by Ruth Owen
“I would not advise it, ma petite. The sea is very wide, and you are very small.”
Juliana scooted back from the railing and started to recite her carefully devised explanation. “I fancied I saw a whale, and was leaning out to get a closer—” She stopped as she looked into his face. He no longer wore the ridiculous white wig and gaudy livery of the Morrows’ footmen, but she would have recognized him anywhere. “Why, you are Meg’s Frenchman!”
The gentleman’s confident smile disintegrated in surprise. “Mademoiselle Evans spoke of me?”
“Incessantly,” she assured him. “I cannot say that I am pleased to find you in this circumstance, sir. However, for what you did for Meg, I owe you my heartfelt thanks.”
The Frenchman gave her a courteous bow. “Any gentleman would have done as much.”
Juliana’s gaze traveled to the forecastle, to where Connor’s dark form carved a piece from the setting sun. “If you think that, monsieur, then you do not know much of your treasonous captain. I can understand that you are part of this for your country’s sake, but he has no such excuse. A more dishonorable man never drew breath.”
“Not so dishonorable. He has given you his cabin, and he has allowed you the use of Rose’s dresses.”
“Who is Rose?”
For a moment the Frenchman bent his head and shook it. “To not even tell her of … zut, he is the fool of the world!”
“I heartily agree,” she huffed.
“Lady, I urge you not to be so quick to paint your world in the colors of blanc et noir. The shade of truth lies somewhere in between. If you but knew the circumstances that had brought him to this point—”
“I know the circumstances. He is a deceitful dog, and has been ever since he stole from my father, and ran off with—” She swallowed, and turned her face to the wind, relishing the sobering cold. “If you mean do I know how he came by this ship, I must say I do not. But I would bet my fortune that he attained it by nefarious means.”
“Then you would now be a pauper, mademoiselle, because he—”
A young voice interrupted her. “Hey, heave to,” Jamie cried as he climbed to the quarterdeck like a knight charging to his lady’s side. He stepped between Juliana and the Frenchman, brandishing the shawl she’d sent him for like a weapon. “She’s my prisoner—Captain said so. You shouldn’t be talking with her without asking me first, Viscount.”
Juliana’s eyes widened. “You are a viscount?”
“Raoul St. Juste, vicomte d’Aubigny-sur-mer,” he replied, giving the child a grimace of annoyance. “Unfortunately, my ancestors had the ill luck to lose our chateau and lands in the Revolution.”
“Along with their heads,” Jamie added with cheerful honesty. “Now the viscount is just a sailor, same as me.”
A shadow crossed St. Juste’s face, gone too quickly for Juliana to name it. He reached down and gave Jamie’s hair a playful mussing. “And there is no finer thing on this earth to be than ‘just a sailor,’ is there, mon frère?”
Juliana looked on, feeling a stark, sudden envy for the easy companionship between the two. Years ago on her father’s ship, she too had shared that uncomplicated camaraderie with the sailors. Finishing schools, extravagant balls, court presentations, and social maneuvering had made her discount the contentment of those early years. She’d convinced herself that success was measured by Prinny’s good opinion, and that a voucher to Almack’s was a passport to heaven. But after several seasons as the pink of London society, with scores of acquaintances and nearly as many admirers, Meg, the Jollys, and recalcitrant Mr. McGregor were the only people she could truly count as her friends. Though, until a few days ago, I had counted one more.…
“Are you all right, mademoiselle? You look as if you suffer a touch of the mal de mer.”
“I’m f-fine,” Juliana stuttered. ’Twas the salt in the air, no doubt. “Just a bit fatigued, I imagine.”
“You look fair wagged out,” Jamie pronounced as he frowned with proprietary concern at his charge. “You need supper. If the viscount’ll take the prisoner watch, I’ll see it’s sent to your cabin smart quick.”
“It would be a pleasure,” St. Juste answered as he gallantly offered Juliana his arm.
As they strolled the twilight deck, the viscount told pleasant, entertaining tales about the sea, the weather, and other neutral subjects. Under other circumstances Juliana would have enjoyed the conversation, but now she could barely manage an interested nod. Her attention was fixed on a point just past the port bow, to where the silhouettes of the Pelican and the other merchant vessels could be seen striking half canvas for the night. Slowed to a veritable standstill by the gathering fog and approaching night, the vessels and their guard ship were not nearly as far apart as they had been hours before. If she could lower a boat, or at least find a way to signal the ships to send one …
But to do either of these things, she would need the help of at least one member of Connor’s crew. And she needed a man who had some measure of authority who would be able to order away the evening watch. She needed a man who retained some of his honor, despite his present treasonous circumstance. Most of all, she needed a man who had a use for her coin—such as someone who had come from privileged circumstances and who might be tempted to see her wealth as a way to buy back some of his family’s former glory.
She turned to the viscount and schooled her expression into her most dazzling “belle of the ball” smile. “La, sir, ’tis frightfully pleasant to find a gallant on this vessel. I vow that I was in danger of growing quite buffle-headed for lack of any genteel conversation.…”
From that evening on, Juliana’s hours on deck were spent in the company of both Jamie and St. Juste. The genial Frenchman took it upon himself to introduce her to the crew members, and she learned that they were all decent, good-hearted men underneath. Even the hulking Barnacle, who had been so intimidating that long ago night when she had first approached Connor’s ship, had a little daughter in Surrey whom he missed like the devil and whose very name could bring him close to blubbering. She found it remarkably easy to fall back into the easy cadence of sea slang, like slipping on a pair of comfortable shoes after standing too long in pinched high boots.
She no longer believed that her life was in danger and under other circumstances, she would have found the voyage quite enjoyable. But she could not allow herself to forget that the wardroom contained a box of stolen dispatches or that Connor was still a kidnapper who had betrayed his country. Not to mention the fact that she was wearing the dresses of a mysterious woman named Rose, who knew Connor intimately enough to keep her clothing in the captain’s quarters. His light-skirt, no doubt. Not that the fact that Connor had a mistress meant anything to her …
“Why so glum, mademoiselle?” St. Juste asked one evening as she stood leaning against the poop deck railing,
Juliana faltered, unwilling to admit that she had been speculating on Connor’s love life. “I-I suppose I am concerned for the weather.”
Raoul patted her hand. “Do not trouble yourself. The storm could pass us by. In any event, we shall be in Lisbon in three days’ time.”
Inwardly Juliana cursed herself for letting the time slip by. Now she had only three days to come up with a plan to retrieve the stolen dispatches, reach one of the convoy ships, and make her escape. There was no time to waste.
She glanced around, noting that Jamie was busy playing cat’s cradle with the bosun and the rest of the sailors were safely out of earshot. Surreptitiously she bent close to St. Juste’s ear. “My lord, you know that I am a wealthy woman. I can offer you a great deal of money—enough to buy back your chateau and lands. All you need do is help me to signal one of the convoy ships. We could lower a longboat tonight, and—sir, tell me that you are not laughing!”
“ ’Tis impossible not to,” Raoul said, trying nobly to douse his amusement. “Oh, it was a grand effort, and not entirely untempting, but you are wasting your breath. Neither I nor any man on thi
s ship would betray our captain.”
Juliana gripped the rail in profound disappointment. St. Juste was her best hope. To know that he was not even remotely interested put paid to nearly all of her plans. “You fear him that much, then?”
“Fear? Lady, look around.” He made a sweeping gesture around the deck of the snow. “Do these look like frightened men?”
The motley assembly of hard-bitten men seemed as contented as well-fed babes as they performed their evening tasks. A wiry man scaled the ratlines to the crow’s nest like an eager monkey. A portly gent she’d come to know by the nick-name of Powder polished one of the ship’s arsenal of cannons with the pride of a papa for his bairn. Near the mainmast, a group of tars joined in for a lusty sailing ditty, though she noticed the main bellower was given a silencing look by Connor before the lyrics turned too ribald.
All in all, it was one of the most well-managed, contented vessels she’d ever been on. And it disconcerted her mightily that a man as duplicitous as Connor could enjoy such loyalty from his men. “All right. I shall admit that the captain runs a yar ship. But that does not excuse the fact that he is a treasonous brigand who thought nothing of kidnapping a defenseless woman.”
“No woman with eyes like yours could ever be defenseless,” Raoul replied with a thoughtful smile. “As I have said before, the captain had no wish to kidnap you, until your untimely discovery forced his hand. And as for his treason—well, I warned you that the world is not always a place of black and white. If you would but give the man a chance—”
“To do what? To betray my country? To deliver secrets into enemy hands, which might cost hundreds of soldiers and sailors their lives? To thrust even greater sorrow and despair on my dear family, who must be crazed with worry by now?” She lifted her chin proudly. “No, monsieur. The captain will receive no quarter from me. Once he was a man of honor, but those days are long past. Were it in my power, I would send him straight to Hades.”
Raoul pressed his finger to his brow. “Alors, ’tis amazing there are any children.”
“What?”
“Nothing. In any event, we cannot change the past, and it is sometimes almost as difficult to change our futures. It is likely that all on this ship will be dead before the year is out. Because I shall probably never see you again, I desire to speak with you on an entirely different matter. Something that has been much on my mind.”
Juliana watched in surprise as the suave Frenchman glanced down and started to kick the instep of his boot like an uncertain schoolboy.
“In days you shall be returned to the bosom of your loving family. This unpleasant episode shall fade as an unsavory nightmare. But before you put the memory entirely out of your mind, I would ask you—mais non, I would implore you—to speak with some charity of me to Mademoiselle Evans. Though I shall never see that good lady again, I should like to think that somewhere in this world there is someone who remembers me as a man of noble honor, rather than as the penniless rascal that I truly am.”
I am a block of wood, Juliana thought. In all the days she had spent in Raoul’s company, she had never regarded his few but telling mentions of Meg, never taken note of the cautious questions and heartbeat pauses when he spoke her name. Completely absorbed by her own predicament, she had given little thought to anyone else’s concerns. She reached up and cupped his cheek. “My lord, whatever ill-luck set me on this voyage, you have shown me nothing but kindness during it. I shall be pleased to relate the particulars of your gallant behavior to Miss Evans. And who can say? Perhaps someday you shall have the opportunity to tell her face to—”
Connor’s roar split the quiet evening like cannon fire. “Mr. St. Juste, return to your duties at once!”
Raoul drew himself up to his full height as he replied, “But I am not presently on duty—”
“You are now. Beat to the forecastle. At once!”
Raoul gave Juliana an apologetic glance, then strode off toward the bow. Juliana watched him go, her courage sinking lower by the second. For a week she had barely seen Connor’s shadow. Now he loomed over her like an angry god, the twilight gathering round him like a cloak, his eyes blazing. “Sir, there was no cause to—”
He ignored her. “Jamie, see to the lady’s quarters. She is to remain in the cabin for the rest of the voyage.”
“But that is three whole days!” Juliana cried. “I have not broken my parole. ’Tis unjust to confine me. I will not have it.”
All activity on the ship came to a dead stop. For several moments the only sounds were the creak of the rocking hull and the occasional flap of the evening wind in the sails. Every sailor stared transfixed at the raised deck, at the woman who had dared to talk back to the captain.
Juliana had faced Connor’s anger, but she had never weathered the full force of his cold fury. She stared into the depths of his eyes, into a soul as remote and unforgiving as the rocky slopes of hell. But even under the damning gaze she felt the unseen chain that stretched between them. She felt the power radiating from him like a dark sun. She caught his heady, masculine scent on the wind. She remembered her dreams, the shameless fantasies that conquered her in his bed. Against her will, she felt her traitorous body start to ache with unsated need. In the heart of the ice, she burned.
“You will do as I say, my lady,” he threatened, his jagged voice strained to the edge of control. “Obey me, or I will make you regret your insubordination in ways you cannot even imagine.”
Juliana swallowed, her heart thundering. Terror rose in her like a wave. Still, she kept her chin high. The Connor she’d once cared for was dead, but the man he’d become was still humane enough to earn the respect of his men. Somewhere behind the ice wall of his unforgiving countenance there had to be a spark of human decency. And that man deserved a last chance to clear himself.
She licked her lips, and tried one final time to reach him. “Connor, for the sake of your country, for the sake of the officer you once were and who I … cared for, please give up this traitorous scheme.”
For an instant she saw a spark of vulnerability in his eyes. “If you wish to live, I suggest you never mention our pasts again.”
He turned to leave, but she spoke first, her words tumbling out like jackstraws. “I’m sorry for what happened between us. Perhaps if I had known that you needed the money, I could have arranged something … but Raoul said I cannot change the past.”
He turned back to her slowly. “Raoul? You use his Christian name?”
She pressed on with her heartfelt words. She had failed to save him in the past, but she still had a chance to save him now. “It is not yet too late. You still have time to return the dispatches and regain some measure of your honor.”
“Honor?” He spat the word like a curse. “You are a fine one to talk of honor, when you just tried to seduce St. Juste.”
Seduce! Her eyes widened as she recalled how she taken Raoul’s face in her hands, a gesture of friendship that had been completely misinterpreted. “That was not the way of it. I was only trying—”
“I know bloody well what you were trying,” he answered, his chilling gaze impossibly becoming colder. “God knows, I’d expected you’d changed since we were children, Juliana. But I never thought you’d stoop so low that you’d barter your body.”
He turned and started to stride away. But she could not let him leave—not while he believed that she would … that she could … Her mind could not even fashion the words for what he believed she’d done. She ran after him and caught his sleeve. “Connor, listen to me. I would never do such a thing. I could never—”
He gripped her wrist and spun her around, pinning her arm painfully against her back. He leaned forward, pressing so close that his body molded to the length of her back. “Do not, for one instant, mistake me for one of your palsied admirers, or for a man of character like Raoul. I could strip you of whatever’s left of your precious honor in a heartbeat. And,” he growled, bending so close that his hot breath seared her ear, “I coul
d make you beg for more.”
He released her so quickly she staggered against the railing for support. She watched him stride off until the twilight swallowed him up. Only then did she find the strength to breathe again.
She had to escape. She had to retrieve the dispatches and leave this ship. Before England’s plans fell into enemy hands. Before she lost courage. Before it was too late.
Before she gave in to her shameful desires and sought out his bed.
The midnight bell tolled to silence.
Beneath the deck in the aft cabin, Juliana craned her neck as she listened to the footsteps of the changing watch. With her gaze fixed on the ceiling, she followed the sound of the footfalls across the deck above. He stops at the aft railing. Then a slow turn to the left. Nine measured steps across the deck, and down the ladder to the quarterdeck …
Since the beginning of her imprisonment, she’d listened to the midnight watch. She knew she had some fifteen minutes before the footfalls of the watch returned, minutes that would spell the difference between defeat and disaster. She slipped out of bed and hurried to the aft bay window, where some hours earlier she had carefully broken out a glass pane. She reached outside and felt the hull until her hand found the knotted rope that she had dropped over the side a few days past.
St. Juste had been her best plan for escape, but he had not been her only plan.
Gripping the rope, she cautiously eased herself backward out of the window, trying not to look at the churning black water far below. The night wind hit her bare shoulders, for she’d stripped down to her shift for the climb, but she clenched her teeth and continued to work her way out of the small opening. A sudden roll of the ship yanked her roughly from her perch, and for a terrified moment she swung out over the emptiness with only her grip on the rope saving her from falling. Then her feet found purchase on one of the knots. She laid her cheek against the coarse hemp while her heart slowed to a manageable beat. Then, hand over hand, she climbed the hull to the aft deck of the ship.
