A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  “This is a mistake.”

  “Is it? I think not.” His arms tightened around her as every muscle responded. She was just what he needed, a balm for a man thirsting for satiation.

  He cursed. Thirst! Sweet water was close by, but it was English water. To go ashore here would mean hanging for everyone on this ship, French and American alike. Treachery reeked throughout the ship. She might be part of it. What better way to distract him than by pretending to be reluctant and then to surrender? Mayhap she was right. This was a mistake.

  “Stay here,” he ordered.

  “Captain—”

  “Stay here, or you will wish you had.” He slammed the door behind him. Nothing eased his frustration. Only having Abigail Fitzgerald in his bed would, but now he had to think about the water situation and deal with those responsible. Merde!

  They would replenish the water. Then he would turn his attention to her until he had satisfied his craving for her.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail leaned on her elbow on the pillow and watched the moonlight dust the waves with its cool glow. The ship was moving again. She was both pleased and horrified. Would it have been better to die of thirst on the ship or to arrive in France as a prisoner and watch her father hanged?

  All day, the Republic had drifted with the motion of the current and the waves. The storm had damaged the rudder. At least that was what Dominic told her, but she suspected that Father’s men had had a hand in jamming it. She was not sure how, but something in the way Cookie had avoided answering her questions warned her that she was getting close to the truth.

  If she knew that, so did Dominic. He had lied to her. To soothe her? Unlikely. She grimaced. ’Twas more likely that he did not want her to share his opinions with her father’s crew.

  “Not that they would ask me,” she mumbled as she dropped back into the musty pillow. When she had gone out on deck to view the repair work, she had been met with only grumbles and curses. She had wanted to remind her father’s men that Dominic St. Clair was her enemy, too, but she doubted that they would heed her. Since Dominic had replaced Jourdan as first mate, even Cookie had treated her with distrust.

  Where was Dandy? She wished her cat would come and curl up against her back. Then she would not be so alone with this unending ache of fear.

  Abigail turned away from the window and sat as the door opened. She pulled her wrapper around her, buttoning it in place as Dominic rested his shoulder against the door frame.

  “Were you sleeping?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He held out a tin cup to her. “Your evening’s ration of water.”

  Looking into the cup, she saw that the water barely covered the bottom. She sighed. Her lips tasted salty when she tried to dampen them. This was not enough water to wash away her thirst, but she tilted back the cup savoring every drop.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing back the cup.

  He set it on the table. “Tomorrow we may have enough for only the evening’s ration.”

  “We cannot be far from France.”

  “The length of England and the Channel, and the winds are fickle.”

  “Mayhap they are tired after that storm.”

  He smiled. “I wish the rest of the crew had your sense of humor, Abigail.”

  “I have the privilege of not having to work in the sun all day.” She stared at the cup so she could avoid the dark fires in his eyes. “I might not be so willing to jest if I suffered what they are suffering.”

  “So that is why you have stayed in your room since the storm?”

  “Yes.” That was a lie. She did not want to go on deck and see her father’s crew regarding her with the hatred that had increased since the storm. Someone must have seen, even through the high winds and lashing rains, how Dominic had kissed her by the mast. That single kiss had damned her as Dominic’s mistress, a woman who had betrayed her father and her country in exchange for his touch. If they guessed that kiss had not been the only one …

  “I believe we shall put in at the Channel Islands for water before continuing to France,” Dominic said, interrupting her uneasy thoughts.

  “But aren’t those islands British?”

  His smile grew sly. “I have ways of confusing even the most diligent port master.”

  “I am sure you do.” She reached for the blanket at the foot of her bed. “I bid you good night, Captain.”

  “I thought you were going to call me Dominic.”

  She frowned. “What I would like to call you is not appropriate for a lady to say.”

  Dominic laughed, not with the arrogance she had heard from the moment he had captured the ship, but with honest amusement. “Finally I am getting to see the true Abigail. I was certain there was more to you than the puritanical daughter of a traitor.”

  “You have no proof my father is a traitor.”

  “Now you sound like your father’s men. They cannot see sense until it is forced upon them.”

  “Mayhap we would see sense if there were any about why you attacked this ship.”

  He laughed again. “A weak argument, now that you know what cargo this ship carries.” He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  “Dominic, I was planning on sleeping.”

  “Were you?”

  Taking a deep breath to slow her pulse as she gazed up into his eyes as he crossed the room, she stood. “What is it that you want to talk about tonight?”

  “I thought I had made that obvious, chérie.”

  At his husky answer, his broad hands caught hers and brought her against his firm chest. When he bent toward her, the odor of rum swept over her. Was he drunk or simply mad? He could not be drunk. There was too little to drink.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  “Chérie, we have not yet started.”

  His lips covered hers in a kiss which was as savage as the sea. No, she would not surrender to him or to her body which was aching for his touch! She turned her face away as his hands slid up her back as he teased the curve of her neck with gentle nibbles.

  “No,” she whispered as he reached for the top button of her wrapper.

  When it opened, his questing mouth followed the lace along the top of her nightdress. “Do not be scared, chérie,” he murmured. “It is time to stop pretending.”

  “I am not pretending. Release me!” She tugged away and held her wrapper closed over her breasts. “You are drunk!”

  “Drunk?” He shook his head. “Only with the thoughts of the rapture awaiting us.”

  “You reek of rum.”

  “I drink rum, so you might have my share of the water.” He slipped his hands over hers, peeling her fingers, one by one, away from her wrapper. “I have had only a dram, for I would not want too much rum to dull my chance to relish what we shall share.”

  “We cannot share anything but enmity.”

  “You wish this as much as I,” he whispered. “I taste the hunger on your lips. Together we can satisfy it.”

  “I mustn’t. This is wrong.” She needed to remember that. “This is all wrong. I shan’t be just another way you avenge yourself against your enemies.”

  “Do you think that is why I want you?” His eyes became ebony nuggets, hard and faceted. He captured her lips, all tenderness gone, as his tongue delved to caress hers.

  She moaned against his mouth. She did not want to be swallowed by this incredible delight. She must not melt into the pool of heated fire surging through her. Clenching her hands at her sides, she fought her own body that urged her to surrender. It was impossible to deny the truth. She wanted this ecstasy.

  A man shouted on deck. Fists pounded on her door.

  “Wait here,” Dominic murmured against her ear. When she quivered as his breath became a sweet caress, his hushed laugh warmed her skin.

  Abigail pulled her wrapper around her again as Dominic opened the door. Her eyes met the shock in Normand’s, and she looked hastily away. Now everyone aboard the Republic would know with
out question that she had been in Dominic’s arms. If Father learned the truth, he would despise her for shaming him with his enemy. How could she have been so foolish? Dominic may not have been drunk, but she had been intoxicated with his touch.

  She looked up when she heard Dominic curse. She could not understand what he said in French, but there was no mistaking his fury. Normand raced across the saloon and out onto the deck.

  “What is wrong?” she cried.

  Dominic did not answer as he stormed out of her quarters. She ran after him and saw him go into her father’s room. She froze in the door as he threw open a drawer in her father’s desk and pulled out a pistol. He grasped her arm and shoved her back into her room.

  “Are we under attack?” she cried.

  “Stay here! Once we halt the Americans’ mutiny, I shall deal with you.”

  “Mutiny?”

  He slammed the door. The bolt snapped into place.

  Abigail gripped the chair. Mutiny! The ugly word riveted her to the deck.

  She moaned as a gun fired. In quick succession, many others answered. Her father’s crew must have stolen weapons from the hold while Dominic’s men worked to repair the rudder. Now she understood why Cookie had avoided answering her questions.

  She cringed when something brushed her leg. Realizing it was her cat, she closed her eyes and shuddered. “Dandy, you are scaring years off my life.”

  The cat jumped up on the bed, preening. He adjusted the covers to his satisfaction and put his nose against his paws before falling asleep.

  Abigail wondered how Dandy could be so oblivious to the noise from the deck. A man shrieked. Just as one had when La Chanson had captured this ship. Sweet heavens, someone had to halt this before more people were killed.

  She struck the door with her fists, but it did not give. Her shout got no answer. If anyone was in the saloon, they were too busy with the fighting.

  The ship halted to rock with the motion of the waves. Were they out of their minds? The ship must get somewhere where they could obtain more water, or they all would die.

  Although the room was stifling, she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Father’s crew would die whether by thirst or the hangman’s noose. They had nothing to lose, so they were willing to risk their lives now to see that Dominic and his crew died with them. The fighting could last for days before the losers surrendered or were killed to the final man. Only the moon inching across the sky told her that time still moved as guns fired again and again.

  Who was winning? She shivered. If her father’s men defeated the Frenchmen, they would kill her as a traitor who had warmed their enemy’s bed. If Dominic’s men won, he would see her father hanged.

  She heard furtive footsteps in the saloon. She flattened herself against the wall by the door. If she could rush past when the door opened, she might be able to escape. But to where? She silenced that fearful thought as the latch lifted.

  Abigail jumped forward, then gasped, “Cookie!”

  The short man waved her to silence as he looked fearfully over his shoulder. Wiping blood from a cut on his face, he whispered, “Abigail, can you swim?”

  “Swim?”

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes, but why? Are Father’s men losing?”

  “We ain’t winning or losing, but we gotta lose. Most of our lads are cornered below.” He cursed vividly. “St. Clair is smarter than any of us guessed.”

  “You should have asked me,” she said tautly. “If just one of you had dared to trust me, I could have told you that Dominic is no fool.”

  “I thought Woolcott was the wiser of the two.”

  “Woolcott?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Even Father said more than once that Woolcott thinks himself far better a sailor than he truly is.”

  “Cap’n Fitzgerald said that?” He cursed.

  “Why didn’t you trust me? Now the French will kill all of us.”

  Cookie shook his head. “They won’t get a chance. They’ve gone mad!”

  “They? The French?”

  “Our lads. Woolcott is gonna destroy the Republic.” He seized her shoulders. “Get off the ship.”

  “Off the ship? How?”

  “Swim!” He ran out the door.

  Abigail called out his name as she heard him bolt the door again. Was he mad? He had ordered her to leave, then relocked the door.

  She looked at the bank of windows over her bed. Climbing onto the bed, she peered out, not at the water, but at an unmoving line on the horizon. Land! Land was no more than a half mile away.

  But that land must be England. If she tried to swim ashore here, she would be among enemies. She shivered again. She might not have to worry about reaching England. In the water, she would be a tempting target for every sharpshooter on the deck. Then she remembered what Cookie had said. The fight was belowdecks. Cookie had risked his life to bring her this warning. She could not ignore it.

  The deck shuddered as an explosion shook the ship. She fell, hitting her knees hard on the floor. Jumping to her feet, she grabbed the chair. She flung it through the windows. Clambering onto the bed, she used her pillow to clear away the claws of glass.

  Gingerly, she put her foot on the sill. She stared at the black waters below. As she tensed to jump, she heard a yowl behind her.

  “Dandy!”

  He skittered away to hide between the wall and the floorboards, frightened.

  Taking a calming breath, she knelt. “Dandy! Come here, boy. Good kitty. Pretty kitty.”

  Slowly, too slowly, the gray cat eased out, pulling back as another blast resonated through the ship. She could not leave Dandy to be killed. She grabbed his front paws and pulled him into her arms. He snarled his outrage, but she ignored him as she scrambled onto the bed.

  The ship quaked violently again, and her shoulder slammed into the wall. Spitting a curse that would have reddened her aunt’s face, she knelt and leaned out the window. If she dropped the cat too close to the ship, he could strike the stern.

  Her sleeve ripped, and fire ran along her arm. When Dandy’s teeth clamped on her thumb, she yelped with pain and shouted, “This is for your own good!” She tossed him into the night. It seemed to take forever until he splashed into the water, although these windows were not far above the waves.

  Praying the soft sound had not been heard, Abigail took a deep breath. Now it was her turn. She would—

  Her arm was seized, jerking her back from the window. “Dominic, let me go!”

  “So you call for that Frenchie from your bed?” growled a voice she did not recognize.

  But she recognized the man’s face, even though blood ran from several cuts on his forehead. Woolcott! The leader of this mutiny!

  Trying to tug away, she cried, “Let me go!”

  “So you can run back to your Frenchie lover?”

  “He is not my lover!”

  “You can explain that to him and the devil while you burn in hell!” He raised his sword.

  It was knocked aside with a crash of steel. Abigail struck the bed as Woolcott whirled to face Dominic. She recoiled as the swords came together again. She could not keep from staring at the blood on Dominic’s shirt. Was it his or someone else’s? Had everyone on this ship gone crazy?

  Woolcott screeched as Dominic’s sword found its mark. Abigail closed her eyes and fought not to be sick as Dominic pulled his sword back out of the sailor. She heard a thump and saw Woolcott’s corpse on the floor beside her. With a moan, she scrambled away. Her stomach heaved as the deck had in the storm.

  Dominic smoothed her hair back from her face while she gave in to her sickness. As soon as she could breathe without retching, he put his hand on her arm and whispered, “You must come with me, Abigail.”

  Sitting back on her heels, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She could not go anywhere. Her knees would not hold her now. “Where? Where can we go?”

  “Somewhere where you can be safe. I was a fool not to think that your father’s men w
ould aim their vengeance at you.”

  “Are you saying you made a mistake, Captain St. Clair?” she asked softly.

  “It happens on occasion.” He pulled her to her feet. “Now to make sure it is not the last one you shall ever see …”

  “Where are we going?” Abigail asked as she tried to keep up with him as he led her through the saloon toward the door to the open deck.

  Another explosion from deep within the ship slammed them into the sideboard. Dominic groaned an oath as his sword fell to the floor. He grasped his right arm and cursed again. His fingers were numb, but pain raced up to his shoulder.

  “Get my sword, Abigail,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

  Her face was gray as she picked up the sword. She balanced it in her hand, then grasped the hilt with both hands. Slowly her gaze rose to his. He did not need to hear her speak. Her thoughts were as clear as if her freckles spelled out the words across her cheeks. She now had the means to slay him.

  When she shoved the sword into his left hand, he heard, through the rumble of agony, footsteps running toward the saloon door. He pushed himself away from the sideboard and balanced the sword awkwardly in his left hand.

  “Back into your room, Abigail,” he shouted as the door burst open.

  He had no time to see if she obeyed. Two men came at him. He parried their thrusts, but he was too off balance to take advantage of any openings. Backing toward the cabins, he tried to lead the men away from Abigail’s door.

  One man rushed forward. Dominic groaned as he jumped back and hit his right arm against the wall. Hearing laughter, he cursed all the mutinous Americans to the deep. He fought to make his eyes focus through the haze of pain. Had more men joined the battle against him, or were his eyes betraying him?

  A shriek brought a curse from one of his attackers. In disbelief, Dominic saw Abigail rush out of her room. She was carrying a chair. She dashed it against the head of one of the men. He collapsed, bumping into his comrade as if they were a stack of cards. Before the American could regain his balance, Dominic drove his blade into the man.

  The motion undid Dominic. He fell to his knees on the deck. Abigail grasped his left arm and helped him to his feet.