Their little group made their way up the ramparts overlooking five hundred angry loyalists that had gathered. Captain Trevett made his demands. Abby put on a desperate face in hopes the people she had cultivated friendships would force the governor’s hand.
“The bastards have Lady Rutland,” said one of the loyalists.
“What is that flag? We’ve never seen it,” shouted another.
Abby turned. A stars and bars flag flew over the fort, replacing the flag of England.
“It is the flag of the American Colonies, get used to seeing it,” warned Captain Trevett.
“There is that dam butcherer come again that carried away Governor Browne,” shouted another.
Trevett blew air from his teeth and glanced to Thorne. “They remember my raid two years ago.”
Abby’s breath hitched from Trevett’s gall, to believe that the townspeople or governor would surrender twice? No way. She placed a shaky hand on her chest, if the Americans should lose? The terrifying likelihood of a forced marriage to Davenport loomed. To win the battle was to convince the crowd. She cried out, “Please do as he says. Save me.”
Tall and formidable, Thorne moved in between her and Trevett and shielded her from the mob in case an errant musket went off. His dark hair a mass of damp, tousled curls, and his eyes gleaming dangerously, he was not the same flawless figure who had taught a poor cabin boy to read. Yet even clothed in grimy rags, full beard, and with his sunburnt skin filthy from dust and sweat, he was alarmingly forbidding. Zeus exploding with violence. “They will need more convincing. Redirect the cannons onto the town. Show them we mean business.”
Captain Trevett ordered his men to haul the fort’s cannon about. He addressed the crowd. “I will blow your town off the map if necessary.”
Mouths slackened, several backed off. A few leaders remained.
“Hurry and be about. You have three hours. If my demands are not met then I will start blasting,” said Trevett.
Jacob turned and commandeered her arm before Trevett did. “Let them stew for a while. Shall we, Lady Rutland.”
The careful mask was back in place. He had apologized for his treatment of her when he had wronged her, but had not forgiven her deception. Forced to navigate the narrow steps first, she listed the reasons why she hated Jacob Thorne. She had sacrificed her reputation, her country and her life for him. The ungrateful wretch, there were not even enough steps to enumerate the grievances she held against him. And if he sneered, Lady Rutland one more time.
By noon the American commander met with a small contingency of his men in the fort’s office for a report. There had been no news from the governor and they could not be barricaded in the fort forever without provisions.
“They surrendered at Fort Montagu, Captain Trevett. My men spiked their cannons and poured their gunpowder into the sea,” said a marine.
Another American, a naval man, Captain Rathburn took off his hat and mopped his brow. “The Providence was brought around. We sent boarding parties to the other ships in the harbor and convinced them to leave. A British privateer, the Gayton has moved in front of the harbor ready to attack. We are trapped.”
“The townspeople have caught onto us faking our superior numbers. There is a mob outside the fort, still undecided, yet I fear their militia may initiate an attack. We need to depart as soon as possible.”
“Grim. Very Grim.” Captain Trevett pivoted to Thorne. “What about your crew? In their current state, can they be split to sail two ships?”
Jacob ran his hands through his hair. “My men are tired, some sick, but they will meet the challenge. Anything to get out of this purgatory. All’s they need is some nutrition.”
At the mention of food, a pulsing beat of urgency sprang from the front gates. “Captain Trevett, wagons and foodstuffs have been delivered.”
Jacob smiled. “Looks like the governor agreed to our requests. Let’s hope he keeps his word on allowing us to leave without mishap.”
For the next two hours, the men ate heartily of a dinner of turtle meat from china plates furnished by Nassau’s wealthy harridans, their desire to see the Yankees leave post haste. Men filled the supply wagons with sixteen hundred pounds of gunpowder and several lots of firearms. Unheeded they filled the ships.
Beneath the flagstaff where Trevett had nailed a flag that symbolized a fight to the death, Jacob collapsed his telescope and smiled. “Captain Trevett, the Gayton in its haste to attack your ship has run upon the shoals. We need not worry any trouble from her cannons. Where are the two pilots promised us?”
Trevett gritted his teeth. “The damn swine have fled to the hills.”
Jacob raised a brow. “Have they? Lady Rutland, could you show us where they live?”
While the ships were finishing loading, Jacob took her with him. In front of the townspeople, she was properly incensed; her manner was not an act. With Simeon and a group of large marines they surprised the errant pilots in their homesteads and at point of muskets convinced them that to see the end of the day was to assist them.
On the docks, Jacob was the last to depart. Other than the squawks of pelicans diving for fish and the marines rowing the pilots over breakers to the awaiting ships, they were alone.
Abby drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “I bid you farewell, Captain Thorne.”
“Farewell?” he laughed. “I never agreed to a farewell.”
Chapter 23
Jacob put down the sextant, watching Lady Rutland’s progress across the deck. Not one word had been spoken between them since he kidnapped her off the dock in Nassau hours before. If he fell overboard into the jaws of the sea…she’d feel not one shred of pity.
Thorne considered their escape. A wonder he had the strength to move the munitions and stores out onto the ships, and the strength to divide up the freed men to crew to best advantage the great number of ships they had taken.
Odd, how the need to breathe the air of liberty gave energy to a man who had been chained for so long. The power and vigor renewed when one had the chance of freedom, to escape from being treated like a dog, and to be master and commander of his ship again. The nightmare of that blighted island wiped away by the glory of the open sea.
The hardships of imprisonment had left their mark on him; he ached from the blows and beatings, and the endless days in the merciless sun, toiling beneath the whip. The meagre food and close, suffocating damp atmosphere of the dungeon further weakened him. It had been a month since he bathed or felt anything softer beneath his back than the hard dirt floor, and his hands were rough and bleeding from the beams he lifted and carried all day. The grueling labors had turned him to iron. If only he and his exhausted men could muster their strength long enough for the sail home.
Home. What would he find when he arrived home? Had Boston been retaken? Bingham said it was in the hands of the patriots. Although in times of war, lines became blurred. Perhaps the conflict was over. So much had occurred in America since he had left two years ago. Communications ran unhurried across the ocean. Trevett had been grim. News of victory or defeat? He shook his head. More likely the battle still raged, savaging the land with blood and violence. Rachel? Ethan? What news of them? A yearning scraped his insides to know how they were. Soon.
His gaze slid unwillingly to Abby. Why had he taken her? There was certainty in a trade for Ethan, her father desperate to get his daughter back.
The curve of her breast spilled from a dark green silk gown. His eyes followed the line of her long, elegant neck to a stubborn chin. Memories of long, lush nights, the sweet, salt taste, the feel of her mouth on his, her tender moans and soft breasts−certainly it had meant more? The simple evidence, so very clear at this moment, suddenly burst the fires of hell in his mind and body. Fiercely, he wanted to damn his desire and end the fascination that had so rapidly carried him to such flaming heights of wanting. He fought the wild longing to seize her then and there, fought the furious destinies that had brought him to her.
A demented laugh sprang from his throat.
“You’re worse than a rutting stag. No good will come of it, Captain.”
Enos. A spark of anger flared inside Jacob. “Since when did you become my conscience?”
“Leave her unharmed,” warned Enos. “Make the trade for your cousin. War or no war her father’s tentacles reach far. He won’t take kindly to having his daughter misused.”
“She lied to me.”
“Your pride’s as big as a mountain. Don’t blame the girl.”
Middeck, Abby lifted her face into the wind. Gone was Abe’ short mane. Her hair tumbled in golden waves around her shoulders. More vexing still, she was running her hands through the gleaming tresses, letting the silken strands spill from her fingers like pure molten gold.
Unaware of her audience, she attempted to knot the hair with a slowness meant to seduce. Jacob gritted his teeth, the performance well done.
Enos stood next to him, his clothes flapping against him in the strong wind. “The fine honorable Captain Thorne above mere mortals cannot talk to a girl?”
“I’m warning you−” Thorne directed his gaze on the white-crested waves. He refused to look at her. The conjured image of Davenport between her naked thighs cracked him with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. Why had he not taken her into his arms and comforted her? Now she wouldn’t even look at him. “You press your argument too far.”
“She’s scrambled your brains.”
“No, she’s laid a scythe to them.”
“Have you noticed the newer wet-behind-the-ears members to our crew? Do they not appreciate the sights as well?”
Jacob folded his arms in front of him. Several of the men stood slack-jawed, negligent of their duties. “It matters not a whit to me how many green lads fawn over her.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I have the sudden urge to heave you overboard.”
Descending to middeck, Enos arched a mocking brow. “When frogs grow hair.”
She swiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. Tears? A knot tightened in Jacob’s chest. He swore beneath his breath. “Back to work, men.”
Abby curled her hand around a ratline looking out over endless ocean. Long ago, there had been something elating, intoxicating almost, about the smell of water and grease and jute and holystone and lingering salt that went with the aura of the Vengeance. Now with her hair blowing about her shoulders and face, tears fell softly on the back of her hands. She wiped them away. She would not give Jacob Thorne the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to tears.
A splash hit the other side of the ship and she jerked her head around. Sailors shouted. “Good bye, Albury.”
The pilot. Of course, Jacob had used the pilot’s unwilling services to navigate Nassau’s harbor. Rude fanfare was bestowed upon the released pilot. He rowed toward the island of Abaco then shaking his fist, swore perdition on bard singing pirates. If only Abby weren’t so miserable, to have laughed at the pilot’s recriminations born of her rumors. She turned her head east again. How long had she stared where a flotilla ran abreast? No British Man o’ War would dare challenge the heavily armed Americans.
Abby breathed a heavy sigh thinking about the wild, tumultuous events in Nassau. An air of unreality choked her. The nightmare blurred. The consequences were enormous and life altering, casting in her in a direction she feared−irrevocably to America.
“Captain Thorne wants to see you in his cabin,” said Lawton.
The question remained. What about her made Jacob so angry that he felt compelled to kidnap her? Abby knocked. He bade her to enter and she blinked, stunned by his transformation. Dressed and shaved, he was her dear familiar Jacob, seated at his desk, measuring his charts. She stiffened and awaited the conversation between them that was long overdue.
“You may use my cabin as your private quarters. I will need to use my charts and maps at times.”
“I see.” Her breath halted. The hunger and naked longing swimming in the depths of his brilliant blue eyes was a window into his soul. The lines in his face hardened and, without warning, he reached out to touch her cheek. Abby recoiled but his hand did not retract. Instead it lingered to lightly trace the line of her jaw.
“I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to lose my temper or beg. I demand you take me back to Nassau. That was the agreement.”
“That was Trevett’s arrangement, not mine.”
“You know who I am. My father will pay you handsomely. Return me to Nassau.”
He stood, towered over her with enough unleashed anger to blow a storm. “You delude yourself, Lady Rutland. Do you have any idea how vulnerable your position is?” He spoke in an even monotone, his mood unreadable. “Like the wing of a butterfly, fragile and trembling on the point of extermination at a touch.” The door slammed and reverberated on its hinges. How little she knew him hit her square between the eyes.
He was a man of deep secrets. None of her affair.
Enos brought in a tub and filled it with water.
“You needn’t do this. You are undermanned as it is.”
“As I am grateful to you Abby, I mean Lady Rutland for all you have done. We were all stupid in not seeing your selfless act to help us,” he offered apologetically.
When he left, Abby sank into the tub. Her body was numb; even her mind seemed static. The imprint of Jacob’s fingers-tips burned raw on her cheek. An instinct stirred in some far-away recess of her brain, ominous and gathering strength. She knew that with that touch, Jacob was affected as much as she. That deep down he still loved her. But something stopped him. It wasn’t her. It had nothing to do with the war. Something insidious brewed deep inside him, some hurt that he projected on the rest of the world and now focused on her.
She picked up the sponge and squeezed the water onto her neck. Oh yes, Jacob Thorne was in layers, had built an impenetrable fortress. Given a chance, she would pull off those layers stone by stone.
He was changed. Ever since he had learned she was Lady Rutland. But why? Because she was an aristocrat? It didn’t matter. She could help him. Just as he had spared her from death aboard the Civis, saved her from drowning in the angry seas, she knew she must draw him into her light and free the man behind the glacial cobalt eyes.
She dropped the sponge in a splash. Loud alarm bells rang around her, warning her of the danger, like a deadly undercurrent in the ocean, it threatened to drag her down into depths she would not know how to navigate. Despite the frightening awareness, the awful warnings and however loud the alarm bells rang around her, she would not adhere to them.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and sighed.
It was already too late for that. Despite all that had happened to make her hate him, she was still in love with Jacob Thorne.
For three days, he ignored her. Every evening he bathed, calculated his charts then without a word, left to sleep elsewhere. For all intents and purposes, he seemed unaware of her presence, his sullen taciturn silence and refusal to engage yielded a painful keening in her chest. How she missed his arms around her. But in the dark entrails of despair there still glimmered flashes of hope in the remembrance of what had been left unsaid between them, of distant echoes of emotion, of silent flashes in those tormented eyes, and that thin, tenuous filament between them that could not be denied.
A heavy squall brewed outside, keeping her inside. Bored she set about straightening the cabin. She rerolled the charts and tied them securely. Drawings of ships, Jacob’s designs drew her attention, his detail, mastery and creativity she could not help but admire. She put a finger to her lip, something vague and familiar about the drawings haunted her. She gave it up, stood on a chair and restacked them neatly in overhead cupboards. The last cupboard refused to close. Abby peered inside and frowned. A velvet bag lay in the corner. Of course, the contents of the bag were important to Thorne. That he kept it hidden. Abby looked toward the door. Wouldn’t she hear his booted footsteps before he entered the cabin?
She withdrew the bag and extracted two items each wrapped securely with tissue paper that had yellowed with age. By the number of wrinkles in the tissue paper, the items had been opened and reopened again and again. Beneath the folds of the first item lay a painted miniature of a beautiful woman with remarkable cobalt eyes, Jacob’s eyes. His mother? Whoever the woman was, she was important to him. A burning sensation rose in her chest. The chestnut-haired woman stared back at her. With reverence Abby placed the miniature on the desk and opened the second item.
Her eyes widened. A heavy gold ring. Not just any ring. Embedded with a glittering ruby, her fingers trailed over the fine engravings. Shadows fell into the deep grooves. Her father had a similar ring. A duke’s ring? She held the ring near the lantern, running her finger over the grooves where light fell into the deep veins and noted the familiarity of the crest−a crowned lion’s head. Where had she seen the emblem before?
She sat down, scanned the inside of the ring and surveyed an inscription. Duke of Banfield. How did Thorne come into possession of the duke’s ring? A hundred questions mushroomed and remained unanswered. Why was Thorne with Humphrey at her party? Why was Thorne so closed-mouthed about his relatives in England? Was he related to the duke? Was not the physical similarity remarkable? Or had he simply stolen the ring from Humphrey’s father? Boiling with suspicions, her mind bubbled like a cauldron about to overflow. Loose ends dangled, puzzles cried out to be solved, inconsistencies abounded.
She gazed with focus out the transom windows. The rain had stopped but the wind and cloud cover remained. Yet far over the horizon, an aperture opened, and rays of sunlight poured down from the sky. The ring was a breach into Thorne’s background. The key.
Wind roared in her ears.
It wasn’t about her imagined betrayal. No. Not about her at all. The real reason Jacob projected his anger toward her was that he was a bastard, the bastard born son of the Duke of Banfield and Humphrey’s older half-brother. This was the demon that possessed him. Envisioning the events of Thorne’s history, she put herself in his shoes. Thought about what it would be like to have that stigma. She placed the ring on the table. When he came to do his charts, he would see.
Sweet Vengeance Page 25