Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew

by Collette Cameron

  Plain idiotic to approach Abraham and his thugs alone, but Blaike didn’t know the danger she and her twin were in.

  Abraham’s alleged association with slave traders in the East put them in great peril. He’d sell the twins on the auction block, and given their unusual height, magnificent blond hair, and exquisite sapphire eyes, they’d bring a king’s ransom. Abraham probably had entertained the same idea about Seaulieu’s pretty honey-haired daughters.

  Devil take it.

  Why were the Culpeppers in Lyon?

  Weren’t they supposed to be at that academy for another year and a half? The last time he’d been in London, neither Ravensdale nor Leventhorpe had mentioned them returning early.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a few of his men approaching, their expressions grave.

  Hawkins must’ve apprised them of the urgency.

  As long as more of Abraham’s mangy crew didn’t also show up, things might be settled without a major brawl or the constable intervening. Delaying the Sea Gypsy’s departure because her crew cooled their tempers in jail meant another direct hit to Oliver’s none-too-heavy purse.

  If he lost the Sea Gypsy . . .

  Giving himself a mental shake, he directed his musing to the matter at hand.

  “Too much to hope the authorities might arrive and arrest Abraham for setting the fire,” Oliver muttered to himself. “Regrettably, I seldom have that kind of good fortune.”

  “I said unhand me, you . . . you Johnny bum.”

  Blaike.

  Despite the very real danger, his lip twitched at her depiction of a horse’s arse.

  Most people couldn’t tell her and her twin apart, but Oliver had been able to since they first met. Her sister had a small mole by her right eyebrow that Blaike didn’t. Blaike’s voice was slightly huskier than her twin’s, and her eyes fairly sparkled with azure mischief when she was amused.

  Which was frequently.

  His spirit also recognized another discontented, driven soul, though she hid it well beneath lowered lashes and a skillfully masked expression. A people-pleaser from what he’d observed, she did her utmost to keep from distressing others.

  At what cost, though?

  “Ouch, you brute.” A pained cry filtered through the office’s open doorway.

  Oliver sprinted across the wharf, half-listening for his men, and half-straining to hear Blaike or her sister. They had some explaining to do, by Jove. However, his first concern was seeing the twins safely aboard the Sea Gypsy. No easy task if Abraham and the barbarians he surrounded himself with were determined otherwise.

  Slowing his pace, he crept onto the low porch. A board creaked, and he froze mid-step. A swift glance over his shoulder reassured him. Several of his men hurried in his direction.

  The crew was the family he’d longed for since his grandfather had been murdered. Loyal and dedicated, each hand on the Sea Gypsy would sacrifice their life for another’s.

  All except for the new cook they’d taken on in Jamaica after McMaster indulged in too much mumbo and stumbled off a pier. He’d hit his head and drowned. Fairnly, his replacement, was a queer one, and he hated M’Lady Lottie as much as the bird despised him.

  Oliver slowly drew his sword and peeked around the doorjamb.

  Abraham held Blaike’s arm in a cruel grip as she wrestled to free herself, defiance shooting from her glorious eyes.

  Blaire stood statue still, terror radiating off her.

  “You will either walk of your own accord, or you’ll be carried, writhing and shrieking,” Abraham threatened, shaking her so hard, a few tendrils slipped loose from their pins.

  Blaike cried out again, and Blaire lunged forward, pulling on Abraham’s forearm. The hatboxes she held tumbled to the floor. “Stop it, you evil lout! You’re hurting her.”

  Exquisite in a rumpled Pomona green and lavender traveling gown, Blaike went rigid, arching away from him. “You—” She veered his men a panicked glance. “They would not dare. Besides, someone would come to our aid.”

  She trembled so hard, her jaunty little hat shook atop her shimmering hair, yet she stoically attempted to keep her composure.

  “I would dare, and no fool would interfere with a concerned father disciplining his run-away daughters, right chaps?” Brow cocked, Abraham laughed, deep and sinister. Eyes glittering with malicious excitement, the whoremonger was relishing their fear.

  “Aye, Cap’n. You’ve been plain heartsick with fear for them,” Eades agreed before he and his mates guffawed, pounding each other on the back and shoulders. “Bet they smell good. Ladies always do. I wouldn’t mind carrying either wench.” His lewd appraisal stripped the twins bare. “Toss her over my shoulder and squeeze her plump arse as I walk.”

  Oliver’s hand grew numb from the stranglehold he had on his sword. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Just a few more moments . . .

  “No. If it comes to that, Demir will carry the other twin. I trust him not to molest her.” Scowling, Abraham narrowed his eyes to slits and leveled each of his men a murderous glare. “They are to remain untouched. Do you understand? Virgins until we reach Cairo.” Nostrils flared, he licked his lips. “They’ll bring us a bloody fortune.”

  “Dear God, no.” Blaire staggered backward, banging into the counter and kicking a hatbox. Revulsion drained her face of color as she pressed a hand to her throat, exchanging an horrorstruck glance with Blaike.

  “Let me go, bloody blackguard.” Blaike renewed her frantic struggles, several more flaxen strands tumbling to her shoulders as she jerked and tugged. “And how can you be so certain we’re virgins. We might not be.”

  Abraham chuckled again.

  “If you aren’t, then I’ll sample your charms myself on the voyage and let my officers share your twin.” He leaned nearer, mere inches separating his gloating face and Blaike’s white-as-fresh-milk countenance. “And I’ll still sell you, though unfortunately, for far less.”

  She swallowed, and closing her eyes, averted her face.

  Deadly rage hummed through Oliver. It pounded in his ears, welled in his chest, and inflamed his blood. He wanted Abraham dead. By his hand.

  Throughout it all, Meunier leaned nonchalantly against his desk, arms folded. No surprise that cawker wouldn’t help two women in distress. His perverse preferences ran to young boys, often supplied by Abraham.

  How many women had he abetted in trafficking, the whoremonger?

  “Naturellement, I’ll receive mon habituel fee?” he said.

  Blaike gasped, and her eyelids flew open as she swung her infuriated gaze to him. “Spawn of Satan. You do speak English!”

  “Oui.” He shrugged, fingering his atrocity of a mustache. “Anglais, Espanol, and bits of others.”

  Abraham hauled a resisting Blaike closer, his lust apparent. Only his greed would keep him from despoiling her the instant he had her aboard his ship. “I’ll tend to this one myself. I have other ways she can be of use to me on the voyage.”

  Such scorching fury engulfed Oliver at the crude insinuation, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from revealing his presence. Daring a last glance behind him, he twisted his mouth into a satisfied smirk.

  Pistols, swords, and dirks drawn, his men advanced.

  “You’ll dance in hell first.”

  Blaike released a hoarse cry and spun to face the entrance, relief blossoming across her exquisite features.

  “Captain Whitehouse! Oh, thank God. I knew Blythe had made arrangements for our passage.”

  Where had she come by that false notion?

  If Blaike had arrived a day later, the Sea Gypsy would’ve already made the Mediterranean.

  He wouldn’t have been able to save them from a fate too horrific to contemplate.

  Oliver, his legs spread-eagle and sword in hand, impaled Abraham with his gaze. How he longed to bury his blade in the libertine over and over. He pointed a finger toward Blaike and Blaire. “Their guardian entrusted me with the Culpeppers care on the voyage here
, and I shall see them to London. Unlike you, I’ll make damned sure they’re returned to their family safely.”

  Oliver’s men clambered onto the porch and into the office.

  Metal scraped against metal as Abraham’s men drew their weapons. They were outnumbered at least three to one, and though Abraham wasn’t one to back down from a fight, he preferred to skulk round under the cover of darkness. A noisy, attention-grabbing ruckus wouldn’t serve him well.

  “Tsk, tsk.” Shaking his head, Oliver jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You may want to rethink your impulse, lads. Scabber your blades. Now. Better yet, drop them.”

  To a man, Abraham’s crew shot their captain a questioning gaze.

  He gave a tense jerk of his head, and muttering vulgarities, they dropped their knives and swords. The metal clanged loudly as it hit the floor.

  Hawkins edged to Oliver’s side. “Cap’n, everythin’ is as you bid, and I’ve had the misses’ luggage taken to the ship.”

  He hurried to retrieve Blaire’s hatboxes, then passed them to a deckhand.

  “Excellent.” Adjusting his grip on his sword, Oliver wielded the tip at Abraham. “I believe Miss Culpepper asked you to unhand her.”

  Abraham did so, hate curling his lip. The motion pleated the scar Oliver had given him that fateful night. “You expect me to believe you, uneducated gutter filth with scarcely two coins to rub together and a known by-blow, were entrusted with the Culpeppers’ passage here?”

  If the cur intended to shame Oliver with his revelations, he fell short of the mark. Everything he said was true and common knowledge.

  Blaike stabbed Abraham with a lethal glare before she swept Oliver a pity-filled gaze. The sympathy in her shining eyes cut a gash far deeper and more painful than Abraham’s spiteful words.

  “Yes, he was, Captain. Because he, unlike you, is a man of integrity, despite the origins of his birth.” She took her sister’s hand, and they scooted past the lurking hulks. A few feet from Abraham, Blaike whirled around. “Honor and high character can raise a person above their birth and circumstances. Most especially if whatever shadows them wasn’t their fault. That is why, Captain Abraham, you will always, always, muck about with the lowest,” her attention gravitated to his men, “most vile of offensive creatures.”

  She marched to Oliver, ushering her trembling sister before her. “Captain Whitehouse, if you would be so kind as to escort us to the Sea Gypsy. I’ve quite enough of French hospitality for a lifetime.”

  White lines framed her mouth, revealing just how much effort it took to retain her composure. Most women facing the prospect of being sold into white slavery, would have dissolved into hysterics.

  “Wait outside,” he gently ordered, touching her arm.

  Lips pursed, she gave a brief nod as she passed.

  “Don’t let Abraham or his brutes move until we are well away from here,” Oliver instructed Hawkins. He gestured to more of his crew, then pointed at Abraham’s thugs. “You make sure they don’t budge, either. And search them all for other weapons.”

  “As you say, Cap’n.” Hawkins canted his head toward Oliver’s men. “Lads, check their boots, while you’re at it.”

  As his mates rushed to further disarm Abraham and his crew, Oliver took the opportunity to corner Meunier. Once he’d sheathed his sword, Oliver grabbed the harbor master by his collar and shoved him so hard against the wall pinned with an assortment of bulletins, two fluttered to the floor.

  “You’d be wise to resign your position and disappear into the gutters where your kind belongs, Meunier.” Righteous outrage humming through his blood, Oliver tightened his hold. “Because I assure you, when the Culpepper Misses’ family learns your part in this debacle, those powerful lords will demand retribution. You won’t stand a maggot’s chance in a hen yard of escaping unscathed.”

  Meunier’s jaw hung slack, and he quivered like a fledging leaf buffeted by a North Sea gale. His damned mustache still remained morbidly stiff, though.

  “God, I hate that revolting thing.” Oliver yanked his dagger from its cover, and Meunier released a strangled terrified squeak. Oliver slashed off either side of the offending atrocity, dropping the disgusting waxed strands onto the floor. “Consider that a favor. It made you look like an imbécile.”

  Eyes closed, a tear dribbling from the corner of one, Meunier sagged against the wall, gasping.

  As Oliver returned his blade to its leather case, he grimaced. “Soiled yourself, did you? Be a good chap and light a lamp before attending to that offensiveness.”

  A few men snickered.

  “The sod shite himself?”

  “Twiddlepoop.”

  “Buggering Molly.”

  “Enough,” Oliver snapped. Like hens sensing weaker chickens, the men attacked with barbed rejoinders. He’d meant to scare the hell out of Meunier and teach him a lesson—not subject him to ridicule, even if he deserved it. “Tend to your tasks.”

  Besides, the Culpeppers were only a few feet away and shouldn’t be exposed to such course language.

  As Meunier shuffled to do Oliver’s bidding, Abraham attempted to follow the twins.

  The click of Hawkins cocking his blunderbuss drew everyone’s gaze.

  “Abraham, I’m thinkin’ you’ve not repented of your evil ways nor made your peace with the Good Lord. As much as it would grieve me to send any soul to burn in hell for eternity, if you move another inch, I’ll blow a hole in your skull—right between your shifty devil’s eyes—and ask The Almighty’s forgiveness afterward.”

  “You don’t have the ballocks, you puny little bastard,” Abraham sneered, though he stopped sidling toward the entrance. “My men would run you through.”

  Hawkins raised the pistol, pointing the barrel squarely at Abraham’s forehead, and lifted a boney shoulder. “You’d be dead, and I’d be enterin’ the pearly gates. Good enough for me. Besides, they’d have to get to me, and I’m thinkin’ a lead ball would find a home in each of their ugly faces before they moved a foot. Cannot help but think it’d be an improvement in their ugly appearances.”

  Hands fisted, his face contorted in frustration, Abraham swiveled to face Oliver. “We will meet again, Whitehouse, and next time, I promise you, I’ll not be as amiable.”

  This is amiable?

  Oliver chuckled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Dusk had settled on Lyon, and with it, the cold that early spring evenings bring. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since disembarking the Sea Gypsy this morning.

  He actually looked forward to the journey home now—a vast change from a mere hour ago.

  The blonde beauty waiting outside could be credited for that.

  More commotion drew Oliver’s attention outdoors. Flanked on either side by columns of soldiers, the first two carrying lanterns, an important-looking man and what Oliver presumed was the constable made straight for the Harbor Master’s Office.

  Well, now. Mayhap Abraham was about to get his comeuppance after all.

  Oliver raised a brow and rubbed his beard as he angled Abraham a considering glance. “I’m fairly certain that gentleman is Seaulieu. Wonder what brings him here? He looks to be in a fine fettle, too.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Abraham mumbled, shifting toward the window. “Meunier, is there another way out?”

  Meunier had disappeared into a back room.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Hawkins clicked his tongue. “I warned you not to move an inch. And keep your hands where I can see them, you scurvy sea-dog. You wouldn’t want me to pull the trigger when all you were doin’ was satisfyin’ an indelicate itch, now would you?”

  Oliver bent into a mocking bow. “I’ll say my farewells. Far too many soldiers approach to fit comfortably in here. I confess, if I wasn’t keen to see the Misses Culpepper to my ship, I’d linger to watch the outcome.”

  “Sod off, Whitehouse.” Abraham spared Oliver a sneering glower before he returned his rapt attention to the window and the advancin
g soldiers.

  “Hawkins,” Oliver said, “I’ll see you aboard ship.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” He grinned and sliced a quick glance heavenward. “Looks like the Good Lord heard my prayer ’bout reinforcements.”

  “Indeed.”

  Pleased to have bested Abraham this round, Oliver stalked onto the porch. Those of his men not inside the office or on his ship loitered nearby, each alert and ready to jump into action should the need arise. To a man, they watched the soldiers’ progression, their weather-browned faces curious.

  Blaike and her sister rested on a time-worn bench, arms around one another’s waists. Shoulders hunched and gazes wary, weariness blanketed them. He couldn’t venture to guess what had brought them to Lyon, but he’d be bound it wasn’t anything good.

  He might not have a full cargo hold, but he’d have the pleasure of Blaike’s company on the voyage home. Not a bad trade-off at all. Actually, it would be a pleasurable hell, having her near once more and never being able to declare himself.

  Still, he’d take the treasured gift.

  Her soft mouth turned up into a tired, fragile smile at his approach, then suddenly her eyes became huge and terrified, and she lurched to her feet, pointing.

  “Oliver! Behind you!”

  Eyes often reveal the secrets of one’s heart, and an

  astute woman will watch to see if they confirm what is spoken.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Blaike dashed into the captain’s shadowy quarters, holding a lantern before her.

  “Hairy-lipped trollop!”

  Giving a startled yelp, she spun toward the grating voice.

  Its salmon-crested head cocked to the side, a white bird sat atop a perch inside a cage. An odd assortment of things hung inside, including silverware tied together, ropes, wood pieces, colorful beads, rings, and a mirror. Beside the cage stood a sturdy perch made from a branch. It, too, had several items dangling from it.

  Must be toys.

  Why did it surprise her that Oliver had a pet bird?

  Was it new, for surely Blaike would’ve heard its screeching on the previous voyage?