The Diamond King

by Patricia Potter

  Her stomach was complaining. She was also thirsty. If it wasn’t for Celia, she would pound on the door.

  Blanche was quietly weeping, convinced she was going to be robbed of all her possessions and most likely taken for sport. No amount of words convinced her otherwise.

  And so Jenna had taken off her bonnet, then looked down at her wet gloves. She had no others with her. She debated taking them off. She glanced at Blanche. What difference did it make on a pirate ship? Perhaps it would even keep her person safe from violation. She pulled them off, waiting for a comment from the planter’s wife, but none was forthcoming, just the slightest widening of her eyes.

  It felt good, having her hands free of cloth. She ran a brush through her hair, trying to decide whether to braid it. She decided to leave it free, then found a place on the floor and tried to read a book until the light became too poor.

  She felt the ship shift and gain speed. Away from Barbados and her prospective husband. Even if she did arrive, she would have little more than the jewels she had secreted in her gown. She had no doubt the pirates would take every other valuable she had.

  She wished she knew something of the man who held their lives—and futures—in his hands.

  Perhaps she could discover something from the crew.

  For that, she had to get out.

  She did not know what time it was when the door opened and a sailor brought in a tray of food. Bread and cheese and beans. There was also a pitcher of water and three mugs.

  Blanche stood and looked at the offerings. “Take it away,” she said royally.

  “No,” Jenna said. She smiled at the young sailor. “Thank you.”

  His gaze softened. “The cook has been pressed into other duties.” It was partly an apology to her, not to Blanche Carrefour.

  She decided to grab an opportunity. “Who is Meg?” she asked. “I heard someone said she had been hurt.”

  He shrugged. “She’s a wee lass.”

  He had a Irish lilt to his voice. The ship seemed populated by Irish, Scottish rebels, and Frenchmen, none of whom seemed inclined toward sympathy for the English or their allies. “Is she the captain’s daughter?” she asked.

  “Nay. A stowaway. She and young Robin.”

  A stowaway.

  “May I help?” she said, her heart constricting at the thought of an injured child. Particularly a stowaway who had no parent to comfort her.

  “I will be asking the captain for you,” he said. His gaze went to her arm, but then left it without any reaction at all.

  Then he disappeared. She heard the door being locked.

  She sat down, wondering about what he had said. A lass who was a stowaway. Along, apparently, with another child.

  At least they were being attended.

  Perhaps the captain had a soft spot.

  She re-created his face in her mind, the cold eyes, the contemptuous looks he’d given each of the passengers.

  The scar that made him look frightening … dangerous.

  And unpredictable.

  She tried to read again, but the light was poor and too many thoughts were rushing through her head. She was going to her marriage with a birthmark that had isolated her in England. Did David Murray truly know about it? That was bad enough, but now … she would be marked in another way that could bring disgrace to a potential husband. She was aboard a pirate vessel without a chaperone. If Maisie had been here …

  Maisie probably would have died of fright.

  But what would the Honorable David Murray think? It might just be the excuse he would need to reject her if her birthmark … offended him.

  If she ever reached Barbados.

  Chapter Six

  Alex prowled the ship throughout the night, alternating between relieving Claude on the quarterdeck and checking on Meg below.

  She was feverish and in much pain but never shed a tear. Robin would not leave her side.

  Her continued bravery distressed him more than tears would have. She was but a lass. She should react as one.

  As the night wore on, the sky filled with clouds and the wind grew fierce. He and Claude had to pace the Ami with their new prize, and they seemed to plow through the heavy seas. That meant more men had to be on deck working the sails and fewer watching their prisoners.

  “We are in for a squall,” Claude said, eyeing the dark scudding clouds.

  Alex nodded.

  Claude hesitated. “Sean said the Scottish mademoiselle offered to help Meg. It would relieve Hamish.”

  Alex’s first impulse was to say no. But Hamish was one of the most experienced sailors among them.

  And he wanted someone with Meg, someone other than Robin, who hadn’t had any rest in far too long. Perhaps Claude was right. Perhaps Meg did need a woman’s help. But a Campbell’s help?

  “I’ll think about it,” he conceded.

  He went down to the area Hamish had turned into a sick bay. Hamish was looking at the still-seeping wound. Meg’s eyes were wide open but they were red and dull.

  Robin stood nearby.

  “She keeps knocking the poultice off,” Hamish said.

  The ship plunged then, sending Robin stumbling backward.

  “The Campbell woman offered to help nurse her,” Alex said, his voice neither approving nor disapproving.

  “I should go up on deck,” Hamish said.

  “I do not want her here alone with the lass.”

  “Ye think she might hurt Miss Meg?”

  He remembered the woman’s eyes. There had been fear, but more defiance. And yet he did not think there had been cruelty in them. “Robin can stay in here with her,” he said. “I’ll send Sean as soon as he can be spared.” Sean had never been to sea, but had been desperate for a berth. He was still unsteady on a storm-tossed deck, and Alex feared for him every time he went up into the rigging. Yet he couldn’t seem to favor him or others in the crew would resent it.

  Hamish lifted an eyebrow but his expression approved. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  Alex reluctantly walked to the cabin where the women were being kept. He did not like the idea of asking a favor of a Campbell.

  He knocked and then waited a moment before unlocking the door. The last thing he wanted were hysterical undressed women prisoners on his ship.

  As he turned the lock and opened the door, he came face-to-face with the Campbell woman. He was surprised—not pleasantly—by the jolt of awareness that suddenly ran through his body.

  When he’d seen her before, she’d been swallowed in clothes and her hair had been secured under a modest bonnet. Now it flowed down her back and framed eyes that looked at him with both surprise and wariness. Her hair was brown with golden streaks lighted by the glow of a lantern.

  For once she wore no gloves. His gaze caught the hands that had opened the door, the dark purple splotch that ran from the back of her hand up her arm. He understood now why she had been wearing gloves halfway up her arms while the other women wore none in the heat of the Caribbean sun.

  He looked up and met her challenging gaze.

  Not that he was one to cast stones at physical imperfections. God knew no one would swoon at his face.

  But neither did he feel like offering niceties or apologies. “One of my men said you offered to help with a young lass who was injured.”

  “Aye,” she said. “I have nursed many times.”

  “She needs a woman’s care,” he said, “but she is not fond of the English.”

  “I am not English.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “But the Campbells do the English bidding, which is worse.”

  She didn’t turn away, but neither did she reply or attempt to hide the blemish on her arm.

  “Come with me,” he said shortly. He did not want to feel anything for her. Certainly not sympathy. Or admiration.

  “I have to tell my companion.” She ducked back inside for a moment, then returned. “I’m ready.”

  She had not put on the gloves again. She o
bviously didn’t care what pirates thought. That was fine with him.

  “You trust me?” she asked, obviously unable to hold her tongue.

  “Only because whatever happens to her happens to you.” His voice was purposefully cold, yet she didn’t flinch. Her composure disconcerted him.

  He led the way to the sick bay, where Hamish was leaning over Meg.

  An involuntary cry ripped from her mouth, then her lips clamped together when she saw him.

  Pain speared through him at her attempt to be strong and courageous. She was already the bravest young lass he’d ever met. She’d never complained during those long, cold, and often hungry months spent hiding in Highland caves. Nor had she cried when her mother died. She’d continued to be the core of their little band, taking over the position of mother to the younger ones. Without her and Robin, he never would have been able to keep the others alive.

  “Ah, lass, you would try the patience of a saint,” he said, not wanting her to see the agony he felt.

  Meg grimaced, though he knew it was meant to be a smile. Bravado. She was full of it.

  “This is Lady Jeanette,” he said, purposely neglecting to provide his prisoner’s last name. Meg knew the Campbell name well, as did every Jacobite in Scotland. “She has offered to stay with you.”

  Meg’s lip stuck out. “I dinna need anyone,” she said.

  “Hamish is needed elsewhere, and I want someone to say with you. Robin needs some rest.”

  Her lip did not recede. “Who is she?”

  “She was on the ship we took.”

  “It shot at me,” she said sullenly.

  “We shot at it,” he explained.

  “The other ships dinna shoot at us.” She glared at her feminine visitor.

  The logic was undeniable, if not entirely fair.

  “I have to go above,” he said with a warning note in his voice. Sometimes she heeded it; sometimes she didn’t. Most recently, it had been the latter.

  He turned and left before she could mount any more arguments.

  For the first time he felt sorry for a Campbell.

  Jenna regarded the young patient thoughtfully. She had not missed the fact that he had not mentioned her last name.

  The lass looked to be about eight or nine years, and was one of the thinnest children she’d ever seen. Her hair had been cut short and ragged tufts stuck out all over her head. She looked more lad than lass, and the rebellious look on her face did nothing to change that impression.

  The lass’s gaze focused on Jenna’s arm. “What’s that?” she asked with a child’s honest curiosity.

  “It’s a birthmark,” Jenna said.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Aye, but not in the way she meant. “Nay. But your wound looks like it hurts.”

  “Nay,” said the child, echoing her own response.

  “Your name is Meg?”

  The girl looked at her suspiciously as she nodded.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  She was three years older than she’d thought. Anger and sympathy coursed through her. The child had obviously been starved. God only knew what she’d gone through.

  She took a stool next to the cot. A poultice covered the wound. She wondered what was in it.

  “Can I do anything for you?” she asked. “Would you like some water?”

  Meg looked at her suspiciously. “Robin will get it.”

  “Who is Robin?”

  A voice came from the doorway, and it conveyed even more suspicion than Meg’s eyes. “I’m Robin.”

  She whirled around. A boy of around twelve stood in the doorway, contempt on his face. “I heard you are a Campbell,” he said. There was as much loathing in his voice as there had been in the captain’s.

  Captain Malfour had obviously passed along his hatred.

  “Campbell?” Meg said.

  “Aye,” Robin said.

  Meg turned her head. “Go away.”

  “The captain asked me to stay,” Jenna said, disconcerted. She had no experience being rejected because of something other than her deformity. Certainly not because of her name, a name respected—and feared—in Scotland.

  “He wouldn’t,” the boy said. “We don’t need a Campbell.”

  “I cannot help my name,” she said softly, “but I do want to help your … sister?”

  “She is not my sister.”

  “Your friend, then.”

  The lad’s speech was better than Meg’s, his manner no less imperious, yet unlike hers it had an innate arrogance that she suspected came from the gentry. So, for that matter, did the captain of this ship. She would wager her last crown that both once held or were heirs to titles.

  Her heart went out to the children, even if she had only contempt for a man who would put children in danger.

  She had always been good with children. But she didn’t quite know what to do with the hostility of these children who obviously detested her for something not of her own doing.

  She wanted to help. She wanted to help more than she could possibly ever let them know. She wanted to make them safe.

  “We hate Campbells” the girl said.

  “Sometimes I do not care for them, either,” Jenna said quite honestly.

  Meg’s dismissive look suddenly sharpened. “You don’t?” she asked dubiously.

  “Not always,” she replied. “I do not like some of the things they do, nor some of their friends. That’s why I was on the ship.”

  Meg searched her face, as if seeking the truth, then turned away. “Go away.”

  Robin scuffed his shoes on the floor. “I suppose if Will said it was all right …”

  “Will?” she asked, grateful for the lad’s slight softening.

  “The captain,” Robin explained.

  “Is he … any relation to you?” The Irish sailor had already said he was not Meg’s father but surely there was some connection.

  “Bloody hell, no,” Meg said.

  Jenna tried to hide her reaction to the child’s profanity. “Then what …?”

  “He takes care of us,” Meg said proudly.

  “The English killed her mother and da,” Robin said. “They killed mine, too.”

  “Will saved us from the butcher,” Meg said, obviously not wishing to let Robin have the last word. “He killed lots of English. And Campbells,” she added ominously. “He likes killing them.”

  She’d obviously decided not to give Jenna the same benefit that her friend did. Still, Jenna’s heart melted. They were too young to be orphaned. Too young to stow aboard a pirate ship. Too young to depend on a pirate for survival.

  “He saved our lives,” Robin confirmed. “He found us in the Highlands when the English were hunting us.”

  “Hunting you?” she asked dubiously. “They were looking for outlaws.”

  Meg glared at her. “My ma was no’ an outlaw. Robin was no’ an outlaw, either, but he was a Macdonald. The Campbells wanted to finish killing Macdonalds.”

  Jenna stared at Robin.

  “’Tis true,” he said. “They were hunting all of us. They locked women and bairns in a barn, and burned it. I just barely escaped, but I … heard …”

  Her heart twisted. She had heard soldiers talk but they had always quieted when she approached. She knew there were patrols rounding up Jacobites who had escaped from Culloden. They wanted no more uprisings. And she’d heard of the many executions and transportations. But children? Women?

  She knew her father was ruthless, but no civilized person could do such things.

  She swallowed hard, not sure how to defend herself. Her family. Everything she was. Of course, she’d heard some of the stories. Campbells were accused of nearly every misdeed or trouble that occurred in the Highlands. They were also accepted and envied and respected by families loyal to the king.

  Out of fear? Fear of the clan’s influence with Cumberland? With the English king?

  But killing women and children?

&nbs
p; These two children believed it. She saw it in their eyes. Was that why the captain’s eyes were also so cutting?

  Captain Malfour?

  Will?

  Neither name, for some reason, seemed to fit him. Despite the fact he was a pirate, he carried himself like a lord.

  Had he been at Culloden? Had he fought against her family’s retainers? And how had he become “protector” to children? Or had he simply used them? An excuse for his banditry.

  He was an enigma. One she cared little about solving. But in a few short moments, the children had become important to her. She wanted their trust, to feel as if she had some worth and was not just a cast-off piece of inferior clothing. Cast off by the very Campbells they hated. She’d tried not to feel that way since she’d received the offer that her family had so badly wanted her to accept.

  She looked back down at the child who had—at the least—lost her home, her family, her safety, and who, despite all that, was like a wolf cub, ready to defend herself against any interloper, even someone who wanted to help.

  Robin had manners that made him unlikely to spit, but there was an iron in him that would make him very unlikely to accept her. He did not even try to hide the suspicion in his eyes.

  Will. Never had there been a more unlikely Will.

  “Tell me about your … captain,” she said.

  Meg turned back to her. Her eyes, which had been dull with pain, then sparking with outrage, now filled with light.

  Still, it was Robin who answered. “He found a way to bring us to France,” he said. “He could have left us. But he risked his life over and over again to get us to France. He found us families in Paris, but—”

  “We dinna like them,” Meg said. “We wanted Will.”

  Their devotion to “Will” was, she realized, absolute. She would not help herself by saying anything against him.

  “How did you come to be with him?”

  Robin looked at her as if she were trying to trap him.

  “We heard there were … fugitives in a certain area,” he said. “I found my way to them first, then Meg and her mother. But her mother died not long after arriving.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Some,” he said evenly.

  “How did he get you out of Scotland?”