“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I do remember them. They had that odd shaped mizzen and the foresail that had that big patch out o’ black canvas.”
“I remember the patch,” Ford murmured. He stood in silence while Odysseus and the other men watched, tension in all of their faces as they waited to see what Ford would say.
He remained silent for so long, Odysseus stepped forward and murmured, “We can seek another port and move the cargo over land.”
His words seemed to jar Ford out of his reverie. His head turned sharply to his first mate. “Continue to port. And gather a half-dozen men. Our best fighters. Arm them with our cargo.” His smile spoke of retribution and Jo suddenly felt nauseous. She waited until the men dispersed and approached her husband. He seemed surprised to see her, the expression quickly changing to wariness.
“Don’t do this,” she said.
His gaze shuttered. “Do what?” He began to turn away and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Whatever it is you’re planning. With your best fighters. And guns. Don’t put yourself at risk. Don’t put your men at risk,” she pleaded, thinking that distinction might make him reconsider.
“Trust me, you will not need to save me this time,” he snapped. He turned swiftly, pulling his arm from her grasp and stalking to the hatch.
Jo watched him, frozen with shock for a moment, and then hurried to follow him.
“Ford!” she cried as she climbed down the steep stairs. “Wait!” She saw him turn a corner just as she reached the lower deck and ran to catch up to him. She found him in their cabin—her cabin of late—rummaging through his trunk. He pulled out an empty holster and strapped it over his shoulder.
“Ford!” she repeated, sharply. He paused while tucking his shirt into his waistband. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh really?” he asked snidely. “But you don’t think I can handle myself. You think I’ll be killed or captured again.”
“No! That’s not it at all,” she cried.
He laughed harshly and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “Then what exactly is your concern?”
“It won’t make you feel any better to kill Degroot.”
“Oh I beg to differ,” he snarled as he tucked a knife and sheath in his boot.
She shook her head, desperate to get through to him. “You are not a murder—”
“It’s called retribution,” he interrupted.
“It’s called allowing him to continue to rule your life instead of going on to live it.”
Ford pulled a dark jumper over his head, covering his white shirt. “We shall just have to disagree on this. You won’t change my mind and you clearly won’t see my side.”
Stung, she wanted to retort that she could see his side, but held her tongue, not wanting to make the argument worse.
He brushed past her with a curt nod of his head.
“Ford,” she called out softly as he reached the door.
He paused and looked to the side, not meeting her gaze but at least acknowledging her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
She saw his shoulders tighten and held her breath as she waited. After an endless moment, he nodded and quietly left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Chapter Twenty-one
The sun had sunk below the horizon and stars were beginning to twinkle on as the Nightingale’s row boat gently bumped against the hull of Degroot’s ship.
Thomas, Pallet, and four other crew members were with him, each armed to the teeth with knives, rope, and various firearms borrowed from the shipment they were set to deliver the next morning.
Thomas was the only man besides Ford from those captured to participate in the operation.
“Remember,” Ford said to the small group as the first man prepared to climb the chain of the aft anchor. “Only Degroot dies tonight. Restrain the crew—bind them, render them unconscious if necessary, but leave them alive.”
“You will notice le Capitaine did not say unharmed. Just alive,” Pallet said and huffs of laughter escaped the men.
Ford wanted to contradict that statement but held his tongue. Degroot was the head of the snake, but his crew certainly went along with his evil trade. If his men—Thomas especially—blackened a man’s eye or bloodied his nose, so be it. It was no less than what he and his men had experienced as Degroot’s prisoners. As Ramsey’s slaves. Renewed fury pulsed through Ford’s veins.
Rahim, one of his riggers, nimbly climbed the thick anchor chain. They waited in silence once he disappeared into the hold and in a moment he lowered the rope ladder he’d had slung around his chest.
Once on board, they began prowling through the passages, methodically rounding up the few crewmen they encountered, gagging and binding them and stuffing them into various cabins and storage berths.
As Ford had hoped, it seemed to be a skeleton crew—most men were no doubt on shore drinking and whoring. He only hoped Degroot was not with them. He would wait all night if necessary, but he wanted the slaver sober and aware as he slit his throat.
They climbed to the main deck in order to reach the aft berths, where Ford knew Degroot’s cabin was located. They encountered a half dozen men playing dice. Though they had the element of surprise, the men were clearly accustomed to hand-to-hand fighting. Despite the superior numbers and weapons facing them, Degroot’s men leapt to their feet, instantly at the battle ready. However, what those men did not count on was the pure rage of their attackers. Ford and Thomas were the first into the fray, with scores to settle. Only slightly less intense was the anger of their fellow crew members at the treatment of their brethren at the hands of this enemy.
The men of the Nightingale fought in grim and furious silence and within a few minutes, the men of the slaver ship were defeated—either knocked unconscious or bound and gagged. Ford and his men waited, half-crouched and ready for a wave of reinforcements to barrel out of the hatch with swords and pistols. After a full minute had passed, they eased their stance and crossed the deck to reach the aft hatch. They encountered no other men as they crept along the dark corridor. The thin strains of a violin concerto drifted from the door at the end. Ford paused, his hand on the knob, listening for any other voice within the cabin as the music paused, but all he heard was the rustling of papers and the tuning of a string.
He turned to Pallet. “I will see to this myself.” Ford couldn’t see the Frenchman’s face in the dimly lit passage, but after a moment Pallet nodded shortly.
Turning back to the door, Ford holstered his pistol, then bent to draw his knife from its sheath in his boot.
Behind the door, the violin moved into a light trill. A missed note was followed by a repeat of the section, slower this time. Ford slowly turned the door handle and opened it a crack. Degroot was near the windows at the back of the room, next to a large oil lantern. He was turned three-quarters away from the door. Ford suppressed a short huff of amusement. The man was playing a Beethoven concerto and yet he looked like he’d been swabbing the deck, his fine clothes as tattered and grimy as they’d been the day he and his men had boarded the Nightingale. Ford’s amusement was short lived as he considered the best place to strike the man. Degroot paused his playing, his back muscles visibly tensing and Ford launched himself across the room, tackling the other man and sending the violin skittering across the floor. The man stumbled but didn’t go down. For all that he’d been caught off guard, Degroot fought with a practiced savagery that spoke of years of brutal fist fights. On any given day, the larger man could probably have beaten Ford in a matter of minutes: Ford had been in his share of altercations, but Degroot fought as if it were second nature to him. On any other day, that experience might have been enough to land Ford flat on his back, no doubt with a broken nose and cracked rib.
But Ford was possessed of a rage unlike any he’d ever experienced. This Degroot had enslaved he and his men, locking them in chains, in cages in the bowels of this very ship. And this man h
ad thrown Jo overboard, casting her into the sea when she’d already served her purpose of making him surrender.
Every time Degroot landed a blow to Ford’s ribs, he recalled the image of his wife, eyes wide with fear for him, as she plummeted into the churning water of the ocean. A glancing punch only reminded him of what Jo, as well as he and his men, had suffered at the hands of Ramsey. Such memories caused fury to surge through his veins, muting any pain and lending him strength, speed, and agility. He held his knife with the blade running along his forearm so he could punch Degroot, make him suffer before he delivered the killing blow. He needed the other man’s suffering to act as a balm to his own.
He landed a blow beneath Degroot’s chin, knocking the man’s head back and clattering his teeth together.
Ford leapt forward, knocking the other man to the ground, landing on top of him without losing momentum in the rapid-fire blows he delivered to chest, head, and belly.
“Smith!” Degroot bellowed, calling for assistance.
Ford dropped his knife beside the man’s head so he would have both hands free to grasp Degroot’s collar, lift him up, and slam him back against the wooden planks of the floor.
“Call for help again. Go on. I’ll help you. Smith!” Ford bellowed. He felt a snarl curl his lips. “Oh that’s right, we’ve captured what men you had on deck. For such a small crew, they weren’t very attentive. You really should maintain better discipline.”
Degroot bucked and caught a glancing blow to Ford’s jaw. Enraged, Ford returned the blow, hearing the man’s nose crack just before it gushed blood. He groaned and reached to cup his bloodied nose, but Ford grasped his arms, pinning them beneath his knees. He grabbed his knife and held it to the other man’s throat.
The rush of victory, of retribution coursed in his blood and he ignored the hollowness of the emotions.
“You threw my wife to the sharks, imprisoned me and my men, selling us as if we were mute animals. You’re lucky neither she nor my men died or this would have to be much more drawn out and painful.
Degroot laughed, spraying blood over Ford’s shirt. “And I’ll sell ye again, next time I catch ye, lad. But I won’t waste your little skirt on the sharks again. I’ll tie her down and ride her like a—” his words disappeared in a hiss as Ford pressed his blade against the man’s neck, drawing a line of blood.
“Your raping and slaving days are over, lad. This ends tonight. You end tonight.” Ford moved his knife so that the point was nestled between two of Degroot’s ribs, just over his heart. He pressed just enough to feel the pop of fabric as the tip of the blade reached skin.
“How’d you get away from Ramsey? Thought he kept a tight rein on his new boys.”
Ford knew Degroot was trying to delay his own death, was scrambling to say anything that would distract Ford until more of his men returned to the ship. Ford sneered at the tactic, and yet, even as he took a breath to plunge his blade into Degroot’s heart, the man’s question brought to mind Jo—not as a victim cast aside, but as an avenging virago, risking all to save him and his men. Jo, who’d thrown away her chance at a genteel life in St. Kitt’s society in order to marry him.
He still could not understand why she would have made such a choice, and yet, in his mind, he could hear her whisper, “Because I love you.”
His arm trembled as it clutched the knife tighter. Instead of Degroot’s blunt, sweaty, and blood-smeared visage, he suddenly saw his wife’s beautiful, tear-streaked face as she pleaded with him not to seek revenge, but to embrace life. To move forward, not back.
He wanted to kill Degroot, wanted to avenge the indignities, the humiliation he and his men had endured. He wanted to punish this man for trying to kill Jo. Sweat streamed down his face. A part of his brain screamed for him to push down and sink his blade into Degroot’s heart. But another voice stayed his hand. This one whispered of peace and a life lived without the demons of retribution. He suddenly understood what Jo had meant when she declared killing Degroot wouldn’t free him, but imprison him further.
Suddenly all he wanted was to feel his wife in his arms. He yearned with a physical ache to inhale the sweetness of her skin, to seek refuge in the inky spill of her hair and hear her whisper in his ear, “I love you.”
He lifted the knife from Degroot’s chest and saw the look of cunning replace fear on the other man’s face.
“There’s a good lad—” the man began, but in one fluid motion, Ford dropped his blade and delivered an uppercut to Degroot’s chin, knocking him out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jo finally gave up trying to sleep as the first streak of dawn turned the blackness outside the window to a fluid dusky blue. As the blue melted into pale gold, she dressed and made the bed. She glanced around the small cabin, but there was nothing left to tidy; she’d cleaned and rearranged the contents of the built-in shelves, drawers, and even their trunk last night in an effort to keep her mind from dwelling on Ford and his vengeful mission. It hadn’t worked the first time, nor the second, but at least she could say the room was shipshape, even if they might not be able to find things without a search.
She checked the small mirror mounted on the wall and tucked a stray strand of hair back into the simple knot at the base of her head.
With nothing else to occupy her in the cabin, she opened the door and determined to walk the deck. Not, she admonished herself, to watch for Ford’s return, but merely to stretch her legs and clear her mind with the cool, fresh, morning air.
She watched the sun rise over the gentle hills surrounding Bridgetown, wondering what the city looked like, how it differed from St. Kitts or Havana or even Rio di Janiero. Perhaps she would insist on accompanying the men when they delivered their shipment later today. Even if Ford refused, he would be forced to tell her himself.
Jo frowned as she felt the sun’s rays touch her face, but it wasn’t the brightness that caused the frown. How on earth did Ford plan to see his questionable shipment delivered to its intended recipient after he killed Degroot? Surely he didn’t also intend to kill the man’s entire crew as well? And yet, the men would not take kindly to the murder of their captain. They would report the occurrence to the authorities, wouldn’t they?
She shook her head in disbelief at Ford’s short-sightedness. She wished she’d been able to reach him, assure him that he had nothing to prove, convince him to let his need for vengeance go and focus instead on resuming their life together. She felt her heartbeat accelerate in anger. She was a newlywed! They should be enjoying long hours together, learning each other’s hearts and minds and bodies. Instead, they’d not touched once since his escape.
She moved aimlessly about the ship as the day dragged on. She forced herself to eat the midday meal, needlessly checked the supplies in the medical cabin, and walked what felt like miles around the perimeter of the deck.
Finally, later that afternoon, she noticed a small craft making its way toward the Nightingale. She cast a glare at it and turned to go below deck. She did not want Ford to think she’d been awaiting his return or that she was welcoming him back when he had blood on his conscience.
She clambered down the hatch as she heard the rowboat thud gently against the hull of the ship and Ford’s crew called a greeting to the men, but she heard nothing else as her heart pounded in her ears and her breath rasped in panicked gasps. She raced down the narrow passage to the ladder which led to the hold where cargo, supplies, and bales of hay for the occasional livestock were stored. The low-ceilinged room was dimly illuminated by a small porthole at the rear of the ship. Jo perched on a bale of hay beneath this porthole and tried to calm her breathing.
She would have to come to terms with what her husband had done and how it had changed him. For change him it would have.
The man who’d rescued her from Thomas Kent’s henchman, who’d listened with empathy and sought to understand the strange mix of emotions and experiences she’d had while married to Kent…that man could not have plotted and carried o
ut another’s death with such efficiency and delight.
Thoughts of Kent—for it had been a long while since he’d invaded her mind—reminded her that she was not the most adept at judging men’s characters. She pulled a straw from the bale and wrapped it around her finger, twining it mindlessly as a thought occurred to her.
Perhaps Ford could murder Degroot and walk away without a second thought. Perhaps the gentle, understanding man who’d made her feel so safe, so relaxed, so comfortable…maybe his capacity for brute vengeance had always been there. He had threatened to kill Jeremiah Benjamin, after all. At the time, she thought he was just trying to convince the abhorrent lacky to leave her alone, but perhaps he’d been more than capable of executing the man. If that was the case, then the only person who would be changed by Degroot’s murder would be her.
She paused in her fidgeting with the straw, scarcely noticing that her finger was turning blue from the tightly-wrapped stem as it occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t know Ford any better than she’d known Thomas Kent when she’d married him. Of course then she’d been pressured by her family to marry, had felt little for Kent beyond hope that life with him would be better than with distant relatives who viewed her as a tiresome burden.
She stood abruptly, the tightly wrapped straw unwinding and falling to the boards beneath her feet. She was allowing her emotions to pull her down a dark and needless hole. She had to trust her feelings for Ford. She had to trust that she knew him. Her soul knew his. She had to trust those long nights laying in a cramped berth talking, those starlit evenings sitting on deck, sharing childhood memories, the shared adventures, both good and terrifying. She realized that she had to trust Ford and she had to accept him and whatever he had done or their marriage could not survive. If only—
A creak on the shallow stairs interrupted her twisting thoughts. She turned to see Ford paused on the last step, as if uncertain he should approach. He must have come to return the weapons he’d borrowed from their shipment, never anticipating finding her.
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