristol’s soul, both in conversation and prayer. Jane and her family had witnessed Bristol’s whipping, and she felt it her Christian duty to lecture Bristol at every opportunity.

  Bristol heaved another small sigh. Even so, Jane’s company was better than none. Not by much, she thought, but enough.

  These gloomy thoughts needed interruption, and Bristol raised a hopeful face toward the knock at their door.

  Mr. Aykroyd leaned inside with a cheerful smile, delivering a message from Captain La Crosse. “Now that ye be hale, Goody Able, the captain requests the presence of both ye ladies at his table this evening.”

  “No, thank you!” Bristol said vehemently.

  “Aye!” Jane answered.

  Each looked at the other in surprise. Jane spoke first, her nasal tone grating across Bristol’s ragged nerves. “Why, Bristol Adams... you’ve spoken of little else but escaping this cabin. Now you refuse a perfect opportunity. Such contrary attitudes are not becoming.” Her tone was acid, and the crease deepened between her eyes.

  “I’d rather stay in this stifling cabin than eat with Jean Pierre La Crosse!” Bristol leaned wearily against the bulkhead and folded her arms across her breast. “And I’d advise you to refuse as well.”

  “Whatever for?” Jane’s round face studied Bristol with reproof. “You forget, I’ve not had a breath of fresh air in a week!”

  Bristol didn’t answer. Let Jane go. To be alone, blessedly alone, without Jane’s nasal voice rasping in her ear—the prospect sounded wonderfully welco
me. But she should say something. “He’s a monster,” she snapped. Her conscience was salved; at least she’d given Jane a small warning.

  Mr. Aykroyd chuckled from the doorway. “Then the captain be the finest monster I ever hope to see!” He waggled a teasing finger toward Bristol. “Ye’ll be eating crew’s fare while the other lady dines on roast mutton.” Bristol notched her chin higher and stubbornly looked away. “Very well, gel. When ye glimpse yer supper tray, don’t be thinking I didn’t warn ye.”

  During the next hours, Jane pressed for an explanation, but Bristol remained obstinately silent. “Form your own judgment,” was all she’d say.

  “Very well,” Jane sniffed. “If you propose to be unreasonable, I’ll do just that.” She rummaged under her pillow and withdrew a well-worn copy of the Bible. “‘Tis time for evening devotions,” she announced, managing to sound pious and disapproving at the same time.

  Bristol sighed heavily and bowed her head. She’d grown up in a devoted family atmosphere, but nothing as dedicated as Jane Able. Instead of attending to Jane’s long, rambling prayer, her mind flew ahead to the captain’s cabin. An impish grin played at her full lips, and Bristol quickly lifted her folded hands to hide her mouth.

  She could vividly imagine prudish Jane Able dining with a libertine like Captain La Crosse. The contrast delighted her. Bristol peeked over her tented fingers with sparkling eyes. She wagered Goodwife Able would not remain in the captain’s cabin until dinner, let alone endure an entire meal in his company. And what of the insolent La Crosse? Bristol’s small shoulders shook with repressed mirth.

  She suspected no amount of protests or icy words would silence Goodwife Able—Jane wouldn’t halt a sermon, once begun. And Captain La Crosse’s life-style provided ample material for Goody Able’s critical eye.

  With these delicious thoughts diverting her mind, Bristol felt Goodwife Able’s ritual prayer passed more quickly than any since she’d boarded the Challenger.