“If you are so bored in your quarters that you dare to disobey my orders,” he said, “I can suggest something to fill the afternoon.”
Sparks burned in her blue eyes. “I am sure you can. However, I am interested in something more worthwhile.”
“What could be more worthwhile than pleasure?”
Abigail considered retorting, but anything she said would be used to insult her anew. She walked away. During her three days in his captivity, Captain St. Clair had allowed no one else in the captain’s quarters, save for Cookie. But Cookie had been granted no time to talk to her.
She needed to ask Cookie about the guns in the hold. She needed to ask him why the crew had surrendered instead of taking the ship to the bottom as her uncle had when attacked. She needed to know, most of all, why her father had left her here as Captain St. Clair’s prisoner.
As her eyes adjusted to the companionway’s darkness, Abigail saw several men in the lower passage. One man, thin and wiry, stepped forward. She pretended to be unaware of his leer. The only thing more disgusting than Captain St. Clair must be his crew.
The man put out an arm to block her way. “Come closer,” he taunted in a thick French accent. “Come closer, and share with us what you share with the capitaine.”
“You are mad!” she retorted, then wished she had remained silent when the men edged closer.
“I speak only of business.” His friends laughed as he continued, “Our reward for capturing this scow will be grand. Why not earn yourself some gold instead of just giving yourself to the capitaine for nothing?”
She tried to slide away. “Leave me alone!”
“Jourdan!” cried one of the men. She could not understand the rest of his words.
Her eyes widened. This was Captain St. Clair’s first mate? The man who was supposed to help protect her from his salacious crew?
Jourdan cursed as another shout rumbled along the passage. She recognized that voice. Captain St. Clair! She opened her mouth to answer, but, as the other men scurried to answer the command, Jourdan snarled, “Tell the capitaine of this and you will die.”
Leaning her head on the wall, Abigail shivered. A hand touched her arm. She whirled and screamed.
“’Tis me, my girl.” Cookie’s face was taut with fury.
“They tried—”
“To frighten you, but you are a Fitzgerald. You will not let them scare you.”
“I will try to be brave,” she whispered.
“Good. Come with me.” He led her to the galley.
The heat from the stove reached out to suck them in, but Abigail did not notice as she continued to shake.
Cookie sat her on the nearest barrel. “Ye shouldn’t be down here alone, my girl.” He pulled a cup from a shelf and opened a canister. Filling the tin cup, he held it to her lips. “Drink.”
A flame rolled along her throat with the rum. Tears blurred her eyes, and she choked. Pressing her hands to her chest, she fought the fire. Cookie slapped her on the back.
“Thanks,” she gasped. “If thanks is the proper word.”
“Ain’t nothing like rum to cut to the quick of the problem.”
“To the quick, anyway.” She rested her head against the uneven wall. Gazing up at the greasy ceiling, she mused, “Mayhap we should cut our throats and be done with it. If the French hangman does not have us, it will only be because these pirates have murdered us.”
Cookie took a gulp of rum and smacked his lips. “Ye don’t believe that.”
“I do not know what to believe any longer.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “Cookie, there are weapons in the hold.”
“Yer father wasn’t breaking no law.”
“Are you sure? Will you testify to that under oath?”
“Abigail!”
“Cookie, I know you would do anything for Father.” Even lie, she thought, but could not say the words aloud.
“Aye,” he breathed as he stared into his cup. “But what good will it do? Those accursed Frenchies won’t believe an honest American sailor.”
She grasped his arm. “But why are there guns in the hold? Who was Father planning to sell them to?”
“What ye don’t know, Abigail, that French cur can’t seduce out of ye.”
“Cookie! The only one who shares my bed is Dandy.”
His wrinkled face brightened as he smiled. “I’m right pleased to hear that. If yer father were to learn ye were bedding down with that Frenchie, he’d be furious.”
“If he cares …” She glanced away. She could not let Captain St. Clair taint her thoughts with lies. But why had Father left her behind on the Republic? That one thing she could not understand. Not at all.
“He cares,” Cookie retorted.
“But he left me here!”
“He must have had his reasons.”
“What could they possibly be?”
Cookie put his hands on her arms. “Can’t know ’til we ask him. Go back to yer quarters and stay there.”
“Until we reach Calais?”
“Is that where they be taking us?”
“You didn’t know?”
He smiled. “Now I know, Abigail, and so shall the rest of our lads.” Putting his gnarled hands on her shoulders, he said, “If ye want to help, and I know ye do, listen well to what that Frenchie cap’n has to say. Anything ye think might be helpful, let me know.”
“I shall come right—”
“No!” He lowered his voice. “Don’t come here again. I shall find a way to talk with ye. But heed his words well, Abigail. What ye learn may be our salvation.” His lips tightened into a straight line. “Our only salvation.”
Chapter Three
Thunder obliterated the high-pitched scream of the wind through the rigging. The ship rocked wildly. Flashes of lightning danced through the sky, coming closer to the mast. Rain splattered on the windows.
With each crack of thunder, Abigail flinched. She bent to pick up the pillow that had been knocked off her bed. Clutching it, she clung to the bed as the ship pitched. She shivered beneath her paisley shawl. If Captain St. Clair was not the captain he boasted he was, they could be sunk.
She knelt to stare out the window. Although it was mid afternoon, the sky was black. With a moan, she pressed her face into the pillow as lightning struck the sea. She knew it was silly to be terrified of storms. When she had been a child, her aunt had eased her fear by taking Abigail into her arms and singing lullabies until the storm passed. Now she was alone. A voice—any voice—would help mute the noise overhead. When she heard the door to the saloon open, she ran out. It took all her strength not to fling herself into Captain St. Clair’s arms.
He gave her no more than a glance as he rushed into her father’s room. She followed, glad it was only a pair of steps across the pitching deck. When she gasped at another peal of thunder, he looked up.
“I hope your face’s gray hue does not mean you suffer from seasickness when the sea is a bit rough,” he said.
“No, I am not seasick. ’Tis the storm.”
Selecting a map, he turned. “Frightened of thunder and lightning?” He smiled before crossing the saloon. Over his shoulder, he threw, “Hope we endure only this noisy show. If the heart of the storm catches us, we shall have more to worry about.”
Rain shot into the saloon as he closed the door. She huddled by the table until the lamp hooked to a rafter flickered and went out.
The door crashed open. A man blew into the room. “Is the captain here?” he shouted.
“No.” She swallowed harshly when he faced her. Jourdan!
He snickered as he walked toward her. Although the wind screeched through the open door, her heart thudded even more loudly.
“Captain St. Clair is on deck,” she said, backing toward her room. “If your message is urgent—”
“Let the message wait.” His voice was hoarse with lust. “You owe me for the reprimand I got from Captain St. Clair.”
“Reprimand?”
“Fo
r the lies you told him.” He caught her arm. When she screamed, he smiled. “Screech all you want, woman. No one will hear you but me.”
She grabbed a wine bottle from the cabinet and broke it over his head. He dropped to one knee, but reached for her skirt.
She ran to her bedroom door. He lurched to his feet and blocked her way. She raced the other way, fighting the deck, which seemed alive beneath her feet. He followed. She pushed the bench toward him. He crashed to the floor. His murderous scowl nearly paralyzed her. He threw himself forward.
With a cry, she stumbled back against the open door. The wind thrashed her skirt in the wild melody singing through the rigging. Sea spray burned her face. She raised her arm to cover her mouth and nose as she clung to the door.
Jourdan reached for her. She tried to push him away. She shrieked as she was flung onto the deck. Water crashed over her. Struggling to her feet, she slipped on the wet deck, which arched and flowed like Dandy. The ship dropped into a deep trough. She gripped the railing. Her eyes widened as she saw the other railing dip toward the water. Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at a black mountain of water about to pounce on the Republic.
Crouching, she pressed her face to the rail as water crashed over her. Then the ship righted itself. Could Captain St. Clair steer the Republic through this? She had to get below before she was washed away.
With her shawl over her face, she ran to the nearest companionway. She kicked the covering, but could not loosen it. She must go back. If Jourdan was still there … Water struck her, forcing her to her knees. She had to go back.
She took one step, men cried out as she was knocked off her feet. Waves ground her under gray paws. If she was washed overboard, she never would be found.
Rising, she lurched to a mast. A rope flailed in the wind. She tried to grab it, but it spun away. She pressed her face to the mast as a wave broke over the ship. Her cry for help was lost in the roar of the water. She kept a death grip on the mast. As the water flowed through the scuppers, she fought to breathe.
A strong arm caught her. She gasped as water slammed her and her rescuer against the mast. Opening her eyes, which burned from salt and wind, she gazed up at Captain St. Clair’s stern face. His chest was as hard and unyielding as the mast. The iron bar of his arm encircled her waist. His tattered shirt blew about his shoulders. She winced as it struck her.
His mouth moved, but the sound was swallowed by the storm.
She shouted, “I cannot hear you!”
He lowered his head. She leaned toward him. His mouth brushed hers. She pulled back and stared in astonishment. The ship rocked violently, and he released her.
“Captain … Dominic!” she cried. “Don’t—”
He swept his arm around her again. With one hand against the mast, he balanced himself on the heaving deck. “Make up your mind, chérie. Do you stay in my arms or no?”
He did not wait for her answer. He shouted something across the deck, then pulled her away from the mast. She would have fallen if his strong hands had not guided her into the cabin.
Abigail leaned on the table and gulped deep breaths of air. The door closed, and the wind’s scream was stifled.
Hands stroked her shoulders. She closed her eyes, letting the pleasure of Dominic’s caress consume her. As he brushed aside her soaked hair, his mouth teased the damp skin beneath her ear. A shiver flowed along her, urging her to lean back against him.
Gently he turned her to face him. His dark gaze roved along her face, branding her with its power. He wanted her. She could see that in his eyes and sense it all along his strong body as the motion of the deck pressed them even closer. His mouth lowered toward hers; then he released her with a curse.
She stared in amazement as he strode to the door. She had thought … hadn’t he wanted to …
“Wait right here, chérie.” He grinned. “I look forward to the reward you owe me for saving your life.”
“Reward?”
Regret deepened his voice. “Something I shall discuss with you later, for I must go. I am needed on deck. When the storm is past,” he added sharply, “you can explain exactly why you decided to take a stroll along the deck now.”
Abigail recoiled. How could she have been so stupid? She had fled Jourdan only to fall prey to Dominic’s seductive wiles. She could imagine the two men laughing over her idiocy.
Dominic St. Clair was her enemy. Worse, he wore a wedding ring on his left hand. But still she yearned for him to hold her again, his mouth on hers as their bodies strained against the storm of passion swirling through them. She must forget that pleasure, or it would betray her again.
Abigail yawned and pinned her hair in place. Opening her door, she went into the sunny saloon. Most of the cups had shattered during the storm, but she found one that was not cracked and poured herself some of the strong coffee.
The door to the deck opened. Dominic said to someone she could not see, “We shall convene here.”
Abigail turned to go back to her room as a half-dozen men followed him into the room.
Dominic grasped her arm. “Stay, chérie.”
“I am not properly dressed.” She closed the top button on her wrapper.
“I do not care if you are naked. Stay here, and say nothing.” He picked up her cup and carried it to the table.
Abigail was unsure whether to be insulted or irritated as he sat at the table and sipped her coffee. When he nodded, the man closest to the door opened it. She gripped her wrapper as Jourdan inched forward. The first mate fired a scowl in her direction. What was happening?
When Dominic spoke, it was in French. The first mate started to reply, but Dominic cut him off. Again he snapped something at Jourdan.
This time Jourdan said, “Oui, Capitaine St. Clair.”
Dominic fired more questions, but nothing on his taut face gave her a clue to what he said.
The first mate snarled and took a step toward her. Dominic’s order halted him. Jourdan stormed out.
Standing, Dominic leaned his fingertips on the table. He spoke quietly, then dismissed the others. He motioned for Abigail to come to the table.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I have dismissed Jourdan as my first mate.”
“Why?”
His laugh was honed with anger. “You know why. Although you think I am a fool, Abigail, it was clear to me, once the storm was past, that your trip onto the deck matched the moment when Jourdan should have been giving me his report.”
“You know what he tried to do?”
“Only what he would admit to, but that was enough.” He pulled a pin from her hair and dropped it onto the table. When she gasped, he did the same with another. Her hair fell down her back and over his arm as he drew her to him. “I made my orders clear. Like the Republic, you are mine.”
“I am not—”
He bit back a curse as the door opened again. Giving orders to Jourdan’s replacement, he said when the door closed again, “You will find Normand is wise enough to leave you alone.”
“I hope so,” she whispered.
“I should throw Jourdan in the brig with a diet of hard biscuit and water.” Sitting, he said, “I cannot, because we have no water.”
“No water?”
“Every barrel was washed overboard or ruptured.”
“We still have the rum.”
“’Tis gone, too, save for one small keg.”
“The wine—”
“Every bottle has been smashed.”
“Oh,” she whispered, not sure what else to say as she looked at the broken cups on the sideboard.
“Just ‘oh’? You have been asea long enough to know how desperate our situation is.” He leaned toward her. “More desperate, because it was not an accident. Someone among your father’s crew took an axe to the barrels and split the tops. The roll of the ship toppled them. Not a drop remains beyond the half barrel of rum in the galley. It will not be enough, even if we ration it, to reach France. Off course
amid the English waters as we are …”
At her soft cry of alarm, Dominic drew Abigail to sit beside him. He brushed his hand along her loosened hair. She smelled as fragrant as a summer meadow, and her swift breaths grazed his skin. If only he could find the time to lean her back on her bed as her breath grew even swifter …
“Are we lost?” she asked.
“The stars tell me the storm blew us north.” He smiled. “We are not lost. Just off course.”
“But we have no water!” She started to pull away, but he tightened his hold on her. “You should concentrate on our problems, Captain.”
“You are my problem, chérie. I think of you when I should be thinking of punishing those responsible for this crime.” He ran his finger around the top button of her wrapper and murmured, “You burn like a flame when I hold you in my arms.”
“I believe you are mistaken.” She stood and picked up her cat, holding it as a shield. “Consider the kisses a reward for saving my life. Nothing more.”
“That is where you are mistaken.” He plucked the cat from her arms and tossed it onto the deck. Gripping her chin, he brought her eyes up to his. “Chérie, I have grown accustomed to you lying to me. Must I become accustomed to you lying to yourself?”
Her eyes sparked with fury. “You are accustomed to getting what you want, Captain, aren’t you?”
“Always.”
“If not by charm, then by coercion.”
He smiled. “Exactly.”
“If not by coercion, then by force.”
“If necessary.” He brushed his lips against her cheek.
Her voice was unsteady as she murmured, “I hate to disillusion you, Captain, but you finally have encountered someone you cannot have by charm or by coercion.”
“Do you mean I should not waste my time on the first two? You prefer, I take it, that I go directly to force?” He laughed. “I assure you, chérie, I shall not have to resort to force. You have already proven you are more than willing.”
“Captain—” Her breath exploded out of her as he bent to run his tongue along her lower lip.
“My name is Dominic, chérie,” he whispered. “You used it before.”
A Brother's Honor Page 3
