by Jo Goodman
“What do you make of her?” the doctor asked when they stepped out of the room. “She seems to know what kind of man Travers is, all right.”
“She seems to know too much. How did she know this was the Follansbee? Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Then how did she know?” Smith was exasperated. “I don’t understand it, Hugh. I don’t understand any of it.”
The doctor gave him a commiserating look. He left the officer alone to think on the matter while he searched out a mirror to discover if the years with Travers truly did show on his face.
Smith thought of little besides the young woman occupying his room. Shortly after midnight, no answers to be found in the calm expanse of the sea, he returned to his cabin. It seemed he had only been asleep a matter of minutes when he felt a hand nudge him awake. He almost tipped the chair he sat in as he came fully to attention.
Alexis suppressed a smile. “Do you think I might have some more of that broth?”
Ian reached for the cup at his side, spilling some as he groped in the dark. He murmured an apology about it being cold and offered to warm some for her.
“Don’t go to the trouble,” she said, accepting the cup. After a few sips she asked, “What time is it, Mr.—”
“Smith. Lieutenant Ian Smith. And it is about two in the morning and I am surprised you did not know either the time or my name; you seem to know everything else.”
“I am not a clairvoyant, Lieutenant.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Yes, I suppose it must seem that I am. Just to prove I’m not, I will ask you another question. Where is this frigate bound?”
Ian laughed. “You won’t get that from me…” He paused for a name and he was surprised when she gave him one. “How do I know you do not make a habit of preying on British vessels under the guise of a half-drowned waif, Alexis?”
“Is that what you think?”
“It had occurred to me. Nothing else makes much sense.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
Ian shut his eyes and when he opened them the cabin was still dark and his confusion just as deep. “I still don’t understand any of this, Alexis,” he said at last.
“I don’t expect you to. And the captain does not want you to,” she added so they were clear on that count. “Just let me thank you for coming to my rescue when you did and end it at that.” She finished her broth and placed the mug on the deck. “It will all make sense come morning.”
Ian wondered if he had imagined a threatening tone in her voice. He suddenly did not feel tired any longer. He excused himself to continue his brooding on topside.
Alexis lay back against the pillow, frowning into the darkness.
So close, she thought, and yet her dreams and most of her waking moments were filled less with Travers than with Cloud. During the hours she had been left alone, even as she’d tested the strength of her limbs, even as she’d prepared for the final confrontation, she had wondered if Travers had been worth the separation, the danger, the uncertainty that always invaded her time with Cloud. Somehow it had become more important to know that Cloud had managed to get through the storm safely than it was to see Travers dead by her own hand. It had become more urgent to let Cloud know she was alive.
Looking back on it, on their last night together before the storm interrupted their sleep, she realized he had tried to tell her those things. Even the way they’d made love seemed to be in preparation for another span of time they would spend apart. His hands had moved along her flesh in that peculiar way he had, as if he were pressing a memory into his palms. She had been frightened momentarily to discover her hands and fingers were doing the same thing. Pleasure that evening was inadvertent. It was not pleasure they sought with their touch. It was only the touch.
She got out of bed, stumbling in the dark until she found her boots against the leg of a chair. She reached inside one of them and retrieved her dagger. They either had not found it or had thought it was unimportant. She traced the blade lightly with her finger, the cold steel warmed beneath her touch.
“One last chance,” she whispered, holding the blade against her lips. “If I fail and still survive, my love, I will not attempt it again. Only I must take this chance. Do you understand? I must.” She slipped into her shirt and trousers, pulled on her boots, and tucked the dagger back inside. Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, a ritual in preparation for a challenge that still retained some meaning for her.
She returned to bed and covered herself with the blankets to combat the cold taking possession of her from within. Before she fell asleep she added the names of Redland and Jordan to the reasons she had for wanting to see Travers dead.
Chapter 18
Cloud dressed, his trousers and shirt mysteriously clean and pressed, his boots polished. He found a comb on the bureau and hastily ran it through his hair. His fingers touched the stubble of growth on his face, and as if in answer to his wish for a shave, André appeared at the door to his room with a hot towel, strop, and razor.
“Monsieur Lafitte asked me to look after your needs,” the servant responded to Cloud’s questioning glance.
“It’s not necessary. I can do it myself.”
“It is not for you to do,” he replied, frowning. Had these Americans no sense of what was correct? André tried to imagine Lafitte shaving himself—could not—and motioned Cloud to have a seat.
Further protests were out of the question as the hot towel was wrapped around Cloud’s face, softening his beard. He relaxed and enjoyed the warmth and later André’s skill as he quickly removed all traces of the stubble. Cloud took the mirror André offered and with a low chuckle pronounced himself human again.
At André’s insistence he followed the servant to the dining room and joined Jean and Pierre in a late-morning breakfast. The conversation inevitably came around to the expected visitor.
“Is there any danger you will be recognized?” Lafitte asked Cloud.
“I can’t imagine I would be. It has been over two years and the little he saw of me was when I was unconscious, face down on the ground.” He paused thoughtfully, pushing his fork through the eggs on his plate. “I know I gave you my word, Jean, but I had no intention of being here when Travers arrived. The temptation might prove to be too great. I will be down at the ship, hastening the repairs.”
“As you wish. Perhaps it is better that way. As you said, the temptation might prove too great.” His hand curled tightly around his knife. “And who could blame you? It is distasteful to me to have to ask such a thing of you.”
“I understand. I think I can have the Dark Lady ready for the open water in three days. Can you keep him here that long?”
“Of course.”
“And where will his ship be anchored? I don’t want him to see the Dark Lady. He may recognize it.”
“I am going to meet him on my ship,” Pierre answered. “I will lead him to one of the inlets we seldom use. Your ship will be safe from his prying eyes.”
“Thank you.”
Pierre shrugged. “Orders,” he said, eying his brother with amusement. “Pleasurable, but orders nonetheless.”
Lafitte cuffed his brother on the arm. “He likes to pretend he does nothing but follow my wishes,” he told Cloud. “When we are alone it is he who calls the tune.”
Pierre laughed at the outright lie. “What he means is I have a habit of interrupting him at the unseemly moments to discuss business. Do you remember the time at Madame DuBonnet’s Jean? Why—”
“That is quite enough.” He cut his brother off. “The captain does not want to hear about your indiscretions.”
Pierre pretended to be appalled. He mirrored Jean’s mocking grin which traveled to his gray eyes. “My indiscretions? Mon Dieu!”
He was going to say more when Cloud interrupted and excused himself, saying he had to return to the ship.
“Come back this evening,” Jean called after him. “I will hav
e news for you about the meeting. I will see to it that you do not meet Travers.”
Cloud thanked him and left. When he had gone, Jean turned to his brother. “You will stay with me during the conference.”
“If that is what you want. Do you expect trouble from Travers?”
The pirate looked surprised. “From Travers? Non. You will be there to make sure I do not kill the man myself.” He rose abruptly and turned on his heels sharply, leaving Pierre alone to wonder what sort of woman this Captain Danty was that she could command men even from the grave.
While Cloud was hurrying toward the Dark Lady, Alexis was calmly observing the features of the man not five feet away from her. At the same time, he was making a critical appraisal of her. Neither had spoken since he’d entered Smith’s quarters but only he found the silence oppressive. Alexis let him suffer a while longer, enjoying his discomfort, and kept her narrowed eyes trained on the chiseled, obscenely arrogant face in front of her. Now that he had recovered from the shock of seeing her it did not seem her presence bothered him overly much. She supposed he saw her as a minor problem, a temporary inconvenience, to be disposed of without a second thought or a backward glance. It would not be that easy, she wanted to say to him, if you knew who I really was—if you knew I was Captain Alex Danty. Instead she said, “I am surprised you remembered me, Captain Travers. After all, it has been some time since I last saw you. I would not have suspected you thought much about me in that time.”
“You flatter yourself. I have never thought about you. I just have a good memory for faces. Yours is one a man would not likely forget—even when it is dredged up in the middle of the Gulf.”
Alexis shuddered involuntarily at the sound of his voice. Memories, unbidden, came flooding back. “Why did you forbid your men to talk with me?” Was that her voice? she wondered. So cold, aloof, edged with ice. And yet she knew it was only a covering for the fear that was gripping every muscle, every nerve. Did he suspect? She could not let him know she was afraid. But why was she afraid at all? Cloud. It was not Travers she feared but never seeing Cloud if she failed. She straightened her shoulders slightly and pressed the side of her calf against the blade in her boot. Her mind was made up. She would not fail.
“You should be able to understand that for yourself.”
“I suppose it would not do for me to explain how you killed my mother, my father, and my friend. You would not want your crew to know how you brought down your whip on a woman, would you? They might think you less of a man…Or me more of a woman for surviving.”
“Be quiet,” he growled. He leaned against the desk behind him, casually crossing his feet at the ankles and folding his arms across his chest. He had been truthful with her when he’d said he had not thought of her until she had appeared from nowhere. Even now the recollection of that particular day was hazy in his mind, but one memory stood out—the memory of her defiance. The strange amber eyes glistened now with the same look. Travers vowed to crush it once and for all.
“Be quiet?” she asked coolly. “How long do you expect me to remain silent about what you did?” What am I waiting for? she asked herself. Just reach in the boot. Reach in the boot and be done with it. Something stopped her. She could not do it.
“Actually, I am surprised you remained silent this long. You had plenty of opportunity to discuss your troubles with the doctor or Smith. It is a pity you didn’t because I assure you, you will not get another chance. I have already decided what I am going to do with you. The Admiralty would not think very well of me if word of what happened on Tortola got back to them.”
“I had no intention of taking my grievances against you to the Admiralty.” She did not add that she thought he was wrong. He would probably be given only a reprimand, not the loss of commission he deserved.
“I suppose you didn’t. Otherwise you would have done it long ago. Tell me, how is it that you came to be in a position to be rescued by my ship?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“I think you’re wrong. It very well could be my concern. The vessel you were on? Was it destroyed by the storm?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“Brothers? Family? A husband on board?”
“I have no brothers. You killed my family. I am not married.”
“Then it is still Miss Quinton. I’ll assume the vessel you were on was one of your merchants and even if it did survive the storm, I am sure your friends do not think you did.”
“Even if they did…you have nothing to fear from them.”
“Meaning I have something to fear from you? I doubt that, Miss Quinton. You are hardly in a position to carry out your veiled threats aboard this vessel.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Your skin, it’s rather darker than is the fashion. Do you spend a great deal of time out of doors?”
Alexis was too startled by his line of questioning to answer him. He went on.
“The marks from the whip? Have they healed?”
Her eyebrows drew together. Why was he asking her these things? “They have healed. Your work is still visible, if that’s what you meant.”
“That is exactly what I meant. They fit into my plan for you very nicely.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In a few hours we will be reaching our destination. I propose to leave you there.”
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter. You have no choice in what will happen.” He smiled mysteriously. “Slaves never do.”
As he turned to leave, his words penetrated Alexis’s senses. Slave! He meant to pass her off as a slave. She needed no other thought to guide her next actions. She reached for her dagger and held it lightly in her hand. Poised, she called to his retreating figure.
Travers turned, instinctively ducking when he saw the blade. Alexis had already accounted for this action and had adjusted her aim slightly lower. What she had not accounted for, could not have adjusted for, was the sudden presence of Ian Smith returning to his quarters. Forgetting the captain might still be there, Smith did not bother to announce his entry into his own cabin. Flinging the door open, he saved his captain’s life and nearly lost his own.
Once released from Alexis’s grasp, the dagger had no choice but to follow the course she had set for it. Alexis watched in horror as Travers was knocked to one side and the dagger, narrowly missing him, found its mark, not in Travers, but in the lieutenant’s abdomen.
Smith staggered backward against the doorjamb, not taking his eyes from Alexis. Before he slid to the deck she was at his side, lowering him gently. Travers was on his feet, fists clenched, face livid with rage. He stared at the dagger imbedded in Smith, knowing it was meant for him.
“Bitch!” he cursed. He raised his hand to strike her.
Alexis lifted her head, not cowering from his raised hand. “Don’t just stand there,” she ordered, forgetting who was in command. “Hit me or don’t. Then get Dr. Jackson. Hurry!”
Travers did not move for what seemed an eternity to Alexis. Slowly his hand came to his side, and when he left the cabin she knew she had only escaped his retribution for the time being. She brushed the perspiration from Smith’s brow and shook her head sadly.
“It wasn’t you. It was never meant for you.”
Smith managed to find his voice while he tried to forget the burning pain in his gut.
“Why? Why do you hate him so much?”
“Not now. You mustn’t talk. Please, don’t die. I couldn’t bear it if you did. I only wanted him!”
Smith smiled weakly. His hand clutched the hilt of the dagger. “I won’t. In exchange for the truth. I will live if you’ll tell me the truth.”
“What?” she asked anxiously. She tried to see past his pain-contorted face to the young man. The boyish features were no longer in evidence. His skin was drawn tight, his mouth set hard as he pulled at his lower lip with his teeth to keep from crying out. “What is it you want to know?”
“Your name.”
Alexis leaned over him, putting her mouth near his ear. In a hushed voice she told him her name. When she drew herself up to look in his eyes to see if they registered astonishment at her disclosure she could tell nothing. His eyes were closed and he was unconscious.
She did not protest when Travers returned with the doctor and several other crewmen and she was led away from the injured man. She said nothing when she was thrown into a vacant storage compartment. The door was locked and the light was taken away. She sat in a corner, listening to the sound of the retreating sailors and wondered how long it would be before Travers decided to be rid of her. While she thought of that Cloud’s face eluded her. The only face she saw was the lieutenant’s.
“She didn’t give you any trouble?” Travers asked his men when they returned from taking Alexis away. They shook their heads. “Good. Stay away from her. Pass the word to everyone aboard the ship. Her mind is not well. She meant to kill me with that damn knife of hers.” He pointed to Smith, now lying on the bed, and asked the doctor, “Is he going to live?”
“I think so, Captain. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Keep me informed.”
“About the girl, sir,” Jackson ventured. “Is she to be given anything? Food? Water?”
“No! Nothing. It won’t matter to her. I tell you, she’s quite mad.”
When Jackson was alone he returned to the treatment of his friend, wondering who the captain was trying to convince when he disparaged the girl’s sanity.
Cloud met Lafitte in the dressing room adjoining his bedroom. He was exhausted from the work he had shared equally with the men. The hold of the Dark Lady and the splintered railing had been repaired. They all had worked as if possessed. Even Peach had refused to remain in bed with his injured leg. Jordan fashioned him a crutch and the boy pounded nails and mended sail right along with everyone else.