Velvet

by Jane Feather

  She stared at the glinting glass, fixing its position in her mind’s eye; then she rolled awkwardly onto her side, so her back and her hands were toward the glass. The table legs prevented her reaching the glass with her whole body, but she stretched her joined hands as far as she could, ignoring the renewed pain in her wrenched arms.

  She couldn’t reach it. Her fingers scrabbled futilely in the dirt and dust under the table and made contact with nothing. Drawing her knees up tight against her chest, she pushed her curled body backward, edging between the table legs. Her fingers searched, encountered something sharp, and she gave a little cry of pain that turned rapidly into a crow of triumph.

  Very, very gently her fingers closed around the jagged chunk of glass. She mustn’t drop it, but she couldn’t hold it too tightly without cutting her hands to ribbons, and she was going to need her hands.

  She squirmed out from under the table, stretching her body with a sigh of relief, keeping on her side, holding her arms as far from her body as she could.

  Now to reach Nathaniel. But she couldn’t roll on her back without injuring herself with the glass. Drawing her knees up again, she levered herself across the cabin until she was lying beside Nathaniel. Now she would have to roll so that her back was against his.

  Closing her eyes tightly, she inched over onto her back, raising her hips as far from the ground as she could, arching the small of her back away from her hands. One jerking heave, and she was over, lying back-to-back with Nathaniel.

  Now. She ran a finger over the edge of the glass, finding the sharpest, most jagged point. Then she felt for the rope at Nathaniel’s wrists. Sweat broke out on her forehead despite the dank chill in the cabin, and a wave of sickness broke over her, but it was anxiety rather than pregnancy this time.

  An agonized scream came from on deck, and then another. She took a deep breath, trying not to imagine what was happening. She must concentrate.

  Gently at first, she began to saw at the rope at Nathaniel’s wrist. But gently took too long. Biting her swollen lip hard, she sawed faster. There was blood on her hands now; she could feel its stickiness, and her nausea increased. Was it Nathaniel’s or hers? Impossible to tell.

  She stopped, her breath rapid and shallow as she tried to master her terror.

  “Keep going, Gabrielle.” Nathaniel’s voice was calm and steady but so startling in the intense silence of her own private world that she jumped in fear.

  “I didn’t want you to come to until I was finished,” she managed to whisper through dry lips. “I’m afraid I’m hurting you.”

  “Keep going,” he repeated steadily. “I’m holding my wrists as far apart as I can.”

  “But what if I cut a vein?”

  “You won’t.”

  He sounded so confident that she was able to continue despite the blood that now seemed to cover her hands.

  “All right,” Nathaniel said softly after a long silence when the only sound was the strange rasping of glass on rope. “You’re almost there. I can feel it fraying.”

  “Oh, God,” Gabrielle whispered. Her arms were a mass of aching muscle, her wrists cramping with the strain, her fingers so numb, she was afraid she’d drop the glass. She closed her eyes again; it helped her to concentrate, to see nothing but the rope fraying strand by strand beneath the glass.

  And then it was done. The rope parted.

  “That’s my girl,” Nathaniel said softly. He sat up. His hands were smothered in blood, but he took no notice, inching his way across to the portmanteau against the bulkhead. Gabrielle was too exhausted to roll over to see what he was doing. He withdrew a knife with a wicked rapier blade and sliced through the rope at his ankles in one stroke.

  Then he was kneeling beside Gabrielle. “Hold still.” Her wrists were freed and she gave a groan of relief, bringing her hands round, flexing her fingers, massaging her wrists.

  “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” she said in horror as he cut the rope at her ankles.

  “Bandage them for me,” he said matter-of-factly. “There are cravats in the portmanteau.”

  She found the cravats and wrapped them tightly around his slashed wrists. “There are only four men. Here, put your finger on the knot.”

  “Only four, you’re sure?”

  “That’s what I heard them say—the other one now—there, that’ll do for the moment.” She looked up from her handiwork. “They kicked you when you were unconscious.”

  “I can feel it,” he said grimly. He went back to the portmanteau and took out the twin of the knife he still held.

  “You’ve been taught to use one of these.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes. And a garrote,” she added as he took out the length of rope weighted at either end. She didn’t say she’d never used any weapons outside a training session.

  His nod was matter-of-fact as he handed her the knife. “I’d like to reduce the odds on deck. Lie on the floor as if you’re still tied and start shouting.” He moved into the shadows behind the companionway, the length of rope held lightly between his hands.

  Gabrielle curled up, facing the door, her feet tucked under the table so that at first glance her lack of bonds wouldn’t be immediately apparent. Then she began to scream, one high-pitched cry after another, shivering the timbers of the deck above her head.

  Feet sounded above and the hatchway thudded open, filling the cabin with the gray light of dawn. They must be dreadfully close to the French coast, she thought as she screamed again.

  Cursing, a man pounded down the companionway. “Stop that racket, putain.” He thundered toward her, hand clenched in a fist.

  Nathaniel swung the rope, and the man fell back, clutching his throat Nathaniel lowered him to the floor.

  “Jacques … what’s going on down there?” A voice yelled down the companionway.

  Nathaniel gave her a nod and stepped back.

  Gabrielle’s bloodcurdling scream rose again. A figure jumped down the ladder. As his feet touched ground he seemed to realize that something was wrong. He spun around, and the edge of Nathaniel’s right hand chopped against the side of his neck and he dropped to the floor.

  Nathaniel swung himself onto the ladder, the knife in his hand. Gabrielle was on his heels. The dawn air, cold and salty, hit her in the face, clearing her head, stinging her swollen lip.

  The man at the wheel gave a warning shout as he saw them. Nathaniel had crossed the deck in four bounds, and there was a glint of steel as the Frenchman drew his own knife. His partner lunged from behind the mainsail. He didn’t see Gabrielle, who stuck out a foot, and he went sprawling on the deck.

  Now she was supposed to use the knife. To hell with it. This was a dirty business, but there were limits. She grabbed up a marlin spike from a coil of rope and brought it down across his shoulders as he struggled onto all fours.

  “Much better!” She permitted herself a grim smile of satisfaction at the prone figure before she raced to the grappling couple at the wheel, the marlin spike raised like some Viking club.

  Nathaniel’s opponent had his back to her for an instant and she brought the spike down onto his shoulder. He screamed as the bone cracked, and dropped to his knees.

  Nathaniel glanced down at him and then up at Gabrielle. “You got the other one too, I see.”

  “Yes, but he’s not dead. At least I don’t think so.” She pushed her hair away from her face, bracing herself unconsciously on the slippery deck as the fishing beat heaved and pitched with no guiding hand on the wheel.

  She was bruised and bloody, her eyes black-shadowed, sunken in her white face. And Nathaniel didn’t think he’d ever loved her more than he did at that moment. He knew he’d never understood her as he now did.

  He grinned tiredly. “You’re quite a fighter, aren’t you, Gabrielle?”

  “I fight for what I believe in,” she said. “I fight for what I love … in whatever way I must.”

  Her eyes held his in a passionate plea for his unde
rstanding, and in the dawn stillness he nodded in simple but complete acknowledgment. Then he said briskly, “See what you can do for Dan and the others. I’m going to put her about and I’ll need a hand with the mainsail.”

  She left him at the wheel and approached the three figures of Dan and his crew, tied to the rail, gags in their mouths. Dan was bleeding from a gash in his forehead, one of the others, a youngster of maybe seventeen, slumped unconscious in his bonds, the other had a broken arm, the splintered bone sticking jaggedly through his flesh.

  They were unnecessary wounds, the work of Fouché’s men, and a red wave of hatred surged over Gabrielle as she cut them loose.

  “Bastards!” Dan exploded in soft ferocity. “They’ve been playing their foul games with young Jamie here for hours.” He gently eased the unconscious lad to the deck. Gabrielle remembered the agonized screams and turned her eyes away from the pattern of knife marks on his chest.

  “Nathaniel needs help with the sails,” she said as calmly as she could. “Are you able to do it?”

  “Aye.” Dan walked stiffly and painfully toward Nathaniel while Gabrielle went below to see what she could find to bind up the broken arm.

  She glanced at the men on the cabin floor and was surprised to find them both breathing. She had thought Nathaniel had killed the one with the garrote. There was livid bruising around his throat, but he was breathing in stertorous gasps.

  She went back on deck and did what she could with the broken arm, binding it tightly and fashioning a sling so that at least the pieces of bone wouldn’t scrape together and the arm was supported.

  The man smiled wanly, but he was clearly incapable of doing anything.

  “Gabrielle!”

  “Yes?” She went over to the wheel.

  “Come here.” Nathaniel took her shoulders and drew her in front of him. “Hold the wheel. Do you remember anything I taught you on the river that day? What I told you about keeping the wind abaft the mainsail.”

  “I think so, but this is so much bigger than the dinghy.”

  “The principle’s the same. Look up at the sail. The edge mustn’t flutter. Try to keep the wind on the side of your face—here.” Gently he touched her cheek. Then he bent and brushed his lips over the spot, and she knew he was remembering how he’d struck her earlier.

  She reached up and grasped his bandaged wrist. “I’ll manage.”

  “Yes, I know you will. Come on, Dan, let’s get these swine off this boat.”

  They tied the four unconscious men, lowered the rowboat over the side, and heaved the bodies into it.

  “They’ll probably get picked up, more’s the pity,” Nathaniel said, squinting through the morning mist to the rocky cliffs of the French coast. “Let’s hope we get the hell out of here before anyone else comes along.”

  “We’ll fly the French colors,” Dan said. “That might give us some leeway.”

  Nathaniel looked across at Gabrielle. Her hands were steady on the wheel, her feet braced wide apart, her eyes on the mainsail. She was like no other woman. And she had more courage in her little finger than a regiment of marines.

  The courage of her convictions too. It still hurt to think that she’d deceived him, that he’d been duped by Talleyrand. But he thought how it had begun. He knew Gabrieile’s passion. He understood her need for vengeance for her lover’s murder. He would have felt it himself. And he now understood the curious logic that had brought them to this point. Gabrielle was loyal. In fact, her fault, if it was one, lay in too much loyalty. By an accident of birth she had a foot in both camps. A tempestuous and passionate nature would not allow her to abandon either one.

  And he loved her. He loved her for that courage and that loyalty as much as he did for her passion and her warmth and her generosity.

  And she was carrying his child.

  He went over to her. “Let Dan take the wheel now.”

  She relinquished it with a weary shrug of her shoulders, trying to ease the aching stiffness, the residue of the night’s ordeal. “I’ll make a sailor yet,” she said, smiling.

  The smile was such a brave attempt that his heart turned over anew. He reached for her, but suddenly she clutched her throat, murmured, “Oh, no, why now?” and fled to the rail, retching miserably. But she’d eaten almost nothing in the past twenty-four hours and the spasm eased, although the queasiness didn’t.

  “What is it, love?” Nathaniel drew her against him. “The sea’s like glass.”

  “I seem to have time to feel sick again,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have a piece of bread on you?”

  “Bread? No. Why?”

  “It’s the only thing that helps. It’s the most horrid inconvenience, Nathaniel. Was Helen sick?”

  “I don’t believe so.” He leaned against the rail, and his expression was both somber and confused. “Just how did it happen?”

  She gave him another wan smile. “You mean there’s more than one way?”

  “You know what I mean.” He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning in frustration. “How could you—”

  “Hey,” she interrupted. “It takes two, I’ll have you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” He pulled her against him, pushing her hair off her forehead. “But I’m frightened.”

  “What of?” She smiled, touching his mouth. “I rode without stopping for ten hours. It’s been a night of trial by ordeal. And I’m still here, aren’t I? Still pregnant? I’m tough, Nathaniel. It may not be a particularly feminine characteristic, but I grew up in a hard school.”

  “I know that.” He caught her chin. “Your poor mouth.” Tenderly he kissed her swollen lips.

  “And do you understand what … why …” She needed his words although she knew he did understand now.

  He laid a finger over her mouth. “It’s over, Gabrielle. We both made mistakes. We didn’t trust each other enough, and maybe with cause,” he added gravely. “Trust comes with knowledge. It’s taken us a long time to know each other.”

  “But you know me now?” She leaned into him.

  “As I know myself.”

  “That’s what I find frightening,” Gabrielle said. “We’re so alike. Can one fight with oneself?”

  “All the time,” he said with a wry smile. “And I suspect we’re going to be the living proof.”

  29

  Jake stood outside Gabrielle’s closed bedroom door, listening. He could hear voices, people moving around, but nothing to give him an idea of what was going on in there. He couldn’t picture what was happening. He’d asked Primmy and she’d said he wasn’t old enough to understand. He’d asked Mrs. Bailey and she’d blessed him and given him a jam tart and told him to run along. He didn’t think there would be any point asking Nurse. She didn’t know much about anything except keeping things clean and generally fussing.

  He slid down the wall at his back until he was sitting on the floor, facing the door and hugging his drawn-up knees. He was scared, but everyone else in the house seemed excited. They went around smiling and whispering in corners, and he’d heard Ellie giggling about a book that Milner was keeping in the stables about whether it would be a boy or a girl. Why would he keep a book about that in the stables?

  His eyes fixed on the cream-painted door, willing it to open. Papa was in there. He wished he would come out and tell him what was happening.

  Behind the closed bedroom door Nathaniel stood in the shadows of the bedcurtains, out of Gabrieile’s direct line of sight but close enough to respond if she wanted him. He didn’t know what else to do. If he touched her or spoke to her when she was distracted, she cursed him like a trooper, but when he’d tried to tiptoe from the room, she’d called him back urgently, telling him she needed to know he was there.

  There was nothing concrete he could do. The doctor, the midwife, and Ellie were all moving around with unhurried efficiency, talking softly to Gabrielle, ignoring her occasional oaths.

  He wasn’t frightened, Nathaniel realized. This was nothing like Helen’s tim
e. The woman on the bed was a tigress, hissing and spitting at the pain of this ghastly ordeal, yielding to her body and yet never losing herself in the violent paroxysms. Her spirit was hovering way above the suffering body on the bed, and despite six hours of this, she didn’t seem to be weakening. If anything, she grew ever more peppery as the contractions increased.

  “Goddammit, Nathaniel,” she said with sudden clarity. “If you ever do this to me again, I’ll kill you ….” She gasped, sweat breaking out on her forehead, and then relaxed, turning her face toward him. To his amazement, her crooked smile touched her lips. “That was a piece of rank injustice, wasn’t it?”

  “Even for you,” he agreed with an answering smile. He wiped her forehead with a lavender-scented cloth.

  “I wish I knew who’d coined the phrase Mother Nature,” she said in another moment of respite. “No female would have inflicted this on women.”

  She grabbed his hand suddenly, clinging to it as the pain tightened unmercifully, impossibly, gripped for an eternity, and then slowly receded.

  “Jake’s outside the door,” she said, her voice weaker than before. “He needs reassurance.”

  “How do you know he’s there?”

  “Because he would be.” She was lost again, and Nathaniel stood helplessly for a minute, and then went to the door.

  Where did she get her strength from? It far exceeded his own at the moment. She was keeping up this banter to make him feel better. And she was worrying about Jake, when he hadn’t given the child a thought.

  He opened the door and his heart went out to his son, sitting wide-eyed, scared, and uncomprehending, on the floor.

  “What are you doing here, Jake?” he asked gently, closing the door behind him.

  “I don’t know what’s happening.” Jake stood up. “Is Gabby going to die?”

  “No, of course not.” Nathaniel squatted on his heels so that he was on a level with the child. “Everything’s going just as it’s supposed to. Gabrielle is fine, although she’s a little cross because it’s not very comfortable having a baby.”

  “My first mother died.” Jake’s eyes were big brown pools of anxiety and confusion. “She died because of me.”