The black-hulled frigate swung northward up the coast of England, leaving the Thames River behind, speeding like a great bird past a few islands along the coast in a great curve toward France.
~ * ~
Wherever she went, into whatever waters she pushed her prow, The Scarlet Eagle left a trail of broken ships bloodying the blue waters with the ruddy glow of fires as they flamed downward to destruction. From as far north as the entrance into Holland, near the straits of Dover, to as far south as Spain, the mighty ship pulled down her prey.
True, she confined her attention to the vessels of the French but this discrimination was but little dictated by gallantry. Scott hoped one day to settle in England or in one of the colonies and hence wanted no black mark on his record. He spared the Spanish, in part because they were countrymen of Ricardo’s, but more often because they were almost without exception privateers embarked on the same journey as his own.
By midwinter his name had grown more infamous throughout the waters in his wake. Both north and south knew of him whether they spoke the French tongue or not. He flew the banner of The Scarlet Eagle and men spoke of the fury of his attacks, of his cold and smiling ferocity. But the ones who could speak with any authority were few indeed, for they owed their lives to occasional mistakes on the part of Scott’s crew who, hastening to relieve the doomed ships of their treasure, sometimes failed to make sure that the French they left behind were all dead. Any ship deemed worthy was sent to England with a small crew to collect the prize money offered for any captive ships. They paid handsomely, depositing the funds into Scott’s account.
Scott stood on the deck, his dark eyes were cloudy with dreaming, for his thoughts were far away. "Danielle," just whispering her name was enough to start hot desire pounding in his blood. Like white fire in his mind was the image of her. The last night they had been together he relived over and over, for it had been the happiest day of his life.
What ecstatic rapture a man such as he would know having a woman like that one beside him. A woman who was everything; beauty, fire and passion, bravery. The thought, although disturbing, brought a familiar slow warming to his loins. "Danielle," he whispered once more into the wind.
His mood changed suddenly and he groaned. This was madness! He must keep himself alert or the fate of his men might be endangered. He would push Danielle to the back of his mind for safekeeping to be brought out once in a while when he needed her, otherwise he would keep his mind on the French.
He looked out over the rolling green swells with new determination as his thoughts changed course. Maybe someday he would encounter a French ship flying the colors of his father. Only then would he find an end to the rage pent up inside.
This hatred for his father he had never known was consuming him. Even the thought of Danielle could not drive it away for long. He tried to rationalize this obsession within himself.
His mother! She had been the one most wronged by this scoundrel! He would always hold her love tenderly in his heart. He had been too long away from her warm hearth and the soft bed in his room she always kept aired and ready for his brief visits. He must get back to see her soon.
~ * ~
Danielle, sitting in the drawing room, waited impatiently for David Fitzwater to arrive. She would sit next to Jenny Dominion on the settee for a few minutes, fidgeting nervously, then would suddenly stand to walk across the room to stare out the rain-soaked window, watching the road for any sign of his presence. Anxiously she waited to begin her quest.
There was a certain excitement about the danger she was going to partake in and the adrenaline flowed freely through her veins with the possibilities. Was this why men left their families so easily and went off to sea? The thrill of the unknown?
Deep in her own thoughts she nearly missed seeing a young man push open the gate and start up the walk in the direction of the front door. His head was bent against the rain running in rivulets from the brim of his hat. He looked to be in his early twenties, medium height and leanly built.
His hair, light gold in color was kept tied at the nape of his neck. His dress was neat and that of a gentleman; tight dark brown breeches, white ruffles showing around his wrists beneath the sleeve of a knee length coat the same brown as his pants, a large cloak was pulled carelessly over his shoulders.
Danielle stood in the middle of the floor waiting while Jenny went to answer the door. She waited while he removed his rain-soaked cloak and handed it to Mrs. Dominion. He didn’t look like he would be so apt at weapons, but looks often were deceiving as she well knew.
When he was introduced to her, he swept his hat off in a cavalier fashion, unaware of the water still dripping from its brim. He made a sweeping bow over her hand.
She tried to hide her smile at how ridiculous he looked. The fine courtly type gentleman was certainly not for her. She had gotten used to a more muscular man that towered over her in his height.
When his eyes raised to hers surprise and admiration were obvious. "This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Rochette." He hesitated, staring in wonder at the woman before him. He straightened and turned his head to Jenny Dominion, suddenly remembering what brought him here in the first place. "I understand I was to come at once to see Sir Francis. He is not worse…?"
"Oh no, David. He is fine. Come, I’ll take you to him. Will you excuse us, Danielle?"
At Danielle’s nod, the two left the room. David stopped in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder and smiled at Danielle, before he disappeared down the hall.
She went across to the settee and sat down, waiting. Minutes later she could plainly hear David’s objections echoing down the hall.
"You’ve got to be out of your mind! It’s ridiculous! A woman has no place on the sea!" He was shouting loud enough that anyone could hear.
The voices lowered to normal and she was unable to hear Sir Francis as he surely explained the right of it to David Fitzwater. The door down the hall finally opened and the two came back into the room. There was a smile on Jenny’s face and a scowl on the man beside her.
"Well, Miss Rochette," he voice was heavy with sarcasm as he looked doubtfully toward the young woman who stood facing him, her proud bearing set with determination. "It seems as though, for the grace of God and my country, I must teach you to act like a wild buccaneer. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth, picturing her in men’s clothing.
Danielle crossed the room to stand directly in front of him. "I give you my gratitude and promise you, you won’t be sorry."
"I certainly hope not, Miss Rochette, for both our sakes." He shook his head in doubt.
He left the house just before Sir Francis called her into his room. "I have much to tell you, Danielle. For you to be successful you must know everything. And a few things may surprise you." He rubbed his thumb over his chin in contemplation.
The next hour was spent in confidence, their two heads bent together in conversation. Sir Francis explained that Scott Dominion, a privateer was in fact Jenny’s son. And the fact that he hated the French. He did not explain why Scott hated them so much, however. But because of his feelings and the fact that she loved her son very much she did not want him to know of her involvement in their escapades. Once the immigrants were brought to England, Jenny Dominion was the one who arranged for them to have shelter at the inn until they were ready to move on. Many had family or friends already in England, so left quickly for their own destinations. After Danielle listened to him explain everything, she was proud to be even a small part of the rescue.
Later that day, Danielle waved at Sir Francis when his carriage pulled away taking him home to St. Mary’s. She was thankful she’d had a chance to talk to him before his departure. His explanations cleared up many of her unanswered questions.
She stood silently beside Scott’s mother as the coach disappeared from view.
"I understand Sir Francis told you the situation here." The gray-haired woman broke the silence, her voice friendly, inviting conversation.
"Yes, he did, Mrs. Dominion. Please know my lips would never reveal a thing to anyone."
"Please, Danielle. We’ve become friends. Call me Jenny."
"Thank you, Jenny,’ she spoke her name hesitantly, letting it roll across her tongue with a gentle French accent.
"I know that you must keep what you do a secret from your son, Captain Dominion. I have heard of him, of course, and can imagine his reaction if he were to find out." Danielle’s voice was steady but she kept her face carefully averted from those penetrating gray-green eyes lest her true feelings be discovered. It was hard enough for her to be living with his mother, sleeping in his bed and having him in her thoughts constantly without trying to sound as if he meant nothing to her.
"It’s true, I fear," Jenny responded. "Though he thinks he has good reasons to hate a certain Frenchman, I wish with all my heart he would not take his revenge on the whole of France."
"Perhaps if you talk to him…"
"I have talked to him, endlessly and for years. I hear of his terrible toll on the open sea, but he is my son and I shall continue to love him no matter what he does. I can only pray that one day he will find his peace and come home to stay." Her voice faltered as she looked out to sea.
Abruptly Jenny turned back toward the house, her arm laced through Danielle’s in friendly fashion. "Come, my dear," her tone was once again strong, resilient. "We shall have lunch and make plans for your wardrobe as a sea captain." She giggled merrily, like a young girl, enjoying a great adventure.
Danielle woke early the next morning eager to begin her training. David Fitzwater told her the day before that her first lesson would be learning to shoot flintlock pistols. Openly he’d mocked her, his well-bred educated voice making it clear he considered this duty below him.
Shortly after she had eaten breakfast, David walked into the room, his arrogant stance plainly denouncing her as a mere woman. Danielle held her thoughts in check. She was looking forward to the day, knowing before it was over Mr. Fitzwater would have a few surprises slapped in his face.
"Well, Miss Rochette, are you ready to begin?" He frowned at how she was dressed and shook his head. "Is there nothing else for you to wear? You will ruin your gown with the powder from the small pistols. Oh, that reminds me." He handed her the small wooden box he had been carrying under his arm when he entered the room. "These are for you. They were given to me as a gift, but they are a little too fancy for my tastes," he said disdainfully.
Danielle opened the lid to the beautifully engraved container to reveal two small flintlock pistols. Their barrels were midnight blue, each having a carved ivory handle of exquisite design.
"The pistols are beautiful, Mr. Fitzwater. Are you sure that you would not like to keep them for yourself?" she asked, ignoring his boorish attitude.
"No, they seem the perfect weapon for a woman to use." His eyes mocked that she should ever look or act like a man.
"Well, thank you. I would love to have them." She would have thought they were exactly the type of weapon he would admire. She ran her hand lovingly over the handles wondering how anything so pretty could do so much damage. She raised her eyes to meet his, anxious to get on with her ‘lessons’. "Do not concern yourself about my gown. It can be cleaned easily. I’m afraid my wardrobe is a bit limited at this time, so it will have to do." She thought of her cabin boy garb hidden at the bottom of her trunk but she knew she would not be needing it this day. She expected to give Mr. Fitzwater his first lesson in short course.
David watched her as she looked down at the two pistols, caressing them with slender fingers before she closed the lid on their velvet-lined case. She led the way outside to the beach with him following a few steps behind her. She stopped at a small table he had placed upon the beach holding powder and shot ready for her use.
"Well, Miss Rochette, are you ready? I have picked out this area for your practice… so that while you learn to shoot it will be in direction of the sea," he chuckled. "That way there will be no danger of your hurting anyone. Unless it is a poor helpless seagull that happens to fly within range."
David’s attitude toward her was the lowest form of civility imaginable, yet she hid the anger bubbling deep inside of her and remained the epitome of patience. She pretended to watch carefully, paying close attention to every detail.
"First you have to measure a certain amount of powder out, placing it in the barrel like so, before tamping it down with this slim iron rod; then you put in this small ball before you can cock the hammer. Now you’re ready to pull the trigger, sparking the flint, making the pistol go off. Think you can handle that?" he sneered through thinly shaped lips.
Calmly Danielle took the pistols from him, examining the loads carefully as he paced off twenty-five feet and hung up the target, a black circle drawn on a white cloth stretched between two poles, which he stuck in the sand.
"All right," he said as he retraced his steps. "Let’s get this mess over with. Just try to aim at the cloth and see if you can hit it." He placed himself well out of range, behind her. He watched appreciatively the gentle sway of her hips as she took her position to fire. "Want me to run over the details one more time?" he asked.
"No, thank you," she answered oh so sweetly looking back over her shoulder at him. How she wished he were standing where she could see his face. She turned back toward the target, raised her pistol and fired, her movements fluid. Without hesitation and before the smoke had cleared from her first shot, she raised the second pistol, bringing it to bear on the target fluttering in the slight breeze, pulling its trigger as she did so.
"They carry quite a little kick," she stated matter-of-factly, returning both pistols to their case. She placed it securely beneath her arm, held her skirt aloft, protecting it from the wet sand and strolled toward the house.
"Giving up so soon? Too much for you, huh?" he sneered, the full measure of his mocking voice following her up the beach. "I tried to tell Sir Francis that women were just not made to take on the challenges he requested. But would he listen…"
Danielle stopped at the edge of the lawn and turned to face him with one finely shaped eyebrow arched stiffly. Indignant, black gypsy eyes burning with scorn, branded him, rendering him speechless.
"I suggest you check the target, Mr. Fitzwater, before you make a bigger fool of yourself!" Her voice was cold as death, driving blood-chilling spikes into his soul. With a proud carriage of a woman scorned, she turned on her heel and with slow, deliberate steps she ascended the path, disappearing into the house without a backward glance.
Stunned by the unwavering strength behind her words, he turned obediently toward the target. Even before he reached it, he could see the two perfect holes notching each other directly through the center of the cloth. A deep shade of crimson stole up over his face as he realized the fool he’d been played. The small white scar over his brow throbbed as he struggled with embarrassment as he stood staring at the two identical holes in the small black circle.
"I’ll be damned!" he muttered under his breath. Slowly his shoulders started to shake until his whole body convulsed into one ear splitting roar of laughter. He released all his frustrations and laughed till the tears flowed. Gradually David calmed, wiping his face with his kerchief. Carefully, he unfastened the target, carrying it up the beach toward the house.
"Well done, Miss Rochette," he conceded to himself. "Very well done."
The next day David had decided to teach her the use of the whip. Surely this would be one thing in which she would have no expertise. "After all," he told her, "you are a hell of lot better shot than most men, and need no further instruction on that score." Such an admittance was a major shock to his hardened male ego.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Fitzwater," she purred, her victory sweet as honey.
"My friends call me David." he said simply.
"Oh, does this mean we’re friends?" Danielle couldn’t help being a little waspish. Even though his tone of voice had changed from its original
condescending manner, there was no mistaking the look in his eyes.
"I hope we’ll be very good friends," he answered, his voice leaving little doubt as to his motives.
"Let’s work at just friends, shall we?" Danielle cut him off.
A few days later Danielle’s laughter split the air a bare second before the crack of the whip, finding its mark.
"The power of the whip, David, it’s magnificent! I can’t tell you when I enjoyed anything half as much." She declared, breathless with excitement.
Deftly, she played out the length of black braided leather, laying it at her feet like a snake, poised, waiting. With the fitness of a master, her movements so smooth David barely saw the motion of her wrist, the end cracked cutting the wick from the candle.
"You do seem to have a knack for it, all right. Never have I seen anyone take to it as you do. You’ve only been at it for a few days and already you’re a bloody expert!"
"Of course. What do you expect from a mere woman?" her dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
Danielle was feeling confident of her progress by the day when they were going to practice fencing. The first trip to France was just five days away and she had to be ready.
David turned his attention to the two long, thin swords he had in his possession. "I saved the best for last," he said, removing them from their sheaths. "Because--"
"You thought I would never make it this far?" She shot him a furtive glance.
"True. But I was wrong."
"True." Danielle took the offered sword, holding its silver hilt in her hand in the same manner as David.
"Shall we get on with it?" she asked backing a short distance away as the cold, deadly steel started to warm in her palm, taking a life of its own.
Patiently, David showed her the correct stance and how to move forward and back, always keeping her balance. She knew how to make her blade do as she commanded but it had been a while since she’d had a chance to practice and she was rusty. After she had tripped a few times on her long skirts, David stopped.
The Gypsy Witch Page 12
