Seaswept Abandon (The McClellans Series, Book 2) Author's Cut Edition

by Jo Goodman

  "Your entreaties scarcely reach my heart, Red."

  "Heart?! You have none! You puffed-up, sorry excuse for a human being!" She rose on her knees and smiled at Jericho contemptuously. "If I am an actress of these colonies, then surely you belong on the London stage. You have been parading around these many years, pretending to be a man." Her eyes glittered as they swept over his body, and at her side her hands shook with the force of her rage. "I'll not deny that you have perfected the trappings, but you have none of the heart and mind about you that credits a real man. Until you began your accusations I scarce understood the coward you truly are. You are so afraid that you may find something to like about me that you leap on the first excuse to put me from your life. And on the flimsiest piece of evidence—the fact that I can read. Can you not think of one reason that a would-be whore might know how to read? Can you not imagine that she comes from a family where schooling was valued only slightly less than putting food in one's belly? You turn my stomach, Jericho Smith. I'm certain when I lost my memory I lost my good sense, for if I were of one piece I would have never imagined that I could care for one such as you. You may be wanted by the British—but I, sirrah—would not have you as a gift!"

  Out of breath at the end of her angry speech, she waited, her breasts lifting shallowly, while Jericho formed his reply. It was not long in coming, and the bitter, sneering travesty of a smile warned her before she heard the words that he thought her the most capable of liars.

  "I applaud your ability to invent on the moment any number of excuses for yourself, and it is admirable the way you attack, but don't expect me to be taken in by your mendacity or stung by your nettled tongue. The only one deluded by talk of would-be whores is you, m'dear, for it's clear that you bartered yourself in order to cozy up to me. Were you told I would be more amenable to speakin' of my work in the aftermath of couplin'?"

  She felt as if the fight had at last been driven from her. She sagged wearily against the wall, her face ashen. That he spoke of their tender lovemaking as coupling told her she had no chance of reasoning with him. He was prepared to think the worst of her and sever the fragile bonds that had linked them for a short time. She could not help but wonder if there was something to be said for his supposition and guesswork. True, she still remembered nothing of her past, but that did not mean Jericho was mistaken about her presence in Wolfe's. Mayhap she had been sent there to catch a small fish in rebel waters and had unwittingly snared a shark. She worried her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth and stared at her folded hands, doubting herself, her motives in loving Jericho, indeed, doubting everything but that Jericho was as cold and ruthless as the predator she likened him to.

  "I'll leave immediately," she told him at last. "I cannot think there is anything to be gained when my presence provokes you so." She gathered the hem of her nightshirt in one hand and scooted across the bunk, only to be brought up short as Jericho stepped forward and blocked her path.

  "You will go nowhere," he said in clipped accents. "D'you suppose I am going to let you out of my sight now that I know your game? Do I really look such a fool?"

  She tried to get around him, but he merely stepped whichever way she moved and effectively prevented her from leaving the bed. "Let me pass, Jericho. I tell you I remember nothing!" she gritted. "Does it matter who or what I am? Surely I am no threat to you while I have naught the least idea if what you say is true."

  "You would say anything to leave. You still have to convince me your memory fails you."

  "How do I do that?"

  "That's your problem." His indifference was like a slap as he shrugged and turned his back on her, walking toward the storage bench.

  She wondered at his actions. One moment he was blocking her path, in the next he was giving her a chance to escape. Did he think she was so fainthearted that she would not take it?

  While Jericho rummaged through the bench, she carefully edged her way from-the bed. Once her feet touched the cold deck she bounded for the door. The handle twisted easily in her grasp and she was in the companionway in a matter of seconds. Her nightshirt flapped about her legs as she took the steps two at a time and her bare feet padded almost noiselessly on the wooden stairway. In the silence of her own passage she found it difficult to credit that Jericho could be following without making it known.

  But there he was, on her heels, with scarcely a winded breath to speak for his exertion. She had just cleared the steps when Jericho lunged and caught one of her ankles. With a cry of pained surprise she skidded to the deck on her hands and knees. She tried to wrest her foot away, but Jericho held her fast.

  "Release me, you black-hearted bastard!" she commanded. When he did not comply, but rather began to pull her inexorably toward the passageway, much like a fly being dragged against its will toward the center of a spider's web, she let go with a string of curses so explicit and long-winded that she hadn't any breath left to protest when Jericho flipped her over his thighs, lifted her nightshirt, and raised his hand so it was poised to strike. It hovered there for several seconds while she continued to curse him roundly and pound ineffectually on the steps.

  He suddenly yanked down her shirt, pushed her off his lap, and told her coolly that if she used language like that again he would be obliged to heat her backside. She was fortunate to get this warning. Since Jericho had thus far made good on his promises, she had no reason to doubt he meant this one also. Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led back into the cabin.

  "Get on the bunk," he snapped, closing the door behind them. "What possessed you to make a run for it the moment my back was turned? I thought you had a modicum of sense."

  She scrambled onto the bed and wished herself invisible as she curled against the wall. "Can you not understand that I have no wish to remain with you?"

  Jericho's laugh was dull. "We're always at cross-purposes, you and I. When I wish you gone, you cling like a limpet. When I say you will remain, you wish yourself gone. I think your greatest desire is not whether you stay or go, but thwarting me. I have had enough of it. For now you will stay where you are and explain this to me." He reached behind him on the desk and held up the fragile, washed-out piece of parchment that she had tossed in the storage bench.

  "What do you want to know about it?" she asked belligerently.

  Jericho sighed and dropped it on the desktop. "Do not push me. Red. Tell me where it came from, and see if you can do it without fabrication. I am at the end of my patience where you are concerned."

  "Must you tower over me like some hulking beast? You've made it quite clear that I am no match for your strength; surely there is no reason for you to stand there glowering."

  She did not surrender easily; he'd give her that. Turning so that she could not see the faintly admiring smile that sprang to his lips, Jericho pulled out the chair from behind the desk and faced her again, straddling it. His arms embraced the ladderback frame and his chin rested on the topmost rung. "Tell me about it, Red. And I'll know if you're lying."

  Her lip curled derisively. "I don't see how. You don't know when I'm telling the truth." The warning light in his eyes pinned her to the wall. "All right. I shall tell you the whole of it, but you'll wish you'd given me license to lie, for the truth is scarce worth telling." Without further preamble she explained where she had found the parchment and how her efforts to read its contents had been unsuccessful.

  "And that's all?" Jericho asked.

  She nodded. "I told you there was nothing to it."

  Jericho picked up the letter and studied it for several long minutes, holding it to the candlelight in much the way she had. "On the contrary," he said at last. "I would say there is quite a bit to be learned from this piece of work." He made a fist and the paper crumbled like so many ashes. Jericho brushed his palms together several times to clean them.

  "Why did you do that? I thought you said something could be learned from it."

  "The writing was illegible, as you said. The document's importance no long
er lay with its contents, but with its existence. Are you going to pretend that you don't realize it contained your orders?"

  She made a sound of pure frustration. "I am not pretending anything. I have no idea what that bit of nonsense in my skirt was. And if you are honest, you will admit that you don't know, either." She threw her arms out expansively. "But then, you don't require my permission to attach some foolish significance to anything that strikes you as odd. Now, if it pleases you," she added sweetly, "I wish to sleep." With that she pulled a blanket about her shoulders and lay down, facing the wall. Jericho's deep chuckle only made her grit her teeth.

  Jericho blew out the candle and padded to the bunk. "Poor little spy. No stomach for interrogation." Sitting on the edge of the bed he pulled a short length of rope from his breeches. The rasping sound caught her attention and he felt her stiffen beside him. Before she could guess his intention, Jericho hobbled her in her own blankets, straddled her, and drew out her wrists. She fought him with the last of her strength, landing several blows that they both knew would bruise nicely by morning, but the battle was unequal, and she railed as much against that as she did against the fates that had brought her to this pass.

  Once her wrists were secured Jericho moved off her, letting her kick free of the blankets. "So help me, Red, if you stomp me with those feet I'll find another bit of rope in that bench and bind your ankles."

  She quieted, but her blood continued to boil. "That's what you were doing when I ran, isn't it? You were digging in there, trying to find something to keep me at your side."

  "I don't know why it surprises you," he said calmly. "You must know I am not going to release you until it is to my advantage. You've proven beyond a doubt that you cannot be trusted. As soon as I shut my eyes, you'll attempt to leave."

  Silently she cursed him for being right, then took herself to task for being so obvious about her desire to leave. "What if I promise otherwise?"

  "Forget it, Red." He took another length of rope from his breeches.

  "I've not kicked you," she cried, panicking. In trying to keep her feet away from him, she made her bound arms flail at him.

  Jericho caught her wrists and wove the rope in his hand between her bonds. "This is too short for your feet," he explained. "Now you have a choice. I can attach your wrists to the bunk frame, or I can attach you to my wrist. Think carefully of your comfort before you decide."

  "I pray that someday God will forgive me for hating you as much as I do now, Jericho Smith."

  "I suppose that means your preference is the frame." In a matter of seconds he had her hands raised above her head and fastened tightly to the bunk, "G'night, Red." He stretched out beside her then, one of his arms thrown carelessly about her waist. Beneath his arm the harsh rise and fall of her breathing communicated her anger. Occasionally there was a pause, followed by a brief shudder, and he knew she was struggling to control her tears. He said nothing, allowing her this moment of pride and torturing himself with the vision of her long lashes dewy with grief.

  * * *

  She had no idea that, even bound as she was, she spent a far more peaceful night than her captor.

  Sunlight filtered through the water-stained port window and bathed her features, softening the thrust of her chin and gentling the militant shape of her mouth so that an observer might be forgiven for thinking her face serene. But Jericho knew better, and he had not the least trouble hardening himself to the feminine wiles she practiced even as she slept. In a single, sweeping motion he cut the rope that fastened her to the bed, and leaving her wrists tied, went on deck.

  She woke suddenly, though she couldn't say what it was that pulled her to awareness so quickly. At first she thought it was the strangeness of her position and she tugged stiffly at her arms, finding, somewhat to her surprise, that she could lower them in front of her. In the same moment that she realized that Jericho had at least given her a small measure of freedom, she realized he was gone. She sat up, tossing her head to push her tangled hair behind her shoulders, and struggled to pull down the hem of her shirt, which had ridden above her knees. It bothered her that Jericho must have gotten an eyeful before he left and hadn't been moved enough to grant her a little modesty.

  "Damn him!" she muttered harshly.

  Her curse did not reach her own ears, swallowed as it was by the eruption of noise on deck. There were several deep masculine voices, demanding and urgent in tone, and twice she heard Jericho's drawl weave through the conversation, bringing a measure of calm reason to the anger generated by the others. She ran to the door, straining to hear the nature of the confusion above her. Even when she cracked the door, the exact identity of the intruders eluded her, as did Jericho's relationship with them. There was a scuffle, and though part of her would have been very happy to see Jericho Smith receive a facer, she feared for her own safety should the visitors get past him.

  Recalling what he had said about brigands and deserters roaming the woods, she looked around her for a weapon and settled on a slat from beneath the mattress. Pushing aside all caution as the voices above her grew louder and more threatening, she ran up the stairs to lend her assistance. At the entranceway she halted, hefted her plank as best she could in her bound hands, and prepared to bash heads.

  There were three men with Jericho, none of whom she recognized. Two of them held Jericho by the upper arms, while the third prepared to drive a fist into his midsection. Jericho's attention was caught by her appearance in the doorway, and when he looked up the others did the same.

  She knew that she looked a sight. Her mode of dress ill became her, and her hair was matted and tangled. Surely there was murder in her eyes as she raised the slat. Still, it was unconscionable the way these three strangers stared at her, their mouths gaping in amazement and their eyebrows lifted nearly to their hairlines.

  She shot a glance at each of them, taking their mettle. They were all tall men, though the one ready to deliver a blow to Jericho's breadbasket was the tallest and, she guessed, the leader. He had broad, powerful shoulders and a lithe grace that belied his stature. He was darkly handsome, with silver eyes much the color of polished steel, and for a moment he held her in her place with a gaze that delivered curiosity and relief in equal parts. Had she not been made of such strong stuff she doubted she could have torn her eyes away from the fierce-looking giant.

  The other two men did not wear the same grim expression, but she thought they appeared less controlled than their leader, more likely to explode in hot-tempered fury at any moment. The redheaded one's animated face registered shock and disapproval, and his large eyebrows were screwed into one line above his eyes, like a small brushfire. On the other side Jericho was held firmly by a younger man, nearly as dark as the first, but plainly more volatile at this moment. His eyes fell over her, and she thought she saw pity, perhaps even hurt, on his attractive face before his lips tightened and his fingers squeezed Jericho's arm.

  She crouched lightly on her bare feet, ready to ply her board with painful accuracy if one of them moved so much as an inch. "Let go of him, both of you," she said, jerking her chin in Jericho's direction. "And you," she told the leader sharply, "you step back a few paces or I'll put your face level with your feet."

  She was certain all three men were ready to oblige her, and she thought a little disdainfully that they were hardly of Jericho's stamp, for he would barely have blinked at a termagant wielding a bed slat. She lowered her board a notch and the youngest man caught sight of her bound wrists.

  "Look at that!" he shouted hoarsely. "He's gone and trussed her up like she was no better than Mama's Christmas turkey."

  It struck her as odd that the stranger should be distressed by Jericho's treatment, even while she did not think she cared for being compared to that particular bird. As fate would have it, there was no time to make her objection known. The leader, seeing the proof in his companion's words, vented his rage as if wounded beyond reason. His terrible guttural growl hurt her ears and so startled he
r that she did not lower her weapon on his head until he had already landed a punishing blow to Jericho's middle.

  Jericho sagged between his captors, all breath driven from his lungs, and collapsed on the deck when they dropped him to run to their friend. She tossed aside her slat, useless now, since it had split under the force of her blow and the hardness of a certain head, and ran to Jericho, kneeling beside him. Before she could get out a word to question his condition, a great, booming voice silenced her.

  "Have you but taken leave of your senses, m'girl?" the flame-haired man wanted to know. His brawny arms came around her small waist, swallowing it, and pulled her away from Jericho's side. Roughly he stood her up and twisted her to face him. His mobile features were lined with disgust. "Sure, and isn't it a fine thing when a brother wants to protect his sister's virtue and gets coldcocked for his trouble."

  She looked at the man lying facedown on the deck. He was still not awake, in spite of his friend's efforts to shake him into awareness. She glanced back at the burly Irishman, trying to make sense of his scolding, then over her shoulder at Jericho, who was sitting up now, but still having a hard time drawing a breath.

  "Jericho?" she asked, confusion in each syllable. "Do you know what this man's talking about?"

  "'Fraid I do, Red," he labored, sucking in air. "That's James Shannon who's got you in his meaty hooks, and on deck are his good friends, who happen to be two of your three brothers. Noah's sitting up. It's Salem that you laid low."

  Only one name was at all familiar to her. "Salem? Salem McClellan?"

  "The very same."

  "But—"

  "The truth is worse than anything I imagined, Red. Appears that you're Rahab McClellan, and I'm a dead man."

  Chapter 5

  "See here, Rae. What's the meaning of this?" Shannon turned her a trifle roughly in his arms, jouncing her around as if she were a child. "Have you gone daft? What game is it you're playing, pretendin' not to know me or your brothers?" His offended tone plainly told her that he considered himself the most important member of the trio. "It is a game yer playin', ain't it? Sure and you haven't forgotten how I dandled you on my knee when you were just a bit of a thing."