Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  She cleared her throat and bent to retrieve the maps. “I’m clumsy.”

  “Allow me.” He stuffed the charts into a cabinet.

  She retreated again. Predictable. What she did next, he did not like. She retrieved one of two books that she had left spread-eagled on the bed, wriggled backward on the settle and commenced to read.

  An Essay Concerning Human Understanding?

  Even he, a self-made scholar had difficulty with Locke’s philosophical treatise.

  His illiterate cabin boy, the same one, he had spent hours tutoring, could read?

  “I gather you found our reading lessons, amusing?”

  She winced and plumped the pillows behind her then turned to him, those large blue eyes, regarding him with frank appeal. “I found the exercise selfless and admirable, that you would take the time to teach a poor cabin boy.”

  “Am I correct to surmise you own a familiarity on different subjects?” Jacob slid into a chair, rewarded with a broad smile as she warmed to the topic.

  “Mathematics, with a good grasp of calculus, literature, chemistry, and elementary physics.” She shrugged her dainty shoulders as if it were a minor accomplishment.

  Thorne lifted a single eyebrow. “Unusual. A woman to be so−sophisticated?”

  She cleared her throat. “My father provided generously for his family, insisting on a tutor, a scholarly old Jesuit to educate my older brothers. When I was three, the tutor discovered I could read and convinced my father to include me in the education of his children. The priest, a strict taskmaster, sharpened our debate skills on all matters of learning, employing a healthy competition between us. And I might say−we did not disappoint.”

  Her voice cracked, and she spoke too quickly, her response half-apologetic. Jacob picked-up the book she left on the bed and thumbed through the pages of The Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems by Galileo Galilei. He had read the book twice fascinated with the Italian scientist’s theories and was impressed even if she had a minimal of understanding. Even more thought provoking was the fact that his copy was in Italian. “You are aware of Galileo’s objections and rebuttals to the traditional philosophers, Ptolemy?” He dared to test her and a thoughtful smile curved her mouth.

  “I first read the translation in Latin but found your original Italian version, not my strong suit, yet doable nonetheless,” she sighed, a most provocative sigh.

  Thorne grunted. “In what other languages are you proficient?”

  One beautiful hand fiddled with her skirts. “I demonstrate a proficiency in Latin, a dash of Greek, but very strong in French.”

  “Your camaraderie with Pascale?” he said, his gaze fixed on her. She bit her lip, the same luscious lip he wanted to taste and draw out with his teeth.

  “Poor Pascale. No one aboard can speak French and everyone thought he spoke only Creole. His master was French thus he had learned the language. Pascale had no one to speak to. I felt sorry for him. He has a dreadful past.”

  Thorne raked his fingers through his hair, mystified with the many sides of his cabin boy…and the ever-emerging, Miss Hansford. “Of course, he knew of your gender?”

  “About Galileo. He was quite contentious for a man his age, don’t you think?”

  Had she not changed the subject? How diverting. Thorne folded his arms in front of him ready to debate. “From what I recall, Galileo argued that the earth was always in motion, but philosophers at that time considered his thinking heresy.”

  “You of all people, Captain Thorne, should relate to his prescription of the earth in motion. Wasn’t his study of the ebb and flow of tides, regarding the earth’s motion− stimulating?”

  Thorne found her very stimulating. “Written in the language of mathematics, and with the main characters as triangles, circles, and other geometric figures...without these, one wanders about in a dark and obscure labyrinth. Of course, one who has a firm grasp on such subjects, might reflect?”

  She clapped her hands. “I thank you for the compliment.”

  “It wasn’t meant to compliment. Your pretense was like having a stone in my shoe.”

  Abigail burst out laughing.

  And, alas, his lovely cabin boy had the most bewitching laughter, an alluring melody that stole up his spine.

  Simeon knocked, and Thorne bade him to enter. The cook set a tray of fresh baked scones with butter and guava jelly on the table. “I hope you find this to your liking, Captain.”

  Thorne frowned. Ever since Abigail’s secret had been revealed, his cook had attempted to make amends for concealing that fact by enticing him with added fare. With a certainty, the old man deemed himself her chaperone. Of course, to Simeon’s estimation, Thorne had spent too much alone time with Miss Hansford in the intimacy of his cabin. After Simeon rearranged the silverware five times, Thorne had enough. He rose out of his chair and towered over the old man. “You may return to the kitchen.”

  His cook scurried to the door. He had the audacity to hesitate at the threshold. “I-I’ll return in fifteen minutes to retrieve the tray, Captain.”

  Thorne slammed the door in his face.

  Abigail bit her lip to hide a smile. “He is protecting me.”

  “I gathered as much, but I don’t have to like it.”

  Simeon’s mother hen antics irked Jacob, but the real reason for his displeasure was learning his cabin boy could read and expound on several subjects. “How is it you have such a good education?” she asked him, fingering the spine of her book.

  He scorched her with a black look. “For a cloddish colonial?”

  Abby giggled. “You did suffer Abe. I’m curious Captain Thorne,” she said unable to stop her impulsive questions in spite of herself. “How is it you are so informed on many subjects?”

  He lathered two scones with butter, lopped a teaspoon of sweet guava jelly on top and handed one to her. “My uncle insisted on my education, setting a straight course, barring no deviation and demanding I receive the best education. With the family struggling financially, I objected the expense. Where he obtained the money to hire a scholar from Oxford remains a mystery.”

  Abby nibbled on her scone then tilted her head to the side, the guava, an intriguing taste in her mouth. “A scholar from Oxford in the Colonies? Very unusual.” She wanted to ask him so many things…what he had left behind in his past that she sensed remained buried, what he expected of his future, but she held her tongue. The lessons of the past few months had taught her caution.

  She sat in silence, considering this side of Jacob Thorne. In her young life, she had been courted by many swains, and seeing men from different angles, yet she regarded him as unique and unnervingly interesting.

  He leaned over and wiped a crumb from her chin. The movement was only for a second, but it seemed a lifetime, and so incongruous with the roguish adventurer. Abby stopped breathing.

  “So,” he said, his grin slightly off center. “The seed of discovering had been planted by my instructor then cultivated with questions and reasoning until my appetite for learning became voracious. I read everything I could get my hands on. To the surprise of my tutor, I had eclipsed him in a few years.”

  “Your uncle was quite a man. Your mother and father must be proud?” He had said nothing of his parents and had earlier disclosed he had relatives in England. The man was a closed door.

  He thought for a moment, obviously weighing what he would reveal to her, but it was the gruffness of his voice that caught her and added to his mystery. “My mother had traveled from England and we lived with her sister, Ester and her husband, Hugh Thorne. I never knew my father. My mother died when I was ten summers. My aunt and uncle adopted me, a natural and logical inclination since I had lived with them from the time I was born. They extended their love and extended their acknowledgement of me as a child of their own, nullifying my bastardy. I owe them a great debt.”

  Abby swallowed. It took a lot for the proud Captain Thorne to acknowledge the facts of his lineage. He bore
with a heavy mantle, the shame of his illegitimacy. Did he know who his father was?

  Thorne was looking inward, his expression shuttered. She grasped the moment to consider him, and let her senses inform her mind of all they could identify.

  What she saw made her shiver. He was not the man she believed him to be and his tortured secrets he kept hidden beneath his arrogant façade. To keep her distance would be wise. When so moved, she could be very, very wise.

  Chapter 17

  Star shine glowed along the deck when she climbed through the hatch. Abby had been restless in her cabin and sought the solace of the deck. She realized she was becoming accustomed to the sounds of the sea—the wind as it whistled through the rigging, the waves as they lapped and crashed against hull and bow. And as she closed her eyes to savor the gentle sounds of night, she recognized, unhappily, that she was also becoming accustomed to Jacob Thorne.

  Overhead, intermittent clouds floated and in the dark velvet, stars glittered like millions of diamonds scattered carelessly across the sky. She breathed in, the warm air a balm to her lungs, and the awe of creation leaving her to wonder, to speculate over the events of the past weeks and how her life had changed far from her beloved England.

  Thorne had ordered her cabin boy duties retired and divided between Simeon and Pascale. Gone was the Yankee captain’s hostility replaced by an over solicitousness of her welfare. Every comfort had been afforded. Was Thorne courting her? Abby smiled. She rather liked this genteel side of Thorne.

  Their life aboard ship had acquired a certain routine. More often than not, they shared their meals. And every night he escorted her around the deck and to his cabin. And every night she longed for him to join her in his bed, waited to feel his heat, longing to curl against his powerful masculine strength, to touch him, to be held. It was torment to know that she must escape him—when she could not, inside herself, disavow his desirability, when she could not pretend that his arms were not those of a solid and captivating man, that he was not fascinating, that his eyes did not touch her all the way to her soul. And so she lay awake, sometimes barely breathing, sometimes yearning that he would shift and slip his arm around her, stroke her hair, edge closer to her—and then praying fervently that he would not.

  If only she could renounce the idea that she was falling beneath his spell. Possibly, falling a little bit in love. Sometimes, she allowed herself to dream. To envision that he might marry her, love her, and treasure her.

  It was a sweet fantasy, a bitter dream. Yet it never-ended. Could he love her?

  If he loved her, would he marry her?

  It was a dangerous fantasy. Very dangerous. Jacob Thorne was a Patriot, and a man as fiercely independent as she longed to be. She drove herself to move away from menacing dreams and fantasies, to remind herself of the impulses of infatuation and to firmly remember she must maintain her detachment from him—and escape as soon as possible. Before she lost more of herself to him than she already had.

  You must be practical, Abigail Marie Hansford Rutland. Do not lose your heart.

  Even under the best of circumstances, a match would be forbidden. She was a Rutland, born to a different life far from the man whose existence was privateering. Didn’t the lines of nobility prevail? She smoothed back a loose tendril, mulling over the divinely sanctioned division of society in England opposed to the fervent, raw freedom Jacob fought for. Didn’t she see equality among the crew? Weren’t they happier? This she had to admit was true and with that evidence, she determined that what the Americans were fighting for was the greater good. Yet she had made a pact with the Almighty that if her father and brothers were somehow alive, then she would be the compliant, obedient daughter and marry whoever her father decreed.

  In the event her family did not survive, Abby prayed the letter she penned to Uncle Cornelius sent through Yvette would reach him. As her father’s best friend, the Duke of Westbrook would use all his resources to find who murdered her family. She would do anything to get back to England.

  Violin music started from the far end of the ship, and she wrapped her arms around herself retreating inward with the nostalgic strain. Her heart seized on Joshua, her brother who had disappeared in the American wilderness. Joshua, who had secretly taught her how to throw a knife. She half-smiled from the memory. Swearing her to secrecy, her brother had taken her to a secluded meadow in the woods where he had placed a target on a tree. Repeatedly, he instructed her, encouraging her until she at last, became proficient. He was alive. He had to be. By now, he’d be in touch with their Uncle Thomas Hansford who lived in Boston? No doubt, he had finished dinner with her uncle, and was ensconced comfortably before a fire.

  In Boston, she’d seek Uncle Thomas’s aid and breathed a sigh of relief, a comfort to have family in the Colonies where hostility to her presence would be strong. Abby had not told Thorne of this relation. No. It would serve no purpose. He was unreadable where her future was concerned. At least she would have a place to go and perhaps a way to secure passage to England.

  “Abby,” Thorne’s voice broke out of the dark, startling her. She slipped, but his hand caught her elbow. A southern zephyr had kicked up by the time they reached mid-ship and she shivered. He took off his coat and placed it over her, an affectionate, considerate act. Abby brushed her lips over the collar, inhaling Jacob’s comforting scent. Side by side they stood in companionable silence, peace descending with only the creak of wood where full-masted sails strained, fortified by the wind.

  “Captain, how is it you know so much about the sea and ships?”

  He bowed his head, the action contrasting with his unshaven face, for a day’s beard was visible. “My uncle, Hugh was a brilliant sea-captain. Early on I was exposed to life on the water. He grew too old for the sea and retired. With the help of an investor, we began a shipbuilding yard in Boston. I showed an aptitude for the trade, drawing and designing, improving the speed and gainliness of the ships we built.”

  Thorne stopped and tightened rigging on a halyard then motioned for her to walk with him again. “I spent a few years dabbling with the business but my restless spirit had me yearning for the sea. My uncle finally relented and I sailed out to test one of our ships, proving the vessel faster and sleeker than any on the seas. Of course, history changed the course of events. The British took control of Boston. When my uncle was cut down at Breeds Hill…” his fists tightened. “As he lay dying in my arms, he made me promise to care for the family.”

  “I see,” she whispered, but she wondered what other layers he hid beneath.

  He stopped. “No. You don’t see. I did a rotten job of keeping my promise. I drowned my sorrows in whiskey, sleeping in my ship tied in the harbor and never going home. Aunt Ester died of pneumonia, probably more from a broken heart. I sank further into drink. The Quartering Act was passed. Without my knowledge, British soldiers bordered in my uncle’s home and preyed upon my eighteen year old cousin, Rachel. She had pleaded with me to come home. By that time, I was so in my cups that I was not aware she existed. Then Thomas died…”

  “You were going through mourning,” Abby explained away his guilt. Didn’t her brother, Nicholas react the same way when their mother had died? Didn’t she in her own way act out in rebellion?

  We both have our scars. We work so very hard to bury them.

  A wave of sorrow swept over her as he relived his past, his voice devoid of all emotion. Her own heart fluttered with the loss of her own family. “Losing someone you love affects you so deeply that it remains buried inside of you and becomes this big, bottomless hole of ache that never goes away.” She could feel the tug of his gaze, the rugged insistence of his presence, and she wanted to look at him. But she was afraid of coming to care too much.

  His revenge against the people who had done this to his family stood atoned in his careless behavior and shown in contempt for England and everything British, so great, he raided their very shores. But Jacob, she sensed, had other demons.

  His hand
curled in the ratline. She hesitated, studying that hand. The long, strong fingers, hands of a man of the sea, calloused by hard work and hard weather−a pirate’s hand, one that had held a sword and pistols, and killed men. How could it be the same hand that had plucked a drowning cabin boy from the sea?

  Through sheltering clouds, the light of a half-moon kicked up on languid waves. Then a low lifeless pitch of self-loathing resonated in his tone. “The fact remains, I wasn’t there when my family needed me. If I could reverse everything−”

  Aching for him, a deep understanding of him roused inside of her. This confident, strong-willed, sometimes harsh man, she could picture, overcome with grief and unable to protect the ones he loved. The unspoken, suppressed guilt he shouldered increased the gravest of his flaws, making him more reckless, impatient and demanding.

  Don’t fall in love with him, Abigail. Be completely unaffected by him.

  Abby looked down at her open palms, conflicted with her own swirling emotions. Who was she to give comfort? As Abe she could not. As Lady Abigail Rutland she could not. But as commonplace Abby Hansford, she could. Denying the wisdom of it, she took his hand in hers. This was madness, pure madness, and yet she could no more resist it−or him−than she could resist the wind upon her face. If only she could will his festering wound into her body−and release him from this agony.

  Jacob had measured the risk, wondering what it would cost him to tell this compassionate, perceptive woman something about himself. He had grown so used to holding back the truth by not verbalizing it, that once he overcame the difficulty of saying the words aloud, he was unable to hold back. Like an undertow pulling him, his past flowed.

  “You have bared yourself to me, Captain Thorne. I hold no censure, no reproach and no blame upon your head. Life deals us unfair justice and tragedy. No matter what our difficulties, to lose hope would be the real disaster. Real strength is when we pick ourselves up and move forward.”