by Lily Silver
The count had freed her years ago, along with all the other slaves his grandfather kept on the island. His grand gesture was just that, a gesture. Count Rochembeau might abhor slavery, but the rest of the world still used slave labor. Back in 1794, when the count took over the plantation, it was still legal to import slaves. In order to stay free, the former slaves had to remain on the island. Some became sailors on his two merchant ships. Others worked at the count’s various industries on the island, for a wage. Chloe lived hand—to—mouth as best she could. Her grandmother, Old Suki, had died by the time the count took over the plantation, so Chloe practiced the healing arts she’d learned from her grandmother. The islanders paid her for potions and love spells as they came to her hut in the jungle, but they hated her, feared her and shunned her—it was her grandmother’s legacy as a Voodoo priestess.
Then, one day four years after his own arrival, the count brought home a bride. He opened the plantation house and hired servants to staff it for his darling. Lady Elizabeth was a kindred spirit. She had an Irish grandmother who was a druid priestess so she cared little for the islander’s superstitions regarding Chloe.
The count had freed Chloe. His wife had extended the hand of friendship to her and gave her a home. And you are running away from those dear people who love you just as you are.
Chloe sucked in her lower lip and whirled about, ignoring her conscience. She looked up at the sails above. The crisp sea breezes made them snap and ripple. The winds were strong, pushing them along as if on the wings of a great bird.
“Ma’am, you should wear a hat or a veil to protect your delicate skin,” Marta admonished in her girlish tone. “At least during mid-day when the sun is harsher.”
She turned to regard the girl with severity. “Did Lady Elizabeth put you up to this?”
Marta’s features scrunched up, making her more unattractive. “She did say I must watch after you, ma’am, and help you adjust to the stricter society of your father’s people in Spain.”
Chloe mouthed a curse and continued her walkabout on the main deck. She took in a great gulp of air, attempting to release the uneasiness squeezing her heart. If her dearest friend, a seer, believed she would fail in her quest … was it a portent of a dark ending to her journey?
If Spain fails me, where else can I go? Not back to Ravencrest. Never that.
Mr. Jinx, a thin fellow with sand-colored hair and a leathery countenance, approached them with a pleasant grin. He made a respectful bow to Chloe as if she were a grand Spanish lady. “Good day, Mrs. O’Donovan. You are exceptionally lovely this afternoon. I hope you find the sea breeze inviting. It does speed us on our journey.”
His praise brought her spirits back from the depths. She smiled at him and made idle chatter for a few moments. The cabin boy came rushing up behind the first mate, and he, too, stopped briefly to give her a little tug of his forelock in salute before hurrying on.
Chloe’s heart grew light again, as light and airy as those sails flapping above their heads.
Elizabeth had helped her purchase several expensive gowns so she would be presentable to her family when she arrived in Spain. Chloe couldn’t wait to wear them. Like a little girl, she had picked out one to wear for her promenade about the deck this afternoon. The effect it was having on the sailors was promising. It was a deep, sunny yellow silk gown with black embroidery on the bodice, edging the sleeves, and the hem of her skirt. She liked the vibrant color. It was warm and cheery. Chloe walked with confidence, her head held high, projecting an air of nobility. Still, doubt shadowed her at every turn.
The count had advised her in depth regarding presenting herself as a gentlewoman, a falsehood, but one she wished to embrace. His lordship had been a master of disguise for many years. His advice had been simple: behave as if you believe you are who you claim to be and people will accept you at face value unless given a strong reason to doubt your claim.
Believe in yourself. Believe that you are who you claim to be. Believe in yourself.
Simple advice. Powerful advice. Believing in herself was the hard part.
“Mrs. O’Donovan.” Captain Rawlings came up behind her with his steady stride.
“Good afternoon, Captain.”
“You amaze me, ma’am,” he said, giving her a reason to glance up again at his tall, muscular form as he slowed his gait to match hers. “You have never sailed, yet you are one of the rare passengers I’ve had who has not spent the first week propped over the rail, empting their insides into the sea. You must have a natural inclination for sailing.”
“I feel wonderful,” she confessed. Her maid had been the one to become ill.
“Lady Greystowe was ill during most of the voyage to Ravencrest last month,” the captain added, giving her a conspiratorial smile.
“She’s with child.”
“Oh,” he murmured and stopped in his tracks. “Lord Greystowe isn’t, now, is he? He was green about the gills for most of the voyage. I saw him heaving his insides over the rail on one occasion. Makes one believe their kind is human after all.”
Chloe held her fan up to cover her mouth and gave a delicate little laugh. At least, she hoped it sounded delicate and not abrasive. She decided it best to practice her airs on the crew before she must appear the gently bred lady for her father’s family.
Elizabeth wrote a detailed list for her to memorize,—do this or don’t do that in mixed company—it was exhaustive but necessary to master if Chloe wished to impress her uncle.
“I thought that might amuse you,” Captain Rawlings added, giving her a generous show of white teeth. “Some people just aren’t suited to sailing, others are born to it.”
“And you, sir, if I may be so bold?” Chloe asked, feeling brittle in her speech to a man she had known for over a decade, yet, she must practice her manners before she reached Spain. “Did you suffer illness when you first took to the sea, Captain Rawlings?”
“Not a day,” he responded with pride. “I took to it right off, but then, I come from a long line of seafaring men. We’ve salt water in our blood, so my father used to say.”
His stalwart presence was comforting. She wasn’t aware of her nervousness about this journey until now, as she felt Captain Rawlings’ calm, steady presence flow over her.
“Mrs. O’Donovan, would you give us the pleasure of dining with my men and me in my cabin this evening? We missed you the first time I gave the invitation,” he asked in an officious manner as the conversation waned. “My officers would welcome a fairer face than mine at my table, I’m told.”
She studied him, pleased by what she saw. Her husband had been refined, a slender, polished gentleman where Captain Rawlings had a rugged appeal. He must be nearly forty, she guessed. He was tall, well turned out, with a solid figure. His tan complexion contrasted sharply with his blond hair. His face had faint lines, but they added depth to his strong features and his aura of worldly wisdom. Past thirty herself, Chloe was hardly a woman to be put off by a patina of maturity. “I would be delighted, sir.”
“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” he made a polite bow and took his leave of her.
Chloe watched him stride across the deck and jaunt up the stairs to the upper deck, which seemed to be his station. She couldn’t shake the impression that he’d fled her presence.
She felt her cheeks suffuse with color. Marta watched her but said nothing. Perhaps she assumed the heat was getting to her mistress.
The man was like a hawk, watching her from his high loft on the upper deck, swooping down when she least expected it and then flying away again, as if he found being in close proximity to her distasteful. He was an old friend of the count. Did he know her secret, or had he heard the whispers and didn’t wish to sully himself with a woman of mixed origins?
Stop this. Stop worrying yourself into a state.
Still, his invitation had been less than welcoming. He made it sound as if his crew wished for her company at dinner, but he did not.
Oh, just
you wait, Captain Rawlings. I’ll entertain your officers, then, won’t I?
Jack couldn’t get away from the woman fast enough.
He regretted his quick retreat, now that he had time to reflect upon his actions. Honestly, she was his charge, his responsibility. He was supposed to protect her from all harm and deliver her safely to her family. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about how well she filled out that tight bodice. He wasn’t supposed to become hard as an oak each time he was near her. Her maid had remained behind them, but what if his men noticed his tenting breeches?
Jack glanced at the front of his breeches, cognizant that his jacket was short, too short to conceal his reaction from anyone who might have the temerity to notice.
Donovan would have his hide if he trifled with Chloe—Ach—Mrs. O’Donovan! He had to remember to call her by her formal name.
“Is there a problem, Cap’n?” Jinx, his first mate, came to stand beside him with a frown.
“Why do you ask?” He spoke gruffly, hoping to avert the obvious.
The ever-alert seaman grinned at him. “Your compass is pointing north, sir.”
“Mister Jenkins,” Jack retorted, spinning about to grip the rail to present his back to the man. He fought the urge to throttle his first mate. “If I were you, I’d find something else to look at, unless you want to be whipped for insubordination.”
“As your first mate it is my duty to notice your moods. I must say, since we’ve taken on female passengers your mood seems to have darkened. I know of a nice little brothel on the wharf in London, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you might benefit from seeking some ease when we reach port.”
“Have you not noticed how beautiful she is?” Jack muttered between tight teeth.
Jinks stood at the rail with Jack, leaning sideways, with one elbow propped on the railing. He was glancing down the main deck at the woman in question, as if considering Jack’s rare confession. “We all have, sir. Exotic, those dark eyes, with the promise of fire in them to light your nights. It was bad enough with Lady Greystowe, but this pretty bird hasn’t got a husband glaring over her shoulder. This one is …”
“Under Count Rochembeau’s protection,” Jack barked, irritated with the man’s prosing on about Chloe like a love sick swain. “And you do not want to anger the count, Mr. Jenkins.”
“No, sir!” The mention of their employer did the trick. Jinx stood straight and tall at the rail. “Can’t fault a sailor for admiring such an exotic bird, now can he?”
Jack wanted to laugh. It was amusing how Donovan’s reputation could make a man’s blood run cold and his face pale with fear. “His lordship would not fault a man for admiring a pretty woman, as long as it’s not the countess you’re gawking at.”
“Aye.” Jinx bobbed his head, like a buoy rising and falling in the waves. “She’s grown into a remarkable beauty, our little countess.”
Jack smiled as he remembered Elizabeth Beaumont’s first voyage on this same ship ten years earlier. She’d been a girl of eighteen, an uncertain adolescent bride. She was beautiful, in a sweet, vulnerable sort of way. Elizabeth had grown into a veritable goddess in the intervening years as she matured into full womanhood. It was fortunate the couple lived on an isolated island or Donovan would be fending off determined admirers of his wife left and right.
“And the lady below us, I must report the men do linger on deck hoping to encounter her.” Jinx continued. “She takes a walk at nine and again about three. Our Mrs. O’Donovan’s am exotic bird, sir. I suggest you and I keep an eye on the crew during her walks, so nothing untoward occurs. A single woman, the temptation is there, sir.”
Yes, Chloe was an exotic bird. She had that certain something Jinx was trying so hard to put into words … a fire in her eyes, a vivaciousness in her speech and manner that got under a man’s skin and settled deep in his blood, drawing him to her like steel to a magnet.
Was it magic? Was it those biscuits he’d eaten years ago laced with Voodoo?
Damn Barnaby and his stupid confession. If not for Barnaby, and Amelia’s spirit pushing him at the woman, he’d just sail on ahead and engage in an all out battle for her heart. Jack didn’t like being pushed, it made him leery, wary, made him dig in his heels and resist, just on principle.
Chapter Nine
Jack paced the confines of his cabin as he considered the situation from the perspective of a seasoned pirate leading an attack upon an unsuspecting ship.
The scheme was not well thought out.
Chloe O’Donovan was an innocent. In her early thirties she might be, and grieving the loss of a child as well as a husband, but she had been sheltered from the world and its harshness. She grew up on a tiny island in the West Indies. She had no true knowledge of the world beyond her home. How the hell was she supposed to navigate the narrow strictures of aristocratic society?
He had a bad feeling in his gut. After years of being a sea captain and pirate, he knew enough to trust his feelings. They were rarely wrong.
He glanced at the small table, set for a company of officers and Chloe—Mrs. O’Donovan.
A knock at the door signaled the arrival of his guests. Red, the cabin boy went to the door to admit them. Mrs. O’Donovan was flanked by Jinx, Lt. Morgan, Dr. Lewis and two other men. Six in all. Jack had six guests to dine at his table tonight. There was only one he truly wished to spend the evening with. Propriety demanded a stricter assembly. He’d like nothing better than to dine alone with Chloe and sample delights that had nothing to do with food.
“Mrs. O’Donovan, you honor me with your presence.” Jack stepped forward to take her hand and lead her into the room in a courtly fashion. Chloe was stunning. There was no other word to adequately describe her regal transformation. He met her at social functions on the island over the years—from informal dinners to annual parties. She always dressed sensibly and plainly compared to her wealthier friend, Lady Elizabeth.
Tonight, Chloe was the shining jewel in the room. Her ebony hair was swept up into cascade of dark, shimmering waves. Tantalizing ringlets dripped down, framing her delicate face. Her claret silk gown complimented her voluptuous bosom. She wore long white gloves. A paisley silk shawl of gold and crimson was draped over her shoulders.
“Aye, Cap’n, and what of the rest of us, sir? Do you intend us to stand outside the door to watch you make calf’s eyes at our distinguished guest?”
It was Jinx. None other would be so bold. Jack glanced with irritation at the fellow, noting his daring smirk as he took in the scene of Jack lingering over Chloe and holding her white gloved hand longer than was necessary.
“Aye, I’m fagged, sir. That bird’s scent is clean carrying me away to ‘eaven, it is.” Roberts joined in, encouraged by Jinx to express more of himself than he should.
“I do hope you are referring to the chicken, Mr. Roberts, and not making any untoward suggestions regarding the lady.” Jack gave his officer a warning glare. He was surprised by the veracity of his anger in the double meaning of the man’s words. He had no claim to Mrs. O’Donovan, but just the same, it bothered him greatly to have another man noting her charms.
“Oh, no sir, not at all sir.” The cheeky bastard stood at attention. “Chicken’s me favorite, sir, me lady. Roasted Chicken. And Stumpy’s done it up right this time, he has.”
Mrs. O’Donovan seemed amused rather than offended. “Stumpy?” She glanced up at Jack. “What kind of name is that? I assume you mean the galley cook?”
“Stumpy Ferguson, yes. He lost a leg below the knee. So, Stumpy seemed to suit the man.” Jack led her to a chair as he spoke, and moved it out for her so she could sit. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for the other men to enter and take their seats at the table.
“He’s not always accurate when it comes to the roasting time, ma’am.” Lt. Morgan explained, as if to make up for Robert’s impudence. “Sometimes we get the meat a little tough, or slightly blackened, if you capture my meaning. So we’re all pleased he didn’t
muck it up.” The lad pulled out a chair and sat opposite the stunning beauty, and gave her a winsome smile.
“Aye,” Mr. Jinx agreed. “And it does smell like heaven.”
All the men were dressed in their finest, including Jack. He was wearing his blue superfine frock coat—or rather evening jacket as they were called in this new century. And he’d tied a cravat about his neck, just to show the woman he did have a genteel side, despite his rough and ready sea-hardened hide. He was forty-two, ancient in some circles. She was about thirty, as he figured it, having known the woman as a member of the count’s household for over a decade.
“How lovely,” she said in a quiet, subdued tone as she folded her napkin and placed it artfully over her lap, making Jack fear she was already bored by the dinner conversation with a bunch of rude sailors. “A chicken that is not scorched. We are fortunate indeed.”
It was like watching an exotic peacock land gracefully amid a flock of grey gulls on shore. She had gained a great deal of polish under Elizabeth Beaumont’s influence. When she initially came into the countess’s service, Chloe had been raw in her manners, outspoken and talkative. As a younger woman she tended to babble on nonsensically, making conversing with her tedious for men fortunate enough to be invited to dine at Count Rochembeau’s table. Today, she was as dignified and demure as a blue blooded princess, making him ashamed to even recall the callow young girl she had been when she first came into Lady Elizabeth’s service.
“Allow me.” Jack was quick to anticipate her needs. He started carving the first golden bird, intending to serve her the best piece as their guest of honor. Normally, he took the best cuts as was his privilege as captain. Jack wanted this evening to be delightful for the lovely woman gracing his table. “Do you prefer the front portion, here?” he asked, placing the blade on the top of the bird and being careful in her presence not to use the word “breast” as he might when alone with his men. “Or do you prefer a drumstick, Mrs. O’Donovan?”
