There it was again, a reprimand about leaving port too early. Why did everyone question his command? If they left Martinique now, they’d bypass the storm. Of course, the men were in short temper, rounded up prematurely from shore leave. “Don’t you have enough work?”
“Aye, Captain.” Abner scuttled away like a crab. Now Thorne had completely alienated all his crew.
What nagged at him from the hazy fog of his mind was Lucette with her dark hair flowing about her shoulders. If only he could get out of this infernal dark pit. Phantoms crisscrossed. Jacob rubbed his aching head. There had been a woman in the dark. A willing body beneath his, fulfilling his desire with a potency that had brought him burning, extraordinary pleasure. Why couldn’t he connect the woman with Lucette? With cruel spurs of will, Thorne troweled his memory. He could put no face or name to the woman. He must have had a total blackout.
Despite his throbbing head, and the fuzziness in his brain, Jacob managed to supervise the rest of the cargo loading and endured the rasp of anchor chains as they were weighed. A fresh wind blew out of the southeast, kicking up chop along the Lesser Antilles. White water cascaded from the top of gray seas, and bursts of cooler air swept through. Rain in the distance promised to soak anyone unfortunate enough to be standing on deck. The sails billowed out and soon Martinique grew nonexistent on the horizon as the Vengeance glided past the Windward Islands toward home. Thorne sighed. If only he could eradicate the intoxicating creature that muddled his mind from the night with such ease.
Chapter 13
There had been no time for rest. Abby worked hard to support the hurried departure, immersing herself in the heavy labor to numb her mind from the remembrances of the night before. Hours had passed since morning when she had dragged herself from bed to conquer the laborious and time-consuming chore of winding the bindings around her breasts. The task had grown increasingly difficult to hide the unboy-like bounce of her bosom. Then the pain between her legs had been excruciating, but she’d been determined to stay on top of it. The soreness had faded with the day’s activities along with certain memories that fell short in forcing them to the hollows of her mind.
The day grew rough and gloomy as the trade winds blew up a gale. She entered the galley, her bosom sufficiently subdued and heavy boots scuffling on the wood floor. Simeon wiped flour from his hands and picked up a steaming kettle of water. She sank upon a bench and rested her head in her arms on the table. Glad to be alone with Simeon, Abby strained the sorry condition of her hat, twisting the wool threads in her hands against the need to cry out. The awful realization of all that passed between her and Thorne came flooding back to her and with it a feeling of loneliness so acute she could scarcely bear it. Losing her maidenhood to Thorne thrashed her insides like the waves smashing against the ship. The worst part−the part that haunted her−was that she had found something forbidden and dangerous to her, a feeling that shouldn’t, couldn’t exist. Even worse was that Abby had freely shared the most cherished part of her. What she had kept for her husband she had given to a pirate.
She glared at the hat her hands. Thorne was a fool. He had even sent Enos to give gold to Lucette, the same woman who tried to rob and carve him with her knife.
Simeon placed a plate of warm biscuits and stewed chicken next to her. “Here milady, eat. You must keep up your strength. ‘Tis a long voyage to Boston.”
When they were alone, Simeon deferred to her rank. Abby raised her head and gave him a rueful smile. She was far from the titled lady. The meager comfort Simeon offered did not lighten the load that settled in her chest, nor did she have the appetite to eat. Outside Thorne roared out orders with the severity of a fire-breathing dragon. From all the rum he had consumed, she wished him the worst of headaches. And now they were on their way to Boston, some primitive frontier where she would be farther and farther away from her cherished England. Farther away from helping her father and brothers. Had they survived? Her throat went dry. Of course they survived. No, she would not give in to despair. She picked at a biscuit, normally flaky and buttery, now rolled like sawdust over her tongue.
Simeon sat down next to her. “Lady Abigail, I cleaned the captain’s quarters for you this morning.”
Abby could not go back to Thorne’s cabin. Too many emotions tore at her. Simeon hesitated overlong and she blinked. “What?”
Simeon grimaced. “I changed the sheets. And don’t tell me the blood was Lucette’s.”
Abby paled. What could she say? Lie that the blood was Lucette’s or that she had cut herself in the struggle with the prostitute? The reality was that the sophisticated Lady Abigail Rutland, distinguished in artful refinement, cultivated with thorough respectability, bred on the highest of decorum, had lost her virtue. That she could have wings and fly. Now she faced her friend’s condemnation.
Simeon dug two spoons of sugar into her tea and stirred. The metal clanked against the sides so hard she thought the mug would break. “The captain should be hanged for his crimes. Defiling a gently bred lady? He is an animal. I’ve half a mind to brew him Hemlock tea. ‘Tis no less than he deserves.”
Abby pulled the mug away, the scalding tea cupped in her hands. What she had done with Thorne, she had done willingly. “No, Simeon. It is just as much my fault as was his.”
“He didn’t force himself on you?”
Abby pressed her palms to the rough-hewned table. The miserable lantern light swung with the ship, alternating light into the gloom and back again. Words clogged in her throat and she stood up, woefully inadequate to articulate what happened when she could not explain to herself what had transpired. Driven by licking flames of desire, Abby had lost her innocence. A real lady would never have entered such a shameful charade. On top of that, Thorne’s inability to distinguish between the two women savaged her pride and fed her anger. Abby turned over her hands, acknowledged her dirty fingernails, and tattered boyish garb, and in it, she saw the incongruous vision of Abe. If only, to crush it all beneath her feet.
“No. He did not force himself on me and he was too drunk to know who it was.” She stood, her deepest secret revealed. She could not look Simeon in the eye no more than she could let Thorne take the entire blame, and with that admission, tears sprung into her eyes.
Men hailed Simeon and crowded into the galley with hearty greetings and hefty appetite. Abby yanked her hat down low and passed the ranks of seamen that hauled to the benches to get their dinner first. Not desiring any questions, she climbed the stairs to the deck, intent to get to the bow before she broke down.
Numb to the storm that had blossomed into a full-blown gale, she fought for footing. Rain slashed at different angles from the wind changing direction and blinded her. The deck raised slippery beneath her feet. She stretched out her arms for a handhold and grabbed air. Someone shouted a warning. The ship heaved. Abby fell, hurled on her back. Her fingers clawed a rope coil. She looked up. A giant wall of water crashed over her, possessing an otherworldly, wicked force. Its curved hollow felt like the inside of a clenching fist as it hurled her across the deck and slammed her into the bulwarks. She clung to the railing with one hand. The upside-down contortion of her body left her free hand flailing. Her fingers entwined in a halyard. The ship heaved again. The upsurge broke over her like a ton of bricks, breaking her free and sweeping her up and over then drawing her down into the gray depths and holding her there.
The sea tumbled her round and round in a rolling motion. She had no idea what was up or what was down. Perhaps the oddest awareness was that she would drown and no one would be aware or care. The universe sucked the world out and in a chest-squeezing panic, a sense arose that the ocean held all the power. Shadows blanketed and fogged at the edges, in time with the sea that undulated and yawed. She lost all sense of where or who she was.
She heard Jacob’s voice. It was as if he were calling from the top of a well. Did he have a rope to pull her out? Fleeting thoughts swirled and echoed then dispersed to nothing. What was he saying? If on
ly she had the strength to fight, the urge to go on, but she couldn’t. She was so weak against the merciless sea, her coat heavy and pulling her down. Fatigue settled in, and with it, she allowed the monster to swallow her up. She just wanted to let go, let go…
Thorne cut through the devouring swells with long sure strokes. If only he could get to Abe in time. Thomas. He had not been there for Thomas. No way would he repeat the mistake with Abe. He had to save the boy. A wave rolled over him carrying him down, down, down. He fought for the top, took a breath of air before another surge slapped seawater into his gullet. He choked on the salty brine. The rough hemp rope tied around his midsection tangled in his legs. He kicked it loose, always keeping sight of Abe’s head. He fought the water. Abe’s head disappeared. Jacob dove. He shot through the murky depths. His lungs collapsed for lack of air. He reached out. His hand settled on hair. He seized the seaweed mass and kicked to the surface. His lungs burst for air. He waved. Men hailed from the ship and the rope about his waist tightened as they pulled him back to safety.
He held Abe as his men lifted him, the wailing sea screamed below denied of its meal. He allowed Enos to take the boy only for a second. Jacob climbed over the rail and took the boy back in his arms and headed down the companionway away from nature’s wrath. In his cabin, he laid Abe on the bed.
Pascale hovered in the doorway.
Simeon stood next to him. “Is he alive?”
Dim and low beneath his finger, Thorne felt a pulse. “Aye. He’s full of seawater.” Thorne worried if the boy would wake. He had seen similar men who had been submerged who never woke. He turned the lad over and pounded his back. The boy wretched out half the sea. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Abe was so pale and cold. Didn’t his aunt have the same pale look about her before she had died of pneumonia?
“I have to get the lad’s clothes off before he catches a chill,” said Thorne.
“I insist on doing it,” Simeon offered. “There is hot tea for you, Captain in the galley.”
Was his cook trying to get rid of him? Thorne did not miss the warning glances exchanged between Simeon and Pascale. “I can manage,” he waved them away, struck odd by their sudden solicitude.
“Whatever you do, you will not be angry with the boy, will you, Captain?” said Simeon.
Thorne stopped. What an odd remark. Hadn’t he been responsible for the boy’s welfare? Hadn’t he risked his own life to save him? Thorne lifted Abe’s head. How different the boy’s face looked swept clean of grime. How soft and vulnerable. His fingers threaded the bedraggled mop of wet hair, blond hair. Like the wind buffeting the Vengeance, why were all his senses screaming? Suspicion brought him to his knees.
Thorne’s hands shook as he gripped the lapels of Abe’s huge sodden overcoat, a boat anchor around the boy that could have dragged him to the bottom of the sea.
Simeon grabbed the coat from Thorne’s hands and closed the flaps over the boy’s chest. “I’ll take over from here, Captain.”
Did his cook dare to command him? Thorne narrowed his eyes on Simeon. The old man drew back, his throat fluttering like a crow’s wings.
“You won’t take anything out on Abe?”
Simeon’s accusation chilled Jacob’s blood. Did Simeon think he’d harm the boy? “Move aside. I’m not in the mood for any games.” Thorne had enough of his cook’s insubordination.
Thorne ripped the garment open. The buttons flew across the bed. He tore off the coat and tossed it at Simeon then took off one of his silk shirts the boy had snatched from his chest. “What the hell!” Bindings constricted the boy’s chest. Boy? In that abbreviated second, Thorne was certain on one thing. His cabin boy was not male.
Memories sifted, the soft bottom of the boy beneath his palm when he pushed him up the mast, the girlish movement to jump the errant barrel, the feminine press of his hand to his heart−all were female gestures, taunting him. A dread like a spider crept across Jacob’s chest.
“I have been conned.” Thorne glared at Simeon. Of course, the old man had been with the boy aboard the Civis. No wonder Simeon had rejected the idea of Abe sleeping in his cabin. The idea that Abe was a girl was incomprehensible. Thorne shook his head unable to grasp the notion. Thorne who prided himself on knowing every detail of his crew had been victimized by his own gullibility. To pull off a monstrous deception such as this was monumental.
He glanced over his shoulder to where Pascale hovered in the doorway ready to put a dagger in his heart if he harmed the girl. Like a ship without a rudder, and the sport of every wind, he’d been a fool. To think he was the laughingstock of his crew
His fingers probed the bindings, wrapped too secure for him to unwind, a wonder Abe could breathe. “Give me a knife.”
Simeon hesitated.
“Now.” Simeon tentatively placed the hilt on his palm. Thorne sawed the wraps. Soft rounded breasts popped and puckered. Perfect breasts. He flung the sodden material at Simeon then covered Abe with a sheet to conceal her from Simeon’s and Pascale’s view. What a successful disguise.
He had believed in Abe. In a level of his subconscious, Abe had been Thomas’s inadvertent replacement. Had he wanted to believe in Abe so badly that he allowed himself to be taken advantage of?
Abe’s blustering had been a clever device to hide her sex. Thorne had mistaken the ranting to hide an insecure boy. A simple lad? No way. The girl used smarts to survive. His insides grated with her intellect. His pride lay shredded to pieces. Thorne surrendered reason. What was left to guard against the absurdities of deception?
A reluctant smile curved his lips with her cunning. He’d never admit it, of course, and would never find occasion to, but he admired her spirit. Instead of getting all womanish and hysterical when met with terrifying odds, she resorted to subterfuge−cleverer than most men.
A thousand questions plowed his mind. Never would he get the truth from Simeon. No. The old man would never give him a straight answer. How did she win the favor of the huge black? No one had been able to communicate with him. Or did she have the capability?
How old was she? Twenty? Beneath the omnipresent greasy hair, besmudged face and bulky garb was the mature form of a young woman. Definitely perfect breasts. Thorne raked his fingers through his hair. “Out,” he commanded, Simeon and Pascale, “before I have you keelhauled.” The door banged.
Thorne grimaced. Abe was not a suitable name for a woman. He brushed the sheet aside and removed her sodden breeches. Her femininity disclosed Thorne covered her again. How had he missed the subtle curve of her hips? Jacob swore. Of course, the huge coat the lad wore, refusing to take it off, buttoned to her chin on the hottest of days.
He lit a candle and probed the shadows for her features. Thorne was drawn to the fine lashes that swept down over sculpted cheekbones, giving way to a straight nose and full sensual lips. At the bottom of the sea lay her tattered woolen cap that had been pulled low to cover the arch of gold winged brows. Her tangle of damp hair untethered from its tie, and cut short, curled disobediently at the ends. She shifted like a cat, moving her head upon his pillow and groaned. He ran a hand behind his neck, kneading the tense muscles there. Why had he never seen the female?
It was the sea she heard, the guttural deep-toned call of wind and waves. It was a good, strong sound to her ears, never ceasing, never dying, the wind and waves booming as loud and rhythmic as a heartbeat. She stretched and nestled in her pillow. Sweet wonderful sleep. Why was her bed rocking? Abby drifted through a patch of darkness, a sense of nothingness. Her maid would come in soon with her hot chocolate. Her maid would explain. But she did not live near the sea.
“Who is Abe?” His voice was like honey rolled over thunder.
Abe? Her eyes flew open and the blood ran from her face. Reality cut like a cleaver. No she was not home in her bed. She was in the middle of the Caribbean with a ruthless privateer.
He knew!
“I want answers. Now!”
Abby scrambled to the edge of the bed, grabb
ing the quilt around her and planting her feet firmly on the floor. Black spots clouded her vision followed by a wave of dizziness. She had to get out. She had to get away from Thorne. Her knees buckled.
Thorne swept her up and deposited her on the bed. Abby tried to slip away. He grabbed her wrists and she fought him, wildly twisting and writhing to gain her freedom.
“Be still!” he commanded. Breaking her hand free, she landed a punch in his chest. He planted her wrists in one hand. She cried out from the pain. He straddled her and the implications of his heavy weight covering her came to bear. “No.” She fought wildly.
Thorne dropped his head next to her face. “I take no pleasure in battling you, Abe or whoever you are. If you stop struggling, I will free you. Besides, where would you run to?”
Reason won out over hysterics. Abby forced herself to lay still and prayed he keep his word. Thorne shifted and moved from the bed. What would he do with her? He sat in the chair next to the bed his elbows rested easily on his knees, far from the ease he portrayed. Deep inside Abby knew Thorne would not harm her−or would he? Hadn’t he befriended a cabin boy?
“I want the truth.”
Abby remained mute. A multitude of possible things he’d do to her crossed her mind. How to handle Captain Thorne? The storm railed outside. This was his ship and she was alone with him, exposed to his whims.
He angled his head. “I assume Abe is not your real name?”
Abby sat up, the quilt held tight to her neck. Aware of her state of undress, heat rose from her toes to the roots of her hair. Under the persona of Abe, she was protected, however this was unmapped territory. Her old tools of cajolery and flattery that she used in England were also useless to a man like Thorne. He wanted answers and he wanted the truth. Anything less, he’d see through it, especially since she had fooled him for so long.
“Abby,” she exhaled.
Sweet Vengeance Page 13