Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  His hoarse exclamation gave way to a steady stream of pungent curses as he discovered he was indeed bound spread-eagle to the narrow bunk. Thoroughly awake now, he tugged at his bonds only to find that his unknown captor had been most efficient.

  He was dressed in the clothes he must have been wearing the previous day, save for his shoes and his jacket, which was hung on a peg on the wall across from him. Each of his ankles and wrists was tied to a different corner of the bed frame. The cords held just enough slack for him to raise his limbs several inches, but not enough for him to sit up.

  When, after a few moments more struggle, the knots showed no sign of loosening, Malcolm lay back in disgust and swiftly considered his situation. Another look around showed that he was not being held captive in a room, as he first thought, but in a ship's cabin. By the same token, the steady rise and fall of his bunk was not an aftereffect of too much brandy, but was rather a response to the rhythmic swell of waves beneath the vessel. As for the pounding in his skull…

  He managed with an effort to raise one hand to his temple to discover that his forehead was bandaged, with one side of his skull excruciatingly tender as if he somehow had been injured. He could identify a faint, unpleasant aroma—oddly reminiscent of burnt feathers and rutting beasts—that seemed to be emanating from the vicinity of that wound.

  Malcolm grimaced. If only he could remember how he had come to this pass, if he knew who was responsible...

  Seamus O'Neill.

  The familiar name flashed through his mind the same instant a second realization hit. He hadn't been drinking, after all. Despite his precautions, O'Neill must have finally caught up with him. He had been bashed over the head and shanghaied by the bloody pirate! But where was Wilkie...and, more importantly, what had happened to the jewel that was the reason behind O'Neill's single-minded pursuit?

  Where in the hell was the bloody emerald?

  Emerald. Even as he recalled that the gem was safely vaulted away, the word conjured a sudden recollection— not of the stolen gemstone and its seafaring former owner, but of a young green-eyed, blond siren. He shut his own eyes, ignoring his throbbing temple as he willed memory to return. There had been something about a very large, dark-skinned man and a beautiful blond woman. Malcolm and the woman had been talking—no, arguing—and she had pulled a pistol on him...

  Memory crashed back on him with painful clarity just as the cabin's louvered door opened, and she walked in, dressed in a braid-trimmed walking suit the same sea green color as her eyes. Malcolm rose up on his elbows and glared at her.

  “You bloody shot me!”

  His outraged accusation, bearing unmistakable echoes of his East End upbringing, stopped the woman. Crimson flooded her pale cheeks, while silverware and dishes clattered against the tin tray she carried. Pressing his advantage and not caring that he was supposed to be the genteel Sir John Abbot, he raged on, “I don't know what kind o' bloody game you're playin', but you'd better untie me before I—”

  “I am glad to see you are feeling better. I—that is, we were beginning to be concerned. Yes, you have been unconscious since yesterday afternoon,” she answered his unspoken question, “though I presume it was to be expected, given the fact you have a head wound.”

  Her composure apparently recovered, the woman—one Halia Davenport, if his memory continued to serve—let the door close behind her and started toward him. In that same unruffled tone that set his teeth on edge, she added, “I thought you might like some breakfast, Mr. Northrup.”

  Northrup! Damn it all, she really does know who I am.

  While she settled the tray on a nearby table, he swiftly sorted through a mental list of his most recent victims, searching for some tie between this hitherto unknown woman and whoever was responsible for tracking him down. O'Neill, he promptly eliminated from that number— the pirate was too much the purist to let someone else do his dirty work. That left four score or more people who might want revenge for some past indiscretion of his. The realization did nothing for his aching head.

  Aloud, he merely said, “And just how in the hell am I supposed to eat, trussed up like a bloody Christmas goose?”

  She frowned. “I could feed you myself, I suppose—no, you would only choke in that position. Perhaps I could untie one of your hands so you could prop yourself up...that is, if you gave me your word as a gentleman that you would refrain from attempting escape.”

  His word as a gentleman.

  Malcolm suppressed a bitter laugh. Little did the chit know that, had his father bothered to marry his mother, he would have been a gentleman. Hell, he would have been bloody Lord Sherebrooke, heir to the Northrup fortune, instead of the bastard son of that family's former under house parlor maid. As it was, the closest he'd come was to take his father's name in a mocking sort of tribute to the man.

  “Say that I do give you my word,” he conceded in caustic tone, “what's to stop me from calling for help from whoever is passing by? If I tell them that I don't know you, that I've been kidnapped—”

  ”—I am afraid no one would believe you.”

  She moved a few steps closer. Her wide green eyes levelly met his gaze, while her full lips settled into charmingly stubborn lines that, had he been in a mood to appreciate such things, he would have found quite appealing.

  “You see, Mr. Northrup, the ship's staff has been informed that you are my cousin, and that you have suffered an injury which has caused a certain...mental disturbance. The crew would attribute any such claim you made to your illness. Now, if you will just give me your word you will not try anything, we can proceed with your breakfast.”

  He did not answer right away, but surveyed her a moment with grudging respect even as he pondered his own next move. She was thorough, he would give her that. Still, he had talked his way out of more than one tight spot over the years, and he'd be damned if he would let some simpering chit—and an American one, at that!—get the best of him.

  “Your concern is most touching, Miss Davenport,” he finally replied, resuming his best Sir John Abbot tones. “Unfortunately, I fear I have a rather more pressing need to attend to, one that will require, how shall I delicately put this, the use of both hands...unless, of course, you would care to help?”

  The question hung between them for a moment before Halia took his meaning and blushed a fiery red. “Oh,” was all the answer she made, but her confusion spoke volumes.

  Malcolm suppressed a triumphant smile as he gently urged, “Do hurry your decision, Miss Davenport, before I have a mishap that embarrasses us both.”

  “Oh, my,” she elaborated in a faint voice and then delicately cleared her throat. ”I-I do suppose there is no way around this. If only Christophe had not gone on top deck already—”

  “Knowing what little faith you have in me, I would have no objection if you wished to watch while I use the chamber pot,” he interrupted in the same mild tone and was rewarded by her outraged gasp.

  “Certainly not!”

  With more haste than dignity, she loosened the loops that bound his wrists; then, snatching the ceramic pot from its shelf beneath the bedside stand, she all but thrust it into his arms.

  “I shall be just outside,” she flung over her shoulder as she fled toward the louvered entry. “Call me when you...that is, once you have—”

  The rest of her words were lost in the slam of the door behind her. Grinning broadly, Malcolm chaffed his numb wrists and then eased himself into a kneeling position. The throbbing in his temple intensified, and he wasted a few precious seconds regaining his equilibrium.

  Once the dizziness subsided, he made welcome use of the chamber pot—strategy notwithstanding, his earlier threats to her had not been without foundation. While he relieved his aching bladder, he took quick stock of his options.

  It would be easy enough for him to cast off his other bonds and make an immediate escape. But not through the porthole, he decided, for he could see that it was far too small to accommodate him. He could in
stead make a bold exit via the door, and risk encountering Halia's oversized manservant who might even now be waiting outside for him to make such a move. In his current weakened state, he had no desire to go up against a man twice his size.

  Malcolm refastened his trousers and made quick use of the washbasin and pitcher atop the bedstand, where those items were fitted into hollows to withstand the ship's rise and fall. His ablutions dissipated much of the odor that so offended his senses—no doubt he had fallen into the hands of some quacksalver while he was unconscious—and served to sharpen his thoughts.

  Even should he make good his escape, he had but two immediate courses of action open to him. He could leap overboard and risk drowning. Alternately, he could spend the remainder of the voyage eluding the ship's crew, and probably every other able-bodied man aboard, who would be enjoined to hunt him down like the raving lunatic they had been told he was. Neither idea held any appeal for him.

  What he needed was another plan.

  What he needed was a hostage.

  ###

  Halia leaned against the doorjamb outside the cabin and waited for the heat in her cheeks to burn away. If she wished to watch, indeed! She should have left the nursing to Lally, who would not have hesitated to keep an eye on the Englishman, even under such circumstances.

  But Lally was tucked away in her own cabin, enjoying some much-deserved sleep. After yesterday's ritual that included various foul-smelling salves and appropriately hued candles, the older woman had remained with their captive until dawn, when Halia insisted upon relieving her. A vague sense of guilt had made her own vigil an uncomfortable one...after all, she had come within a hairbreadth of killing the man.

  More unsettling, however, was the sight of him lying atop the narrow bunk, with dark hair tumbled over his newly bandaged head and long limbs stretched and tied. Had she not known better, she would have said that he was the one who had been cruelly used.

  That feeling, combined with hunger, finally had driven her in search of the galley and breakfast. She had been more than a little nonplussed upon her return to find the Englishman awake. Still, she had managed to maintain an unruffled facade... that was, until he had indicated his need to relieve himself.

  Halia blushed again, even as she frowned. Familiar with Northrup's background as she was, the idea of leaving him alone for even a minute made her uneasy. But, criminal or not, the man could hardly be denied the opportunity to attend to his physical needs.

  She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her shirtwaist. He had been alone for almost five minutes, time enough for him to accomplish that particular activity.

  ''A-Are you quite finished, Mr. Northrup?” she hesitantly called through the louvered door.

  She could hear the splash of water in the washbasin but was unable to see past the painted slats and into the cabin. Now, it occurred to her that he never had quite given her his word that he would not try to escape. Could she have made a mistake by trusting him even this far?

  At his muffled reply, she reached for the handle and pushed the door open a few inches. Please, let him at least have his trousers on, came her silent plea as she peered inside.

  The sight that greeted her, however, proved infinitely more disturbing. The Englishman lay much as she had left him, flat on his back and with ropes still looped over his ankles, but now his eyes were shut and his head was lolling against the meager pillow. At her involuntary sound of dismay, he opened one eye.

  “Never...should 'ave...tried,” he gasped, his voice little more than a whisper. “S'dizzy... bloody 'ead feels like it's... fallin' off.”

  “Oh, my!”

  Forgetting her suspicions, Halia let the door swing wide open and hurried toward the bed. “Do try not to move,” she urged, guilt welling in her breast when he made a weak attempt to sit up. “I will make you more comfortable, and then I shall bring Lally back to attend you.”

  He made a faint sound of assent but otherwise remained still. Mindful of his wound, she propped the pillow more securely beneath his head and smoothed his now-damp hair from his brow. Then, belatedly recalling her responsibilities, she reached for one of the ropes that had bound his wrists. “It will take me just a moment to find her, but I fear I must retie your arms while I am gone.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Barely had she registered the fact that his voice had lost its previous note of weakness than Northrup had caught both her wrists in a steel grasp. Before she could make any protest, he scissored his long legs around hers and neatly flipped her, so that she now lay pinned beneath him on the narrow bunk.

  ”A piece of advice, luv, from one criminal to another...never trust the other bloke.”

  “You—you untied yourself,” she inanely replied, even as his chill words sent a shiver through her.

  He gave her a humorless smile. “Bloody right I did. Now, let's discuss this kidnapping business, shall we?”

  His face hovered scant inches above hers, and she could see that it was cool calculation and not a feverish glitter that lit his dark eyes. He had dragged her wrists above her head in a painful hold, while his legs securely pinned her lower body to the mattress in a pose fraught with a frightening intimacy.

  “P-Please, let me go,” she managed in a voice little better than a whisper.

  He shook his head. “Not a chance, luv...not until we get a few things straight.”

  She bit back a wordless cry of distress. Never had she allowed any male of her acquaintance to take physical liberties with her beyond a brotherly kiss ...yet here she lay, entwined with a strange male atop his bed and offering only token protest. The rational portion of her mind demanded that she scream for help, rather than calmly conduct any sort of conversation.

  So why was she not screaming?

  “I have found, Mr. Northrup, that I am much more articulate when sitting upright,” she finally countered with as much dignity as possible, given the circumstances. “So if you will allow me—”

  “Here now, what's goin' on?” roared a voice from the doorway. An instant later, Halia heard the thud of booted footsteps just before Northrup was lifted bodily from her.

  With a gasp of relief, she sat up in time to see three burly sailors subduing the Englishman as he struggled in their grip. The tallest of the trio, knit-capped and bearded like his fellows, turned his attention from the skirmish long enough to glance her way.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he demanded, his gray brows beetling in paternal concern. “The boys and me, we was walking by and saw what was happening.”

  “I am quite fine,” she assured him a bit breathlessly as she got to her feet and smoothed her gown. “My, uhm, cousin is still suffering from his delirium, and I fear the poor man believes that I—”

  “She...is not... my cousin,” Northrup broke in.

  Though he had ceased his struggles, his expression was anything but conciliatory as his gaze swept the trio who surrounded him. “I tell you, this...person is no relation to me,” he went on in the strained tone of a man trying to contain his temper. “She's some bloody madwoman I'd never even met before yesterday. Now, she and her bloodthirsty band of servants have shot and kidnapped me, and I—”

  “Come along, mate, and quietly now,” a second crewman, blond and stocky, interrupted in a soothing tone. Sotto voce, he addressed Halia. “You want we should tie him up again, miss?”

  “I do think that would be best, given the circumstances. But do mind his head ...he’s injured, you know.”

  It took all three sailors to restrain him. By the time they had refastened the ropes, the tall crewman was nursing a bloody nose, while his companions sported various bruises of their own.”

  “He won't be giving you no more trouble, miss,” the former assured Halia as he tried to stanch that crimson trickle. “Should I send someone down to wait with you?”

  She tactfully refused his offer and showed the stalwart trio out, then turned to meet the baleful gaze of her captive. Her earlier uncertainty gave w
ay to a sense of pique, so that she gladly assigned him all fault for what had just transpired. By what right did he blame her for his predicament, when she had done her utmost to treat him as fairly as circumstances allowed? Indeed, the man was proving most provoking!

  “That was most ungallant of you, Mr. Northrup,” she hotly began. “I trusted your word, and you took advantage of my leniency...besides which, with an injury such as yours, you should not risk such exertion.”

  “Stow it, luv,” he rudely cut her short.

  Halia bristled at this final breach of manners. Before she could explain to him the error of his ways, however, he continued in the same tone of chill fury, “Over the past twenty-four hours, you have shot me, kidnapped me, and made plans to rob me. Now, since I have accepted my fate with comparatively good grace thus far, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the point of all this?”

  “The point?” she echoed and levelly met his gaze. “I thought I had made myself most clear on that matter from the very start. You see, we are using your ill-gotten funds for the very purpose that you promised your victims they were intended.”

  When he only stared at her, uncomprehending, she gave her head an exasperated shake. “Really, Mr. Northrup, you can be most dense. Why, we are setting off in search of Atlantis.”

  ~ Chapter 4 ~

  ”Dat man, he be trouble.”

  With that terse pronouncement, Lally seated herself at Halia's table in the center of the ship's elegant dining salon. Halia stared at her in dismay, not needing to know to which “man” the woman referred...and hardly daring to guess what he might have done now.

  Her attention was temporarily diverted, however, by the stares that she could feel turned in their direction. A moment later, a muttered tide of conversation began to build.

  A few of the more hostile comments—“don't know her place...damned darkie thinks she's good as the rest of us”—were audible above the general murmur. Others merely professed whispered amazement at her unconventional appearance. Here among this staid cross-section of American gentry, the Haitian woman stood out like a brilliantly plumed parrot set amongst a flock of sparrows.