Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  He snorted. “Of course. How appropriate. Your last name?”

  Abby swallowed. Never could she tell him her real name especially after his vocal hated of England’s aristocracy. In addition, the war in the American Colonies was predicated on freedom and equality, a far cry from the legally, social, privileged classes in England. The powerful Rutland family defined the aristocracy American colonists targeted their hatred. Her father was twice removed inheritor to the Crown. To tell the truth of her identity to a man like Captain Thorne after what happened to his family at British hands would be suicide.

  In a shaky voice, Abby compromised on a half-truth. “Abigail Marie Hansford.” There she said it, saying part of her name and leaving off the Rutland surname and keeping her mother’s maiden name. If only he’d show her the same mercy he had with his cabin boy.

  Thorne tensed. “I don’t think so.”

  Did he recognize her from the ball? She had worn a mask and a considerable wig. Her fingers grappled the covers. She repeated her name. “Abigail Marie Hansford.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Abby lifted her chin. Of course, he didn’t trust her. “I am quite sure.”

  He nodded his expression tight, not fully committed. “Why were you aboard the Civis? The truth this time.”

  How to convince Thorne? Abby bit her lip and strategized. To share the bare minimum was the only way to maneuver him. “As Simeon told you before, our circumstances were dire,” she began, comfortable in speaking in her own natural tones. “I had to be disguised as a boy.”

  “Who would want to murder your family? Or was that a lie?”

  Abby open and closed her mouth. He referenced what Simeon had told Thorne during the capture of the Civis. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked that question?” Abby looked away, the pain and sorrow and uncertainty of her family was destroying her in pieces. On the wall, the flickering candlelight built crude outlines of them. Thorne’s shadow engulfed hers, a grim reminder of her vulnerability. She returned her gaze to him. “I must get to England. I must see if anyone survived and to find my family’s enemies. I cannot go to Boston.”

  “Impossible.”

  Abby wrung her hands. “Would you not do the same for your family?”

  “I am fighting a war, in case you have forgotten, against your country.”

  “It is not my war. I understand your bid for freedom, but I don’t wish to be any part.”

  “Then we are at an impasse. My cousin, Ethan rots in a British prison and hangs between life and death. I must get to Boston. There I will intercept a British Colonel to secure a prisoner exchange.” Then in a more soothing tone, he added, “You are a young female. Whoever went to the trouble to put you on board the Civis, wanted you dead too.”

  Thorne was right. But her father had powerful friends who would come to her assistance. Uncle Cornelius for one. If only she could get to him. Uncle Cornelius would use his power and influence to find out who had done this to her family. He would also protect her. “Couldn’t you at least drop me off at a British port?”

  Thorne’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I have a price on my head. Do you think I relish the idea of swinging from a gallows tree?”

  Under Thorne’s cool regard, a cold knot formed her stomach. What shrewdness ruled behind those cobalt eyes? Did he see the fear she worked to hide? She balled her hands to calm her trembling fingers. “I can imagine you have a fond attachment to your neck.”

  “You are short on your history. You don’t fit the image of a gutter waif or farmer’s daughter. From your refined accent, I’d hazard to guess, you are straight from English nobility.”

  Abby swallowed. When she dropped the husky tones of Abe, she had forgotten to speak like one of her father’s crofters. He had guessed her ancestral roots?

  She winced. One lie bridged to another. She was never good at lying and the idea filled her with self-loathing. Ever since the lie she told about her engagement to the time she had been kidnapped, and assumed a different identity for survival, she had lived a lie. What was one more falsehood? In the middle of the ocean, who was going to argue points of deception? Thorne drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Abby labored to grasp a plausible story, a past Thorne would find believable.

  His face hardened. “I sense you are highborn. Are you going to share with me who you are or do I have to toss you back into the ocean to get a straight answer?”

  She dropped her quilt in the wake of his threat and flashed him a cold smile. “Of course, Captain Thorne, you would bully me. I am a daughter of a goldsmith. My father married the fourth daughter of an impoverished earl. Are you going to punish me for my humble roots?”

  He weighed her words. The goldsmith idea came as a lark. She had procured a set of gold candlesticks for her parents in London and had spent hours with the talented merchant in detailing the design. In that time, she had learned from the cheerful merchant of his trade and his family. A wealthy goldsmith would attract the daughter of an earl who had inadequate funds. “My father is very good at his trade and has provided well for his family.”

  His sensuous mouth thinned into a hard-grim line. “What kind of enemies does a goldsmith have?”

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. There was a nobleman who was delinquent in his payments and my father took to court. The nobleman later married a rich wife. Perhaps he held a vendetta against my father?” The truth remained, she had no idea who would want to destroy her family. Only the thin reedy voice of her kidnapper preoccupied her. Never would she forget his voice.

  Thorne was not convinced. She slanted him a sideways glance, but he was consumed, his eyes lowered to where the quilt had slipped away. In the guttering light, the peaks of her breasts were silhouetted beneath the sheet. Abby felt the blood leave her face.

  Then the captain’s hard dark eyes moved over her body. He was appraising every inch of her, and what remained hidden below. Of course, he had undressed her and seen everything. Abby seized the quilt up to her neck and schooled her features into a mask of calm. As Abigail Marie Hansford, could she draw out Thorne’s gallant side? “I will need to have something to wear.” She raised her brow pointedly.

  One corner of his wicked mouth turned up. He opened a drawer then tossed her a key and angled his head to the foot of the bed. “Avail your needs from the trunk. Before I leave, do you have any other requirements?”

  His voice oozed like vinegar. He was adjusting to his cabin boy as a woman. She placed her hand over her mouth and yawned, nearly drowned, the shock of her discovery and dealing with Thorne had drained all her energy.

  He leaned forward in a sort of grudging bow. Interesting to note that he had a small, miserly store of manners.

  “I’m terribly sleepy from the ordeal,” Abby said in her most proper drawing-room English.

  “I look forward to our continued discussion, Miss Hansford,” He stalked from the room, but Abby was already half-asleep.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning dawned bright and powerful. Thorne had removed himself from the cabin, and had slept elsewhere, affording her complete privacy. The prospect of wearing a gown tingled up her spine. She grabbed the key he had given her the night before and leaped from the bed. Unlocking the trunk, she rummaged through a colorful array of brocades, jaconets, bombazines, velvets, silks and satins that he’d been saving for his cousin. The sapphire she had tried on the night before was too fine and she placed it aside, instead choosing, a green muslin day dress trimmed with lace.

  She shook out the dress and hung it over a chair. She pulled out a fine lawn chemise, a pair of white silk stockings, two dainty satin garters and put them on. At the bottom of the trunk lay a bunch of ribbons banded together. She tugged a green satin ribbon, and smiled, the same hue as her dress. She took a silver hair brush and swept her short hair back, weaving the satin ribbon into a neat chignon, and hummed a favorite tune, All in a Garden Green.

  Jacob blew in with a bracing wind. Abby whirled,
her tune cut-off midstream. She yanked the dress from the chair to cover her but not before Thorne had a full view. “Don’t you think to knock?”

  “It’s my cabin. We’ve shared it before.”

  Could he scowl anymore? “I was your cabin boy then.”

  “Pardon me if I’m adapting to the remarkable turnaround. How could I have missed such a pleasurable sight beneath my nose?”

  He walked by her. Abby backed up two steps, hiding her backside from his view. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. She stood startled. Her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. To watch him dress as Abe had been one thing, but quite another when she was an unattached female. This was a new intimacy, seeing him without his shirt, his shoulders a yard wide and molded bronze, and the muscles that rippled on his abdomen. His shadowed jaw made him look even more disreputable, so he looked more of a demon than a privateer plying his crimes upon the open seas. She swallowed. Images of their night together blended in sensuous shadows. How she had touched every one of those bunched muscles, her fingers falling over every plain.

  She averted her eyes and he laughed. “Where did the maidenly modesty come from? Didn’t you scrub my back and swear like a fishmonger?”

  “Do you think I enjoyed my charade as your cabin boy? Do you think I like to live in fear of what will happen to me? What are you going to do with me?”

  He snatched a new shirt from his armoire and jerked it on. “You are a guest on my ship and will come under my protection. But there are strings.”

  “Of course, there would be strings.” She lifted her chin, his innuendo clear.

  She was ready to tell him otherwise but held back her retort, and said, “In addition to Lucky Lucette, I’m sure you’ve seen a goodly number of ladies, but I am not one of them−nor do I wish to be.”

  Thorne sneered. “You are mistaken, Miss Hansford. I do not touch young innocents.” He strode past her, halting at the door. “When you are finished dressing, you may join me on deck.”

  His directive was a command not a request. “Wait,” said Abigail. “What are the strings?”

  “From now on, the truth. Only the truth. You cannot fathom what I will do to you if I have been lied to. Make a fool of me once, I allow. But twice, my wrath will fall on your head.”

  Jacob watched the girl climb the stairs, her posture correct, her movements graceful, and, except for an occasional tendency to swagger, her carriage as refined as any gently reared lady he had ever known.

  She was like a fair flower tousled in the wind. Her dress was simple of green muslin, the bodice shaped close to her slender figure and accented her tiny waist. From her shiny blonde hair, pulled back in at fashionable arrangement was a green silk ribbon, flowing in the breeze. With avid curiosity, he saw a spark in her eyes and flushing of her cheeks, a delightful shade of rose. She was a vision to bedazzle the most hardened of men. The sailors, busy with their chores, could hardly keep their eyes off her. And neither could Jacob.

  She climbed to stand next to him. From the corner of his eye, she bit her lip to keep it from trembling and to stay as inconspicuous as possible. The devil in him, refused to speak to her. He’d teach her a lesson and let her cool her heels. He’d let her suffer the reaction of his men in silence.

  From his questioning of Simeon and Pascale, none of the crew knew the truth about his cabin boy, yet. He’d make the announcement and through his control as commander would make sure no ill will by the crew came to Miss Hansford because of her deception. He was confident in his authority that the crew would adjust to her exposed secret, probably shocked at first, as he was, and he anticipated a certain amount of anger, as he had. He prepared himself for the questions that would result from the revelation. He would allow a few inquiries, thank them for their input then set guidelines to fend off remaining hostility. He concluded once an open discussion was made available, and complaint aired, the sooner normal shipboard life would resume.

  Already her appearance had caused quite a stir. On the lower decks, several of his men quit their chatter and worked silently. Of course, a woman appearing on ship from out of nowhere would earn inspection. Their ears were cocked and their furtive glances, telling. Sailors scrambled down from the yardarms, busy or pretending to be with securing the lower sails that were already tightened. Thorne smirked, all of them nosier than a bunch of old peahens at a noonday tea.

  Enos darted from sailor to sailor, taking in and dispensing coins. Some laughed, and others were disconcerted that Enos mollified with a slap on the back. After every transaction, each sailor peered up at Thorne and smiled, in fact smiling more when they looked at Abby. From the shared winking and uncontrolled whimpers of mirth, Thorne’s fingers curled around the railing. What was his ship’s carpenter up to?

  “Enos!”

  Enos walked mid-ship, just beneath Thorne. “Yes, Captain.”

  “What is the exchange of coin for?”

  Enos worried his hat between his fingers. “A friendly wager, Captain, between me, and the men.”

  “Care to enlighten me?”

  Enos dipped his chin. “We made bets to when you’d guess Abe was a female.”

  When Abby gasped, Thorne tightened his grip on the rail. “And how long have you and the men known?”

  “Pardon me, Miss,” Enos said, placing his attention on Thorne’s ex-cabin boy. “Abe was so nice taking care of Ben and me when we almost died with the fever. When Abe started singing lullabies and wiping our brows, crooning to us like our sainted mothers, I pretty much figured Abe was not a boy.”

  Thorne exhaled, ready to pluck out the main mast and throw it into the horizon. “So how many of the crew had been aware of Abe’s gender?” He reeled with the knowledge that everyone knew except him−Abe who had shared close quarters for two weeks without a hint of Thorne’s knowledge. He scowled at his crew. The men on the lower masts worked their way up to the top. The men below tripped over casks and rope coils to find new tasks on the foredeck. Enos remained to bear the brunt of their captain’s wrath.

  “Captain Thorne, you can’t be angry over a small oversight.”

  “Small?” He turned and glared at the object of his idiocy and she paled. In his cabin moments before, he could barely keep his hands off her. What a stimulating sight that was. She had stood scantily clad in garters, stockings and a chemise, her pert breasts thrusting out at him. He imagined letting his fingers draw across the delicate lace, over her sweetly curved bosom, rising and falling with each marvelous breath. How easy to cup each mound and…? He gritted his teeth at the decay of his thoughts then shifted, the hardening in his loins, a reaction to the memory scorched on his brain. Cabin boy? Woman? Thorne raked his fingers through his hair. For the millionth time, how could a charade such as that have gone on? If it weren’t so vexing, he might have laughed. How could he not have seen the face, fine-boned and lovely as hers nor the beautiful clear blue eyes and thick black lashes?

  Abby shuddered. Jacob’s face might have been carved by marble, so expressionless did he hold himself. To be humiliated in front of his men was unforgiving.

  Enos cleared his throat. “Go easy on the girl. She’s a sweet young thing. I don’t blame her and neither should you. She had to do what she had to do.”

  “Since when do I need your lecturing? How about the cat o’ nines to your back? Would that evoke the same sympathy?”

  “You’ll be giving me the cat o’ nines when hens grow teeth. I knew once you figured Abe out, you’d be like a roaring lion with an arrow lodged in its haunches. Boy or girl, what’s the difference? Abe is still with us.”

  Abby’s heart went out to the grizzled old seaman, her lone champion. Of course, it was a shock to learn the crew knew of her sex, and she could fall on her knees thanking them for their generous acceptance of her fate. If only Captain Thorne could be so sympathetic.

  Thorne grunted. “It’s hard to tell who has your back, from who has it long enough to stab you in i
t.”

  Enos wagged a finger at the captain. “Settle your pride in your nappies. If the crew is forgiving then so should you. Look at the humor in it and let it be done.”

  “You stretch our friendship, Enos.”

  “That I do. I was part of your raising and brought you up to be a just man. When you see the irony of the situation, you will be laughing too.”

  “I find humor in docking your wages.”

  Abby could no longer stand aside and let Enos suffer Thorne’s wrath. “Captain, your quarrel is with me.” Hadn’t Abby suffered a long line of stubborn, prideful Rutland men? Was Captain Thorne any different? She summoned her resolve. As Abby, she could give him options.

  Like corking an exploding volcano.

  She dared to place her fingers on his arm.

  He stared at where her hand lay.

  She remained steadfast and suffered under the glare of those incredible cobalt eyes. “You are not betrayed. I can offer two suggestions,” she smiled shakily. “You could throw me overboard and end all of your troubles. Or…” In the awkward silence, she began more forcefully than she intended. “You could drop your incivility and make me laugh. I much prefer the latter.”

  Through her fingers, she felt the tension leave him, saw the severity in his implacable expression soften, and the corners of his lips turn up in the slightest hint of a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, Enos backed away, rubbing his hands in glee.

  Jacob grunted. “Miss Hansford, are you always so bold?”

  “Only when I wish to torment an overbearing personality.”

  “Overbearing? What else am I?”

  She tilted her head. “Do you want Abe’s opinion or Abby’s?”

  “God forbid, Abe should come back and torture me.” He laughed, and his laughter boomed across the ship, so infectious, she found herself laughing too.

  Chapter 15

  With a good strong wind of twelve and twenty knots, and the seas nothing more than a moderate swell, Thorne estimated they would arrive in Boston in a few weeks. They had passed the Turks and Caicos, and he almost regretted the speed with which carried them home, enjoying his voyage with the lovely and enigmatic Miss Hansford. He stood on the foredeck when she materialized at his side. He didn’t have to look to know she was there, like the caress of the wind an innate quality stirred with her nearness. In an alluring pink dress, she exuded classic beauty, and her diminutive grace made him feel so large and manly.