Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

Suddenly shadows of the past haunted her. Memories emerged. As a young girl, she had played hide and seek with Humphrey at the Banfield estate. She had hidden beneath the desk in his father’s library and to conceal herself further, had draped charts from the top over her. She had been sure the footsteps drawing near were Humphrey’s. Instead the Duke of Banfield, Humphrey’s father had discovered her. He pulled the charts away and crooked his finger for her to come out. He never reprimanded her despite the escapades she had involved Humphrey. Abby smiled. The Duke had a soft spot for her. What came to mind was the way he rescued his charts and held them to his heart. Abby had seen what she knew of now as architectural drawings of a ship and Boston printed at the bottom. Was there a connection?

  “She’ll be the fastest schooner to sail the high seas.” He said as proudly as if he’d given birth. Abby nodded, impressed with the magnitude of such a creation and admired the captain’s genius as he explained why it was bred to run faster. His excitement was infectious and the deep timbre of his voice grew seductive to a point where Abby leaned into him. She jerked back, a prisoner to her charade.

  What was she doing? Her coat chafed at her neck and sweat dribbled down her back. She longed to strip the boyish garb and sink in a long luxurious bath, to rid the bindings cloying her breasts that held her hostage. The refinements of a lady she yearned for, so far away. A little moan escaped and Thorne took it as approval. She swallowed. Lines were blurred and confused. Where did Abe begin and Abby end?

  She looked down at the sorry condition of her clothes suddenly ashamed of her wretched appearance. She stank and was filthy, a circumstance she had never had to bear. In the past few months her hair grew stringy and greasy and itched at her neck. To keep her disguise, cutting her hair again was a necessity. Discovering a knife in Thorne’s top drawer, she had dragged her feet with the task and practically wept. Alone, she had brought a knife up to her curls but dropped the blade, abhorring the removal of the last vestiges of her former self. Instead she tied her hair back with a leather thong in a queue, adopting the fashion of Thorne and other members of his crew.

  Despite her vanishing femininity, the freedoms of a boy allowed her to navigate in a man’s world, standing on the deck, enjoying the magic of the night with zillions of stars scintillating in a velvet sky…and Thorne patiently teaching the constellations. Certainly she enjoyed clamoring about the ship, being part of male camaraderie, working and being useful. The status quo of the male world that remained prohibited to females.

  Yet those freedoms yielded the chains of a lie. She resented the lad and his unnatural status. Fears escalated. To secure her survival, she forced her mind over her heart to maintain control. Clearly vulnerable, bitterness grew from the insane ruse, her feminine charms stowed beneath the veneer of a cabin boy. She grew wistful, to wear a dress, to whirl on a ballroom floor. How easy to turn her head and receive the rapture of a kiss.

  Jacob stood abruptly, retrieving the primer for his student. She followed him with her eyes. Her shoulders dropped. The realization of any kind of relationship with Thorne was impossible. There existed a war between their countries and a social chasm a world apart. If her father were alive, he would never accept him. Thorne settled far beneath her station and was a criminal.

  Her hands shook with a future that loomed shadowy and treacherous, the enemy unknown. Questions hammered without resolve. What would she find when she arrived in England? Who would she turn to? Who could she trust?

  “Would you like to learn navigation?” he asked her for the second time.

  Remaining silent, Abby nodded. Obviously energized by his pupil’s attention, Jacob unrolled the charts. Why did he spend so much time on an insignificant orphan boy? He spanned her hand across the map to indicate the expanse of the Atlantic and the distance they had conquered. A connection roared to life within her soul, deeper than before. She jerked her hand away.

  Jacob showed no response to her silence, making measurements on the maps. They neared Martinique. She was glad to know they would be landed. Not knowing where they sailed and the uncertainties of the sea and storms, and attack by other ships, preyed on her mind. Hanging over her head was the potential brutality of Thorne if he ever discovered who she was. The retribution to the British Empire placed on her head.

  “Pay attention, Abe. I don’t think you are as simple as Simeon has claimed.”

  Hands large and calloused, fingers long and confident stretched over major points of the charts. She struggled to focus on his navigational measurements, adjusting to the lines of latitude and longitude, the measurements he had made of the stars and sun with a sextant, then implementing a new invention, a chronometer that gave accurate time. He used the number of knots recorded when they threw the rope behind the ship to garner their speed. Thorne smiled his lazy pirate smile and her heart fluttered. She frowned and looked at the map, the identifiable land masses sketched in the Caribbean. Some of the details were elusive others tattooed to her memory. A few additional days of instructions and she’d nail the basics.

  “Two days’ time,” he predicted before they reached Martinique.

  Chapter 9

  Water sloshed over Abby as she struggled under the weight of the bucket she carried. Thorne had ordered a bath for himself. Several trips to his cabin to dump steaming hot water into his tub exhausted her. Never again would she take for granted the servants who carted the water for her bath to her dressing room. Placing the bucket on the floor outside his cabin, she paused with her hand closed on the door latch. Thorne moved about his cabin.

  Be quick about it boy, before my water cools,” he ordered.

  Why didn’t he stay on deck until she finished hauling the water? She backed into the room, averting her eyes and placed the bucket next to the tub. Thorne eased into the tub, water sloshing with displacement.

  “Hand me the soap off the table.” Abby threw him a bar then ducked to leave, too uncomfortable with his nudity…yet drawn to the breadth of his shoulders that surpassed the small tub, a body made perfect of lean hard muscle.

  “Where you going boy?”

  Abby fidgeted. “What do you need? I’m no nursemaid to scrub your back.”

  Thorne turned around, his frown as menacing as a dark thundercloud. She retreated to the corner and prayed he did not see the flush rising to her face.

  “Abe, you surprise me. Under all that blunt and bluster, you are practically a macaroni. Scrub my back.”

  Her throat dried. Even if she wanted to speak, her tongue refused to move. Dropping down the belly of a volcano suddenly appealed to her.

  “What is taking you so long?” He tossed a sodden sponge over his shoulder.

  It soaked her. She measured the distance to the door but he’d have her before she could escape. She studied the planks on the floor, counting the pegs, and compelled her feet to move to the tub. Her arm went numb and for the life of her, she could not raise it. Distantly she heard the ship cut through the waves, the wood creaking, the wind filling the sails.

  Conscious of her pulse thudding, she stared at the sponge in her hand. Against all forces, she raised her hand to move in small circles across his back. Muscles flexed beneath her touch powerful and dangerous. Abby drew back, aware of her instincts twitching, flickering in definite warning. Then her hand as if on its own volition, glided down and up his back, making her acutely aware of the heat that radiated from him.

  Muddied thoughts imposed the battle with the Civis and with single blows Thorne had crushed the merchantmen. Now that menace lurked beneath her palm. It gave her a heady sense of power. The scent of bay soap lifted into the air and was countered by the tang of the sea. She sunk the sponge into the tub. He leaned back, her hand imprisoned by his smooth buttocks. Abby gasped, tugged free then dropped the sponge.

  “Take the bucket and rinse my head.” His response was curt carried in a cool distant tone.

  Abby obliged. He shook his head, water spraying all over the cabin then rose to his full height, towe
ring above her, manly and strong. Zeus in his perfection. Damn him! Her insides shook, warring between a world of fascination and her old world of what was chaste and proper. Wickedly mesmerized, she turned away to hide the embarrassment she could no longer mask.

  His feet dropped to the floor. He pulled the linen from the bed to dry himself. He yanked on his pants. She stood aware of every movement. Abby darted to the door but a long arm reached out and snatched her collar. Her stomach lurched.

  “You aren’t leaving until you take a bath. I’m not going to tolerate one more day of your rank smell.” The blast of his breath thumped her cheek.

  “I ain’t taking a bath. It’s for peacocks.”

  The look he sent her should have withered iron, but she was adamant and gave not an inch. With a disgusted snarl, he jerked on his shirt and boots. “I’m going topside to finish measurements. You better be washed or I’ll strip you myself and brush you clean to the bone.”

  He wouldn’t dare!

  The door slammed behind him and quaked in its hinges. Abby took a deep breath then slammed the bolt into place, pivoting toward the bath. The unexpected prospect of shedding her clothes and submerging in warm water rejuvenated her spirits beyond compare. She nearly ripped the buttons off her wool coat, next her shirt, bindings then shirked off her pants. She eased into the tub. Capturing the sponge in one hand and soap in the other, she scrubbed until her skin tingled fresh and pink eradicating the filth from her body. Her full breasts bobbed freely in the water, tender to the touch from the rude confinement. Someday she’d have the pleasure of burning those bindings. She washed her hair then ducked beneath to free her golden locks of grease and grime. As she settled back to soak, a sigh escaped her lips. How she longed to stay forever.

  She spared a glance to the bolt on the door. No. It would not hold back a bellowing bull. With regret, she stepped from the tub and dried herself. She pinched her yellowed and stained shirt between her fingers. She refused to put it back on and let it fall to the floor. She retrieved the key to Thorne’s chest, worked at the lock and she flipped it open. Abby’s breath caught with the beautiful gowns that filled the trunk. She picked up a beautiful sapphire gown and fingered the satiny folds. Looking in a mirror, she dreamed of wearing the luxurious garment. Were they for really for Thorne’s cousin or a paramour? Her throat constricted. Why would she think any different? Was he not a flesh and blood man?

  She blew out a breath and reluctantly returned the beautiful gown to the chest. Thinking of the set of events that led her to the present, she stared down at her empty hands. Doubts killed her. Would her family estates still exist or would the state have seized it since no relatives remained? Uncle Cornelius, the Duke of Westbrook. He would use his power and help her.

  She covered her face with her hands. Oh−to see her father and brothers again. Guilt rose. Anger and self-loathing lashed her insides. The lie she had fabricated, her father and brothers, her engagement to Humphrey. Self-censure became quicksand. Abby swallowed. To have her old life back, she’d marry Humphrey and please everyone.

  Worse yet, emerged the most terrible privation of loneliness and the feeling of being unloved. The very air she breathed felt like long sharp needles. Giving it up, she rifled through Thorne’s armoire.

  Thorne pounded on the door, leaving her no peace.

  “Why is the door locked? Open it now. Why are you so girlish, Abe?”

  Abby ripped a shirt off the hanger and stretched her arms through the soft silk. She tripped, stepping into her pants then wrenched on her coat. She bent to unbolt the door then remembered her hat. After retrieving it off the table she plunked it on her head, stuffed the wet ends of her hair beneath. She slammed the chest shut, and then scurried to open the door.

  “A woman could dress faster!” Thorne battered the door and Abby opened it, his hand caught mid-air. He glanced to the floor. “Get this mess cleaned up.”

  To comb his head with a three-legged stool.

  Her bindings trailed near the tub. Automatically she pulled her jacket tighter and inched over to kick her discarded shirt over the bindings to hide them. A trial was evident−she was tried and tested and found herself of more common metal than she ever imagined. Thorne plopped on the bed while Abby picked up her things, and then disappeared from the room.

  At the top of the stern she gazed out over endless sea. Her bindings were back in place and she had her ration of lemon juice. A wind from the north cooled her cheeks. The tropical sun bore down with its entire wrath. Most of the sailors had shed their shirts, and rolled up their pants, continuing with their chores whistling merry tunes knowing land was not far off. Abby suffered beneath the sweltering wool and watched the capricious waves roll and curl running into the other. The red and white striped flag, “Don’t Tread on Me” flapped in the breeze, an emblem for the Americans defining magnanimity and courage.

  “Land! Martinique!”

  The crew shouted in adoration. An island with stiff high peaks of rich forests rippling in waves of lush green. Beaches of golden sand rose from crystal clear waters in bluish and light green shades, palms nodding lazily over it, a sanctuary, untamed and savage.

  Like little children the crew whooped carefree and joyful, impatient with lowering sails and rigging as the Vengeance glided into sparkling amethyst waters of the harbor. Chains rattled followed by the spray of water as the anchor dropped from the ship. Several sailors dove overboard and swam to shore, their confinement ended.

  Simeon had sprained his foot, badly foiling his escape. A cold knot formed in her at leaving her loyal protector but, to remain was unrealistic, and discovery of her sex imminent. Pascale declined to leave ship. To go about a French island and be recognized as an escaped slave invited a death wish. He’d stay behind and care for Simeon. Against their warnings, she ventured unaccompanied, reassuring them that in her present disguise she’d be safe. She smiled. How easy to find a ship to take her home.

  Thorne, all dressed up for business, sat opposite her in the boat rowed to shore. How dashing he looked in his navy broad coat with gold trim and brass buttons glinting in the sunlight. She sat with her back to the bow, the oars squeaking in the oarlocks, a windward breeze whipping up and blowing against the back of her head. Seagulls coasted above them, rising-up in a hurtling curve, then diving down into a splash to feed on a school of fish. Abby met him with a grin and memorized every detail of his features.

  He caught her staring. She quickly peered over the gunnels to make a study of the corals that branched wildly in the waters beneath. Beyond the reef, the sand shifted empty. To look anymore was meaningless. Her heart tugged. She would miss Thorne and his crew and her brief idyllic sojourn aboard the Vengeance.

  Chapter 10

  Martinique

  On the shorefront overlooking the harbor, Abby stopped a man. “Monsieur, I have just arrived in Martinique and learned my father, a businessman from Paris had traveled to England and was taken ill, necessitating me to get to him as soon as possible,” Abigail improvised, her fortunate fluidity in French provided a saving grace.

  The French émigré shook his head. “Did you not hear of the treaty signed between the American Colonists and France, creating an alliance? England and France are at war! Of course, you have been at sea so would not have this knowledge.” He lightly patted her shoulder. “Martinique is under French sovereignty. No ships will be traveling to England.” Impatient to be on his way, he pointed to a large white columned building. “There’s Governor House, perhaps you could get help from the Governor General.”

  War? Abby reeled from the state of affairs and bid the man adieu. She passed the enormous blocked walls of a sprawling Fort Royale. The cannons set on the parapets aimed to any invader approaching the harbor, a grim reminder of her vulnerability as a British subject, an enemy of France and the Colonies. How could she have been so naive? She scrambled to grasp the current political leanings that put her smack in the middle of a hornet’s nest.

  Under the sh
adow of Fort Royal, she wandered through the narrow streets, thankful Jacob had given her coin. She stopped at a fruit vender to purchase sweet bananas, a welcomed change in the usual fare aboard the ship. Brightly colored cottages yielded to an eclectic collection of larger homes. Some were two-story plantation houses with huge wrap around porches; others were fronted with Greek columns, and others were immense stone edifices with mansard roofs that mimicked traditional French Chateaus.

  Enos and several of the crew members had dropped into many of the taverns near the docks. Uncomfortable with that aspect of male doings, Abby pressed forward ignoring their shouts and good cheer that was far from anything she felt now. The sun reached its zenith and she baked in her coat. Beneath the shade of a palm tree, Abby rested on a lava rock, her heart weighted down by her travails. How had things turned out so wretched? She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

  On the slopes above the city, slaves hummed a somber tune while cutting tall grasses. She swatted at a buzzing dragonfly and inhaled the acrid scent of rotting coconuts scattered on the ground. Remotely she studied the abundance of brightly colored flowers and lush green landscape surrounded by a bright clear bay that held her prisoner. To escape was as impossible as holding the wind in her hat.

  Weeping was not an option. She had to get back to England. But how?

  She nudged a coconut with her toe and glanced up to see Thorne with his broad shoulders and tricorn hat move down a street of prominent homes, all purpose and business. She and Thorne were a lot alike, both adventurers seeking justice. Thorne’s uncle and cousin had been killed by British soldiers, and his other cousin was held a prisoner−all by her country. She understood his hatred of an enemy. She also grasped how that hatred could be focused on her.

  King George’s malicious neglect of American prisoners of war resulted in starvation, disease and tortuously achieved the same results as hanging, his legacy rooted in cold-blooded suffering. She shivered. Did she not face a quid pro quo?