Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  “I’ll give you this, Worthington. You’re the first man to match Miss Haynes in conversation. If you’re half as skilled at piloting as you are at crafting words, you’ll be worth the fee.”

  Tom grinned and stuck out his hand. “Agreed?”

  Captain Durning shook on it.

  Tom had been hired. Best of all, that would give him more time to get acquainted with the intriguing Catherine Haynes.

  “Match me?” Catherine stormed into her cabin after being escorted from the deck along with Mrs. Durning. “That arrogant man, who knows nothing about me, had the audacity to suggest that I suffer from pride.”

  “Now, now, that nice Mr. Worthington didn’t mean any such thing.” Mrs. Durning closed the door to the cabin.

  “Of course he did.”

  “In jest, perhaps.”

  Catherine’s pique eased as she recalled the merriment in his eyes. “Perhaps, but it is not the way one ought to treat a lady and a stranger.” Yet she longed to go right back on deck to parry words with him again. If Captain Durning had not insisted they retire, she would still be there.

  Mrs. Durning failed to notice Catherine’s conflicted emotions. “Then you will be much relieved to learn that he is not likely to join us for the midday meal.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment crashed over her. “He would not eat?”

  “He will be much occupied with directing the helmsman, I imagine.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are correct.” Then why this unaccountable dissatisfaction? She tossed her head. “That is a good thing. After all, I cannot be distracted from my purpose, even by a handsome man.”

  “Indeed not, as Mr. Lightwater must have learned by now.”

  “One can only hope.” Catherine wrinkled her nose. “But he is not handsome by any measure.” The mate had been too attentive from the moment they left Liverpool and refused to take a single hint that she was not at all interested. She’d had to enlist Mrs. Durning’s help. “At least I shall soon be rid of him.”

  “A blessing.”

  “Indeed.” Catherine gazed out the window. “Once ashore, I must find passage to New Orleans as soon as possible.”

  “Oh dear. I hadn’t counted on losing your companionship so soon. You could wait for the Justinian to be repaired.”

  Poor woman. She had come on this journey at Catherine’s request and must have expected her company until they arrived in Jamaica. She might even have hoped Catherine would lose interest in her quest and return to England with her. That would not happen.

  “You said that repairs could take months.”

  “Perhaps not. You heard Mr. Worthington’s assurance that Key West had shipwrights ready and able to replace the mast.”

  That was not the point. Even quick repairs would take too long.

  “I cannot . . .” Catherine floundered for words. There was no way around the truth. “That is, my funds cannot provide for a long delay. Assuming this outpost will even accept English currency.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? British sterling sets the standard throughout the world. And we will stay aboard ship.”

  “I must still provide my own food.”

  “You will dine with us. It’s the least Mr. Durning can do, given the inconvenience.”

  Captain Durning was not to be faulted for foul weather. Catherine would not rely on others to feed her. Now that this leg of the journey had been truncated far short of their original destination, she could well find her funds short. Aside from the cost of provisions, the passage to New Orleans could demand a higher fee.

  She tried to recall the maps of the West Indies in Papa’s atlas, now part of cousin Roger’s library. “Key West is farther from New Orleans than Jamaica, is it not?”

  “I have no idea, dear. Mr. Durning insists I have no head for navigation.”

  Frustrated, Catherine strode to the window. Through the opening, the sea stretched as far as she could see. Nothing but azure blue. She heaved a sigh. This storm had cost more than a sleepless night. It could jeopardize her entire future.

  Mrs. Durning yawned. “I do believe I shall rest a spell. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. You will be all right?”

  “Of course.” Catherine’s attention was drawn to the shouts of men outside the window. She was vaguely aware of Mrs. Durning’s departure but more concerned by the obvious sound of activity.

  “Raise the jib,” came the shout.

  One of the vessels was raising sail, but how much more canvas could the Justinian carry? She was missing the tallest mast. This shout must have come from the black ship, Tom Worthington’s ship.

  Tom. An able name. But it was the eyes and grin that captivated her. What woman would not be impressed with such confidence and ease of manner? Tom Worthington acted as if he commanded the world.

  “Aye, Captain,” returned the response.

  Captain? Mr. Worthington was the captain of the black ship. Why would he leave? Had Captain Durning changed his mind? Had he gone back on his word and dismissed Mr. Worthington’s services? Foolishness. No captain could know these waters more than a local sea captain. Tom Worthington had said they must cross a dangerous reef. Catherine had not endured the terrors of the storm just to end up tossed into the sea due to masculine pride.

  She tore out of the cabin, flew down the short hallway, and skittered up the few steps to the main deck. A sixty-day voyage was not going to end up with the ship wrecked on a reef.

  Tom sent off Rander and the crew. “I’ll join you when you return to Key West.”

  No small part of him wished he was heading with them on the James Patrick to claim his portion of the fortune to be made off a fully laden wreck. If George Alderslade was calling for help, there must be a huge and expensive cargo to be salvaged. That meant money in every man’s pocket.

  Except his.

  Half the piloting fee would go to Rourke to pay the costs imposed on him as owner of the shipping company and Tom’s boss. Normally the split wouldn’t be that even, but Tom had given Captain Durning a low quote in order to get the business. He would have to give more to Rourke. Maybe he should have let the master have his way. The barque would end up lodged on the reef and require salvage.

  Tom shook his head. No Christian man could place a ship and its passengers in danger. One passenger in particular might have swayed him to settle for a lower fee. Her fiery hair and mischievous smile still danced in his mind.

  The sail of the James Patrick shrank as she hurried northeast toward Washerwoman Shoal. Tom pressed the spyglass to his eye. Even from here he could pick out the cluster of wrecking vessels. Once the swells calmed, divers would be sent down and the work would begin.

  He sighed. As disappointed as he had been to receive the piloting assignment, deep down he understood Rourke’s reasoning. The company owner had to send someone to pilot the barque. Naturally he’d chosen the least experienced captain in the fleet. As much as Tom wanted to salvage the wreck, Rourke couldn’t delay an entire ship to wait for him. Salvage priority was given to those wreckers who arrived first. Delay cost money.

  “Course, sir?” the helmsman inquired.

  Soon after the ladies disappeared into the great cabin, the master followed. That left Tom alone on the quarterdeck with Lightwater and the helmsman.

  “Yes, do give us the proper heading,” the mate sneered.

  Tom ignored the jab. Mates were as distrusting as masters.

  “Northeast,” Tom barked to the helmsman. To ensure accuracy, he pointed in the correct direction. “Head on the Sand Key lighthouse for now.”

  “And later?” Lightwater asked.

  “We’ll keep the light a quarter mile to larboard. I’ll give a new point of reference when we’re in range.”

  This day had been a challenge. First, Ma’s letter put him in a foul mood. Then, at the cost of a doubloon, he’d come one step closer to finding the scoundrel who’d destroyed his father. Finally, this unwanted piloting job had gotten a lot more intriguing at the appearance of C
atherine Haynes.

  The clatter of rapid footsteps behind him coupled with Lightwater’s sudden jerk to attention told him someone important had ascended to the quarterdeck.

  Tom swung around, prepared to greet the captain, only to find Miss Haynes facing him. Fire sparkled in her eyes.

  “You’re still here,” she said.

  “Stating the obvious?”

  She tossed off the barb. “I heard your ship cast off and one of the men call out to the captain. I assumed you were on it. You did say you were the captain.”

  Lightwater snickered.

  If he had been one of Tom’s crew, Tom would have let the man know exactly who was in charge.

  “I am captain when I’m aboard.” At least some of the time, but he wasn’t about to let Lightwater know that.

  “Then who’s sailing it now?”

  “Captain Rander.”

  “Oh.” Her superior attitude thawed. “Then you are taking us to safe harbor.”

  “That is my job.”

  “Which you will, no doubt, complete without incident.”

  Tom had to smile. Catherine Haynes wasn’t as tough as she let people think. After spending what was doubtless a sleepless night battered by the storm, she wanted assurance that she would reach land.

  “That is my intent.” In spite of every effort to suppress his mirth, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

  Her gaze narrowed. “Are you always this impertinent with passengers?”

  “Only with female passengers who mistakenly believe they are allowed on the quarterdeck.”

  Her jaw dropped. She looked at the edge of the quarterdeck and then at Lightwater before swallowing. “I was not aware. I beg your pardon.” She backed away.

  This quieter, humbler Miss Haynes didn’t stir him like the feisty one. “That doesn’t mean your presence is unwelcome.”

  Her eyebrows jerked upward.

  “It doesn’t?” Lightwater exclaimed.

  Tom couldn’t care less about the ship’s mate. He held out the spyglass to Miss Haynes. “Take a look. You can see the lighthouse on Key West from here.”

  She glanced at Lightwater before advancing to take the glass. “How do I use it?”

  Lightwater hurried forward. “Here, let me show you.”

  Tom brushed the man aside. “It’s my glass. I will show the lady.”

  Her lips curved into a coy smile, as if she had intended to drag just that sort of reaction out of both men. What a minx! Tom wanted to fire back a retort, but at present he preferred leaning over her shoulder, almost cheek to cheek, showing her how to adjust the lens until the shore came into focus. Her hair smelled faintly of roses, in spite of enduring a long night at sea. He breathed in deeply.

  “The course, Mr. Worthington,” the mate snapped.

  Miss Haynes handed the spyglass back to Tom. “I don’t want to distract you from your duties.”

  Curses on that mate! He’d said that just to disrupt Tom’s moment with Catherine Haynes. They were nowhere near the point when they must change course.

  “Steady as she goes,” he growled.

  “Steady as she goes,” repeated the helmsman with a snicker.

  Tom glared at Lightwater, but the man clearly hadn’t a caring bone in his body.

  “Don’t want to run aground,” the mate said. “Do we, Miss Haynes?”

  Lightwater had the audacity to tip his hat at her.

  A smile teased her lips. “Indeed, Mr. Lightwater. Mr. Worthington. I will leave you to your navigation.”

  Lightwater stepped forward. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Haynes.”

  She shot the man a withering glare. “I am fully capable of descending a few steps, Mr. Lightwater, without anyone’s assistance.”

  Tom choked back a chuckle. She had no use for the gallantry of either man. Catherine Haynes was capable of standing on her own. Lightwater looked affronted, but Tom admired that characteristic in a woman. This journey had just gotten promising.

  3

  Through the spyglass Catherine had made out the lighthouse before the two men got into a spitting match. Goodness! Never had she endured such a fuss, not even in her Season. Certainly not at home, even when cousin Roger was trying to marry her off.

  Home. Deerford. A sudden longing ached in her breast. She would never see it again. She knew that. Her cousin knew it too. That’s why he’d agreed to her terms. The tenants had wept when she told them the property had been sold. At first they resisted accepting the bit of money she’d been able to scrape from her cousin, but she stood firm. Many had clung to her, thanking her, but their eyes spoke fear. What would the future hold for an elderly widow or a young family struggling to make ends meet? She hadn’t been able to assure them, and that left a sour taste in her mouth, one that no amount of masculine attention could erase.

  Back in her cabin, she pulled the daguerreotype from her trunk. Papa. Maman. The sitting had taken place in the library. She had loved those books, but she would never see them or her beloved Deerford again. Like the tenants, she must move on and trust her well-being to people she had not yet met. Home would now be made in an unfamiliar land.

  The daguerreotype went back in the trunk. Best not dwell on what couldn’t be changed.

  After attempting to stitch the sampler she’d been working on for months, she tossed it aside and stood at the window, where she could watch the open seas pass. The ship drew near a light structure atop a low, sandy island. That must be the lighthouse that Tom Worthington called Sand Key. The ship turned, and their destination came back into view.

  Key West.

  “What will you bring?” she murmured, though an island could hardly answer.

  Again the ship turned, and the island disappeared from view. She could see it better from the dining saloon, which had windows facing the opposite direction, and she was not likely to run into either the mate or Mr. Worthington, not with the ship this close to port.

  She slipped down the hallway and into the room. Mrs. Durning sat at the table, a bowl of clear broth before her.

  “I thought you were napping.”

  The elderly woman looked up. “Catherine, dear. Join me. The cook said he made plenty, and Mr. Durning is sound asleep.”

  Instead of joining the woman, Catherine drifted to the windows. “You were not tired?”

  “I’ve never been able to nap on an empty stomach.” She patted the tabletop. “Join me.” She then proceeded to call for the steward and order a second bowl of broth for Catherine.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Mrs. Durning would not hear her protests. “Of course you are. You didn’t eat much more than some stale biscuit this morning. That won’t give you fortitude for the day ahead.”

  Catherine had eaten more than Mrs. Durning recalled, but the woman had a strong need to mother her. That had been the case ever since Maman passed. With no children of her own, Mrs. Durning had taken to stopping by Deerford daily to offer her assistance and opinions. Papa had managed to turn her away while making her feel as if she had accomplished the very thing she’d set out to do. Papa was gifted in that way. Catherine had not inherited that talent.

  She leaned against the window, but the island had yet to come into view. That meant it was dead ahead, and she could only see it from the main deck, where she would be subjected to unwanted masculine attention. She pressed her cheek to the glass.

  “The steward will not thank you for that smudge on the window,” Mrs. Durning scolded.

  “I don’t want to miss seeing our destination.”

  “Never fear. Mr. Durning said it will take a full hour to draw near, given the opposing breeze.”

  The steward arrived with the broth and set a place for Catherine across the table from Mrs. Durning. She sighed. If it would take that long to arrive, she might as well dine.

  Over the light repast she asked Mrs. Durning what she knew of Key West.

  “Only that it’s a smallish yet rather lively seaside town from what Mr.
Durning has heard. He has never stopped there. The Justinian can sail long distances before reprovisioning.”

  That explained his eventual agreement to take a pilot. On the long voyage Captain Durning had seldom taken the advice of others. She supposed that was due to his many years of experience. Accepting pilotage from Tom Worthington, whom he would consider barely more than a boy, must have grated on him.

  “Key West is better than Havana,” Mrs. Durning said with a shudder. “You can’t trust those Spaniards.”

  Spaniard. The dark stranger from ten years past popped into her mind. At the time she’d thought him an Arabian or perhaps from India, but he might just as easily have been a Spaniard by birth. During her time keeping the accounts, she’d scoured the estate records and found only one unusual notation from that time—DeMornay settlement—accompanied by an extremely generous credit to the account.

  DeMornay. She knew no one by that name. Not a tenant or neighbor. She’d assumed he was a London solicitor bringing news of an unexpected inheritance or grant, but what if he wasn’t? The dark stranger had left with a strongbox. What if he had carried money into his meeting with Papa rather than from it? She would likely never know, for DeMornay was a French name, not Spanish. That notation could not have referred to the dark stranger.

  She sighed. “It won’t make any difference, for we’re not going to Havana.”

  “I should hope not.” Mrs. Durning drained another spoonful of broth. “At least Key West has one particularly handsome attraction.”

  Though Catherine knew perfectly well what Mrs. Durning referred to, she had no intention of following this line of thought. “Warmth and sun.”

  “You can’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.” Mrs. Durning set her spoon down, an all-too-knowing smile on her lips. “Mr. Worthington is quite dashing, if you ask my opinion. And the perfect age. He can’t be much older than you.”

  Catherine busied herself stirring the soup. “A year or two, perhaps.”

  “Quite confident and well cut across the shoulders.”

  Catherine hadn’t failed to notice that either. “But he is rather bronzed.”