Delighted, Mr. Aykroyd gallantly offered his arm. Immediately hoots of derision and mockery rose from the decks and floated from the high rigging. “Such beauty is wasted on this scum,” Mr. Aykroyd said scornfully. His knotted fingers tightened on a knife protruding above his faded breeches. “Shut up, you whore-sons! This be a lady!”
The calls quieted, but every man watched as Bristol accepted Mr. Aykroyd’s arm with a wavering smile. She stepped carefully, eyes fixed steadily on a blank space before her. She felt the men’s eyes strip away her gown, and a tremor ran through her limbs. Acutely aware of the danger La Crosse had mentioned, she dug her fingers into Mr. Aykroyd’s arm.
He held her rock-certain, guiding her toward a yawning black opening. “Filthy lusting beasts!” he muttered.
Bristol didn’t dare look around her. She felt them breathing, felt the weight of leering eyes, felt the pull of her gown across her full breasts. Every step was agony; the swing of her hips felt exaggerated and emphasized. She stumbled over a wooden peg, and Mr. Aykroyd’s arm instantly stiffened in support.
He spoke from the corner of a twisted mouth. “If ye show this scum ye fear them, they’ll be on ye like a pack of rats. Stare ‘em in the eye, gel, show ‘em the iron in yer backbone!”
She sensed he was right. Bristol lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She was an Adams, and she bowed to no one! Steeling her nerves, she swung her eyes to the left, sucking in her breath at the raw animal lust she saw devouring her body. A savage face, one eye hidden beneath a sunken black patch, grinned and exposed a mouth of gapped and rotted teeth. The man’s dirt-blackened hand moved slowly across an enormous lump bulging in his breeches. He rocked his hips lewdly toward Bristol, his grin widening and his hand moving faster.
Bristol stopped, her face white and stony. She stared contemptuously into the man’s one good eye; then she leaned and deliberately spit at his feet. A howl of laughter erupted around them, and the man turned a threatening face upward, raising a finger in a rude gesture.
“Aye, gel! Ye have the spirit to match yer hair!” Mr. Aykroyd nodded approvingly and pulled her forward.
Bristol’s heart, sank at sight of the narrow steps leading down into blackness. “There?” she asked in a faint voice. A dank, musty odor wafted from the opening.
“Aye.” Mr. Aykroyd rattled a ring of keys dangling from his belt. “Ye and Goodwife Able will be safe down there.”
Bristol hung back, inhaling the fresh ocean breeze. The dark opening did not look promising. She frowned into the blue eyes of Mr. Aykroyd’s ruined face. “Must I?”
“Aye,” he answered firmly, his eyes flicking to the leering men.
Sighing in resignation, Bristol preceded him with reluctant steps. The staircase led down to a narrow hallway, doors opening along its length. A wall-mounted oil lamp threw bleak flickering light, the end of the passageway remaining in darkness.
“I don’t be having all day, mistress.” A note of impatience crept into Mr. Aykroyd’s voice.
“Aye. I’m sorry.” All she’d done since boarding was apologize, Bristol thought glumly. She stepped past the dim light and into shadow, walking past what appeared to be a galley and then a storeroom.
A man’s shape loomed in the black passageway, and Bristol hatted abruptly, her heart leaping.
But Mr. Aykroyd prodded her forward. “That be Mr. Speck. He’s to guard ye and Goodwife Able.” Mr. Aykroyd glared into a face nearly as scarred and mapped as his own. “Guard, Mr. Speck! Nothing more, or the captain’ll take the hide off yer back!” Mr. Speck’s bearded mouth lifted in a sly grin, and he stepped aside to allow Mr. Aykroyd’s key access to the door.
The door pushed open, and Mr. Aykroyd stood aside, allowing Bristol just room to pass. Inside, a woman sprang from the edge of a narrow cot, hands flying to her throat, her dark eyes wide in a pale round face. “It’s you,” she breathed in obvious relief, and sank back to the cot.
Behind, Bristol heard the key turn. She sighed and leaned against the door, examining the quarters that would serve as home for the next two months. There wasn’t much to see.
Two small cots bolted against both walls, a narrow aisle between them. Bristol’s trunk and that of Goodwife Able nearly filled the aisle, leaving only enough room to wriggle sideways to the cots. The walls were of stained dull wood; a dim oil lamp emitted a feeble light. They weren’t passengers, Bristol thought, they were prisoners.
Goodwife Able waved a hand before her round face. “I... I don’t feel well. The rocking... I wish this infernal rocking would stop!” She talked through her nose, each word a nasal scraping sound.
The ship lifted in a slow roll, and Bristol swayed over Goodwife Able, then dropped suddenly until Goodwife Able appeared to be sitting on the wall above her.
“Oh, dear Lord!” the woman wailed, falling back on her cot and clutching her stomach. Dark eyes implored Bristol’s understanding. “I’m sorry. This is a terrible way to meet.” Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, dampening the dark curls hanging from her cap. “I’m Jane Able, and I know you’re Bristol Adams. That hideous Mr. Aykroyd informed me.”
“Are you ill?” Bristol asked, remaining by the door. Immediately she felt foolish. Of course Jane was ill. Bristol watched Goodwife Able uncertainly, her own stomach reacting to the queasiness she read in the woman’s moon face, a face that didn’t match her slender body. Bristol didn’t know whether to approach Goodwife Able and offer assistance, or negotiate the trunk-filled aisle to her own cot, or tap on the door for help.
“No, I’m not ill,” Jane Able snapped, “I’m dying!” Her side of the room rose, and she clamped her hands onto the cot, eyes wide and frightened. “Oh, dear.” The ship dropped, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry to be sharp. I just want this to stop! Even just for a minute! If everything would just be still for... If it would just stop, I’d be all right!” The ship rocked and shuddered, and Jane Able uttered a strangling sound. “Oh, dear... oh, dear... oh dear.” She jerked to the side of the cot and vomited into a slop basin, lifting miserable embarrassed eyes when she’d finished.
Bristol swallowed hard, and squirmed past the trunks to her cot. She sat down and untied her hood and cloak. A sour odor permeated the tiny room.
“This will pass,” Bristol offered weakly, not at all certain, but feeling compelled to say something. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in a few days.” She placed a shaky hand on her stomach, the odor affecting her own stability.
“Days!” cried Jane Able. “Days? I can’t survive this for days!” Her round face turned an alarming shade of green, and she bent over the slop basin.
Turning aside, Bristol lay back on her cot and stared at the sliding ceiling, trying not to listen to the gagging noises an arm’s length away. A feeling of utter desolation crept through her mind. It was unsafe above deck and intolerable below. She could scarcely breathe in the close sour room. Even if Jane Able were well and hearty, Bristol dismally suspected the woman’s company would not be a cheering influence—Jane’s pinched disapproving expression wasn’t encouraging.
Sitting up, Bristol rummaged in her trunk until she found the pewter cup. For a moment she turned the cool metal in her hands, then pushed the mug beneath her pillow, where her fingers would touch it first thing in the morning and last at night.
Lying back, she turned her thoughts to the figures she’d left standing on the wharf. A tear slid from her lashes and fell to the cot. Had the rider been Caleb? Had he come to fetch her after all? No, not with Noah there. What, then? And her family... when they sat to the evening meal, would their eyes stray to the empty spot beside Charity?
Her defenses crumbled, and Bristol gave way to a deep stabbing grief. She buried her face, smothering the sound of weeping in her pillow, her hands clutching the pewter cup. This wasn’t fair; it was all so unfair!
Gradually the storm passed, and she gasped weakly, her red-rimmed eyes fixing on the dipping ceiling. Across the jumble of trunks, Jane Able
moaned and splashed into the basin. Bristol ground her teeth and pretended not to notice.
Slowly an anger built in her breast and grew to strain the capacity of heart and mind, an anger directed toward herself.
I’ve cried a lifetime of tears in the last weeks, she admitted to the roof. And all the tears have changed nothing. Not one single thing. Images raced through her mind, showing her a teary face and weeping green eyes. Bristol’s hands clenched into fists, and her cheeks burned with humiliation. Never again... I’m better than that! she thought fiercely. I’ve cried for the last time! She blotted her eyes, and her mouth set in stone. I’ll waste no more time crying over things I cannot change!
She’d wept from anger, from self-pity, from frustration, and her tears had gained nothing but internal misery. Bristol’s eyes hardened to jade. Tears had not averted the lash. Tears had not altered Noah’s -decision. Tears had not influenced Caleb. And tears would not magically return her to the Salem dock.
“I... will... never... cry... again!” she whispered past clenched teeth. “Never!” A granite shell formed around her heart, and Bristol knew this time the vow would be kept, the tears were sealed forever.
She sat up, repeating the oath. “No more tears!” The torture of wondering about Caleb, about her family, disappeared. No logic existed in tormenting herself over the figure on the dock. She had no way to discover the man’s identity or purpose. The ship would not turn back. Clearly tears accomplished nothing whatsoever. “Never again,” Bristol vowed, her fists striking the edge of the cot. She had her memories, and she’d treasure them, but they’d not turn into items for self-pity.
Her resolute gaze fell upon Goodwife Jane Able, and Bristol stood, new strength in her stance. Gone was the lethargy that had blunted mind and action since she first stepped into the longboat.
Squirming past the trunks, she set about doing what little she could for Jane Able. Holding her breath, Bristol cleaned the mess around the slop basin, her own stomach churning, and she bathed Jane’s stricken face.
“Thank you,” Jane Able murmured. “I misjudged you. When I saw you weeping on the dock, I thought you had no grit. I thought...” She groaned.
“Later,” Bristol soothed, not wishing to recall the scene on the wharf. “We’ll talk when you feel better.”
The minutes passed like hours, filled with the stench of vomit and sour perspiration. And Jane Able’s nasal tone complaining bitterly of the rocking motion. Jane prayed in a shrill voice to either die or recover.
Bristol pushed loose strands of hair beneath her cap and continued nursing the woman with a secret conviction that hell could be no worse than a tiny room and a violently sick person.
When a knock sounded, Bristol wiped her forehead and glanced up eagerly; any diversion would be a welcome relief. With all her heart she hoped the rasping key signaled a reprieve from the dark malodorous cell.
Mr. Aykroyd leaned his scarred face into the doorway, Mr. Speck’s bearded leer above his shoulder. “Good evening, ladies,” Mr. Aykroyd sang cheerily. “I’ve brought ye a candle. One a night is permitted, no more.” He placed the candle in a wall sconce, securing it carefully. Added to the dim light of the oil lamp, the candle made the room appear warmer and more cheerful.
“Thank you,” Bristol said, her shoulders dropping. No trick of light would make the cabin less depressing. She listened to Jane’s moan, then sighed. It appeared no reprieve would be forthcoming. She waited for Mr. Aykroyd to close the door.
Instead, he sniffed the foul air, his folded nose wrinkling in distaste. His steady blue eyes fastened on Goodwife Able curled in her cot. “Her don’t be having her sea legs,” he said contemptuously. Such a person merited no further consideration. He turned to Bristol. “‘Tis custom on the first night out of port for the passengers to take supper with the captain. I be escorting ye, if ye be hungry.”
Bristol’s spirits rose. She had no desire for Jean Pierre’s company, but remaining here with the stink and the groans had no appeal at all. She felt desperate to escape this small choking room, but... Uncertainly Bristol looked at Jane. The woman moaned and clutched her stomach; then she emitted a little scream and hastily leaned over the cot.
Bristol’s decision was made. “Thank you, Mr. Aykroyd,” she blurted, feeling instantly guilty and elated. She straightened, her dust cap, recalling Captain La Crosse’s teasing criticism the first time they’d met. Tonight, she vowed, he’d find no cause to criticize.
Before following Mr. Aykroyd into the dark hallway, Bristol cleaned Jane’s face. “Shall I bring something for you?” she asked solicitously. Guilt shadowed Bristol’s voice; Jane had to remain here, while Bristol would breathe fresh air again.
An inarticulate moan of revulsion erupted from the writhing figure, and Bristol hurried from the room, biting her lip in dismay. Behind her, the door cut off the sound of splashing.
On deck, all was dark and secured for the night. Reedy notes of a melancholy flute drifted across the planking, and men’s laughter wafted faintly from below decks. At the helm, a bearded figure turned a sand glass and relit the glow of a pipe. Overhead, soft murmurs called back and forth in the shadowy rigging.
Bristol gulped the cold crisp air, filling her lungs gratefully. Instantly she felt better. Above, stars twinkled like distant chips of ice, and below, black waves lapped the hull with a mother’s rhythmic pat.
“It’s beautiful!” Bristol said softly, awed. A sliver of moon broke from a bank of scattered clouds and ribboned across the water. As she watched, something glided across the dark waves, a graceful shadow, and then gone. The Challenger rocked and swayed, and it seemed to Bristol as if a wooden cradle lay beneath her feet, creaking with comfortable night noises.
Ignoring the chill, she paused at the rail, enraptured by the vista spreading before her wide eyes. “I had no idea,” she murmured softly.
Mr. Aykroyd leaned beside her, his ugly features turned toward the blending horizon. “Aye,” he said, and Bristol heard a pleased approval in his tone. “They be a beauty to the sea like no other. She enchants and seduces. But she be a fickle mistress, gel, tempting men to a watery grave. Many a ruined suitor lies in the arms of the sea, brought there by arrogance and vanity, having forgotten that none do conquer.” He fell silent. “The sea is like a vain woman; she demands constant attention and tribute.”
Bristol stole a surprised glance at his face, marveling at such poetic thoughts emerging from such a visage. Beauty blooming amid ugliness. She decided abruptly that she liked Mr. Aykroyd; liked him very much. Smiling, she accepted his arm, and he guided her around unfamiliar tarred objects toward the distant stern. There they descended a flight of stairs and followed a flickering passageway to an oiled door. Mr. Aykroyd knocked once and pushed the heavy wood.
The captain’s cabin proved unexpectedly large. Each wall contained full bookcases, protected by a thin rod to hold the books in place during inclement weather. A curtained bed was bolted to one wall, the curtains open and revealing a large comfortable mattress. Behind a desk covered with books and rolled charts rose a bank of windows looking out at the night and the ship’s silvery trail.
Jean Pierre La Crosse lifted his dark head from the piles of maps he examined. Tonight he wore a flowing white shirt open at the throat, a dark doublet, and blue breeches. Shining dark hair gleamed in the glow of his desk candle, tied at the neck with a thin cord. He frowned at Mr. Aykroyd. “Goodwife Able?” he asked in a rich, lightly accented voice.
Mr. Aykroyd’s lip curled. “Her be indisposed.” He gave Bristol a forward push. “But this one be fit company for any man.”
Captain La Crosse leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes sweeping Bristol. A slow smile lifted his generous mouth. “Indeed. Inform Master Boyd we’ll dine whenever he’s ready.”
“Aye, sir.” Mr. Aykroyd stepped into the passageway, closing the door with a solid click.
“Oh, but...” Bristol looked at the door with a sense of alarm. She hadn’t considered th
at she would be alone with Captain La Crosse. Uncertainly she stole a look at him, her hands smoothing the edges of her long apron. Jean Pierre La Crosse filled the room with a prowling energy, a rugged maleness that made Bristol acutely uneasy. She fiddled with her apron, shifting uncomfortably. Unreasonably she wished he weren’t so handsome; even with the scar disappearing into his shirt, he was a striking man. She rushed past this thought, unwilling to dwell on his physical appeal.
La Crosse grinned as if reading her thoughts. Gracefully he rose from the chair and bent over a chest, removing a bottle of wine. “I can assure you of the quality,” he said easily, opening the bottle and talking to Bristol as if continuing a conversation begun some time ago. “No self-respecting sea captain leaves port without the best wines stocking his personal supply. To do less would disgrace the profession.” He poured two glasses and extended one to Bristol.
She accepted the wine, his warm fingers brushing her own. Startled, Bristol jerked, spilling a few drops across her hand. La Crosse lifted a dark brow and smiled, but he refrained from comment. All of which made her feel very young and very inexperienced and very foolish. Not a good beginning, she thought angrily. What was it about this man that brought out the worst in her? She frowned into the wineglass.
“Now,” La Crosse said, reclining on the bed and raising a knee, “tell me why a young girl risks a long journey unaccompanied.” He rested a wrist on his knee, the wineglass elegant between his fingers.
Young girl! He made himself sound so old, and he couldn’t yet be thirty! Nevertheless, Bristol felt like an awkward colt standing in the center of the room offering herself for inspection. Her chin lifted and she walked to the vacated desk chair, raising her hands to the strings of her cloak. The last time she’d been alone with a man... But Caleb and Captain La Crosse were like an ox and a racehorse, totally dissimilar. Still, she couldn’t help drawing comparisons. When she realized how poorly Caleb compared to the vital, elegant captain, she blinked in irritation and ended the game.
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