by C. K. Brooke
“Oh?” Em watched as he draped the jacket over the desk chair behind her.
“I knew Crawley was planning a raid on La Belladonna, and that was why I chose to sail with him.” He frowned at the look on her face. “Miss Winthrop,” he dropped his voice, “desperate times call for desperate measures. I could think of no other way to go about it, to do what I need to do.”
“And what do you need to do?” Em challenged him.
He stilled. She wasn’t expecting an answer, not really. And she already felt sorry that her day of heroism, and the mysterious something that had passed between them that evening over supper, should have to conclude in confrontation. At the same time, it still made little sense to her why a man like the commander consorted with pirates, what he was really doing aboard The Black Rose.
She was taken aback when he said in his low, melodic voice, “I am on a mission to rescue a hostage in Barbados.”
Hostage? Em opened her mouth to repeat, but the word didn’t make it past her dry throat.
“I’m her only hope.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking more forlorn than she’d ever thought the pleasant and stalwart man capable. “I’d already sent them everything I had to free her. But then, her captors decided that wasn’t enough, and raised the ransom.”
Em was speechless.
He gestured to the burlap sack. “The booty goes to them. Her captors. Not me.”
While Em knew she should’ve been concerned that somebody was in peril, being held captive against her will, and running the poor commander’s resources dry, she couldn’t help but find herself stuck on one little word.
Her.
So his mission was for a woman?
Redding sighed, knuckles whitening as he squeezed the back of the chair that was stationed between them. It appeared he was no longer holding anything in. Em didn’t interrupt him as he continued. “I knew Ramses Crawley from years past. I encountered him in my naval days. He was headed to the gallows for pirating, but I stepped in and spared his life on a technicality. He swore he’d repay the debt someday. I never thought the day would come when I’d ask him for any favors, but…”
He inhaled, not meeting Em’s eyes. Her heartbeat intensified.
“Partnering with Crawley, and receiving a share of his raid on La Belladonna was the only plan I could formulate for quickly acquiring the means to rescue the hostage.” He nodded once, though more to himself. “Crawley agreed to siphon off some of the booty to me. And furthermore, he offered to sail me to Barbados, precisely where I need to be.”
Em didn’t know what to say. She held her breath, waiting for him to finish.
He looked up at her. “Do not mistake me,” he added firmly, “I’d never have agreed to raid an innocent vessel. Only because La Belladonna was full of pirates did I—”
“I’m not really your wife,” she reminded him of the words he’d spoken to her earlier. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“But you want one,” he said heavily. “It’s been written all over your face since the moment you intercepted me here.”
Em conceded. She hadn’t realized she’d been so obvious. She wouldn’t pretend he was wrong. “Who is…?” She cleared her throat, stalling, for she wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer. “Who is the hostage?”
His gaze flickered to his hands. “Her name is Mrs. Newbury.”
Em cocked an eyebrow. “It sounds like Mrs. Newbury has a husband,” she noted. “Why isn’t he paying her ransom and venturing off to rescue her? Why are you?”
“I’m afraid her husband has passed on,” he replied quietly, “and she is much, much too young to be a widow.” He looked sad. For a moment, Em regretted how transparent his eyes were, wished they didn’t make it so bleeding obvious how much he felt for the woman—whoever the devil she was.
“And you care for her,” Em guessed glumly.
“Yes,” he didn’t hesitate to admit. “I do.”
“Excuse me.” She cut past him, striding to the cot. She hated the pressure that built behind her eyes, threatening to spill over. She wasn’t going to cry over a man she barely knew—really, she’d just met him. He’d only saved her from pirates; they had only been sharing a cabin and a cot and playacting as a married couple to appease an audience. It wasn’t as though, in reality, he didn’t have a whole, private life of his own which utterly excluded her.
But he hadn’t needed to look at her the way he did above deck that evening. He should have made it plain to Em, from the very beginning, that he was already pining after another man’s widow, loving the woman enough to risk his life and reputation to rescue her. And now, Em understood. She was only an inconvenient interruption to his grand, romantic mission.
But of course, he would be helpful and compassionate, even if all of the above were true. Because Commander Redding, unlike Lawrence Grady, was a gentleman.
And Emeline hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much she coveted his affections for herself.
***
Em didn’t like the looks on the crew’s faces when she emerged above deck the next morning. They were pale, muttering in low voices, glancing warily over their shoulders.
One of them swiveled around when she reached the top of the companionway, hand at the hilt of a knife at his belt. He relaxed when he recognized her.
Em lowered the pile of laundry in her arms. The raid had thrown her off-schedule, and now she planned to finish her mending. The moment he spotted her, Alexander made a beeline for her across the deck. “Good morning, Mrs. Redding! Fetch you a cuppa?”
“Alexander,” she leaned in, scanning the others’ worried faces, “what’s got the crew in a knot?”
“Oh.” His young face sobered. “It’s the prisoner, ma’am. Bucky went down to the brig in the wee hours this morning, and the Italian wasn’t there.”
A gasp flew from Em’s lips. “What do you mean, he wasn’t there?”
The cabin boy shrugged. “That’s just what Bucky said. Our prisoner’s escaped.”
Em’s mouth tightened. She’d thought the chains binding him had appeared rather thin and weak.
“No one knows where he is,” Alexander went on. “He’s hiding. So, we’ve all been searching.”
“Ain’t no tellin’ what he might be fixin’ to do,” said Mr. McNichol ominously, who was listening in. “He could be bidin’ his time, hiding out, waiting till we all go to sleep so he can slit our throats.”
Em gulped.
“Or, if he’s barking mad,” interjected the boatswain, “he might try to sink the whole damn ship.”
“But he would go down with it,” said Em.
“Like I said.” McNichol shrugged. “Ain’t no tellin’.”
“Mrs. Redding, are you all right?” Alexander regarded her.
She didn’t realize her hands were shaking. Em folded them behind her back, but it didn’t help. Not really. She was remembering the prisoner, his menacing leer, the feral glint in his black eyes. She’d rather have a hundred more rats loose on the ship than him.
“Well.” Resolutely, Em forced herself to sit down on the stool. “He doesn’t scare me,” she decided. And she busied herself mending while the crew searched and the ship channeled on, ever south. In and out, needle and thread. A pair of breeches here, a blouse there. And the sailors received their clothing and were pleased.
“These are still filthy,” Old Jim complained of his trousers.
Em shrugged. “I’m a seamstress. Next time, find a laundress.”
An hour past noon, as she was finishing the final garments, Em thought she saw a flash of black in the corner of her eye. Her chin darted up. She stood, the needle in her hand aimed outward, as though to serve as a weapon. (In theory, she supposed, it could.) But as she squinted between the masts and around the corners, she saw nothing more. No movement.
She sat back down. She was being paranoid. Admittedly, she’d been jumpy all day. No amount of sewing could make her completely forget
that a dangerous enemy was walking free, slinking about the ship, evading detection. She prayed they would make it to Barbados without incident. Mayhap the man had simply thrown himself overboard, and there was nothing more to fear.
She knew better than to indulge that prayer.
Em exhaled, taking up the vest she was finishing. She had to work gingerly, for the material was so thin, she feared if she rubbed it between her fingers, it would dissolve.
In the back of her mind, she knew something else was bothering her, on top of the escaped prisoner. She hadn’t seen the commander all day, and suspected he might’ve been avoiding her. She had abruptly retired the night before, cutting off their conversation, and they hadn’t exchanged more words since.
She thought again on what she’d learned, that his whole purpose for sailing to the Caribbean was to rescue a young widow. What an extraordinary woman she must be, thought Em, to bring the commander to such an undertaking—partnering with pirates, even raiding another ship, just to afford her ransom.
Only true love would drive a man to such lengths, Em thought miserably. And Commander Redding was likely hoping to end Mrs. Newbury’s widowhood as well as her captivity.
She lowered the vest, feeling yet again as though a fire in her chest had been doused. Commander Redding was every lady’s hero, it appeared. Had she thought she was unique, the way he’d stepped in for her?
No, Em wasn’t anything special. And her story was nothing romantic. She would never have a wedding like her sister’s. Not even fleeing Mr. Grady could change that. She had thought that mayhap the Commander had been placed in her path for a reason, that perhaps whatever they’d shared might transform into more than just a charade.
How very wrong she’d been.
Chapter 12
Bucky fiddled away, the strains of his merry music floating on the breeze. Even in the moonlight, the waters seemed paler, more translucent the farther south they sailed.
The men drank and threw dice, trying to forget their worries. Em kept her distance, staying put by the rail. She was careful to remain in their line of sight, though. There was still an unspoken discomfort among the crew, as they’d still had no luck finding the Italian, even though they continued to search the rigger in shifts.
A shadow moved easily in her direction, and Em knew better than to give a start. By then, she would recognize his silhouette anywhere.
“Good evening,” he greeted her, joining her.
Em nodded, eyes heavenward. “Evening, Mr. Redding.”
They were silent, watching the stars together.
“The sailor’s map,” he hummed beside her.
Em glanced at him. “Sorry?”
“The constellations. It’s what we call them.”
The stars twinkled in a dark sky that was clear, save for a wisp of cloud swirling overhead. “I suppose if one knows the constellations, one always knows where he is,” mused Em.
“Precisely.” Commander Redding wore a faraway expression, as though imagining himself on one of those distant stars. “Miss Winthrop?” he asked unexpectedly.
She was surprised he used her name, at the risk of being overheard by the crew who caroused not far behind them.
“Now that I’ve told you why I’m here, will you tell me why you are?”
Em studied him from the side. It was only fair. And so, she told him. She spoke at length, leaving nothing out. Redding listened, withholding his reaction.
When she had finished, she wondered what his silence meant. Did he think she was lying?
But when their eyes finally met, he looked apologetic. Em wasn’t interested in his pity. His kindness, his concern for her, meant nothing deeper than basic charity. Still, too few men possessed even that. And she was grateful.
“It may not be my place to say this,” Commander Redding spoke so quietly, Em had to still her breaths to hear, “but I believe you deserve better, Miss Winthrop. Yet, I wonder,” his gaze flickered over her, “why it was easier for you to come here, do this, than to simply tell your mother and father everything you’ve just told me?”
Em felt her toes squeezing in her shoes. “I told you my sister’s reaction. The same can be expected of Mama and Papa. If they even listened to me, they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they believed me…well, it would make no difference. It wouldn’t change their minds.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “Mama is stuck on the idea of her daughters marrying into money, no matter the cost. She thinks it shall lead to greater happiness in the end.”
“And would you agree?” he wanted to know.
“Of course not.” A gust of wind rippled her skirts by her ankles, and she absently smoothed them down. “I want to love whomever I should marry someday, how my sister loves her husband. But Mr. Grady is a brute. He’s nothing like Mr. Bonworthe. Nothing like…” Her voice dwindled.
You, she’d been about to say. Nothing like you. But she couldn’t say it to him. Not at that point.
“Well, it all makes sense now,” he muttered, examining the rail beneath his closed fingers. Em wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself.
She stepped down. “Thank you for listening, Commander.” He offered a bob of his chin, still looking pensive, and Em sighed. “Goodnight.”
She wended her way back to where the crewmen were making merry with their music, dice, and grog, and borrowed a candle and saucer to guide her below decks.
“Wotch you be needin’ that for?” asked a very tipsy boatswain.
“I’m retiring,” Em announced.
“Already?” shouted McNichol, looking disappointed. “How about a dance first?” He held out his arms.
“No, thank you.” Em brought the saucer closer to her chest, ready to stave them off with fire if she had to.
“Mrs. Redding!”
She turned again.
“Where is your husband?” McNichol looked suddenly sober, at least compared with the others. “Don’t you need an escort?”
“This is my fifth night aboard the Rose.” She smiled. “I think I know my way by now.” She left them to their revelry and took to the steps, one by one, singing softly to herself. She didn’t know much of sailing, but she knew they were far from Jamestown. It wouldn’t be long at all before they reached their destination. And in spite of everything, the thought of a new beginning invigorated her.
When she reached the cabin, the door wasn’t closed. Instead, it hung slightly ajar. Em pursed her lips, slowing to a stop. Odd, she thought, reaching for the handle. She could have sworn that she and the commander kept it shut when they were elsewhere.
Before she knew what was happening, a hand closed over her mouth from behind her. She tried to scream, but a row of callused, salty-tasting fingers stuffed into her mouth, muffling her cries. Her candle and saucer crashed to the floor, the saucer smashing into bits and the candle rolling until it snuffed out.
Her heart hammered in terror. She never should have gone down alone. What had she been thinking?
“Silenzio, ragazza,” spat a voice in her ear.
Em bit down on his fingers. The man hissed, releasing her. In the darkness, Em stumbled back for the stairwell. “Help,” she tried to shout, but the taste of the filthy hand that had been in her mouth was so foul, she coughed on the word. And of course, with all the commotion upstairs, no one would be able to hear her.
She couldn’t see. All she knew was that she was being hoisted up by the waist and carried dizzyingly into the dark cabin. She screamed as the phantom threw her down onto the cot. Her spine smarted as she landed mercilessly on her back.
The figure pinned her beneath his weight, surprisingly strong for his slender frame. Again, his hand covered her mouth as his knee slid under her skirts, between her thighs.
Em closed her eyes in horror. This couldn’t be happening. After all she’d been through, how could her virtue, her life, end this way?
A stream of light flooded the room, and her eyelids flew open. At
once, there came a deafening bang, and Em screamed in earnest. With a high-pitched howl, her attacker collapsed, rolling from the cot and onto the floor.
Her chest heaved as she looked up into the hardened face of Commander Redding. Behind him stood Mr. Ginty, holding up a lantern, eyes wide.
The commander lowered his smoking pistol, eyebrows drawn together.
“Miers,” breathed Emeline.
He knelt beside the body on the floor. Em shook as she sat up, watching him feel the Italian’s wrist. “Mr. Ginty,” said the commander calmly, “please fetch help to remove the body, and inform the captain.”
“Is he dead?” Em’s voice was small.
Commander Redding looked up at her and nodded. She thought she might become ill.
A warmth encased her, and it took her a moment to realize that he had covered her in his jacket. She waited in shocked silence as more crewmen arrived to carry the body above decks.
“Good work, Commander,” grunted Captain Crawley, saluting him before he left.
Only young Alexander remained, scrubbing the remainder of the blood from the floor until Redding dismissed him.
The lantern burned brightly on the bureau, casting long shadows on the walls. Em knew from the sound of a splash into the ocean that the threat was gone, the brief terror over. Yet, the shadows kept startling her.
“Oh,” murmured the commander, regarding her.
Why was he looking at her chest? She glanced down, and her stomach revolted. Blood was splattered across her front. “I need to change,” she said urgently.
The man stepped aside, but before she could stop herself, Em blurted, “No—please, don’t leave!”
His face softened. “Miss Winthrop, I wasn’t about to leave you.” His voice was gentle as moonlight. “I ought never to leave you again.”
His words settled with Emeline, wrapped around her as snugly as his jacket. He turned to face the wall, and she recognized her cue to undress. Hurriedly, she stripped out of her ruined garments. In only her shift, she stood behind him, allowing the reality of the moment to seep in. She was safe. He was with her.
