III:
THE LIKELY LASS
CHAPTER 8
Narragansett Bay
TO LORRAINE, SITTING tensely in the forepart of the canoe, the night seemed very long. She had offered to help with the paddling but her offer had been met with a curt refusal from a man whose arms must surely be made of steel bands, so tirelessly did they move them along.
Mists covered the water now, dampening the tendrils of fair hair that curled on her forehead and making her chemise stick uncomfortably to her body. And the dark shoreline—whenever the mists parted to reveal it—seemed distant, unreal. Perhaps it was the mist, the near-soundless drifting, that gave Lorraine that strange feeling that they were alone in the world and would never meet anyone they knew ever again.
So caught up was she in that feeling that it was a shock when behind her she heard Raile’s soft triumphant, “There she is, there’s the Likely Lass!" And looking up, Lorraine saw, still barely discernible in the mist, the topmost and furled sails of a small ship.
Had Lorraine known her ships—and she did not—she would instantly have recognized this fleet, impatient-looking little ship, with its sweeping rakish lines from stem to stern, as a smart ketch in the new Restoration style, with a round-tuck stern that would identify it at a glance to the practiced eye as being of British origin. The ketch’s bowsprit was set over the stem, and she sported reef points as well as bonnets. Somehow, even in the darkness and the fog, the ketch seemed a lean greyhound eager to be off.
Lorraine would never forget the stirring excitement of those first moments when, in drifting fog and the soft diffused light of a waning moon, she was handed aboard the dark ketch.
“Cap’n’s back and he’s brought a wench with him,” she heard a disembodied voice above her mutter. Raile boosted her up a short rope ladder and a pair of huge muscular arms with shirtsleeves ripped off at the shoulder lifted her lightly over the side onto the deck.
“Welcome aboard the Likely Lass!" A laughing Irish brogue filled her ears and Lorraine looked up into the face of a blond giant, his wild Celtic countenance lit by a broad grin.
“Mistress London, this great ox is Derry Cork, the best gunner afloat,” came Raile’s easy voice behind her.
“And with hardly a gun to me name on this wee vessel,” added Cork with a chuckle.
“And this is Malcolm MacTavish, my first mate—none better,” Raile said, as he began to introduce the men surrounding them.
Lorraine saw a frown cross the face of the grayhaired Scotsman who loomed up before her, but he made her a grave bow.
Raile continued. “And this is André L’Estraille, our ship’s doctor.” She met the merry amber eyes of a handsome Frenchman, whose bow swept the deck.
There were other names, but Lorraine in her excitement hardly caught them. There were common seamen hovering about too, and they looked to be a cutthroat lot, but Raile did not introduce them.
“What of Moffatt?” Derry Cork was asking.
“Dead,” Raile told him briskly.
“Ah-h-h . . .” Cork sucked in his breath.
And what now? The question was being silently asked by everyone in the little knot of officers who surrounded them. But it was to MacTavish’s practical question of “Where will ye be stowing the young lass?” that Raile addressed himself.
“In my cabin,” he said briefly, and Lorraine felt a sense of shock.
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again at the steely look Raile gave her, a look that told her as plainly as words: Say nothing.
She would have plenty to say, she told herself hotly, the moment they were alone together!
Lorraine was ushered by the impassive MacTavish into the small stern cabin that served the captain. And left there.
She stared around her. Fitful moonlight streamed in through the stern windows and now revealed, now concealed the cabin’s sparse furnishings: an oaken table spread with charts, a bottle, and silver goblets; some wooden chairs; a couple of sea chests. And a single narrow bunk.
It was that last that worried Lorraine.
She had a sudden rash impulse to dash out upon the deck and demand that she be put ashore at once. She had even turned toward the door before she stopped, wincing at the thought that her demand might be greeted with hard masculine laughter. And a cool question: Why should I let you go?
Suppose he did put her ashore? Where would that leave her? Somewhere on a wild coast with probably dozens of warlike Indians between her and civilization! And if she did manage to make her way back to Providence, what could she expect? To be taken back to the Light Horse Tavern by an angry Oddsbud, to be cuffed and snarled at and probably beaten by Oddsbud’s wife—and then to settle down to perhaps years more of humiliating servitude as punishment for running away.
And all the while having to face the knowing grins of those who knew that Philip Dedwinton had had her on a wager. And watching Lavinia, in “royal” purple, ride by with him triumphantly, tossing her bronze head. Worst of all, having to face Philip himself!
Lorraine swallowed. It came to her eerily that life was set to trap you, that Fate was a hard-hearted jade.
And that made her even angrier at the cool Scotsman, Raile Cameron, whom she now considered her captor.
She wondered what story he would tell her presently to justify installing her in his cabin? That he must “protect” her from his men? From that decent-looking gray-haired Scot? That pleasant Irishman? That gallant Frenchman? Indeed, she might be safer in one of their beds than in his!
Of course there was the off chance that he was giving her the use of his cabin for herself alone and would find some other place to sleep. She studied the sturdy door and her eyes gleamed. She could latch it!
And have it kicked down, her common sense told her, if she had read her man aright.
No, she could not have him come bursting in, enraged—and humiliated before his men. It would shorten her chances of persuading him to take her—unharmed—to some safe sane place and to leave her there to make her own way.
Men were impressed by resolute women, she told herself, wearily. Weren’t they? Indeed she had not been resolute enough with Philip—she had succumbed to his ready lies and her own treacherous emotions. This time she would not succumb, this time she would fight! And if the wild fellow who had brought her here thought he would find her meekly undressed and waiting for him in his bed, he would learn his mistake soon enough. She was grateful to him for helping her escape, but not that grateful!
It occurred to her suddenly that he was exceedingly strong. She had just had a demonstration of that strength. He had paddled all night and then boosted her up effortlessly on that shaky rope ladder she had clung to with such desperation.
She frowned and her gaze searched the room. The moonlight obligingly showed her that there were two pistols in evidence, also several swords hanging on belts from long nails in the walls.
On impulse she picked up one of the large pistols. She was not sure she could manage it, but she told herself it was worth a try.
Then she took up a position behind the wooden table, facing the cabin door, and sat down—heavily, as the ship lurched when its anchor came aboard. She concealed the pistol in the folds of her skirt, and sat tensely waiting.
They were moving now, timbers creaking, sails unfurled taking the wind, and running fast and silent down the dark waters of Narragansett Bay toward the open ocean.
In a huddled conference on deck the question of where they were bound caused a tug-of-war within Raile Cameron. It would be easy to drop down to New Amsterdam, which was now New York, where guns were always in demand against the warlike Iroquois and the mighty Mohawks. Or over to Philadelphia, where the new settlers pushing ever westward could certainly find use for guns against the Indians. Or farther south to Virginia. . . .
But there was the girl to think of now and Raile had no doubt that there would be notices of her escape posted, which could reach to Virginia and beyond.
&nb
sp; So to Derry Cork’s question, “Do we go upriver now and find the settlers Moffatt represented?” Raile shook his head.
“I saw an Indian scouting party tonight,” he told Derry soberly. “And men desperate for guns will take them by force. No, I think we’ll away from Rhode Island.”
“He’s saying he’d like to be paid for the guns, Derry,” explained MacTavish dryly. “And Moffatt’s friends might not pay—not if they’re under fire and can’t lay their hands on ready cash!”
“Where then?” wondered Derry.
Later, in the moonlit cabin, Raile gave the same answer to Lorraine that he had given to Derry on deck.
“We’re for the Indies,” he said lightly. To Derry he had added, “There’s always trouble there—with the Spanish, with the Maroons, with the pirates. Always a ready market for guns.” To Lorraine, he now substituted, “There’ll be ports there, lass, where you’ll never be missed.”
He had meant “missed from Rhode Island” but Lorraine’s fingers tightened on the pistol. “What do you mean ‘never be missed’?” she asked in a tight voice.
Raile’s gray gaze had been sweeping the room—and noted something missing.
“You can lay the pistol on the table, Mistress Lorraine,” he said evenly. “I’m not about to assault your virtue!”
Lorraine drew in her breath and, reluctantly, taking the pistol from the folds of her russet skirt, she laid it with a slight clatter upon the wooden table.
Raile took the pistol, toyed with it idly. He seemed to tower over her. “I’m tired,” he said scathingly. “So I’ll say this but once. You’ll sleep in that bunk.” He jerked his head toward it. “But not with me. Not unless asked."
Lorraine was glad the cabin was dark. It hid her furious blushes. “I only thought—” she began hastily.
“I know what you thought,” he cut in. “But if I’d intended to ravish you, I could have done that in Rhode Island—no need to bring you here to the Lass!”
That was true. She could feel her cheeks burning.
“I’m sorry,” she managed.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that you are.” He put the pistol back where it belonged, said over his shoulder, “Go to bed. And have no fear, I’ll keep you safe from my crew.”
Lorraine stumbled to the bunk. It was not his crew she had been afraid of, but Raile himself!
Kicking off her shoes, she lay down cautiously, and watched him yank off his boots and shirt. She stared in surprise as he spread a blanket on the floor before the door and—still clad in his trousers and with a pistol beside him—lay down upon it.
As it came to her what he was doing, hot shame spread through her. Raile had saved her from servitude at the risk of his own skin. He had brought her here and offered her his cabin. And now she was comfortably lying in his bed while he himself lay stretched out on the floor where any motion of the door as it pushed against him would wake him.
He was guarding her with his body!
“Good night,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
There was no reply. The tall Scot had fallen instantly asleep.
At first wakeful amid the strange surroundings, Lorraine lay there studying the man whose long body blocked the door. She watched him with a kind of fascination, still half-expecting him to rise and ravish her. But he continued to sleep soundly, and gradually, lulled by the slight creaking of the ship as it breasted the dark waves, some of the tension went out of Lorraine and she slipped back into contemplation of the heartbreaking events of her last hours in Rhode Island.
Bitterly she thought of Philip and his treachery. Of Lavinia and her scorn. Of what all the local rustics would be saying about her, how the stories would mount and change and grow worse with time. Her hands clenched. All this had been visited on her and yet she had done nothing to deserve it, nothing!
But tension and anxiety had woven a silent web, casing her in. Exhausted by all that had happened, at last she drifted into sleep, oblivious of the rhythmic roll of the ship, unaware even when morning came.
In the morning, the tall man whose body had last night blocked the cabin doorway moved and stretched. In a lithe gesture he gained his feet and walked over and gazed down silently at the sleeping girl.
She looked heartrendingly young and defenseless lying there, he thought—and it was a long time since he had harbored such thoughts about a woman, for life had hardened him. He saw that she was lying as she had first lain when she had watched him with worried eyes from the bunk. Her fair hair was a shimmering tangle upon the pillow, and her tattered skirts had ridden up to reveal a pair of shapely legs. After a moment’s hesitation Raile reached out and gently pulled the coverlet down. He would be going out the cabin door in a minute or two, he told himself. No need for any passing member of the crew to look in and view such a delectable sight.
That he wished to reserve the delectable sight of those dainty bare legs for his eyes alone was a thought he brushed aside in true masculine style.
Lorraine did not even stir as the coverlet was gently tugged down. She was deep in sleep. She did not stir as the tall man dressed, leaving off his boots, for he preferred—like most of the crew—the feel of the bare deck planks under his naked feet in weather like this.
Silently he went out and closed the door behind him.
Lorraine slept soundly through the day and Raile ordered the cabin boy not to disturb her. His lass would eat at her leisure, he informed the lad.
The trim ship moved steadily forward, aided by a brisk wind, hours passed, the shadows lengthened, and evening came. Raile supped, glanced at the tired girl, who never roused, wondered if he should not wake her for the evening meal, decided against it, and then stretched out as he had the night before at his place by the door.
And still Lorraine slept, although now it had become an uneasy broken sleep lit by fitful nightmares. She was flailing about in the bed and Raile, hearing her cry out, got up and padded across the floor planking barefoot.
Looking down at her, he caught his breath. In starlight Lorraine’s misty form was endlessly enticing, her parted lips were a challenge, her sweet young body held the promise of endless delights.
“There now,” he murmured, gently touching Lorraine’s wet cheek. “There’s no need to be frightened, lass.”
“Philip,” she whispered in her sleep. “Philip . . .”
If she had poured a bucket of cold water over Captain Cameron’s head, she could not have cooled him quicker. His fingers left her cheek as if scorched.
Lorraine awoke with a start, saw a tall dark form hovering above her, gasped, and clutched convulsively at the coverlet.
“You were dreaming, lass. You cried out.”
“What . . . what did I say when I cried out?” she asked, confused.
“You said, ‘Captain Cameron, please wake me, I am having a nightmare,’ ” said Raile caustically, and she blushed.
“I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I’m afraid I woke you.” For Lorraine had no idea that she had slept all day; she imagined it to be but a short hour or so since she had come on board.
“That’s all right, lass. Feel free to wake me if anything frightens you again.”
“I will,” she promised in a sleepy voice. And rolled over with her back to him, sliding back into dreams again.
The tall captain considered her soberly. His own heart was racing and he was filled with thoughts that worried him. How ready his body was to respond to her!
He walked to the stern window and stood staring out of it, imagining what it would be like to have this slender lass always beside him, sharing his ventures. He saw her suddenly in an older, more confident version, bravely gowned, with his children around her knee.
It was a tempting vision.
Captain Cameron found himself gripping the sill of the stern window, mesmerized by it.
At last he shook his head to clear it. He was almost in a cold sweat.
It had been a long time since he had cherished such feelings�
�and then it had ended in disaster. No doubt this affair would end in disaster as well—if he let it go that far.
He had no intention of letting it go that far. He would go on taking his women as he found them—and moving on. Always moving on.
Still he cast an uneasy look back at Lorraine, asleep again and tossing restlessly upon the bunk—and with every toss, in his mind he tossed with her. That slender outflung arm he imagined now upon his breast—a gossamer touch. The skin of her cheek had been so smooth, the swelling of her upthrust young breasts would be so silken . . . This girl was magically constructed to tempt men, and he recognized it well.
But recognizing it did no good—it was what to do about it.
Captain Cameron’s strong jaw tightened. He would do nothing about it. He would carry the little lass to a safe place as he had promised, and there he would leave her.
Again in sleep she murmured, “Philip,” and Raile, listening, told himself sternly that he was being warned. No matter how badly that young whelp Philip had used her, Lorraine still loved him.
Raile’s lip curled in derision at himself.
Abruptly he left to take a turn upon the deck—but that did not help either. Tonight the ship had wings, it was flying over a silver sea, and anything was possible— even to him. He passed an angry hand over his eyes as if to clear his vision, then strode purposefully back to his cabin. The deck watch gave him a curious look as he passed.
Lorraine was still restlessly asleep in the bunk, still tossing. It rent his heart that she should be lying there only a few feet away calling out for that bastard Philip!
Cursing himself for a fool, the Scottish captain fell at last to sleep.
CHAPTER 9
A Week Later
THE WIND BLEW fresh, and like the silken mane of a nervous white Arabian mare who takes the bit in her teeth and charges forward gallantly, the Likely Lass's white sails billowed and she skimmed across the glittering blue-green water.
To Love a Rogue Page 10