More likely the kidnapping had to be related to Gregorio's knowing her father. Anger had blazed from him when he took her hand. But why on earth would he be angry at her father after twenty years? James Macrae had been a calm man, well liked by everyone. Jean and Duncan had inherited their tempers from their mother.
She relaxed and tried to scan the ship, but the cabin must have been shielded. She could detect only the faintest traces of the crew. For the thousandth time, she wished she was a more powerful mage.
Did she still have her scrying glass? She always carried it in a hidden pocket sewed into her gowns. She patted a seam on the left side of her gown. Yes, like the knife, the glass had been overlooked. She retrieved the quilted pouch and removed the polished disk of obsidian. She and her sister-in-law had studied scrying together. She couldn't match Gwynne's ability with the glass, but she'd become moderately competent.
After warming the glass between her palms, she asked a mental question about her situation. A wave of anxiety shivered through the obsidian, and she saw vague images of people searching for her. She sensed that Monsieur Fontaine had sent a message to the newlyweds reporting Jean's disappearance. She frowned, hating the idea that their honeymoons would be ruined.
Even if her friends discovered what had happened to her, there was little they could do. A ship at sea was a very small needle in a very large haystack. Perhaps a Guardian who was an exceptionally gifted hunter, like Simon, might be able to locate her, but even that was doubtful. She suspected that Gregorio was adept at covering his tracks.
What about Gregorio himself? She tried to bring up his image in the scrying glass, but he remained frustratingly out of focus. Though she sensed that he was a man who burned with anger and determination, she couldn't tell what his goals were, or what had made him what he was.
As always, serious attempts to use magic gave her a headache, so she hid the scrying glass away and lay back on the bunk. She cleared her mind and tried to reach Breeda. The two of them were alike in ways that went beyond red hair, so Breeda was the best chance for communicating.
After long minutes of striving, she felt that she touched Breeda, who was tense with anxiety. Jean tried to send the message that she was alive and unharmed, but she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded. Then she tried to reach the other thralls, with even less sense of success.
With nothing useful left to do, she rolled on her side and went back to sleep.
Jean thought that Gregorio would appear soon to threaten, explain, or taunt, but she was left alone. As the hours passed, she realized that boredom was going to be a major problem in captivity. She'd never been good at sitting still and doing nothing.
After a few hours of inactivity, she was ready to leap out of her skin. Since pacing the tiny cabin did no good, she forced herself to relax and review all the kinds of magic that might be useful.
Her heart jerked as dusk approached and the door opened, but it was only a pair of sailors delivering a meal. The tray was carried by a hard-faced man of uncertain ancestry. He was accompanied by an armed African who kept his pistol aimed at her. She'd had no idea what an alarming female she was.
She tried to coax them to speak using English, French, and Latin, with no success. Perhaps the damned men were mute. Being ignored was simultaneously soothing and anxiety provoking. What did Gregorio have in mind for her?
After they left, she clamped down on her anxiety and turned her attention to the food. The tray contained a wooden bowl holding a sticky, rice-based dish. Bits of fish and onion were mixed in, and it was surprisingly tasty. There was also a piece of good bread and a heavy glass tumbler of white table wine. She'd dined on worse in the homes of British gentry.
The only utensil was a spoon made of soft metal. She supposed her captors were being cautious, but they lacked imagination if they didn't realize that a glass tumbler or a china washing pitcher could be broken and turned into a weapon. Or maybe they merely recognized that such heroics on her part would do no good under the present circumstances.
With no candle nor any reason to stay awake, she retired when the sun went down. Since she didn't want to sleep in her gown and stays, she retrieved the worn garments she'd found in the cabinet. A pair of loose sailor's trousers in faded navy blue and a white shirt stained by dubious substances would make decent sleepwear.
She hacked the trousers to ankle length so she wouldn't trip over folds of extra cloth. The waist was huge, but it was secured by a length of cord so she could tie the trousers tightly enough to stay on. The sleeves she rolled up to free her hands. Though she looked like a rag-picker, it was a relief to be out of her regular garments. She kept her knife and scrying glass on her, just in case she had a chance to escape.
For someone who had slept on stones and piles of bracken or heather, the hard bunk was comfortable enough. She pulled the blanket close against the chilly night air. Perhaps because she had slept earlier, she found it difficult to doze off.
A sailing ship was a living entity, a symphony of creaks and thumps as well as the steady splashing of water against the hull. She'd grown accustomed to sailing sounds on the voyage to Marseilles, had even found them friendly. Now she was intensely aware that this ship was taking her away from everything and everyone she knew.
Lady Bethany had said Jean would have an adventure. Surely she would have been more concerned if she'd sensed that Jean was going to be murdered out of hand by a vengeful pirate? If this was merely an "adventure," the implication was that Jean would survive. On that hopeful note, she finally dozed off.
For two days, she was alone except for the brief visits of the food sailors. The morning meal was some kind of stewed grain paste, probably wheat, with bits of dried fruit mixed in. Served with hot mint tea, it wasn't bad.
When she tired of cataloging her store of spells, she tried to remember poetry she'd memorized. She was definitely not cut out for long-term imprisonment.
Boredom ended on the third day when the door opened at midday, not a time when a meal was expected. She glanced up, her senses on high alert. Nicholas Gregorio filled the doorway, dark and threatening. Though he still wore impeccably tailored clothing and admirable boots, his garments were not those of a gentleman. With his head bare and a cutlass hanging at his side, he looked like a pirate. A disturbingly powerful and attractive pirate.
"So my kidnapper deigns to visit." She slid from the bed and stood with her back to the outside wall as she tried to read his energy. No luck—he was tightly shielded. He burned with leashed fury, and he was clearly the captain of this vessel, but those facts could be read in his face and bearing with no need for magic. "Why am I here?"
His dark eyes glinted maliciously. "Letting you wonder suits my purpose."
"Rubbish," she said impatiently. "You've kidnapped me, a woman you've never met, and seem intent on destroying my life. At the least, you owe me an explanation."
"Since you wish to know…" He closed the cabin door behind him with an ominous click. "You are here because your father betrayed me in the vilest possible way. I swore I would avenge myself against him and the house of Macrae. Since he is dead, that means you and your brother must pay for your father's crimes."
Her jaw dropped with shock. "That's utter nonsense! My father was the last man on earth to betray anyone. You must be mistaken."
"James Macrae of Dunrath, yes? Also known as Lord Ballister, with a son and heir named Duncan. You confirmed that yourself. Or does Dunrath have another Macrae claiming chieftainship?"
"No," she admitted. "But perhaps someone used his name falsely."
He snorted. "And this mysterious person had Guardian powers? You are grasping at straws, madam."
She had to agree that such a deception was unlikely. "What is the crime you accuse him of?"
A muscle jerked in the captain's cheek. "Your precious father betrayed me into slavery. There is no punishment great enough for that."
Shock piled on shock. "No! My father would never do such a thing!"
"No?" His smile was bitter. "I was there, madam. You were not."
"Tell me what happened." When he didn't reply, she added, "I'll need a great deal of convincing to believe such slander. At the moment, I believe you're deranged."
"It doesn't matter whether or not you believe." He moved forward a step, close enough to touch her if he chose. A thin, almost invisible scar curved from his left jaw into his black hair. "I told you the truth only because you asked."
If he was deliberately trying to intimidate her, he was doing a good job of it. Hands clenched, she tried to shield herself, but she wasn't sure that her spell would work against a man like this. "I do wish to know the truth, Captain," she said with an attempt at calm. "Even if it turns my world upside down. Where did you meet my father? What was the act of betrayal?"
"I was born in Malta and orphaned young," he replied, voice clipped. "Twenty years ago, on the worst day of my life, your father and his friend, Sir Jasper Polmarric, found me in Valletta and said I had magical power. They told me of the Guardians and said they would protect and educate me." Gregorio's mouth twisted. "Your father claimed he would take me to Scotland and foster me with his own children."
"That sounds like him." Jean's parents had often fostered Guardian children in need of a temporary home. Simon, Earl of Falconer, had been one such child after his parents died. But while Simon had been a slightly unnerving older brother to her, it was impossible to imagine this pirate in that role. "What happened to prevent you from coming to Dunrath?"
"On the way to Britain, our ship was attacked by Barbary pirates." His dark eyes blazed with remembered fury. "I was taken captive. When I called for help, your father saw me in the hands of pirates, and he turned away. He bloody well turned his back!"
Jean had a vivid, deeply disturbing image of a child crying out while the adult he trusted abandoned him. The image was so sharp that she wondered if it came right from Gregorio's mind. But her father would not have behaved in such a way. He wouldn't. "Battle is chaos. He must not have seen you."
"He looked right into my eyes and turned away," the captain said coldly. "Besides, was he not a mage? In the weeks I knew him, he proved often that he could detect my presence when I was near. He saw me taken, and decided it was not worth risking himself for a gutter rat, despite the promises he'd made." Anger throbbed through his voice, white hot despite all the years that had passed.
The anger and rage were real, no matter what the actual facts of what happened. Trying to get a clearer picture, she asked, "Why is all your anger for my father? Did Jasper Polmarric try to help you?"
"It was not Polmarric who made the promises." His expression was brooding. "I think Polmarric died that day, but if he survived and lives still, I shall find him when I sail to London."
"You saw Sir Jasper shot?" Jean asked, startled.
"Yes. You seem to know him. Did he survive?"
"Yes, but he took a musket ball in his back that day. Though my father managed to save his life, Sir Jasper never walked again. He is confined to a wheelchair."
There was satisfaction in seeing Gregorio's shock, but Jean realized uneasily that this might be the answer. She had heard the story of how Sir Jasper was shot during a pirate attack, literally falling at her father's feet. "Perhaps my father was forced to choose between you and the life of one of his oldest friends," she said slowly. "The safety of the whole ship might have been on his shoulders—he was a natural leader and a fine swordsman as well as a mage."
Gregorio moved forward another half step. "Do you think that knowing he made such a choice would make me feel better about it?"
She refused to drop her gaze. "No. But I also know that in battle, events happen with shattering swiftness. Life-or-death decisions must be made with no time to think. Regret is a luxury that comes later, if you survive." And it haunted dreams forever.
"For a pampered girl, you speak of war with great authority," he said drily.
Though she knew it was best if he underestimated her, she could not let his comment pass. "Am I wrong?"
"No," he admitted. "In the heat of battle, strange things happen. Small details can be magnified; great events can take place a glance away and be missed entirely. You have listened to soldiers, I think."
"Scotland suffered a bloody civil war a few years ago. I knew many men who participated in it." Changing the subject, she continued, "Even if my father deliberately abandoned you, which is still hard to believe, you have not done badly." Her gesture included the ship. "How did you escape slavery and become a pirate captain?"
"I led a slave rising on a galley," he said coolly. "We killed the officers and crew, and the ship was ours."
She thought of the chains that locked galley slaves to their benches and shuddered. "That was surely more difficult than it sounds."
His eyes narrowed. "I didn't say it was easy."
She had another vision, this time of blood and steel as unarmed men tackled their captors in a desperate bid for freedom. That they succeeded, she guessed, was because of the man before her. With his intelligence, ruthlessness, and power, he was a born leader. "Once more I ask your intentions toward me. I don't suppose you want to kill me, or I would be dead already."
"You are correct. Death is far too easy." There was a flash of teeth that could never be called a smile. "I have not yet decided. Ransom, perhaps?"
She shrugged. "You may try, but my family is not wealthy by the standards of the aristocracy. Scotland is a poor country, and whatever the chieftain of the Macraes possesses is at the service of his people."
He moved closer still, his energy pressing against hers with the force of a physical shove. "Perhaps, but taken together, the Guardians control great wealth. Would they allow one of their own to languish in vile captivity?"
She shrugged again. "A spinster of no great magic has little value to the community. My own family will care, but they cannot afford to beggar themselves to bring me home. You will not be able to extract a ransom large enough to satisfy your anger." Her statement was less than the whole truth, for the Guardians took care of their own, and as a group they had great resources. "However, the council might send searchers to find me, and they are not people you would wish to meet unless you have a dozen powerful mages standing beside you."
"Ransom was never my first choice." He reached out and trailed a fingernail around her throat. "Selling you into slavery is better justice."
She shivered at his touch, which held both threat and dark promise. This was a man who could destroy her, body and soul, without drawing a deep breath. But his touch made it easier to read him. "You will sell no one into slavery," she said flatly. "You hate slavery so much that you would not condemn even your worst enemy to that."
His hand clamped around her throat so tightly she could scarcely breathe. "Perhaps you are right," he breathed. "Perhaps it would be better to keep you as my prisoner here on the Justice so I can rape you whenever I wish."
He wanted to do exactly that; she could feel his desire and the rage that demanded vengeance for what he'd suffered. But he prided himself on being a strong man, one who would not yield to raw emotion. "You will not ravish me, I think. Not today."
She felt a flicker of surprise, though his expression didn't change. "What an innocent you are," he snapped. "Why should I not take you right now? If I'm not going to sell you in Tangier, lost virginity won't affect your value, and I would find great satisfaction in ruining James Macrae's daughter."
The same mental link that had told her how he felt about slavery produced more information. "Because of Ulindi, ravishing helpless women is not to your taste." As she said the name, horrific images surged through her mind. A lithe young woman with cinnamon skin attacked by a hoard of drunken men. The brutal, repeated assaults as she screamed desperately. The kicks and blows that ended the girl's life.
Gregorio jerked away as if she was poisonous. "You bloody witch!" he snarled. "You are your father's daughter—innocence disguising evil. Be damned to you
, Jean Macrae!" He whirled and slammed his way out of the cabin.
So Jean was a prisoner on a ship named Justice, and the captain wanted her to pay for the perceived sins of her father. She folded, shaking, onto her bunk.
May God have mercy on her soul.
Chapter
NINE
Nikolai's heart pounded as he locked the cabin door and stalked away. The damned female had the ability to drive him mad. He should have realized that a Guardian would not be an ordinary British girl, no matter how prim she looked. Perhaps he should have confronted her the day of her capture, before she'd had a chance to gather that intimidating cloak of self-possession around her. And before she'd had time to rummage through his mind and memories.
He climbed the ladder to the main deck, hoping the stiff breeze would clear his thoughts. What was he to do with her? As she had recognized, he wouldn't sell her into slavery even though that would be perfect justice. Perhaps he could have condemned James Macrae to such a fate, but the daughter had not harmed him directly, even though she carried her family's blood guilt.
How much had the Scottish witch known about Ulindi? Too much, since she'd realized that because of Ulindi, he could not assault a defenseless woman.
Swearing again, he raised his spyglass and scanned the horizon. Instinct said that somewhere out there was a ship ripe for his taking, and by God, he would find it.
After the captain stormed out, Jean locked her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, shaking. She was in the hands of the most dangerous and unpredictable man she'd ever met, and he despised her. Today, at least, he hadn't released his violence, but there were no guarantees for tomorrow. Anger might overcome his distaste for rape.
Given time, the Guardians could find her, but she didn't have time and her family was a thousand miles away. If she was to survive and return home, it must be through her own wits and resourcefulness.
A Distant Magic Page 6