Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  “Nicholas? What has happened to my brother?”

  “Your father ordered the world turned upside down to find the both of you. With his connections to the crown, a flotilla of His Majesty’s ships has been dispatched to comb the Caribbean. Nicholas had been traced to a Portuguese slaver bound for Brazil. For an exchange of coin, it was discovered you had been taken aboard the Civis. I volunteered my services for immediate departure. We came upon the floating wreck of the merchantman, the Civis and learned from two seamen who had hidden in the hold that they had been attacked by the pirate, Jacob Thorne.”

  He is not a pirate.

  Davenport flicked his eyes to Jacob. “We did not know if you survived the ordeal on the Civis, but followed near to Martinique, a Colonial favorite. I sent for a rendezvous with a British spy from the island who had confirmed observations on the activities of the Vengeance. He had not seen you. He interviewed a French woman, Lucette who said she had seen a female aboard, answering to your description. On assumption it was you, we followed through the Windward Islands, assuming the traitor would be running supplies back to the rebels in the Colonies. My assumptions were correct, Lady Rutland,” he boasted, his icy grey eyes looked to the other two awaiting warships where the red cross of the Union Jack waved in the breeze and roared the power of England.

  Or luck, Abby concluded. Of course, the puffed-up peacock would take full credit for her rescue, to endear him to the Duke of Rutland and commend him to the Crown. With certainty, to capture Captain Jacob Thorne would add to his promotion and prominence, labeling him a hero.

  Davenport toyed with the whip in his hand and Abby blanched.

  “We will resupply and arrange matters in Nassau before taking you home.”

  “Home?” To go home. Tears formed. Isn’t this what she wanted? To see her family again? All her prayers were answered. The commitment she had vowed, to return to her father and do what he decreed reared its ugly head. Her eyes roved over Enos and Benjamin and all the crew of the Vengeance. Weren’t they her family too? Longingly she looked to Thorne. Her breath hitched. The wicked nights of lovemaking, all the things she loved about this man.

  Loved? She loved him.

  And with that admission, her heart tore with the pact she had made with God if he spared her father and brothers. Joy rolled to ashes in her mouth, to leave her Colonial friends, to leave Jacob, to leave them thinking that she had duped them?

  She didn’t know how she would pull it off to help them. Stealth, wits and persistence. Davenport must never suspect. Pride was his weakness. She lifted her chin−to play on his vanity.

  It was apparent the strain of maintaining schooled interest waxed a heavy toll on Davenport’s patience. It distracted him. Exactly what Abby intended. “All the horrors I have gone through…Captain Davenport, I cannot do without your company.” She dared to lean her bosom into his arm.

  Jacob raised his head with an effort, saw how she had pressed into Davenport then scorched her up and down. “Did Lady Rutland tell you how comfortable she made my voyage?”

  If only she could collapse to the deck and hide in a ball, the insinuation read clearly on Davenport’s face. The damage Thorne created. Now everyone would suspect she had slept with the Colonial captain. How could she repair her reputation? The fool. Didn’t he realize she was trying to help him?

  Davenport stiffened. “In Nassau, Captain Thorne, you will go before the governor. You will be inquired of, tried, heard, determined and adjudged under his full power and authority. I am told he does not hold a particular affection for pirates and has a fondness for the gallows.”

  Abby dropped his arm. “Are you implying hanging? He has letters of marque.”

  “Not anymore.” Davenport held up the notes and let the breezes blow the documents out over the ocean. “He is pirate and will be hanged accordingly. He also kidnapped you. These are treasonous crimes. The king will look the other way. Of this I am sure.”

  Abigail stood stunned. “This cannot be true.”

  Davenport looked at her sharply. “You have affection for the Colonial pirate?”

  “Jacob…I mean, Captain Thorne…” her whisper was barely audible to her ears. “You see, I was−I was rather…” She stared at Jacob.

  “You’re nothing but a spoiled aristocratic bitch.” He turned his head away but in that split second she saw the torment that covered his countenance, bringing a deep cutting pain to her chest.

  “Go on.” Davenport encouraged her as if anything more from her would make any difference. Suspicion flickered across his face.

  Her fingers spread out in a fan against her breastbone, the predetermined revelation of his sentencing unquestionable. Keep up the charade, Abby. “Despite him treating me well during my imprisonment, I’m afraid I must confess that I took a severe dislike to Captain Thorne. He did treat me with proper decorum for a lady but I found him to be a bit supercilious for one of his station.” Abby fluttered her hand, the gesture, a queenly dismissal, one a high-born peer of the realm would have discussing the inadequacies of a contrary servant. She appeared to forget Jacob’s presence, settled between the two husky guards, not more than four feet from her. She continued silkily, beguiling Davenport with her smile, anything to quell his doubtful assessment of her.

  She walked away as if strolling through a garden. How could she plead to the governor in their defense? How could she stop their execution? In this uncivilized part of the world, she was unsure of her family’s influence. Abby inhaled, far from England, a woman wielding the power of the Rutland’s was like nailing water to a tree. Inches from Pascale, she dropped her handkerchief and bent to pick it up. His heavy chains clinked. Pascale procured the handkerchief, met her eyes halfway. She whispered rapidly in French. “I will find a way to help you escape.”

  Pascale grunted.

  She turned back to Davenport and pouted. “You must understand that to continue in the company of a man I’ve held in strict contempt from the start is a torment I no longer wish to endure. You do understand, Captain Davenport, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Captain Davenport flicked scornful eyes to his nemesis then offered Abby his arm. “Guards throw this scum in the bowels of the ship with the other rats and let them rot for all I care.” The guards obediently hustled the prisoners below. Abby bit her lip and looked away.

  Before the guards could drag him from the deck, Jacob shook them off with sudden, furious strength, and whirled to face her, his eyes glared his unconcealed hatred. “Abby or Lady Rutland or whoever you are, if it is the last breath I breathe, I will have my revenge on you for your lies.”

  Chapter 21

  Nassau, Bahamas, December 1777

  “Your voyage must have been dreadful,” said Denise Gambier Cornish, widowed sister of Governor, John Gambier of Fort Nassau.

  Abby perched on the brocade settee in the parlor of Governors House and reached for the teacup the black servant girl offered. “Thank you, Louise” she smiled. It was the day after her arrival in New Providence, the colony brimming with excitement from the capture of the Vengeance and the consequent rescue of Lady Rutland.

  She had been appointed a room with a spare dressing room, surprised with the comfortable accommodations for a remote outpost of England’s realm. After a hot bath, Abby had slept for over a day, the battle, journey to Nassau, an exhausting blur that had played havoc on her nerves. An assortment of gowns had been laid out for her to choose, left from the governor’s four daughters who had married and moved to England. Not the latest style, the gowns had been taken in to accommodate her small waist. She smoothed her hands over the fine fabric grateful to have something clean and serviceable in the tropics until new gowns were made for her. She sipped her tea and sighed deeply, luxuriating in civilization. If only the nosy widow wasn’t so provoking.

  “What was it like aboard the Vengeance?” Denise asked for the twelfth time.

  Did the crew have horns and cloven feet? Did they make ritual sacrifices? Abby fli
nched every time Denise opened her mouth, prying for every detail of her journey. Women like the governor’s sister were malicious gossips bent on ruining a girl’s reputation.

  Aboard the Solebay, it had been a dance of words to protect her reputation courtesy of Jacob’s insinuations. Like a rat terrier on the hunt, Captain Davenport burrowed right in with his questioning. Putting on airs that she had been too stressed to continue, Abby had demanded her privacy, anything to delay his inquiry until she had time to develop a logical account. No doubt deeper inquiry would arise. She gritted her teeth. To whitewash Jacob’s innuendoes would be a miracle. Now that investigation became a matter of time, necessitating caution in her approach. Abby exhaled, smiled at the widow, giving as little information as possible.

  Next to the door, stood Simeon, ramrod straight. The only inclination to Mrs. Cornish’s prying was the rolling of his eyes. Abby placed her cup in the saucer. “I suppose one could consider them barbaric.”

  Mrs. Cornish leaned forward all agog. She splattered tea in her cup followed by a splash of milk. “Barbaric? Whatever do you mean?”

  Predictable. A little excitement was needed for the old scandalmonger bored with island tedium. Abigail leaned over to speak low and confidingly. Were Mrs. Cornish’s eyes popping out of her head? “The Americans are barbarous in nature. They had no clotted cream to put on my scone. They held out their pinkie when drinking their tea. The worst of their crudeness was that they added their milk after they poured their tea.”

  “I can’t imagine.” Mrs. Cornish sat back in her chair not even realizing she had placed her milk in after her tea.

  Simeon’s lips twitched and Abigail nodded her head in the affirmative, closed her eyes and let out an appropriate groan.

  “The horrors you suffered. What of the captain? I understand he is ruthless. Did he−” Denise cleared her throat. “−did he?”

  Ravish me? He did more than ravish me. For a fractured second, the way he made love to her, the way her body responded and all the intimacies they shared, flashed in her mind, so strong, it felt almost real. Abigail opened her eyes. “You have been so kind to me, like a mother, and I do need someone to desperately confide in,” Abby dabbed her handkerchief to her eye.

  Was Mrs. Cornish about to bust out of her corset? Denise waved Simeon from the room. The door closed and her bosom heaved like a full-masted ship, trembling in the wind. Abby shook her head. “Captain Thorne is a monster. Once he lent me his handkerchief and there was a stain on the corner. Can you imagine my vexation? Then the man had an unnatural profundity to find fault in me. I wanted to stay on deck, but he insisted I go below. I would not pretend to diminish that a squall brewed and that he had the right to insist since it was his ship.”

  “What else?” Mrs. Cornish pursed her lips, breathless with glee.

  Abigail placed the back of her wrist on her forehead and affected a brilliant pose of woe. “Did I tell you he has a monstrous passion?”

  “Passion?” Denise squawked.

  Mrs. Cornish was ready to swoon. Abigail suppressed her laughter. The woman was a purple, bobbing fishing cork on a surging wave. “On two accounts.” Abby held up two fingers. “He has an oafish predilection for pickled herring. Eats them by the barrels.” Abby paused sufficiently before firing her next salvo. “But his most avid passion is poetry. He recites sonnets and poems the whole live long day. He even sings them while he steers the ship. In fact, he makes all of his crew sing sonnets with him.”

  The widow fanned herself, no doubt, bursting to share this news with the whole island. Abigail stood and walked to the window, her back to Mrs. Cornish. Out in the hall, Simeon had a coughing spasm. Abby smirked. How long would it take for the news to reach England? America? Captain Jacob Thorne regaled as the most terrifying American privateer, the scourge of England reduced to a bard singing pirate? The pleasure was all Abby’s. Served him right for the insinuations he had hurled to sully her character especially after he had told her he would do everything to protect her reputation.

  She fingered the satiny fringe on the heavy drapes. Her fingers went cold, her triumph short lived when she thought about Jacob and the crew. Were they still imprisoned in the hold of the ship? Had they been given food and water? Treatment for Jacob’s wounds? Despite the hateful way Jacob had spoken to her, she could not bear to think of his suffering. How could she blame him for the way he had acted? Beaten and degraded, to learn of her identity while she beguiled the commander who had taken his ship. To have behaved like the aristocrat he despised? No, she could not blame him. But there had been no alternative. If there were any way possible to help him, she must maintain a loyal appearance to the Crown.

  Why had she never told him the truth? A hundred times the rant lashed through her head.

  Abby tapped her finger on her lips, thinking about the harrowing sea battle. A man that can do the things Jacob did earned his rank as master seaman. To thrust the Vengeance deliberately through a maze of shallows and ragged-sharp islands and turn the tables on Davenport was as admirable as it was foolhardy. It had proved Thorne a natural leader: courageous, inventive, and a little mad. He lived up to his reputation, his revolutionary seamanship to be respected. His brilliance for naval tactics rose legendary and had created a sensation in Europe, not to mention, hatred by the King of the most proficient sea-power in the world. He had become the symbol of adoration in the eyes of the Colonists. As a result, he had been targeted in a massive manhunt and captured.

  Abby sighed. Government House stood high on a cliff, commanding a beautiful view of the sea and the town that surrounded Fort Nassau, a formidable monolithic four-pointed star built of stone with two high-walled ends, projecting northward into the harbor, and guarding the west end of the port. If Jacob and his crew were held in the dungeons there would be no way to help them escape. Her hope lay in her pleas to the Governor.

  “Fort Nassau has sixty-four cannon and twenty-six brass mortars,” Denise bragged. “My brother has refortified this fort and its sister, Fort Montagu in the north since the American attack two years ago. No one can breach either fort’s defenses.”

  Abigail pivoted. “Mrs. Cornish, when does your brother return?”

  “Denise. Please call me Denise. He is visiting Eleuthera and is expected in a week. During that time, I have taken the liberty of arranging a few parties for you.”

  “I could not impose, Denise. You have done enough in providing me with comforts.”

  Denise snorted like a hog in heat, a rather annoying habit; her rolls of fat sweated and strained her laces beneath layers of black wool that asserted her ten-year stake of widowhood. “We rarely get visitors of your prestige and I will not let it be heralded around England that New Providence is in anyway deficient. The ladies of the town are dying to meet you. Teas, parties and a dance have been scheduled.”

  Abigail took Mrs. Cornish’s hands in her own. “I cannot wait. When is the first social?” Of course, Abby would do her best to capitalize on her status in hopes of influencing the Governor, anything to avert his strong appetite for executions. Her insides twisted. Why did she feel that no matter what she did, it wouldn’t make any difference?

  Two weeks had passed with a whirlwind of parties and teas arranged by the governor’s sister. Lady Abigail Rutland had been an instant success, the island agog with the Duke of Rutland’s daughter. To host her in their homes spoke volumes of their own preening importance. Never one to disappoint, Abby bestowed her most gracious manners with appropriate gratitude.

  The carriage wheels ground over hard limestone rock and Abby shielded her eyes from the brightness of the Bahamian sun. When Mrs. Cornish had suggested a tour of New Providence, Abby had been elated until she discovered they were to be accompanied by none other than Captain Davenport. Abby sat in a snug leather seat, gripped her parasol handle and twisted it like a lamb roast rotating on a spit over a fire. Recalling what he had ordered for Jacob and done to the maids in his employ, Abby refused to be alone with the l
echer. Per her insistence, Simeon rode next to the driver and Mrs. Cornish faced across from her to act as proper escort. The captain flicked his gaze to the firmament not at all pleased with the chaperons.

  She had not seen Jacob or anyone from the Vengeance. The wait for the Governor wore on her nerves. What else could she do to stop the execution? She squeezed her fingers together as if to plumb the answer out of her hands. The Colonials had been put to work to pay for their reprisal against England until they were tried. The loathing of the Colonials and their probable execution met with approval by the islanders. For Captain Jacob Thorne, the consequence of such disadvantaged fame fashioned him the symbol of the depredations of American privateers they desired to eradicate.

  Davenport’s eyes roved over her and she prickled in the heat. “Captain Davenport, could you explain that particular flora?” Abby persisted in the mundane, asking Davenport ceaseless questions on everything. “How many coconuts does a tree produce? Why is that palm tree angled like that? What do fishermen eat? I see you rubbing your head, Captain. Do you have a headache?”

  Dressed in his buttoned tight, embroidered blue coat, bleached white breeches and stockings, he flicked an imaginary speck off his golden epaulet, no doubt to lionize his rank. He could have been handsome except for his longer nose, crooked like it had been broken before. She had experience with broken noses. Her brother, Nicholas was a pugilist. A very good one. He had broken many of his opponent’s noses.