The Mackenzie, The Trilogy Box Set

by H. C. Brown

  “Oh, I will, milady.” Betty moved as close as her shadow.

  A sharp voice drew her attention. A man dressed in unusual garb strutted toward her barking orders to a nearby sailor in a guttural French dialect. Captain Jacques? She met the man’s inquisitive gaze with a haughty stare and waited for Monsieur Moreau to introduce her. The uncouth captain ignored her, his interest settling on Betty. She shuddered in disgust at his slow smile. His lascivious attention toward Betty disturbed her. To be sure, she would keep her maid at hand and well away from Captain Jacques. She reached into the pocket of her cloak, took out her fan, and with a practiced flourish, fluttered it in front of her face to indicate her annoyance.

  “My lady, may I present Captain Jacques.” Monsieur Moreau waved toward the man. “Captain Jacques, may I present your most honored passenger, Lady Adrianna. She is Baron du Court’s betrothed.” He grinned at the captain. “So cast your appetite elsewhere. The Baron wants her untouched, comprendre?”

  “So I have—how do you say in English—free reign with the maid?” Captain Jacques tilted an enquiring eyebrow toward Adrianna. “What do you say, my lady?”

  Adrianna’s face grew hot. The impudent lout. She straightened and glared down her nose at the pair of degenerates. “How dare you say such a thing in my presence?”

  Not waiting for a response, she snorted with derision, grasped Betty’s arm, and turned away. The sound of Monsieur Moreau’s chuckle followed her, like a passing bell to her ears. What insignificant protection that beast of a man offered. She strolled along the deck refusing to listen to their bawdy dialogue. Indeed, the conversation was not for mixed company and had curdled her stomach. Good Lord, I have stepped into madness. Bending as if to inspect the cannon, she peeked at the captain from below her lashes. He certainly did not resemble a respectable ship’s captain. Indeed, Captain Jacques’ dirty blond hair hung loose about his shoulders and the hoop of gold in one ear gave him the appearance of a vagabond.

  She examined his strange assortment of garish clothes with distaste. He had no care of his appearance whatsoever by the soiled purple silk pantaloons tucked into knee high boots. He wore a yellow shirt embroidered with daisies below a knitted waistcoat in red and blue stripes—a dandy he most certainly was not! She moved her gaze to Monsieur Moreau and shuddered at the sight of his amused expression. To think, the baron had trusted her safe passage to France with this lecherous man. A murderer and a fool. A swing of the small coin purse in her reticule would offer more protection. It would seem she had to survive a sea voyage with two despicable men before she could vanish without a trace in Scotland. She could not give Monsieur Moreau any reason to doubt her intention to meet Baron du Court either. If he caught wind of her plan to flee once on French soil, the captain might well throw her in irons.

  “The Lady Adrianna speaks French, so you have no need to worry about your command of the English language.” Monsieur Moreau’s Parisian accented French indicated a long time in close proximity to King Louis’ court, although, it would seem he understood the dialect of the lower classes well enough. “Make it clear she is to follow your orders. I have no intention of acting as her nursemaid.”

  She straightened and turned to face Captain Jacques confident jeer. Instinct insisted she should flee back down the gangplank and seek refuge in the closest church. Instead, with leaden feet, she moved closer and fixed her attention to his string of garbled French. She sighed with exasperation. The guttural dialect he used made no sense at all. Holding up one hand to still the man’s incoherent ramblings, she addressed Monsieur Moreau. “May I have a word, Monsieur Moreau?”

  “Of course, what is it now, my lady?”

  She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I am having difficulty understanding the Captain. I believe the tongue is unknown to me. Fortunately, I do understand every word you say in French. Would you be so kind to translate?”

  Monsieur Moreau inclined his head in a respectful gesture, but she caught the devil lurking in his expression. With an obvious intention to mock her, he slowed his precise French.

  “You are to remain below and not walk on deck unescorted or he will not be held responsible for his crew’s actions. Do you understand?”

  Oh yes, monsieur more than you imagine. She glared at him. “As you mentioned, I am not a child and I do understand perfectly well.” Her face heated and he had the audacity to grin at her discomfiture. To be sure, no good would come of any additional discussion with him. She sighed. “I thank you for clarifying the situation, Monsieur Moreau.”

  “Very well, now if you will follow me, I will escort you to your quarters. Fortunately, your cabin has a small window and is close to the galley.” Monsieur Moreau led the way through the milling crew and down a small flight of steps. He paused beside an open hatch and motioned Betty to move down the ladder into the darkness. “Wait below for your mistress.”

  Betty let out a small cry of mortification and gazed at her with incredulity.

  “Down there, milady?”

  Adrianna stared into the blackness and swallowed hard. Dark places frightened her too, but she refused to cower before Monsieur Moreau. Gathering her courage, she forced her mouth into some semblance of a comforting smile and patted Betty on the arm. “Go along, I will follow directly.”

  She flared her nostrils at the abhorrent odor seeping from the inky depths. Mayhap the fear of Captain Jacques chaining her in the hold had not ventured far from the truth. As Betty moved down the ladder and disappeared into the unknown, her attention went to the crew, all to a man busy preparing the ship to set sail. They appeared little more than beggars, dressed in rags and adorned with the most unusual tattoos, from gaping eyed soulless skulls to the naked forms of women. The crew did not resemble the smartly dressed sailors of an English Baron’s vessel. Good Lord, had her father any notion of the extent of Baron du Court’s indiscretions? Not only a tyrant and murderer, but also she could add privateering to his list of profligacy.

  She stared at the black hole destined to be her home for the next few weeks and taking one last look at her beloved England, turned to grasp the small handrail. Forcing down her fear of dark places, she backed down the narrow wooden rungs taking cautious steps into the unknown. At the foot of the procession of wooden rungs, she blinked into the darkness. The outline of Betty came into view and she moved to her side. Amidst the rank smell of night soil wafting from places unknown, she could distinctly hear the bleating of goats. She tugged on Betty’s arm. “Is this the way to the cabins?”

  “I have no idea, milady, but I would guess by that awful smell the hold is in that direction and they keep goats on board for fresh milk and meat.” Betty waved a hand in front of her face. “It stinks somethin’ terrible down here.”

  Adriana pressed the handkerchief to her nose again. “One would think we were going to the Indies rather than across the Channel.”

  “The Black Turtle spends most of its time at sea.” Monsieur Moreau dropped down the ladder with practiced ease and landed beside her. “She is a trading vessel. This is why we will be sailing up the coast to Scotland and visiting some of the more remote islands before we return to France.”

  She gazed up at the shadowed figure, his expression hidden in the darkness. He continued to address her in rapid French no doubt to test her language skills. Are you contemplating a language duel Monsieur? She bit back a smile. Her Parisian tutor would be proud of her. “Then why did I not board the ship on the return trip rather than having to endure a long sea voyage?”

  “We will not be returning to London.” He moved so close the cloth of his coat sleeve brushed her arm. He lifted his chin toward Betty. “Your maid, does she speak French?”

  She stepped away, bumping into Betty, who let out a surprised squeak. She laid a hand on her arm to comfort her. “No, she does not.”

  “Then perhaps, to make certain she does not construe some liaison between us, from now on, our conversations should be in English. Baron du Court wi
ll likely interrogate her on our arrival. He is possessive, you understand. ” He moved past her along the passageway.

  A possessive murderer, how quaint.

  “These are your quarters, milady.” Monsieur Moreau threw open a door and light from a small window filtered into a tiny room. He waved her toward the entrance. “I will leave you to get comfortable.” He turned and climbed back up the ladder.

  Comfortable? She gazed in dismay at the cramped cabin. The stained linen strewn over the small bunk had the foul odor of unwashed bodies. Thank goodness, she had the good sense to pack her own linen. The very thought of sleeping on filthy sheets made her skin itch. She straightened and cast a critical eye around the small area. Metal braces secured a small table, two chairs, and a washstand to the floor. Empty bottles and other refuse littered the rough wooden planks and a hammock, presumably for her maid, swung above her trunks.

  Pressing a handkerchief to her nose, she raised both brows and turned to Betty. “Help me collect up this mess and throw it overboard, Betty. We will have to make haste if we are to make this place livable.”

  * * * *

  A loud noise jerked Adrianna from her nap. Heart pounding, she drew a deep breath and glanced around to find her cabin empty. A slash of white light from the small window tore a gap in the gloom, followed by a thunderclap so loud she feared for her life. She stared at the cabin door willing it to open to admit her maid.

  Heavens above, how many more storms must she endure? Treacherous squalls had whipped the sea into madness for seven days since leaving home. Another flash of lightning illuminated the cabin before hail hit the wall like gunshots. Drew, I beg you. Come for me soon or I will surely perish on this dreadful vessel.

  The ship listed then reared up only to crash down with a sickening thud tossing her about the bunk. Terrified, she pressed the pillow hard against her ears to block out the commotion. An icy wind whistled through the small cracks in the wooden beams above her head, chilling her to the bone. She stared in horror at the wall of water outside the insignificant window and grasped the edge of the bunk to gain purchase. “Dear God preserve us.”

  The next wave pitched her to the floor. She landed hard and pain scored a path up one thigh. The unforgiving waves rolled her across the floor before she had time to catch her breath. With effort, she pushed to her knees and reached for the bunk rail only to find air beneath her grasp. Another surge sent her sliding across the rough floorboards. As she raked the wooden surface for purchase, splinters cut deep into her flesh, and her skirts tangled about her knees.

  Disorientated, she struggled to sit but the next wave had her colliding hard with the leg of the table. As metal hit bone, she forced her muddled brain to work. “Ahrrr!”

  I must get up. I could die on this filthy floor. With effort, she slung one arm around a chair as an anchor and shook her head to dispel the black spots dancing across her eyes. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she used the fixed furniture for handholds and struggled to her feet. Taking stock of her soaked dress and bloody hands, she dismissed the injuries. She would survive a few scratches well enough. Moving slowly, she staggered across the cabin and flung open the door. She raised her voice above the noise. “Betty, where are you?”

  A splash of water leaked under the door, spilled across the wooden planks, and pooled around her bare feet soaking the hem of her gown. In the walkway, a river of debris sloshed back and forth in disconcerting waves. Fear of being below deck if the ship was sinking gripped her and she peered toward the galley but not one soul lurked in the dark corridor. Surely, Betty or someone would have woken her if the ship had been in danger. In the hope of attracting the attention of someone, anyone, she peered into the gloom. “Betty, Betteeeeee. Is anyone there?”

  No one answered.

  Icy tendrils of apprehension crawled up her spine. She listened intently, but the usual banter of the sailors had vanished. Had everyone abandoned ship or perished? Her mind filled with images of great octopi rising up from the depths and snatching people from the deck. Pressing a hand to her pounding heart, she dragged a breath past the tightness in her chest. I must find out what has happened.

  With care, she stepped over the partition at the foot of the door into foul ankle deep water. Pushing distaste aside, she took a few cautious steps into the corridor. “Betty, are you there?”

  The Black Turtle rolled again and the single lantern in the walkway near the entrance to the galley winked out. She turned instead toward the soft stream of light from the hatch and gripping the wooden wall trimming, edged toward the opening. Her skirts swirled in the freezing water and in a few steps, the sodden garment had wrapped tightly around her legs. Panting with effort, she fell against the ladder and clamped her lips shut against the icy rain pouring over her from above.

  She thrust one arm through the rungs and moved up to peer through the hatch. Observing the chaos on deck, relief flooded through her. Waterlogged sailors tethered with ropes around their waists fought to secure the ship. Others wrestled with sails flapping like dragon’s wings. I am not alone. Thank God.

  A flash of lightning lit up the sea and she gaped in terror at the monstrous waves rising above the ship to blend with the angry clouds dashing across the sky. The wind howled with a banshee’s cry through torn sails and tousled her sodden hair.

  As sailors passed orders down the line, she caught intelligible snatches of conversations. She turned her head to find Captain Jacques strapped to the helm, his expression fixed in a mask of grim determination. He stood feet apart braced against the wind, his hands white-knuckled on the spokes. Dressed in oilskins, with his wet blond hair plastered to his face, he spun the great ship’s wheel. Behind him, a tremendous wave rose up, higher than the mainsail and she froze unable to move. God help us.

  The ship climbed the mountainous seas then rode atop the crest for a heartbeat before plunging downward into a hell of swirling white. She clung to the ladder, her feet trailing behind her as if she had taken flight. A shadow crossed her vision and a scarred face appeared before her with the mouth stretched in a terrible grin. The sailor’s large hand came down upon her head and thrust her below. The hatch slammed shut and she fell. Searing pain shot into her temple and her hip burned. Darkness surrounded her and breathless, she curled into a ball in the churning water gasping for air.

  Something scurried over her legs and wet claws scraped her bare flesh. Rats! She scrambled to her knees and pawed the wall for purchase. The next wave tossed her back into the filthy water and she slithered to a stop outside Monsieur Moreau’s cabin.

  The unmistakable smell of opium leaked from Lord Moreau’s door overpowering the stench in the corridor. Oh yes, she had experience of the foul concoction. Many a time, her father had administered laudanum to a patient and the sweet sickly smell lingered in her memory. Indeed, Lord Moreau’s frequent use of the pipe was evident by the dark circles under his eyes and gaunt appearance.

  She dragged her aching legs under her then staggered through the rodent-infested water to her berth and flung open the door. The room moved in and out of focus and a wave of nausea clenched her stomach. She gripped the edge of the bunk and braced against the rolling motion of the ship. Each movement caused the wooden bed rail to cut into the skinned flesh of her palms. She stared down at her ruined hands angry for being such a fool.

  Watery sunlight burst through the window and the boat steadied. Relieved, she glanced around the gloomy cabin to assess the damage. Apart from the damp floor, nothing seemed amiss. In an effort to control her nerves, she moved with care to the washstand and concentrated on her injuries. She would need more light to remove the splinters. Turning away she stared at the cabin door her mind reeling. To be sure, a few splinters held little significance in the scheme of things for she had bigger problems to navigate.

  Her situation had changed significantly since boarding the Black Turtle. Convinced at first, her impending marriage to Baron du Court would keep her safe until Drew rescued her or she ar
rived in France, she had accepted the Captain’s daily invitation to take dinner in his cabin accompanied by Monsieur Moreau. However, after overhearing a disturbing conversation in German concerning their lascivious plans for Betty, she had remained in her cabin pleading mal de mere.

  Thank God, her father had insisted she endure the long and time-consuming lessons in languages as a child. Better still, not knowing of her skill the two had spoken freely about many things of interest. Most particularly, Baron du Court’s reason for offering for her hand. Indeed, as she had suspected, the Baron did not desire a wife and planned to do away with her once he had secured her fortune. The information steeled her resolve. If Drew did not arrive soon, she must find a way to escape the Black Turtle before it sailed for France.

  The cabin door flew open and Lord Moreau hung in the entrance like a large black bat. She stiffened and her attention shifted down to the exposed limbs beneath his breeches before meeting his black gaze. “Is it customary in France for a gentleman to enter a lady’s chamber without knocking? What do you want, Monsieur Moreau?”

  He ignored her question instead raising one dark eyebrow.

  “Ah, I thought I heard someone outside my door.” He gripped the doorframe, his eyes intent on her disheveled appearance. “I thought mayhap you would require company during the storm.”

  She gave him her most haughty glare. “The storm is over and Betty is all the company I require. Did you pass her in the hallway?”

  “Ah non, my lady. Perhaps, she waited out the storm in the galley.”

  As a man of insignificant height and painfully thin, Monsieur Moreau’s dark hair and pallid completion gave him the countenance of a hawk. Indeed, with his frequent use of the opium pipe, it was a wonder he had the ability of cognitive thought. Since leaving London, the dreadful man had watched her every move. She stepped away from the washstand unable to conceal a wince of pain.