Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  Mrs. Durning chuckled. “All who sail are weathered by the elements.”

  Was that why the stranger had been so dark?

  “You can tell a seafarer who stands watch by the nature of his complexion,” Mrs. Durning continued. “Consider it a mark of diligence in his duty.”

  Catherine set down her spoon. Thinking about the past—or was it Tom Worthington?—had made her too anxious to eat even clear broth.

  Through the windows, a large brick edifice came into view. She pushed back the chair just as the door to the dining saloon opened. Mr. Lightwater entered.

  Her spirits sank. “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”

  His complexion was pale and pockmarked. He pulled off his hat. “Mrs. Durning. Miss Haynes.” His gaze lingered uncomfortably long on her.

  She turned away.

  He stepped closer. “To answer your question, the watch has changed, and I am pleased to join you for the midday meal.”

  She stepped around him. “I have already eaten. Perhaps Mrs. Durning would enjoy your company. I am going to take some air on deck.”

  Before he could stop her, she slipped out of the room. Mrs. Durning would delay the mate, but not for long. Catherine hurried down the hall and up the stairs to the main deck. There, for the moment, she was rid of him.

  But not the other man.

  His gaze made her cheeks heat, but she would not give Tom Worthington the satisfaction of knowing how much he unsettled her. She was, after all, a gentleman’s daughter. Gentlewomen did not take up with sailors, not to mention wreckers. A sea captain perhaps, if he had served long in the Royal Navy. Certainly not an overconfident American rascal who assumed she would swoon over his attention. Moreover, her purpose was set. She must go to Louisiana.

  The brick edifice beckoned from the shore. Since viewing it kept her back turned to one Tom Worthington, she pretended greater interest than it had at first stirred. Now that she could see it in its entirety, its purpose became clear. It was a fort, complete with gun ports and cannon. Armament did not excite her. Its position offshore on a spit of sand was mildly intriguing.

  “Fort Zachary Taylor.” Mr. Worthington must have slipped down from the quarterdeck during her observations.

  “Shouldn’t you be directing this vessel?”

  “I am.”

  “From here?” She made the mistake of looking at him.

  His soft brown eyes twinkled with mirth and something else . . . Interest? “As you said yourself not long ago, I am extraordinarily gifted.”

  “That is not what I said.” She broke his gaze and stared instead at the shoreline with its pretty little houses with verandas and columns and picket fences.

  Instead of leaving her alone, he joined her at the rail. “I believe the word was extraordinaire.”

  “Irony, Mr. Worthington. And I did not say that you were endowed with special gifts.”

  “Implied.”

  She peeked sideways at him. Surely he was jesting.

  He caught her glance, and his smile turned to a ridiculous frown.

  “You are not very good at this,” she pointed out.

  “Good at what, Miss Haynes?”

  His exaggerated dumbfounded expression reminded her so much of Eustace Kirby—excepting that Mr. Kirby had not been jesting—that she laughed.

  “Aha! You are capable of humor,” he said.

  Try as she might, she could not make a frown stay in place. “What makes you believe I was speaking in jest? Even the most adept navigator cannot direct a vessel from the main deck.”

  “Oh? You’re an expert in maritime navigation?” Mr. Worthington turned, cupped his hands, and shouted out a bearing.

  The helmsman repeated the command, and the vessel’s course shifted slightly.

  “There is proof that counters your assertion, Miss Catherine.”

  She felt a flush of heat at the sound of her given name on his tongue, and not merely because of his impertinent social blunder. This jolt of excitement was utter nonsense. She could not dally about with a mere sailor. She had a journey to complete and a family to reclaim. Key West could not be more than a brief stopping place en route to her final destination.

  “Perhaps you can be of some assistance,” she said carefully.

  “For you, anything.”

  The heat increased, and she had to resist the temptation to fan her face. Instead, she looked forward, as if the Key West shoreline fascinated her.

  Aside from houses and quaint buildings, it had the usual seaport wharves and warehouses. Only the palms differed from an English seaside town, but then she was no stranger to palm trees, having seen them in Lisbon and the Azores. Of greater interest was the large number of vessels in port. Masts sprayed upward like spines on a hedgehog. Surely one was going to Louisiana.

  “I’m seeking passage to New Orleans. Where might I make inquiries?”

  He leaned on the rail. “I thought the Justinian was headed to Jamaica.”

  “It is. From there I had intended to book passage to New Orleans, but now we will be delayed.”

  “You could wait out the repairs.”

  She shook her head. “Too long. I can’t afford the wait.”

  “Oh?” He straightened and surveyed her. “Are you meeting someone there?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

  His eyebrows rose. “What does that mean? Are you or aren’t you meeting someone?”

  “I am.” She did not care to explain herself. “Simply tell me where I might inquire about booking passage.”

  Though he paused long enough to shout out another course correction to the helmsman, he did answer her. “Check with the shipping agents. They have offices near the wharves and customhouse. I would be delighted to escort you there, but you should be aware that travel has slowed due to the storm.”

  “But it will begin again.”

  “In time.”

  She did not have a great deal of time. Or money. “Do you have any idea how much passage might cost?”

  “That varies, depending on the vessel and the accommodations.”

  “I don’t need much.” She could get by for a short time with modest provisions. “How long is the voyage?”

  “That would depend on the ship. A fast clipper can make it in nine days.”

  “Nine days!” The distance from Key West to New Orleans was greater than she’d hoped. “And a steamship?”

  “It would depend on the route. Many stop in Mobile and other ports. They could take just as long. For a direct route, perhaps a week.”

  A week. She could endure almost anything for a week.

  “Mr. Worthington.” The sneer of Mr. Lightwater made her cringe. “We are hiring you to pilot the vessel, not seduce the passengers.”

  Her already heated cheeks grew hotter, this time from anger. One thing she could not endure for another week was Mr. Lightwater.

  She glared at him and brushed past before he could corner her.

  So Catherine Haynes was headed for New Orleans. Tom tumbled that around in his mind as Lightwater took off after her. He’d hoped to get to know her, but one detail told him to take caution. True, Lightwater was trying to claim her, but she clearly did not like the man’s attentions. Tom’s concern came from another quarter. A woman traveling alone—assuming Mrs. Durning did not escort her to New Orleans—and in a hurry to get there meant just one thing.

  Miss Haynes must be betrothed to marry.

  She was clearly English, and her clothing was of such fine quality that she could well be titled or at least moneyed. Did the English arrange marriages? If so, New Orleans seemed a peculiar destination with its French roots.

  Whatever was going on, it more than piqued his curiosity.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to decipher the puzzle, since they had reached the harbor.

  He bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck and began directing the helmsman while the second mate gave orders to the crew on deck. Sails were trim
med or came down. Mooring lines were readied. Over the course of the next hour, he didn’t have time to think about Catherine Haynes.

  Only when the Justinian was securely moored at the O’Malley wharf and Tom had received payment for his services did she reappear on deck. This time she wore a pretty if impractical little hat that matched her gown and carried a striped parasol. Gloves covered her hands, and a dainty little bag dangled from her wrist. In the plum color, she looked the picture of the English gentlewoman. She must also be wilting from the sun’s heat, for the warehouses blocked the breeze that had kept them cool at sea.

  Lightwater hastened to her side. She did not look at the man or take his proffered arm.

  Tom chuckled. The mate was wasting his time, but he seemed oblivious to that fact. Miss Haynes’s annoyance was building. Tom hurried down the deck to her rescue.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Haynes.” Tom took her hand and placed it on his arm.

  Though she shot him a glare, she did not remove her hand.

  “I did offer to escort you to your destination,” he added for Lightwater’s benefit.

  She looked ready to spit out a refusal.

  He cut to the point before she could speak. “Shall we begin with those shipping agents near the customhouse?”

  Her frown reversed to a pert smile. “An excellent idea, Mr. Worthington.”

  Tom led her to the gangway, leaving Lightwater rooted to the deck, a scowl on his lips.

  When they reached the wharf, she slipped her hand from his arm. “I believe I can manage from here.”

  “Only if you want Mr. Lightwater to come rushing after you.”

  She tucked her hand back around his arm. “To the customhouse.”

  “Directly ahead.”

  “The building with all the people around it?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Tom scanned the harbor and spotted the wrecking schooner Florida at a nearby wharf. Judging from the unusual crowd surrounding the vessel, it must have come from the Isaac Allerton wreck. “A ship ran aground in the storm just northeast of here. It appears that either the crew or the first of the salvage has reached port. Either way, it means a long wait at the customhouse.”

  She blew out her breath, clearly frustrated, but he saw an advantage. His pilotage fee was tucked in his breast pocket, and Rourke was gone on the Redemption. No one would be looking for him right away.

  “We could get you situated first,” he offered.

  She hesitated, and a mix of emotions passed over her face.

  He had to remind himself that she had not intended to come to Key West and likely knew nothing of the port. “Will you be joining Mrs. Durning at the Admiralty Inn?”

  “But I thought—” She shook her head. “I need to first inquire about passage. You said there are other shipping offices.”

  His spirits sank. Apparently nothing would deter her from her purpose.

  “There are.” He swept out his right arm. “This way.”

  The wharves were crowded, and not just with stevedores and porters. With a salvage under way, the curious and the greedy crowded the docks, looking for what might be pilfered or purchased at a cut-rate price. Most Key West homes were full of salvaged cargo. From pianos to chairs to jewelry, anyone who could afford to purchase salvaged items did so. They could be acquired for a fraction of the cost.

  Miss Haynes clung to his arm as people rushed this way and that, most paying them no attention whatsoever. A compact man, Cuban by looks, jostled her.

  “Goodness! Are people always so careless?” She looked toward the retreating man, and her fingers tightened around Tom’s arm.

  He followed her gaze. “Do you know that man?”

  “Impossible.”

  “I don’t recall seeing him on the Justinian.”

  “Not from the ship.” Her voice was barely audible, and he had to keep hold of her lest the bustling crowds tear her away. “From long ago. When I was a girl.”

  4

  It could not be. Ten years was a long time, and memories often faded. Still, Catherine would never forget the stranger’s eyes. Black as night with a gold fleck in the center, as if a cat stared into a bright light. At the time she’d called them “tiger’s eyes” before learning that a tiger’s eyes were nothing like that. Then there was the odd scar beneath his eye.

  This man had passed too quickly for her to spot either distinguishing feature. Yet his stature and coloring made her pulse race. Could it be?

  “I must follow him.” She let go of Tom Worthington’s arm and began weaving through the crowd.

  The throngs that had seemed thick before now turned into a solid mass. Her parasol had become a detriment, so she folded it. Even so, at every step she was pushed in a different direction until she wasn’t sure where she was headed.

  “Here.” Mr. Worthington grabbed her elbow. “Follow me.”

  Within a moment he had pulled her out of the masses and into a shaded alcove beneath an overhanging porch roof. Only then did she realize how hot the sun was. Perspiration trickled down her temples and the nape of her neck. Her heart raced, and her head seemed to swim as if she was still aboard ship. She grabbed onto a pillar, but the sensation did not abate.

  “Here.” Mr. Worthington eased her to a small bench. “Do you have a fan?”

  “In my bag.” She fumbled to open the clasp.

  “Perhaps the gloves are the problem.”

  “Of course they are,” she snapped, “but no lady appears in public without them.”

  “Perhaps in England, but customs are different here. No one will condemn you for removing them.” He knelt before her. “Or I might open the bag for you.”

  She groaned with frustration. The last thing she needed was for Tom Worthington to see what she carried in her bag. Off came the gloves. Sure enough, the clasp was now easy to open. She withdrew the fan and snapped the bag shut again.

  He held out a hand. “Allow me.”

  She blinked. “To what?”

  “Create a bit of breeze with that fan of yours.”

  She sat up straight. “I am perfectly capable of fanning myself.”

  He grinned and stood. “Of course you are.”

  She preferred him at eye level, but her legs were too wobbly to stand just yet. So she stared at the street with its glistening sand and gravel. Tom had guided her away from the crowded wharf and across the street to . . . She glanced at the sign above the door. STEPHEN RUSSELL, ESQ.

  “An attorney’s office?”

  He laughed. “The closest place to sit. You still have your sea legs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “From being aboard ship so long. The ground will feel like it’s swaying.”

  “How did you know?” She chided herself. “Forgive me. You’re a sailor.”

  Instead of taking offense, he laughed again. “Don’t worry. It’ll go away in a day or so.”

  “A day! How will I ever catch up to . . . Never mind.” The man, whoever he was, was gone.

  He crouched again so he was at eye level. “Who was that man?”

  She stared at Mr. Worthington, who seemed able to read her mind. “I’m not sure—but I think it may be DeMornay.”

  “Mornez?”

  “No, DeMornay. A French name, I believe.” Was it disappointment that flitted across his face? “Have you heard the name before?”

  He shook his head. “Where did you come across it?”

  She fanned her face. “When I was thirteen, a dark stranger piqued my imagination. That man on the wharf reminded me of him. I saw the name in the estate’s record book from ten years ago, about the same time the stranger appeared at Deerford.” She forced a laugh. “I’m afraid I romanticized him into all manner of man, from avenging knight to daring privateer.”

  He smiled. “You were well-read.”

  “Deerford had an extensive library.”

  “Deerford?”

  “The family lands in Staffordshire. Rather, what used to be our lands.” She could
not keep the bitterness from her voice. “My cousin sold them.”

  He paused long enough for that to sink in. “Then your family has other land here?”

  She understood his confusion. “My mother was American, from Louisiana.”

  “So you are rejoining family. I assume then that Mrs. Durning is not your mother.”

  A laugh burst out. “You do realize how preposterous that is. Aside from the complete lack of resemblance, we do not share a name.”

  “She might have remarried.” But he was grinning, as if relieved that she was not related to Mrs. Durning.

  “No. Maman died when I was twelve.” She could not keep down the sigh. “And Papa last September.”

  “Thus the mourning attire.”

  She looked down at her impractical gown. “Thus the dark colors. I had hoped it would deter Mr. Lightwater.”

  “I suspect nothing that simple will keep him at bay.” Mr. Worthington scanned the thinning crowds. “He may find us if we do not move on. Take my arm, and I will lead you to the closest shipping agent.”

  Seeing as the dark stranger was likely little more than a play of her imagination and Mr. Lightwater might this very moment be closing in on her, Catherine let Tom Worthington guide her two doors down to a cramped office with grimy windows.

  She hesitated to enter.

  “I can go in with you,” he suggested.

  Catherine breathed out in relief. She hadn’t yet acquired steady legs, but she had found a friend. Perhaps she could also find quick passage to New Orleans.

  Something about the way Miss Haynes uttered the name DeMornay had sent shivers down Tom’s spine. At first he told himself it couldn’t be the man he sought. Mornez was a stretch from DeMornay. Then she mentioned that she’d seen him ten years ago in England.

  Ten years had passed since Mornez had hired Pa to sail him to New Orleans. Moreover, Pa insisted the man had come to Boston from England. The similarities were too great not to consider that DeMornay and Mornez might be the same man. Tom wanted more, but she offered nothing else.

  He turned his attention to assisting her to the nearest shipping office. He didn’t think much of Baldwin Fromp as a shipping agent. The man’s rumpled coat looked like he’d slept in it for weeks. Tea and tobacco stains dotted his shirt. Dust coated every surface of the office except Fromp’s chair, which is where the man was when they entered the tiny office.