by Silver, Lily
At the arched entrance to the officer’s deck, just outside his cabin door, a figure leaned against the wall. Donovan stopped. Jack cannoned into him from behind.
A glint of steel in the lantern light made Donovan reach for his pistol a second time.
“What are you doing lurking outside his lordship’s suite, sailor?” Jack demanded.
Donovan recognized the slim figure of Ambrose Duchamp beneath the dim circle of light next to his door. “It’s all right, Jack, its Duchamp.” He holstered his weapon. Duchamp had been Donovan’s first mate in the east. Jack brought his first mate with him to his new position. Duchamp was barely tolerated by Rawlings. It didn’t help that the Frenchman liked to sit alone in the shadows, paring ripe fruit with his enormous dagger.
“I know who it is!” Jack barked, resenting Donovan’s intrusion in matters of discipline. “I asked you a question, sailor. Answer it.”
“I was sitting under the stairs when the Indian went below.” Duchamp explained. He waved his dagger at the portal. The door was left slightly ajar. “Damned careless, my lord. A man might be tempted to sneak in and visit la petite belle while she sleeps.”
Donovan nodded. Duchamp sauntered past them. Jack scowled after the man.
The smell tipped him off as soon as Donovan entered his cabin, the pungent aroma of his valet’s intoxicating tobacco. The hookah was on the carpet near the open window, as was the valet’s sitar. Pearl had been on one of his wool-gathering expeditions again, forgetting he was supposed to be minding Elizabeth as he wandered off to the galley for something to eat.
Jack sat at the small table and reached into his coat to remove an envelope.
Donovan lifted the curtain and peered into the smaller room. Elizabeth was asleep, as he expected. He opened the cabinet to retrieve two goblets and an unopened bottle of whiskey, Jack’s sedative of preference. He poured a measure in each glass, pushing one toward his friend.
Jack cradled the crystal goblet in one hand, holding the stem between splayed fingers. “What did that angry mob want with Duchamp in France? You tossed him a rope and hauled him onto your ship as you were leaving the quay. Suppose he was guilty of some heinous crime?”
“Ambrose has proven his loyalty to me a thousand times over.” Donovan replied, dismissing Jack’s insinuation. Taking the seat across from his friend, he gestured to the envelope. “What is it you wanted to discuss?”
Jack opened the packet and spread the two letters from the abduction before them. “I’ve interviewed my officers and the crew. No one remembers who delivered the kegs of ale before they set sail from the London docks. Jinks said this letter accompanied the delivery.”
“We’ve been over this. The crew accepted the ale as a gift from me with the forged note encouraging them to celebrate my good fortune in taking a bride. We know Fletcher was behind the abduction. He probably pried the seal from the letter I sent him a week earlier and reused it.”
A lock of red hair also lay between them. It had been tied about the handle of the dagger pinning the ransom note to the main mast. The note demanded two thousand pounds for the safe return of the Countess de Rochembeau.
Fletcher is going to die, he thought as he caressed his wife’s hair. After learning the gambler orchestrated Elizabeth’s abduction, Donovan sent his own couriers of death to London to ferret out the man and exact revenge. Duchamp volunteered, but he preferred to keep his most vicious dog close to heel in case they suffered further hazard during the voyage.
“Damn,” Jack’s fist hit the table. “If I’d been here that night, I’d have known this note was a forgery. It doesn’t sound like something you’d say.” Jack had accompanied him to Lord Greystowe’s estate, at his request.
“My wife is sleeping.” Donovan chastened sharply.
Jack gave him a pained look. They sipped their drinks silently, tensed like two old nursemaids waiting for a whimper to come from the smaller room.
“I’m thinking someone was planted here.” Jack whispered after a few moments, hunching forward slightly. “One of their own could have been hiding below, waiting to give signal when our crew was knocked out by the drugged ale. How else would they know it was safe to attack?”
“Does it matter? They’re all dead.”
“Yes, but how else could aging sailors overcome seasoned fighters who took down Barbary Pirates--” Jack’s eyes widened as he looked behind Donovan. He rose. “My lady!”
Donovan followed Jack’s startled gaze. Elizabeth was standing pale and silent as a wraith behind him. Sleepwalking, he guessed, due to the decrease in her nightly Laudanum.
Rising, he blessed Duchamp for his heightened vigilance that seemed to annoy everyone else. Unguarded, Elizabeth might have wandered out on deck and fallen overboard. At the moment, her womanly curves were visible through the thin gown with the lantern light behind her. He stepped forward and hugged her to him to shield his wife from Jack’s hungry gaze.
Lizzie leaned into his embrace, all softness and compliance. Lavender scented hair he’d washed for her earlier this evening wafted deliciously beneath his nose. He nuzzled the top of her head with kisses, savoring the feel of her in his arms as she sagged trustingly into his embrace.
A discreet cough made him remember his guest. He shook off the stupor. “Sit, Jack.”
“Jack?” Lizzie asked in a sleep thickened voice. Her head lifted from its haven beneath his chin. She turned to face Jack. “Are you Captain Jack Rawlings, from Boston?”
“I am.” Jack made a gallant bow. “A pleasure, Madame Beaumont.”
“Amelia asked me to give you a message, sir.”
Jack went rigid. Donovan could feel the man’s heart seizing in his chest.
“It’s just the Laudanum.” Donovan said. “Pay it no mind, Jack, sit down, and pour yourself another drink. Let me get her settled.” He swept Lizzie up in his arms, determined to remove her before things turned nasty. He deposited his wife on the bed and took his time tucking her in, giving Jack time to compose himself. “There, my sweet, go back to sl—“
“What did she say?” Jack’s voice boomed like cannon fire behind him.
Donovan turned about, incensed that the man would follow him into the bed chamber.
“What did my Amelia say to you?” Jack demanded, eyeing Lizzie with determination.
Elizabeth sprang out of bed and backed into the corner behind Donovan. The fleeting thought came that despite her confusion, his wife seemed to grasp the idea that the safest place for her was behind him when she was being threatened by another man.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Donovan growled, stepping forward to block any advance toward his already traumatized bride. “I told you, it’s just the opiates—“
“It’s not the opium! Christ, Donovan, for someone who’s a damned genius, you sure as hell miss the simple shit! Your wife is a seer; she can talk with the dead!”
The flagrant flood of vulgarities hung in the air like smoke from cannon fire.
Donovan stepped forward with menace. “Mind that foul tongue, sailor, you aren’t in a brothel, you are in the presence of a lady—my lady.” He seized Jack by the shoulders and pushed him into the outer suite. Drawing the man close, he whispered, “You’ve frightened my wife with your crude behavior. I suggest you remove yourself from my cabin straight away.”
Sanity returned to Jack’s eyes. Well he knew that few men would receive a warning before Donovan reacted. “My apologies.” He held up his hands. “I lost my head. Just let me speak to her. For the sake of our friendship, please, Donovan. Amelia was my whole life.”
“And Elizabeth is mine.” He returned, releasing his hold upon the man and stepping back. “She may be very ill but she does not have conversations with dead people.”
“Pearl told me about her gift. He says she’s given him messages from his mother.”
“Superstitious twaddle embraced by an uneducated man. Pearl would believe anything when he smokes his hookah, even the confused rambl
ings of a feverish girl.”
“It’s not confused ramblings! She tells him things about his mother she couldn’t possibly know. Ask her how Amelia died. I’ll bet a month’s pay; she knows!”
Donovan was well aware that his wife had been changed by her injury. He didn’t understand how she could have moments of startling clarity about others lives when she was barely cognizant of the circumstances of her own. He’d rather ignore these odd incidents, chalk them up to another bad symptom and hope they went away as she recovered.
“Let me get her calm.” He said, intending to sedate her and that would be the end of it.
Returning to the small chamber, he restrained the urge to rush in and gather the fragile waif in his arms. She was still backed in the corner, her face ashen, eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing. He expected any moment her eyes would roll back as she slipped into convulsions. At that thought, he reached for her. Elizabeth slid to the floor to escape his embrace. Her knees were drawn up to shield her torso. At last, he divined the mystery of why her shins had been a mass of bruises weeks ago. The bastard kicked her while she’d been huddled into a corner like this.
“Lizzie?” He crouched before her, careful not to touch her and frighten her further. “It’s me, Donovan.” Her memory was like morning dew, transient, evaporating quickly when she was distressed. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s get you back into bed, darlin’.”
“No, go away.” Tremors shook her tender body. She covered her head with her arms. “Pirates?” Her shrill voice echoed in the small chamber. She lifted her head, seeming to just become aware of him beside her. “She said the pirates came in the night—they took her away from her father—No--leave me alone!” Elizabeth shrank into the corner. She covered her ears with her hands. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore Amelia! Go away, you’re scaring me.”
Donovan placed a light hand on her forearm, measuring her response to his touch.
“Oh God!” She whimpered, making him withdraw his hand. “Why would they do that? Why cut off your breasts and pull out your tongue if they were going to kill you afterward!”
A plunge into an icy sea could not be more chilling. A moan from the doorway distracted Donovan. Jack was there, his face grim as he listened to Lizzie’s part of this odd conversation.
The air became thick and close as before a heavy thunderstorm. A tingling moved along his forearm, from elbow to wrist. He looked at his arm. He’d swear he’d just been touched by someone. There was no one in the room besides the two of them and Lizzie was curled in a tight ball on the opposite side of him. The queer sensations continued as someone tugged at his queue. Donovan jerked back, flattening himself against the wall to avoid that eerie contact.
The table on the opposite side of the bed started shaking and rocking. The sheets lifted in the air and hung there. This was no parlor trick. Something was in this room, and it was hurting his lass. Anger spurred him to shake off his stunned stupor. “Stop it!” He shouted. “She asked you to leave her alone. Stop frightening her!”
“Amelia, don’t do this.” Jack added his plea to the mix. “You can’t force her to speak for you if she doesn’t want to. Stop it, I say. She’s just a frightened little girl!”
The table stopped clattering. The sheets dropped. The air became still. Elizabeth exhaled sharply and slumped forward like a marionette released from its strings. Donovan put a light hand on her forearm. Lizzie threw herself against him, wrapping her arms about his neck, nearly choking him in her terror.
“I’m here.” He cradled her head in one hand and whispered against her ear. “I have you, I have you, Lizzie.” He rose and sat on the bed with Elizabeth cradled on his lap. She buried her face in his neck, shivering. He rocked her and whispered assurances.
Jack watched from the door, white, grim, as badly shaken as he. “Is she all right?”
Donovan nodded. Elizabeth was frightened, but she would be all right.
He intended to make damn sure of it.
Chapter Ten
Morning sunlight bathed the master suite. Elizabeth held out her hands, luxuriating in the warm, healing light as it caressed her skin. She was reclining on the sofa in the outer suite, content as a cat as she alternately reflected and dozed. This was the first time she’d been allowed out of bed since her illness. She was still in her bed gown, but a lavender silk dressing robe had been bestowed upon her for the occasion, along with matching slippers.
The count was out on deck enjoying his tobacco. He did not leave her unattended, as he seemed to understand her fear of being alone in the cabin. His Indian servant sat on the floor before the large windows surrounded by a perfect grid of sunlit squares on the rich oriental carpet. He leisurely strummed an instrument that lent an exotic air to their repose. Pungent incense drifted about the room. Elizabeth watched the smoke winding about the valet like a transparent snake.
The valet intrigued her. He had a peaceful, serene demeanor that put her at ease. His manner of dress was always eccentric. Today, he reminded her of a parrot in his yellow silk vest with no shirt beneath, and baggy white breeches that gathered below his knees. A green silk sash was tied about his waist and a red turban covered his head. A thin ebony braid was draped over one shoulder, swaying with the movement of his head as he kept time with his music. Fastened at the end of the braid was a pearl nearly the size of a cherry, hence the nickname given him by the count’s crew: Pearl.
Pearl absently strummed his sitar while Elizabeth basked in the glowing rays of the sun and reflected on the week’s events.
The week had progressed in a casual repetition of domestic rituals, making her new circumstances seem less bizarre. The count brushed out her hair each morning and braided it each evening. Sheila had tended her hair for most of her life so Elizabeth found the nightly ritual soothing as it reminded her of her grandmother’s tender care.
The domestic companionship filled the days as he read to her and they shared their meals in the small bedchamber. The count would sit in the chair with a tray balanced on his lap across from Elizabeth, who was confined to the bed. He ate gracefully with the manners of a nobleman while attempting to draw her into polite conversation. As he was a physician and a scholar, Elizabeth found it difficult to make small talk with him. She would undoubtedly sound tedious, as she possessed little education or experience with the world beyond her home.
The count talked about his childhood in the colonies. He was an only child. His father fought in the militia during the revolt in the American colonies. Elizabeth relished that tidbit of information, as her own father had fought the English in his homeland as well. Her husband’s voice thickened as he spoke of his father, Major Gaston Beaumont, dying slowly in a dirty surgical tent from a botched amputation, mere weeks before the British surrendered at Yorktown. As a boy of eleven, he vowed never to allow another loved one to succumb to the effects of bad medicine, and grew determined to study medicine. He had paused in his tale to gaze rather sweetly at Elizabeth, making her blush. Another loved one? With no memory of a courtship--not even a stolen kiss to cherish--she was uncertain as to his feelings toward her.
Elizabeth realized the music had stopped. The valet’s eyes were closed, his fingers were still poised on the strings, as if he were concentrating or just nodding off in mid-song. He was such a peculiar man, kind to a fault, and loyal to her husband, but odd, to say the least.
She stretched and sat upright to ease the aches from her body as she continued to ponder her peculiar circumstances; married to a perfect stranger with no memory of him or their courtship before she’d awakened in his bed two weeks past.
She was aware the count was sharing the bed with her. And yet, she never seemed to encounter him there. She fell asleep before he retired and in the morning he was up and dressed by the time she awakened. Last night, she’d been forced to acknowledge the awkward reality when she awakened screaming. The count was slowly decreasing the Laudanum he’d been giving her at night, claiming she would form a depe
ndency to it with prolonged use.
He quickly rose from the bed and went into the next room, returning with a small lantern from the outer suite as he assured her there were no rats in her bed. An insistent knock at the outer door and a voice called from the room beyond asking if they needed assistance. The count replied in a terse growl that his lady had a nightmare and commanded the intruder to leave. That she’d awakened not only her spouse but the crew with her screaming was mortifying.
The count hung the lantern on a hook and lay down beside her, pulling the sheets over his legs. She was on her side, staring at him with unease. He watched her watch him, gauging her reaction, as was his habit. After a moment he rolled onto his side to face her with his head propped in his palm. He placed his other hand on the pillow between them, open in invitation. Meekly, she took that hand, surprised by the gesture, and by his unfailing patience.
“Close your eyes, my love. I’m here, you’re safe.”
Elizabeth had fallen asleep clutching his hand. When she awakened today, he was out on deck, as usual. When he appeared to share breakfast with her neither spoke of the incident.
Am I truly his love? Elizabeth wondered as she basked in the sunlit chamber and reflected upon the events of the past days. She didn’t have the nerve to ask him. She was in awe of him. And the count had a confident, predatory air about him, like a wolf you’d encounter in the woods. You could admire it at a distance but you didn’t want to provoke it or draw its attention to you by being too curious. She sensed violence lurking in him, tightly restrained, ready to come to the fore if provoked.
All men were dangerous to some degree, but he was more so than those she encountered during her abduction.
Elizabeth squirmed on the settee as fear lingered low in her belly, a relentless gnawing that never fully went away. She crossed her arms over her belly to prevent her tender flesh from tearing beneath the cruel memory of a terror more horrifying than the rats could ever have been.
