Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Seems I’ve failed you, little one.” If it weren’t for the life growing within her, she’d break her bowl of slop and use the sharp edge to slit her throat. Better that than end up enslaved to yet another man.

  She dabbed the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve and released a heavy sigh. Why, when she did everything in her power to fend for herself, did she always end up under someone else’s control? ’Twas as if God Himself had foreordained that she would never be free, and no matter how hard she tried, nothing she did could ever change that.

  A cockroach the size of her thumb scampered to her supper and dove into the foul porridge. Cringing, Charity hugged herself tighter, trying to focus on plans of escape and not allow her mind to sink into despair.

  The jangle of keys, grate of metal, and voices sounded in the distance. Footfalls headed her way. No doubt the guard came to collect the empty bowls. The brawny man with a hawk nose and four missing front teeth had stared at her far too long when he’d brought her meal. Mayhap she could use his lust to her advantage, play the coquette and lure him into distraction while she stole his keys and made a dash for it.

  But it wasn’t the same man. It was the Constable. He unlocked her door and swung it open on rusty hinges that squealed like the mice scampering away. “’Tis your lucky day, Miss.”

  She was about to offer a clever retort when another man stepped in behind him. Elias Dutton.

  Against her every attempt to stop it, overwhelming relief flooded her. Especially when she saw naught but concern and affection in those sea-blue eyes of his.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked him in a curt tone that belied her joy.

  “Unchain her at once,” Elias ordered as if he were the king himself.

  The Constable grumbled a few choice words then knelt to remove Charity’s irons. “This man here worked out a deal with Mr. Bolton, the owner of the horse you stole. He paid him double the horse’s value to forget the entire incident.” He snorted as if the mere thought were ludicrous.

  Charity rubbed her sore wrists. Elias’ hand appeared in her vision, his smile at the end of it, more comforting than she wanted to admit.

  She was free? She could hardly believe it. “You did what?” She took his hand, and he grabbed her arm with his other one and helped her to stand.

  “Well, Mr. Dutton,” the Constable said. “For the large sum of ten pounds, you’ve purchased a horse thief. Seems you got the bad end of the deal, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” Elias proffered his elbow as if they were attending a soiree. “Miss Westcott.”

  Her legs wobbled with the shock of so drastic a change in her fate. Placing her hand on his arm, she allowed him to lead her out of her cell and down the gauntlet of ribald suggestions and grimy hands that reached for her from the rows of cells.

  She must be dreaming. No man would sacrifice so large a sum for her, especially when she’d been naught but ungrateful and disrespectful. They exited the prison to a dusty wind and a glorious sunset of crimson and gold spinning atop the horizon. ’Twas as if God Himself was happy to see her freed. But that couldn’t be.

  She drew a deep breath, refusing to look at Elias for fear—in her emotional state—she’d crumble in his arms at the kindness in his eyes.

  A horse and wagon bore down on them, and Elias took her arm and pulled her out of the way. Vapors! Rescued yet again.

  Freeing from his grasp, she put distance between them. “I cannot fathom why you paid so large a sum to set me free, Mr. Dutton, but—”

  “You cannot?” His loving, playful tone sent a warm spire through her. Now, she really wasn’t going to look at him. Instead, she glanced both ways down the street, sensing a malevolence slinking out from the byways with the descending darkness. A chill iced over her, though the air was thick with heat and humidity.

  The sounds of a pianoforte and a fiddle rose on the shifting wind.

  “Where does a poor preacher get such a sum, anyway?” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Who said I was poor?”

  “Don’t you take a vow of poverty or something?”

  “You have me confused with monks, my little mermaid.”

  Groaning, she clutched her skirts and started down the street. She should thank him. She should at least do him the favor of looking in his eyes, offering him a smile. But his unfathomable kindness only increased her suspicions. “I intend to repay you every shilling, Mr. Dutton.”

  He kept pace with her. “Your debt grows, Miss Westcott. By the time our trip is over, you’ll no doubt be indentured to me for life.”

  “That’s not at all amusing after what I nearly endured.”

  “Yes, forgive me.” He frowned. “What I meant to say is you owe me nothing. Money means little when it comes to a life.”

  Who was this man? And why was he always following her? “You play the preacher well.”

  “As you do the damsel in distress.”

  “I am not”—she halted and finally met his gaze—“and there is no our trip. There is your trip and there is my trip.”

  A band of sailors cut in front of her on their way to a punch house from which doxies lured them with smiles and low bodices. Upon seeing Charity, they lifted hats and grinned at her, and she suddenly found herself glad Elias was by her side.

  “Did you truly steal a horse?” he asked, taking her arm and leading her away from the men.

  She pulled from his grip. “Yes.”

  “Hmm. I find that hard to believe. I feel as though I’ve come to know you the past three days.”

  “You don’t know me at all, Mr. Dutton.”

  “Then, pray tell, help me to do so and explain what possessed you to commit a hanging offense?”

  She hated that she cared what this man thought. Even so, if he thought her a thief, perhaps he would leave her be. “If you must know, I found myself in need of quick transportation.” A gust of wind brought the scent of fish and salt to her nose as the sun sank into the bay.

  “Ah yes, Jamaica Jim.”

  She halted yet again. “You know?”

  “Nelson told me.”

  So, she had seen him amongst the crowd. A carriage ambled by, stirring up dust as a young lad just ahead climbed a ladder to light a street lamp. “You!” Charity pointed at Elias. “You sent him to spy on me.” She started on her way again, weaving around a wagon and two slaves carrying crates atop their heads.

  “I did no such thing, Miss Westcott. What were you doing with the likes of Jamaica Jim?”

  “Seeking employment.” She heard the disdain in her voice over something she never thought she’d lower herself to do.

  “Hmm. I can think of only one type of employment that man would offer you.”

  “Which is precisely why…oh, vapors, why am I talking to you?” She hurried her pace.

  He appeared beside her. “Mayhap, because I saved your life once again.”

  “Speaking of that.” She stopped and faced him, clinging onto her suspicion and anger and forcing away her gratitude. “Stop doing that!”

  “Do you have a death wish, my little mermaid?”

  “I have a wish to be free, Mr. Dutton.”

  “Then you can be free in Charles Towne. I told you I would take you there as soon as my business in Barbados is concluded. Owe me if you want. I have no care. But why do you insist on putting yourself in harm’s way?”

  He stared at her with more concern than she’d ever seen from her own father. Another blast of wind swept hair the color of wheat over shoulders too broad to be legal. The infuriating man was as handsome as he was tall. A good foot above her. A towering bastion of strength clad in linen and leather, offering her the two things she wanted most in the world—love and security.

  She snapped her gaze from him. “I will not allow you to pay for my passage again.”

  “Yet you allow me to pay for the horse you stole.”

  Grrr. The man did have a
point. “Without my permission, Sir. Please, leave me be.” She took off, this time at a faster pace.

  He clutched her arm, halting her. “What if I promise not to pay for your passage?”

  Confusion spun her mind into annoyance. “Then how…?” The darkening sky churned above her, and she raised a hand to her head, feeling as though she could float away on the next gust of wind.

  “When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

  Gathering herself, she took a step back, feeling her resolve weakening beneath the man’s persistence. But it was a trap. It had to be. A way to gain control over her for some reason she could not fathom. “Mr. Dutton, I owe you my life yet again, and I thank you. Truly. But ’tis here our ways must part. Surely, I’ve caused you enough trouble.” More than most men would tolerate. “I can take care of myself.”

  “And yet evidence to the contrary is mounting.” He gave her that half-arrogant, half-irresistible smile again.

  She pursed her lips. “Good eve to you, Mr. Dutton.” Clutching her soiled skirts, she started down the street toward the print shop, where mayhap the proprietor had not closed for the day. With her experience, surely the man would hire her for a week or two.

  When no footsteps sounded behind her, her traitorous heart sank into the brew that was her stomach. But that couldn’t be helped.

  To avoid thinking of Elias, she pondered where she might stay the night. Perhaps the printer had a spare room in the back. Or mayhap she’d convince the owner of a boardinghouse she spotted on the outskirts of town that she’d clean and cook in exchange for a cot. She was thinking on these things when someone grabbed her by the waist and flung her over his shoulder.

  Alarm screeched through her until Elias’ back bobbed into view.

  “Sorry to do this, Miss Westcott, but I haven’t time to rescue you again. You’re coming aboard the Restoration.”

  ♥♥♥

  Nelson’s grin nearly cracked his sun-baked cheeks. It wasn’t the buxom wench cooing in his ear that made him so happy, nor was it the third mug of ale foaming in his hand as he stood on the porch of the Crowne and Shilling punch house, staring out over Harbor street—though both were pleasurable enough. Nay, ’twas the vision of the high-and-mighty preacher tossin’ Miss Westcott over his shoulder and haulin’ her away that caused his overwhelming joy. There’d be no chance Nelson would collect a reward if they’d hanged the lady or even sold her as a slave.

  He knew his luck was turnin’ as soon as he’d seen her enter Captain Littleman’s—the devil take his soul—cabin for dinner. Not even a fish-brained fool woulda missed the signs posted all over Nassau offerin’ a reward for the lovely Lady Villemont’s capture. An’ Nelson weren’t no fool. O’ course, he had no way to get off the ship by then, but he determined from that point on, he wouldn’t let the murderous vixen out o’ his sight.

  Handing his mug to the doxy, he pushed her aside and barreled down the steps onto the street, ignorin’ her slurrin’ protests. He must make it to the print shop and leave a message for Lord Villemont before they sailed on the morrow. Of course he couldn’t be sure the man was followin’ them, but he’d spotted the same ship twice since they’d left Nassau—a merchantman with orange sails, keepin’ pace off their larboard quarter. And, though he hadn’t realized the lady was on board when they’d set sail from Nassau, Nelson had also seen the angry man pointin’ at the Enmity from the docks just before they’d left. That had to be Villemont!

  As he pushed open the door to the printer’s shop, Nelson couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the reward he would receive for the doltish lady’s capture.

  Chapter 12

  “Unhand me at once!” Charity pounded her fists against Elias’ back—dough against rock—but it only made her hands sore and her frustration rise to near boiling. She screamed for help but received only jests and insults from the men strolling the streets of Kingston. Some even cheered Elias on as if he were a gladiator hauling off his prize.

  “Be still, woman. ’Tis for your own good,” Elias murmured in a voice stiff with conviction and a bit of annoyance.

  Vapors! Why did everyone think they knew what was good for her? She struggled against the steely arms holding her legs to his chest as the vision of sand beneath her head transformed to pebbles and then to the aged wood of a wharf.

  Another vision intruded. This is for your own good, my dear. Her husband’s sharp features—pointed chin, thick eyebrows, and cold, heartless eyes—peered at her from above the stool over which she leaned. He puffed on his thick cigar, igniting the tip in a glowing ember. Charity buried her face in the stool’s cushion and whispered the rhyme that would take her away…far, far away from the pain and the heartache.

  “Sing a song of sixpence—” Searing pain struck her bare back. “Pocket full of—” Another strike, lower this time. “Four and twenty—” Another iron-hot brand, and she smelled her own flesh burning. “Baked in a pie …”

  She had lost consciousness then. Now, she was fully awake as Elias leapt into a waiting boat and lowered her to sit on the thwarts. She sprang to her feet and pushed him with all her might. He toppled backward. Shoving past him, she hobbled through the teetering craft toward the ladder leading back to the wharf.

  The other men in the boat laughed but made no effort to stop her. Gripping the ladder rung, she started to climb. Elias grabbed her by the waist again and hoisted her backward, legs flailing and skirts flapping.

  “Preachers don’t kidnap innocent women!” she shouted.

  “I’m not kidnapping you, Mermaid Vixen. I’m rescuing you.” He growled as he forced her back down, wrapped an arm around her and pressed her so close, she could barely move. He smelled of dampness and danger, and his warmth seeped through her, offering comfort she didn’t want. He ordered the men to row as if he owned the craft then lowered his eyes to hers. He must have sensed her fear, for he brushed hair from her face ever so gently. “What has you so frightened, little one?”

  Tearing her gaze away to the choppy black water gurgling past the boat, Charity bided her time. Surely the captain of this Restoration would not allow a woman to be kidnapped before his very eyes. Unless he was a pirate—in which case her predicament was far worse. But even if he wasn’t a kindly sort, he certainly wouldn’t want any trouble on board his ship.

  Yet once Elias set Charity’s feet upon the deck of said ship, she found no man looking like a captain ready to greet them. Nevertheless, she charged to the center and shouted, “Where is the captain? I wish to see him at once! This man”—she pointed to Elias— “has kidnapped me! I am an innocent woman and no one’s slave or concubine!” Placing hands on her hips, she stomped her foot for emphasis and glowered at Elias, waiting for at least one or two of the sailors to come to her rescue, or at the very least escort her to the captain.

  Instead, laughter filled the air as if she’d told a joke or performed a comedy scene in a play.

  “Stow the cockboat! First watch to task. The rest of you get some rest. We set sail at first light.” The voice was Elias’, the commanding tone spinning her around to see him ordering sailors about.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” A large black man approached and shouted further orders to the men.

  “How many still ashore?” Elias asked him, fists at his waist, gaze traveling to the city.

  He was the captain? This preacher, this missionary, captained his own ship?

  “Ten, Cap’n. But they know to return before mornin’ watch.”

  Dumbfounded, she merely stared at him. Dumb was more like it. She should have known he was a seaman—a leader of seamen—from his performance on board the Enmity. But now seeing it with her own eyes, her suspicions ratcheted to near bursting. A missionary who captains a ship and pays ten pounds to free a troublesome woman who doesn’t wish to be freed. She might be a murderer, but she was no fool. Charles! ’Twas the only explanation. Her brother-in-law must be paying Elias to bring her to him!

  She backed to the railing and glance
d down at the dark water frothing against the hull. If she jumped, she’d have to do it quietly or this preacher, missionary, pirate—whatever he was—would no doubt jump in after her.

  She hadn’t time to implement her plan before Elias’ shout of “Mr. Ballard!” brought a tall man with brown wavy hair to his side. “Take the lady below to Hendricks’ cabin. Remove his belongings and lock her inside.”

  Lock? Heart exploding, Charity swung her leg over the railing, every instinct screaming to flee, but the man—this Mr. Ballard—clutched her arm and yanked her from her perch.

  “Nay, can’t let ye do that, Miss. Now, come with me.” He pulled her along as Elias leapt up the ladder onto the quarterdeck.

  “You’ll pay for this!” she screamed at him. “My father is an admiral in the Royal Navy!”

  Ignoring her, Elias continued shouting orders to the men below.

  Mr. Ballard dragged her carefully down a ladder, then through a short, dark hallway lit intermittently by lanterns, before nudging her inside a small cabin. After gathering up scattered belongings lying atop the cot, a single chair, and a table, he stuffed them in a trunk and kicked it into the corridor.

  “Pleasant eve to you, Miss.” Tipping his head, he closed the door, the lock snapping shut on the other side.

  Charity sank to the cot and put her head in her hands.

  “God, you must really hate me.”

  ♥♥♥

  “Do you think I wanted to kidnap her?” Elias removed his baldric and weapons and laid them on his desk.