Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  Elias pushed back his plate. “God was with us. Besides, we may have the chance again if the rumblings of war coming from Europe are true.”

  “Indeed?” Charity said. “Preacher and privateer? What an enigma you are, Captain.”

  “Aye,” Nelson growled. “A good war would certainly fill our pouches.”

  “And kill innocent people,” she added.

  Elias smiled at her. Was it the wine or was he more handsome here in his element with his men around him, the candlelight glimmering over his face, and a backdrop of moonlit waves shimmering through the stern windows behind him?

  Nay, most likely the wine.

  Shoving his chair back, Gage rose, raised his glass, and offered a toast. “To privateering!”

  But before others could join in, the deck canted, sending him stumbling backward. With arms flailing and wine sloshing over the rim of his cup, he landed smack on the deck.

  Charity gasped. The men burst into laughter.

  “Forgive us, Miss Westcott. We aren’t accustomed to entertaining ladies.” Elias gave her an apologetic look as he rose to help Gage to his feet. “Have a care, Gage. There is no one to repair you should you injure yourself.”

  “Surely this man is not your only surgeon?” Charity asked, disgusted by the display.

  “Hard to believe at the moment, but yes, Gage is quite good at fixing the injured. In truth, one of the best.” Elias returned him to his seat, where the man wobbled before placing his elbows on the table. “Trained with the surgeon on HMS Prelude under Captain Markham,” Elias added.

  Mr. Ballard snorted. “A midshipman who preferred to be a surgeon. Bah! Another stain on your family’s reputation, Mr. Gage.”

  The surgeon attempted to get up again, but instead poured himself more wine.

  Charity suddenly felt sorry for him. She could certainly relate to being an embarrassment to her family. “I’ve heard my father speak of Captain Markham. How is it you are no longer in the Navy, Mr. Gage?”

  “He deserted.” Ballard snorted.

  “He did not!” Eddy protested. “He fell overboard.”

  Mr. Gage raised his glass in the air. “More like took a midnight swim.”

  “Oh, my.” Charity pressed a hand to her stomach. “They’ll kill you if they find you.”

  “I’m well aware, Miss.” Gage smiled at her and sipped his wine.

  “We do our best to steer clear of the Royal Navy.” Elias winked at her.

  If Charity’s father could see her now—dining with a deserting, drunken surgeon and an ex-slave who fancied himself a scribe. Not to mention Mr. Nelson, who kept staring at her as if she were dessert, and Mr. Ballard who, by all accounts, should be home managing his vast estate rather than flitting about the Caribbean on a ship that rarely made a profit, it would seem. At least not during wartime.

  And then there was Elias Dutton, preacher, privateer, merchant, rescuer of women and lost souls.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d joined a troupe of tragic actors. "Forgive me gentlemen. ’Tis been an ... well, an interesting evening, but I'm rather tired.” She was. Mayhap ’twas her full belly, the wine, the gentle sway of the ship. Or all three.

  “Pleasure, Miss.” Each man rose as she stood.

  “I’ll escort you.” Elias started for the door, but one of the paintings hanging beside the bookshelves caught her eye. “What is this, Captain?” She teased and moved closer to examine it. “’Tis a portrait of you!” She laughed. “I do remember something in the Bible about vanity.” She glanced back at him “Aren’t preachers supposed to be humble?”

  Chuckles emanated from the table.

  “Everyone is supposed to be humble.” He reached her side, his look of annoyance fading as he stared at the painting. “My mother painted it, if you must know.”

  “Ah, the talented L.M, famous pirate painter.” Ballard’s voice blared from the table, his tone more sarcastic than complimentary.

  Charity lowered her gaze to the signature. “Your mother is the pirate painter, L.M.?” Yet now that she studied the portrait in more detail, she saw the brush strokes, vibrancy of color, and realism for which the pirate painter was known.

  “Do you know of her?” Elias asked proudly.

  “I’ve seen many of her paintings back in Portsmouth. She’s quite good,” Charity had to admit, though she hated to offer her kidnapper’s mother a compliment. Nevertheless, L.M. had captured her son perfectly, the wisdom, kindness and slight sorrow in his eyes, his confident stance, his easy smile, and his powerful presence.

  Elias grasped hands behind his back. “She is at that. We are very proud of her.”

  Turning, Charity bid her dinner companions goodnight once again and proceeded into the hallway, angry that every little thing she learned about this man only endeared him to her more.

  “You have quite an interesting crew, Mr. Dutton,” she said as they walked down the narrow corridor. “For a preacher, that is. I doubt they are much help in your proselytizing.”

  Chuckling, he halted before her cabin. “I need no help but God’s in that regard. And as I said before, I surround myself with those who have lost their way and need someone to guide them back.”

  The ship creaked over a wave, tilting the hallway as lantern light speared his strong jaw. “Is that what you are doing with me? Do you feel I have lost my way?” If he said yes, he’d be right, for she’d felt lost for a long, long time.

  “You tell me. Have you lost your way?”

  “You’re the preacher.”

  “I am also a man. And I can be a friend, a good one, should you find yourself in need.”

  She did need a friend. Desperately. But she wasn’t foolish enough to seek friendship with a man. She should go inside her cabin. She should thank Elias and bid him goodnight. Instead, she raised a coy brow. “Why do you not drink spirits, Mr. Dutton? Are those who drink them going to hell?”

  He chuckled. “Gads, Miss, but you seem overly obsessed with eternal damnation.”

  She frowned. ’Twas true, she supposed, because there was no doubt in her mind that’s where she was going.

  The ship tilted and he steadied her with a touch to her elbow. “I have naught against them, Miss. But they have caused me too much trouble in the past to be entertained again.”

  “This past you speak of intrigues me.”

  “You intrigue me, Miss Westcott.” He rubbed a thumb down her cheek. She should be frightened by such an intimate touch. She should dash into her cabin and slam the door in his face. But instead of terror, she felt the oddest sensation ripple through her. Not altogether unpleasant. She lifted her gaze to his as he continued caressing her cheek, sliding his finger down her jaw, then fingering a lock of her hair as if it were made of silk.

  Still nothing but care, concern, even admiration glimmered in his eyes. No lust, no hatred or ill intent. His breath swept over her, warm and spicy. His presence, strong and comforting, filled the air.

  Heart racing, she inched back from him. She must change the subject, break this strange spell between them. “Vapors, intriguing?” She laughed. “Of course I’m intriguing, I’m the only woman on boar—”

  Elias’ lips touched hers.

  A shard of heat spiraled down to her toes. Along with a jolt of alarm—her one thought to run for safety. But Elias’ lips weren’t hard, demanding, punishing. They didn’t pry her lips apart and take what wasn’t given. Nay, they barely pressed on hers—the kiss of a feather—before they lifted, hovering over her mouth as if awaiting further invitation. His breath wafted over her cheeks in warm waves, his right hand tenderly cupped the back of her head, waiting…waiting…

  Against all reason, she moved her lips forward until they touched his again, the slightest of touches, but that’s all it took for him to take her in his arms and deepen the kiss. Still ’twasn’t an angry kiss or vicious or fierce. It was closeness and intimacy and care… But her mind began a fearful spin when she realized she was trapped in
his arms. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Panic took hold as memories possessed her.

  “No!” Shrieking, she shoved from him, holding her hand to her mouth. He gaped at her, stunned, as she pushed him back, darted into her cabin, and slammed the door.

  Leaning against it, she slid to the floor, ignoring his apologies from the other side, and sobbed.

  Chapter 15

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Charity woke with a start, still sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the door. Memories of Elias’ kiss rose, and she touched her lips, heart reeling, fingers trembling. She’d never been kissed so tenderly before, so lovingly. Lord Villemont’s kisses had been rough, determined, savage, as if he were conquering her in battle.

  But Elias’ kiss … she had no words. It awoke something within her that was anything but fear. And that scared her most of all. Vapors! Why had she granted him such liberties? Why had she not been terrified at his touch? Surely it was her indulgence in wine.

  Or mayhap just her stupidity. She’d been gullible and trusting her entire life. She’d always believed people when they told her things. She’d believed everything Lord Villemont had said—how much he loved her, how he’d always be there for her, to cherish her and provide for her and protect her. And she’d fallen in love with him. Far too easily. Wanting so desperately to leave home and have a man’s affection and admiration—a man who didn’t love the sea more than he loved her. A man who wouldn’t sail off on his ship every chance he got. Like her father.

  The ship swayed, and the timbers groaned as if they were tired of life. She could relate. She pressed a hand on her belly. “If not for you, little one,” she whispered, “if not for you.” Streams of glimmering moonlight filtered through the porthole and waved over the bulkheads and deck, providing the only light in the gloomy cabin. Shadows slunk from every corner, reviving memories of a time when Lord Villemont had locked her in the cellar for questioning his decision in front of a guest. No amount of pleading, screaming, or pounding on the door had set her free. After the first day without water, her voice abandoned her. The second day, the darkness had come to life—specters from hell forming from the black mist, trying to drag her to the underworld. She began to believe they would succeed. But then Lord Villemont released her, brought her water and bread and ordered a hot bath to be drawn. He even looked slightly apologetic when he’d said “I hope you’ve learned a lesson, Charity. You know I hate punishing you.”

  Indeed. She had learned, for she’d never contradicted him again.

  Closing her eyes to the misty demons, Charity drew her knees up and hugged herself. “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,” she half-hummed, half-sang. “…they sent for the king’s doctor, who sewed it up again …” Over and over she sang until her heart settled and her breathing calmed and sometime after that, the creaks of the ship faded into the background.

  A bold ray of morning sun shifted over her shoes and reflected off a brass button into her eyes. She opened them to watch it oscillate, joined by other glittering beams, in a dance welcoming the new day. Prying her forehead from her knees, she dared to glance over her cabin, relieved to find the demons had retreated for the night.

  But they’d be back. They always came back.

  An hour later, after she’d washed her face, did her best to press the wrinkles from her skirts, and pinned up her hair, Elias knocked on the door. She knew it was him before he said a word, before he begged for a moment of her time.

  “I have a headache, Mr. Dutton. Perhaps later.”

  To which he hesitated for a moment before informing her he would send Leggy with some tea. It was several minutes before she heard him march away. Minutes in which she wanted to fling open the door. If only to see him, to see that look in his eyes that made her feel so safe and cherished.

  But she was a fool. A gullible, naïve fool. And before she faced Elias again, she needed time to remind herself of that, to patch the breach he’d made in the fortress around her heart.

  As promised, Leggy arrived with tea and biscuits with mango jam. Four hours after that, he returned with salted pork and sliced bananas and an invitation from Elias to come on deck and enjoy the fresh air.

  To which she refused.

  When a knock sounded on her door two hours after that, she finally felt strong enough to face Elias and flung it open to see Mr. Ballard instead. A pleasant smile graced his lips as he dipped his head. “Miss Westcott, forgive me, but the captain informs me you are ill, and I thought perhaps I could help.”

  My, but the man dressed well for a sailor. Clean shaven, freshly pressed shirt, waistcoat, and breeches. The fine fabric and embroidered trim was evidence enough that he came from money. Add to that his bearing and manners, and she could well imagine him a gentleman of an estate.

  “I don’t see how you could help, Mr. Ballard, though I thank you for your kindness.”

  “Perhaps I can escort you above?”

  She wanted to tell him should she wish to go on deck, she needed no escort, but “A sail! A sail!” echoed down the hallway from the tops, and her heart coiled into a ball. There were many ships sailing the Caribbean. Simply because one was nearby didn’t mean it was a pirate, or worse, her brother-in-law, did it? Besides, how would Charles know whether she had left Nassau at all and if she had, on what ship? Nevertheless, she suddenly felt the need to find out.

  “I would love to go on deck, Mr. Ballard.” She closed her door, and with ever so slight a touch on his arm, allowed him to lead her above.

  The sun hung over the horizon—a sphere of brilliant gold and coral—causing Charity to squint as Mr. Ballard led her to the railing, all the while trying to keep her balance on the galloping deck. A deck that seemed much more wobbly than before. She knew why when she glanced over the sea. A cauldron of foam-capped swells advanced on the ship from an eastern horizon clogged with dark clouds.

  But it was the ship off their starboard beam that drew her attention.

  “’Tis a restless sea today, Miss Westcott, but if you hold fast to the railing, you should have no trouble,” Mr. Ballard assured her, placing his hand atop hers as if demonstrating.

  “Thank you.” She tugged hers away.

  “Mr. Ballard, relieve Kannes at the wheel!” Elias’ voice bellowed over the deck, causing her heart to skip.

  Mr. Ballard’s upper lip twitched before it dipped in a frown. “I must away to my duties, but would be happy to escort you back to your cabin when you desire.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ballard,” she shouted into the wind, but didn’t look his way. She couldn’t. All she could see were bloated orange sails perched atop a ship in the distance.

  And her heart plummeted into the trough of a wave along with the brig.

  How did Charles find me?

  ♥♥♥

  Elias was the biggest cad on the planet. Still fuming at himself for his behavior last night, he stood on the quarterdeck, feet spread, arms crossed over his chest, commanding his men through rough seas while he attempted to command his heart through equally turbulent waters.

  He knew Miss Westcott was fearful of men’s touches. It was one of the things he admired about her. Her timidity revealed that she was chaste and pure. A quality he must have in any woman he courted. Not that they were courting, but oh, my…that kiss. So sweet, pure, hesitant, innocent, stirring him like no other. But blast it all! ’Twas precisely because they had no understanding—yet—that he shouldn’t have taken liberties.

  She must think him a lecherous swine, and he couldn’t blame her. He longed to beg her forgiveness, but it was late in the afternoon watch and she’d yet to emerge from her cabin. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her by continually banging on her door.

  “A sail! A sail!” the shout blared from the tops.

  Elias plucked his scope from his belt and leveled it on the horizon even before Josiah could reply “Where away?”

  The direction came swift, and Elias swept the glass
toward the horizon off their starboard quarter. Indeed, a ship, a merchantman to be exact, keeping pace with the Restoration on her starboard flank.

  He focused the spyglass, hoping to make out her colors, but she was too far. No matter. If she had ill intentions, she’d soon discover she picked the wrong prey. Lowering the scope, Elias’ gaze landed on Mr. Nelson standing at the bow, glass to his eye as well. Odd that a bosun would carry a telescope. Odder still, the hungry grin that overtook his face as he snapped the glass shut and returned to his duties. As if he recognized the merchantman.

  Elias was about to shout for his attention when a flap of maroon skirts directed his gaze to Charity coming on deck on the arm of none other than Mr. Ballard.

  Against his will, jealousy prickled his skin as his gaze followed them to the railing.

  Josiah approached. “The merchantman that follows, Cap’n. Your orders?”

  “Steady as she goes. We’ll keep an eye on her for now, Josiah.” He took in the rising swells and darkening skies. “In the meantime, reef topsails.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Josiah turned to shout orders to the crew.

  “Mr. Ballard,” Elias shouted. “Relieve Kannes at the wheel!”

  Ballard shot him a scathing look before he turned to say something to Charity.

  But she didn’t seem to be paying attention, her gaze locked on the merchantman.

  Leaping up the quarterdeck ladder, Ballard took the wheel.

  “And how fares Miss Westcott today?” Elias asked him, forcing down his jealousy.

  “Well, Captain. She was most anxious for me to escort her above.”

  She was? Elias’ insides boiled. Only on Mr. Ballard’s arm, apparently. Perhaps Elias had been wrong about her. Perhaps she sought after the wealth and status a preacher could never provide. If so, ’twas best he discovered the truth now before he lost more of his heart to the little mermaid.

  Bracing that heart, along with his boots on the deck, he glanced at the black clouds bubbling atop the eastern horizon. Confound it all! He grimaced. A storm would only delay him further in getting to his sister. He hated not knowing whether she was safe, not knowing whether those cullions had done more than damage property. “Josiah, strike topsail yards!”