A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Her terse answer seemed to have startled him. He drew back, then pulled a pistol from behind him. Her mind screamed for her to run. She could not, for she was frozen as if she stood in the midst of a New England blizzard.

  “I bid you good day, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.” His smile again belonged to a rakish pirate. “You have answered my questions, but others have not. I ask that you stay here until I have finished those interrogations.”

  “But you said I could leave my room.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  She looked away from his smile that dared her to protest. What a beast he was!

  He opened the door and tapped the other side. “I shall have a bolt put on here.”

  “For my protection?” she fired back. He was insolent and insulting.

  “You are a lovely woman, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, and my men have been at sea many months. Neither I nor Jourdan, who is serving as my first mate aboard this ship, will be able to keep an eye on the crew every minute of the day.”

  “But you are putting the bolt on the outside! That will not protect me from anyone.”

  He chuckled and, taking her hand, lifted it to his lips. A flurry of fire flew up her arm and caught in her throat. His thumb teased her palm as he raised her hand again to his mouth. A soft breath drifted from her parted lips when the warm moistness of his kiss oozed through her skin, adding to the flame. His gaze held her, but, for the first time, she did not want to look away. The unexpected warmth in his eyes urged her to delve further into the secrets glowing there.

  He whispered lowly, so lowly she had to strain to hear him. “You need worry about no one … but me.”

  Abigail drew back as he laughed. He was playing her for a fool, and she was letting him do it. As the door closed, she shuddered. She would have to deal with Captain St. Clair until they reached … wherever, and she must find a way to best him. If only she had some idea how.

  Chapter Two

  Abigail paced her tiny room, three steps each way. How long before she wore through the boards? Another day with no answers. Another day of sailing toward the mock justice which could leave her father dead before she had a chance to know him.

  Her door swung open. Seeing Captain St. Clair’s smile, she tightened her hands into fists. No, she would not say it. She would not remind him that a gentleman knocked and asked permission before entering a lady’s room. He was sure to find that amusing.

  “I suspect this is yours.” He dropped the calico cat on her bed.

  “Yes, Captain.” She turned away and patted Dandy’s head. She did not want Captain St. Clair to see her tears of relief. Dear Dandy! She was so glad he had not been hurt or killed in the battle. She should have known better than to worry. The cat hunted through the lower decks every night and would have known where to hide.

  Her eyes widened when Captain St. Clair reached past her and stroked the cat. Betrayal scorched her when Dandy began to purr. How could her cat welcome this French pirate who wanted to see Father dead?

  “Why don’t we let your cat sleep while you join me for dinner, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald?”

  She stared at Captain St. Clair, noting for the first time his black velvet coat and white breeches. The style was better suited to a fine drawing room than the Republic. With his hair brushed behind the collar that reached his cleanly shaven jaw, the twinkle of his earring matched his gold waistcoat.

  “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald?” he repeated.

  “Yes … I mean, if you wish me to.” She was flustered by his metamorphosis from pirate to gentleman.

  “I would not have asked otherwise.” Captain St. Clair led her into the saloon. Seating her graciously on one bench by the table, he poured a glass of white wine. “Compliments of La Chanson de la Mer.” He smiled. “Your father’s taste in wine is as poor as his judgment in sailing into my waters.”

  Abigail took a sip so she could avoid answering. When he sat on the bench facing her and the door to the deck, she wondered if he feared being attacked. With her father’s crew aboard, he was wise to be cautious.

  He spooned a generous portion from each dish onto a plate and set it in front of her. “Not hungry?” he asked as he folded his arms on the table.

  “Not particularly.” When she saw that his food was as untouched as hers, she asked, “And you, Captain?”

  He picked up her fork. Dipping it in the fish stew, he ordered, “Eat.”

  “Captain, I am quite capable of deciding when or if—”

  “Eat!” His laugh was cold. “I am hungry, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.”

  Instantly she understood. Captain St. Clair had invited her to join him so Cookie would not poison the food. She thought about defying him, but she must pick her battles with care. Although she almost choked, she swallowed.

  “You appear to be enjoying good health still,” he said, dropping her fork and picking up his own.

  “Mayhap your enemies chose a slow-acting poison.”

  He smiled. “They know better than to give me a chance to cut out their cowardly hearts before I die.”

  “Then have you given thought to the idea that I might consider it worth my life to rid the world of you?”

  Taking a piece of bread, he offered it to her. She ignored it. With a shrug, he took a bite. “No, for how could you satisfy your desire for vengeance if you are dead?”

  Abigail stared at him. She must never allow herself to forget, not even for a moment, his power over all of them.

  When she did not answer, Captain St. Clair said, “You will like France. I suspect Paris is like nothing you have ever seen.” His hand covered hers, pinning it to the table. As she stared at him, unsure if she should believe his smile, he lifted his glass with his other hand. Taking a sip, he said, “If you wish, I can give you a tour while we await the disposition of your father’s case and while this cargo is sold for a great profit.”

  She drew her hand away, but did not lower her eyes. “Profit? You have halted the wrong ship if you wished to get a chest of gold for your troubles.”

  “I expect to sell the weapons at a tremendous profit.”

  “Weapons?” She laughed icily. “Captain St. Clair, you are sadly mistaken. We carry foodstuffs.”

  “Who eats gunpowder?”

  “No one, but I saw what was going in the holds.”

  “Did you?” Laughing, he stood. “You are a charming innocent. Come with me.”

  “Captain, I—”

  All gentleness vanished from his voice. “I said, come with me.”

  “And I wish to know why.”

  “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, after you have refused to answer my questions, why do you expect me to answer yours?”

  Despising his reasonableness, she said nothing as he took down the lamp and opened the door to the deck. He offered his arm. In disbelief, she looked from it to his face. So many emotions flashed through his eyes. She did not know if she was in more danger when he taunted her or when he eyed her boldly.

  Her fingers rose to his velvet sleeve. His firm muscles warned that his strength was no illusion. As he drew her closer, she pulled away. With a smile, he recaptured her hand and held it on his arm.

  “I do not bite, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald,” he murmured. “Unless you request me to.”

  Heat seared her face, and he chuckled. If only her face did not betray every thought …

  Abigail was aware of the men watching as she crossed the deck at Captain St. Clair’s side. Grumbles of rage came from her father’s crew. They should realize that she was not a traitor for consorting with the enemy. She had no choice. She was Captain St. Clair’s prisoner.

  The captain led her to the bowels of the ship, which her father had forbidden her to enter. Father had warned of dampness and rats and darkness. The stench twisted in her stomach.

  Captain St. Clair paused and withdrew a ring of keys from his pocket. “From your father.”

  “Father gave you the keys?”

  “He knew it was the only way to ke
ep my crew from battering down every door. On the small chance he might regain his ship, he did not want her damaged. ’Tis a shame he did not worry as much about his daughter.”

  Abigail tried to hide her flinch. She must not let him poison her mind with his lies. But why did Father leave me here with these pirates? She could not silence the perfidious thought. “My father knows he can depend on me to take care of myself. I am not a child.”

  “That I have noticed.” His grin was as frigid as a Massachusetts winter. “I simply find it odd that a man—” The lock clicked open. “This should help you understand our interest in this ship.”

  As light pushed back the darkness and Abigail saw the crates and iron-bound barrels, her eyes widened in disbelief. “This is all wrong! Where are the bales I saw on the wharf in New Bedford?”

  Captain St. Clair shouldered her aside. She started to protest, then saw he held a crowbar.

  “I knew you would refuse to believe the truth until you pried your charming nose into every corner,” he said through clenched teeth as he popped a lid open. A nail spun through the air, and he lifted the top. “Voilà!”

  Abigail reached in. Slime coated her fingers as she stared at guns covered with grease to prevent them from corroding. As Captain St. Clair raised the lamp, she saw the word gunpowder stenciled on barrels.

  “The war between France and England has gone on for many years,” he said. “Even England may need more weapons than they can produce, so the government would be eager to buy more.”

  “My father would not do that! He … he …” She took a deep breath, but could not calm her horror. “He would not sell weapons to the English! His father was wounded in the War for Independence.”

  “Then who was to receive these weapons?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald—”

  “I am telling the truth. I do not know!” She gazed at the boxes. What had Father planned? Turning, she saw one of the guns in Captain St. Clair’s hands. She fought to keep from blanching. “And what will happen now, Captain?”

  “Selling weapons to our enemies is a very serious crime.” He looked along the barrel before putting the gun back in the crate and wiping his hands on his breeches. He hammered the top of the crate into place. “If a man is convicted of that, he hangs.”

  “You will send my father to hang?”

  “Wouldn’t he do the same to me?”

  Abigail knew her father would be delighted to see Captain St. Clair at the end of a hemp noose. When Captain St. Clair picked up the lantern, she asked, “And what will happen to me?”

  He cupped her chin and tilted her face toward him. His voice dropped to a husky whisper, “Chérie, I told you that you need not worry about anyone harming you.”

  “Except you!”

  With a laugh, he strode away. Abigail had no choice but to follow, because she did not want to be left in the dank, dark hold. She did not look away from the angry stares of her father’s crew on deck. They had known. Her father could not have hidden the truth from them as easily as he had from her.

  Why had Father lied to her? And how could Father have left me here with these French pirates? He should have taken her with him. Or were things worse on the other ship? Mayhap he had been trying to protect her the best way he could. She had to believe that.

  Captain St. Clair ushered her into the saloon. As she sat, he shoved a glass into her hand. “Drink.”

  “Are you afraid someone poisoned the wine?” she snarled back.

  “I think only of you. If you get any paler, your freckles are going to jump off your face.”

  Putting her fingers up to her cheek, she ignored his grin. Although she hated obeying, she took a sip. Its warmth oozed through her, easing the tight bands around her heart.

  He sat beside her. “You must, of course, stay in France until your father’s trial is over.”

  She held the goblet with both hands, for she did not trust her quivering fingers. “I assumed that.”

  “If your father is found guilty as I expect, it will not be easy for you there alone.”

  “I assumed that, as well, Captain.” She refused to let him see how scared she was. If Captain St. Clair had a heart, he kept it well hidden.

  Reaching across the table, he snagged his own wine. “Mayhap you could find work teaching English. That might serve you better than working at a harbor tavern.”

  A tavern? Father had promised her the chance to meet the highest of society on this voyage, not its dregs. “If you think I would—”

  He laughed. “No, I did not think you would be interested in such a position. Mayhap you might wish to return to America.”

  “Yes.” She watched him. What was he thinking now? She wished she could guess … even once. “My aunt lives in Massachusetts.”

  He leaned toward her as his arm slid along the table behind her. She started to rise, but his fingers around her shoulder became a clamp. His other hand tipped her face toward him. “A message can be taken to her.”

  “For a price?”

  His dark eyes twinkled. She did not know whether to believe the merriment in his eyes or the threat displayed on his wind-roughened face. “You are learning very, very quickly.”

  “And what is your price, Captain, for delivering that message?”

  “I will let you guess.” His gaze touched her face, leaving its heat as one finger stroked her cheek.

  “Your price is too high.” Her voice was breathless, a mere whisper. With fear, she told herself sternly, not with delight at this pirate’s touch.

  “How do you know when I have not spoken it?”

  “You speak it well without words.”

  “Sometimes words are unnecessary.” He tipped her mouth toward his.

  With a cry, Abigail leaped to her feet and away from the enchantment he spun with the ease of a master sorcerer. “Captain St. Clair, I didn’t want your crewman touching me. I do not wish to have you paw me either!”

  He stood, his face hardening as she put the table between them. “You would prefer to work for a man who will expect more from you than lessons for his children?”

  “Good night. I have no appetite for either dinner or your company.” She faltered when she saw the shiny lock which had been set on her door.

  “I am not trying to scare you needlessly.”

  “Why should my future concern you?” she asked, facing him. “Rest assured, I can take care of myself.”

  “True.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Even his fine feathers could not hide the truth. He was a vile pirate who was enjoying her fear. “But it is just as true that it may be impossible for you to live as you planned.”

  “If I decide to sell myself for passage home, it shall not be to you.” She slammed the door behind her.

  It cut off the sound of his laugh, but she knew, as he did, how futile her courage was. With a shudder, she feared he soon would tire of playing with her as Dandy quickly tired of playing with a mouse. Then he would destroy her.

  Dominic St. Clair stared at the sails. They bulged with the wind that flipped hair into his face. Brushing it aside, he sighed. This ship was not as poorly made as he had feared. Still, it would need all his skills to gauge its passage. On his own ship, he could determine the height of each wave by the way La Chanson’s bow dipped and danced.

  He pushed away from the rail. La Chanson would be his again as soon as he delivered this American ship to France. That hour would be delayed if they were caught in the blow threatened by the dark line along the western horizon.

  He snarled a curse as he almost stumbled into someone. His smile returned when he took a deep breath of sweet perfume. “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, I do not recall telling you that you may take a stroll about the deck.”

  “No, Captain, you did not.” When she frowned, it ruined her gentle loveliness. The green dress with its gold lace flattered her coloring, for the sun set on fire the few wisps of her
russet hair that had escaped from beneath her prim bonnet. Keeping her hair hidden was, in his opinion, a crime. Those ruddy curls should cascade along her slender shoulders and over her soft breasts. “I wish to go to the galley.”

  He chuckled. Abigail Fitzgerald was as fiery as her hair, but she must accept the truth. She belonged to Dominic St. Clair by right of capture. Her wit had made last evening interesting, but he wanted more than conversation with her. He imagined her slim arms wrapped around him and those inviting lips soft with eager breaths of passion. No doubt, she would be as vicious as her cat, but he would enjoy taming her until she purred.

  “Captain St. Clair, if you have nothing to say, would you be kind enough to step aside?”

  Again he chuckled. If she had any idea of the course of his thoughts, she would be even more outraged. “Why do you want to go to the galley?”

  “I wish to speak with Cookie.”

  “Speak of what? Some conspiracy against me?”

  Her laugh was sharp. “Which of Father’s men would trust me when they think …?”

  He cupped her chin and drew her closer. Her perfume was beguiling for a man who had been at sea for so long, but the downy brush of her skin against his finger was even more intoxicating. “When they think you are my mistress? Is that what you wish to say?”

  The blush climbing her cheeks gave him his answer. She had, it was clear, more wit than her father, for somehow, even in her quarters, she had sensed the rage boiling among the Republic’s crew. He glanced across the sun-swept deck. Would Fitzgerald’s men turn that frustration on her? He must remind Jourdan, who was serving as first mate on this American tub, to keep a closer watch on Fitzgerald’s crew. Especially Woolcott, he noted, when he saw the onetime bo’sun scowl at Abigail before turning to mutter to one of his cronies.