The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  Micah tugged at the blond queue at the nape of his neck. "It's for her that I'm concerned, not you, friend."

  "You accused her of betraying us." Brock began to unbutton his water-stained shirt.

  "It doesn't matter." He smiled. "She's a woman. What do women know of loyalties? I still care for her and her welfare. Deeply."

  Brock nodded. "Fair enough." He lifted a finger. "But I'm warning you. I get her back, and she's mine. She was never meant for you." His dark eyes met Micah's with a challenge, and then he was gone.

  Micah sipped his whiskey. "Don't be so certain, friend," he whispered to the empty room. "Don't be so certain."

  The sound of voices echoed in the front hallway as Brock came down the grand staircase. He had shaved, taken a bath, and dressed in a fresh pair of doeskin breeches and a soft cotton shirt. Today was no day for a gentleman's coat and stock.

  "Brock, I think you'd better hear this," called Micah from below.

  At the bottom of the steps, Lucy, Blackie, and Ruth parted to let their master through. Micah stood at the door with a poorly clothed boy of twelve or thirteen.

  "He says he has a message for Captain Brock Bartholomew."

  " 'Tis only for 'is ears," the boy piped up.

  Brock pushed past Micah. "I'm Captain Bartholomew. What is it, lad?"

  The boy blinked. "The message, sir, is that the price is what ye carry in the Tempest's hold plus two pieces of gold. If the demands ain't met, your property feeds the fishes."

  "What?" Brock caught the boy by the front of his worn tunic. "What do ye speak of? Tell me!"

  The boy cringed. "Don't 'it me, sir. 'E said ye'd know what I spoke of. I don' know no more."

  "Who?" Brock crouched until he was eye level with the frightened boy. "You must tell me who."

  "I . . . I don't know. Just a man in buckskins. 'E said 'e was a messenger too."

  Brock released the boy's shirt. "You swear you know nothing more?"

  He put up a dirty hand. "I swear it, sir."

  "Did the man say where or when?"

  The ruffian nodded." E said fer you just to go to yer ship and wait. Another messenger'll come."

  "Did he say when?"

  "No, sir."

  Brock stroked his chin. "I'm just to wait? You're certain that was the message?"

  "Yes, sir." The boy bit down on his lip." 'E also said ye'd pay me, sir . . ." His eyes pleaded poverty.

  "Of course," Brock turned around. "Ruth. Take the lad into the kitchen, feed him, and take a few pence out of the jar."

  "Yes, sir," Ruth replied. "Come here, boy." She signaled with a black hand.

  The lad slipped past Brock and hurried down the back hall after Ruth.

  "I'll be damned." Brock muttered.

  Micah shook his head. "I knew she didn't run! I knew it!"

  Brock glanced up. "I've got to go. Blackie, saddle a horse."

  The servant nodded vigorously and ran down the hall. Brock started back up the grand staircase with Micah directly behind him.

  "I'm going with you, Brock," Micah could barely keep up.

  "The hell you are. I don't know how long I'll be gone. You must go to the King's Head tonight. We're expected. You've got to tell them what's happened."

  "What are you going to do? You're going to give them what they want, aren't you?"

  Brock gave a snort. "Certainly not!"

  "What do you mean?" Micah caught Brock's arm and both stopped on the landing. "You have to hand it over. She's your wife, for God's sake!"

  "Those supplies are not mine to give. They belong to our army now. They're being unloaded at this very minute." He snatched his arm away and went down the front hallway toward his bedchamber.

  "So what are you going to do?" Micah demanded.

  "Fight. What else can I do? Brock Bartholomew is not a man who pays ransom."

  "And what if Keely is killed? Think of the child, for Christ's sake!"

  Brock pushed open his bedchamber door and spun around. "Don't you tell me what's at stake. You think I don't know?" He snatched a leather pack off a chair and began to stuff it with a clean shirt and his shaving equipment.

  Micah stood in the middle of the room, baffled. "The cause is more important than your wife's life?" His voice quivered with each word.

  Brock turned slowly. "I won't lose. No man can face me on the open sea and win." He stuffed his hat on his head and strode toward the door. "I'll see you when I get back with my wife and daughter."

  Brock took his leave and Micah just stood in the bedchamber, staring at the massive poster bed. On a chair lay a silky sleeping gown. He picked it up and brought it to his nose, inhaling the feminine scent that clung to it. Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he prayed beneath his breath. "Please, God," he murmured. "Let her live."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Keely woke to find herself alone in her jailor's cabin. Running her fingers through her tangled hair, she sat up, taking in her surroundings by the light of the day. After Elijah had taken Laura from her, he'd told her to get into his rack and go to sleep. He'd promised not to hurt her as long as she did what he said, and he swore that Laura was on her way back to Dover with the ransom note.

  Keely's heart ached for her daughter, but she knew she'd done the right thing. So far, her captors had kept their word. What else was she to do? They'd given her no choice. Sitting up, she pressed her hands to her breasts, wincing. She knew Laura must be crying to be fed.

  Pushing out of the rack built into the wall, she stepped over a pile of chicken bones and an empty ale bottle. Her hand went to the doorknob. It was locked.

  Not surprised, she turned away with a sigh. How long would it be before Brock received the note? How long would it take him to fulfill their demands? Would he comply? Or would he take this as good luck and be done with his traitorous wife?

  She laughed aloud at the irony of it all. If the kidnappers were going to steal someone's wife, they could have at least taken one in good favor with her husband. They'd have done better to keep Laura—at least she was certain Brock would have paid for her release.

  A key scraped at the door and Keely turned apprehensively.

  Mort entered the captain's cabin, carrying a bowl and a tankard. He pushed the door shut with his foot and set the food carefully on the table. With the back of his hand he pushed a pile of chicken bones and orange peels to the floor to clear a place for her. "Thought ya might want to break the fast." He looked up at her and then to the floor, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his filthy breeches.

  Keely studied the man with the stringy blond hair. "My daughter, can you tell me if she's all right?"

  Mort kicked at a bone on the floor with the toe of his boot. "Just fine when I last seed her. Purty little thing."

  "And how long will it be before my husband receives the demands?"

  Mort shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the floor. "Can't tell you that, ma'am, 'cause I don't know. Dickie and Mister Elijah don't tell me 'bout that stuff. I jest do as I'm told."

  Keely took a step toward him and laid her hand hesitantly on his shoulder. "You think you could do something for me, Mort?"

  He grinned sheepishly. "What ya need?"

  "When you go, could you just forget to lock the door?" She held her breath.

  For an instant Mort contemplated her words, but then his eyes got round with fright and he shook his head emphatically. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, but I couldn't do that! If ya got away 'cause of me, Mister Elijah'd hang me from my thumbs till I was dead."

  She dropped her hand from his shoulder. "I'm not even sure my husband will pay the ransom," she confessed dejectedly.

  Mort's head bobbed up. "For criminy sakes, don't tell Mister Elijah that!"

  "Why?"

  " 'Cause he'll kill ya if he thinks he can't make no coin off ya."

  Keely paled. "He said he wouldn't hurt me if I did as he said. It would be no fault of mine if my husband didn't pay. Why would Elijah kill me?"

  "I'm tellin
' ya, he's a bad'en." Mort looked up at her with concern in his dull brown eyes. "He smiles a lot with them fancy gold teeth, but they say he smiles when he's cuttin' your throat, too."

  "I thank you for the warning, then." She pushed a lock of auburn hair off her shoulder.

  "Well, eat a'fore it gets cold and I'll be back later. I got paintin' on the fo'c'sle to do." He paused at the door, thinking of the baby floating down the river in the rowboat, and then he turned and went. Better for her not to know, he thought to himself. Because if she don't live through this, it won't make much difference what happened to the little mite.

  Jenny Lynn Lassiter raced down the hill beyond her house, laughing as she slipped in the dewy grass and slid the rest of the way to the bottom of the hill on her backside.

  "Jenny Lynn, wait for us," cried one of her sisters.

  "It's my turn to empty the first crab pot. Mama said!" chided another breathlessly.

  Coming to her feet, Jenny brushed the grass from the back of her patched homespun skirt. "Wait? I spend my whole life waitin' on somebody!" The yellow-headed teenage girl snatched a stick off the ground and hurled it into the air, watching it hit the water with a satisfying splash.

  The Chester River flowed into the Chesapeake Bay, providing the inhabitants of its shore with abundant food and a mode of transportation. Like many families, the Lassiters depended on the river not only to feed them but also to provide income in a time when coin was sparse.

  "Beat ya!" Maggie, the second eldest of the six Lassiter sisters, stuck out her tongue as she passed Jenny Lynn. Reaching the dock that their father had built years ago, she dropped to her knees and began to tug at a rope that descended into the water.

  "It's not fair!" Sally cried from the grassy bank. "Make her stop, Jenny Lynn! Mama said it was my turn!"

  Jenny ignored her sisters' quibbling, walking slowly down the wooden dock. Suddenly, she broke into a grin. "Look at that," she breathed.

  "What?" Maggie continued to draw the crab pot up while Sally sulked at the water's edge.

  "A boat!" Jenny exclaimed.

  "A boat?" Sally looked up.

  Jenny Lynn tugged at her skirt, dropping it onto the dock. "A boat, and looks to be in right good shape." She pulled her bodice over her head and dove into the water in her thin chemise. "Mama says we could sure use a boat."

  "Mama didn't say we could go swimming," Sally complained.

  Jenny Lynn swam in even strokes toward the peacefully drifting boat. When she reached it, no more than a hundred yards off the shore, she caught it with one hand and hoisted herself up to look for holes in its hull.

  "God a'mighty," she breathed, blinking in the bright sunlight.

  "Is it in good shape?" Maggie called from the dock. "We got a dozen blue claws."

  Jenny Lynn stared at the baby in the bottom of the boat. Was it an angel? She'd never seen anything so beautiful in her life. The rosy-cheeked infant was dressed in a long silken white gown and matching lace bonnet with golden-red curls peeking from beneath it. A fluffy white blanket cushioned its head and attached to the blanket was a silver bell and coral.

  Jenny Lynn swallowed in awe, sticking out a finger to touch the baby's cheek. The exquisite angel-baby turned its head, catching her finger with its tiny rosebud mouth. "You're real," Jenny Lynn breathed. "And you're hungry."

  Never taking her eyes off the fascinating creature, Jenny began to swim toward the bank, dragging the wooden rowboat behind her. When she reached the shore, she beached it and lifted the baby to her shoulder.

  "A baby," Sally cried. "Look, Maggie, Jenny Lynn's found a boat and a baby!"

  Turning toward the house, Jenny Lynn began to run, the infant cradled in her arms. "Mama! Mama!" she cried. "You'll never guess what I found!"

  Brock added the column of figures for a fourth time before he threw down his quill, swearing beneath his breath. Three days had passed since the young boy had come with the message that Keely and Laura had been kidnapped, and still he waited for the second messenger. Pushing away from the chart table, Brock got to his feet. He needed to go topside; he needed the fresh air.

  For three days he had done nothing but pace the deck of the Tempest waiting for word of where he was to meet the kidnappers so that the goods could be transferred. Of course, by the end of the first day all the precious casks of flour, salt pork, and cornmeal had been unloaded and sent on to Washington's troops by land transport. Brock had no intentions of bartering for the lives of his wife and child.

  Instead, he had filled the armory with as many cast iron shots and barrels of powder as she could hold, and added six more gunners to his crew. He'd also sent for his cousin, Tigiana, who lived on the shores of the Delaware Bay at Lewes. His father's nephew was a brave young man with a powerful devotion to his people, though he now lived among the white men as a fisherman.

  Brock's plan to rescue Keely and Laura was simple. He would trick the kidnappers into handing over his wife and child and then he would blast the bastards out of the water.

  Leaving his cabin, Brock went down the passageway. Just as he started up the ladder, Blackie started down.

  "God a'mercy, Master Brock. You got to come with me. Ruth says you're to come to the house right away!" The servant ran back up the steps and waited on deck for his master.

  "Come to the house? That's impossible. What is it that Ruth can't handle? I have to wait here for word of Mistress Keely and the babe. You know that."

  Blackie shook his head vigorously. "No sir, you got to come straight away. I brought your horse."

  "What is it? A messenger? Has word come?"

  Blackie's head bobbed this way and that. "No, sir," he said breathlessly. "It's the little one! Laura. Someone's done brought her home!"

  "And the misses?"

  Blackie grew still, refusing to meet his master's gaze.

  "Mr. Jameson!" Brock shouted, striding toward the gangway. "Elmer!"

  "Sir?" the two men replied, almost in unison.

  "Quartermaster, Mr. Jameson has the deck."

  "Aye, sir," Elmer acknowledged, turning to the ship's log.

  "Aye, sir," Jameson responded with a salute.

  Hurrying down the gangplank just ahead of his master, Blackie untied the horse he'd brought for Brock. "Here you go, sir. Brought you Tally. Took him right behind old Mable here." He indicated a mare tied to a post.

  Brock snatched the reins from Blackie's hand and an instant later was mounted and pounding down the planked dock.

  Leaving the servant behind on the slower horse, Brock pressed his knees to the gelding, spurring him forward at breakneck speed. "Come on, Tally," he murmured urgently. "Home, boy."

  The dirt road leading through Dover was a blur to Brock as he hung low, clinging to the massive steed. Images of Keely passed again and again through his mind, the outline of her soft mouth, the texture of her thick auburn hair between his fingers, the scent of her heady flesh, damp from lovemaking. Why had the babe been returned and not his wife? Brock's chest was so tight that he found it difficult to breathe. Would he never see Keely again? Would he never again hear the sound of his name on her lips?

  When he reached home, Brock jumped off his horse, letting the reins fall haphazardly to the ground. Alongside the house on the brick-paved drive stood an unfamiliar wagon hitched to a pair of mules. Taking the front steps two at a time, Brock flung open the front door and rushed in. "Ruth! Ruth!" he shouted. "Where the hell are you?"

  "Here, sir," Ruth answered, sticking her head out of the parlor. In her arms she held a small bundle.

  In a breath's time Brock was beside her, taking his baby from her arms. "Laura?" he murmured softly. "Laura, sweet?"

  His daughter peered back with ebony eyes that mirrored his own. She whimpered and he lifted her to his shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. "Where's your mama," he whispered, his voice thick. "Where's your mama gone, Laura Gwen?"

  "Masta Brock." Ruth laid her hand gently on his shoulder, bringing him back to re
ality. "Masta Brock, there's someone here you should meet."

  He nodded, smoothing the downy red hair on the crown of Laura's tiny head. Stepping into the parlor behind Ruth he saw a woman and five little girls ranging in age from only a few months old to about fourteen years.

  "Mathter Bartholomew," the woman lisped, getting to her feet.

  "This is the woman who brought little Laura back to us, sir. Her name is Bessie Lassiter. She comes from down off the Chester River."

  Shifting Laura to the opposite shoulder, Brock came to the woman, offering his hand. "Mistress Lassiter, I can't thank you enough. You'll be well paid."

  Bessie blushed, accepting his hand hesitantly and then withdrawing. She fingered her well-patched skirt, staring at the planked floor of the parlor. "Thertainly not, thir. It was my oldetht, Jenny Lynn, who found her." She grasped the arm of the eldest girl. The yellow-blonde bobbed a curtsy with a giggle.

  "Found her? What do you mean?" Brock gestured with his free hand. "Please sit, Mistress Lassiter."

  Bessie sat down nervously on the edge of a brocaded chair. "Juth that, thir. I thent my girlth down to the river to wath clotheth and they come up totin' the little darlin'."

  Brock turned to Jenny Lynn in disbelief. "You found my daughter down by the river?"

  Jenny bobbed her head. "That I did, sir. The boat just come bobbin' by and so I waded out to catch it. Didn't know there was baby a'ridin' in it. I was just thinkin' it'd be nice to have another rowboat for crabbin', seein' as how them stinkin' rebels stole the last one we had."

  "Jenny Lynn!" Bessie admonished sharply.

  Brock patted Laura on his shoulder rhythmically. Tories, he reasoned. "She was just lying in the bottom of the boat?"

  Jenny Lynn nodded enthusiastically, taking a step forward in honor of her sudden importance. "She wasn't cryin' or nothin', just suckin' on the corner of that old feed blanket she come wrapped in." She pointed to a dirty feed sack sitting folded neatly on a small round table next to the settee.

  Brock looked to Bessie, his face reddening with anger. "And you don't know where she came from or who put her in the boat and sent her adrift?" He fingered the harsh material of the feedsack.