A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  “The very fact that you paid attention to me would have guaranteed that if my father’s crew had won the ship back I would die.”

  “Did you think that your father’s men would succeed?”

  “I was afraid they would fail. Then I would be your prisoner again, and you would …”

  “Do this?” He hooked an arm around her waist and drew her toward him. Her soft lips were beneath his for only a moment before she pulled away.

  “Exactly!”

  “Then you should know, chérie, that that was not exactly what I had in mind.” He ran a finger along the soaked sleeve of her wrapper which clung to her so appealingly.

  She shrugged his hand away, but he smiled. Since he had seen her lithe legs and snapping eyes, he had wanted her. He would not force her as his men had, but Fitzgerald’s unruly and uncooperative crew had left him no time to seduce her as he had wished. He wanted to take the time to learn the enchanting secrets she hid beneath her modest frocks.

  A smile teased the corners of his mouth. Time was a commodity he suspected they would have more of than they wanted. Traveling to where he could get a message to La Chanson would not be quick, because they must be constantly wary of the English. His gaze moved along her again. She resembled a lost waif, urging him to take her in his arms.

  When Dominic started to ask another question, he swayed. Abigail’s slender hands caught him before he could topple onto his face. Although he was tempted to make some light comment, he could only groan as she lowered him back onto the floor. She turned away, but he caught her hand.

  “Don’t go, chérie. I need you.”

  For a long minute, she did not reply. Then, so softly he was not sure if he had heard her or only the words he had hoped she would whisper, she said, “I will not leave you.”

  He took her promise with him into the never-ending maze of pain. Abigail Fitzgerald might remain his enemy, but he suspected she never would break such a vow.

  At least, he hoped so. His life was, most literally, in her hands now.

  Chapter Seven

  Abigail bit her lip, holding her breath and hoping the shadows would conceal her. The heat from the animals in the byre surrounded her as she knelt by the wall behind a mound of hay.

  She had not expected the farmer to come in here now because she had seen him going toward the field behind the cottage and byre. When he walked toward the cow that was chewing contentedly, she eased closer to the floor. She froze when she heard a click from the eggs she held in the long shirt she had stolen yesterday from another cottage closer to the village. That household was also missing a set of boys’ breeches and a man’s shirt. She wore the breeches beneath her shirt, and the second shirt had replaced Dominic’s ruined one.

  A week ago, she would have been racked with guilt at her thievery. How furious Aunt Velma would be to discover Abigail skulking about as she stole what she needed for herself and Dominic!

  But this is not New Bedford, she argued silently.

  Her first foray had been the day after she had helped Dominic to the hut. With so many of the villagers down on the shore scavenging what was left of the Republic, it had been simple to slip among the stone cottages and help herself to a meat pie from one house and a small loaf of bread from another. She took a cup and two plates from a third house, not wanting to steal everything from one family.

  You have too many ethics for a thief. She frowned as Dominic’s voice intruded into her mind. She did not need his opinion. He could barely walk, so he could not take over this disgusting task, but …

  Abigail held her breath again as the farmer turned toward where she was hiding. If he came closer, he was certain to see her. She put her hand on the knife she wore at her waist. She had taken the blade from another farm yesterday.

  The gray-haired farmer stabbed the mound of hay with his pitchfork, and she drew back closer to the wall as he turned to drop the hay in front of the cow. Doing the same for the horse, he went back out of the byre as he called to someone to come and help him in the field.

  She released her breath. Even though she wanted to sag against the floor, she stood and slipped out of the byre. She saw no one in the barnyard, so she raced into the woods edging the path that led in one direction to the sea and in the other to the village. She did not dare to walk on the path, because she might meet someone who was suspicious of a stranger among them when so many items were disappearing.

  Abigail hurried through the trees to the abandoned hut, but was careful that the trio of eggs in her shirt did not break. Entering, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the warped door that refused to shut completely.

  “Abigail?”

  Although she did not want to open her eyes, because then she would be caught up again in the horror of being cast upon this enemy shore, she looked at Dominic, who was struggling to his feet. His ankle was still swollen, but the deep bruises were easing to a lighter shade. The wrinkled shirt refused to button across his chest, revealing a breadth of muscular flesh that drew her eyes far too often. Around his head, the strip of cloth from his old shirt added to his raffish appearance.

  He took the three eggs from her and smiled. “You are becoming skilled at this skulduggery.”

  “I hate it.”

  “That is because you are looking at your excursions as if you were a thief.”

  “That is what I am.”

  “No. It is your chance to even the odds we face with our enemies.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “I thought you preferred long odds.”

  “It is difficult to consider farmers and villagers worthy adversaries.”

  “You can say that because you are not the one sneaking about.”

  “No, I am the one sitting here with nothing to do.” He sighed. “When I am able to walk, I intend to try my hand at fishing in the stream where you get sweet water for us.” His frown became a grin. “It has been many years since my childhood summers of fishing along the Loire. I hope I have not forgotten how.”

  “As I do. I am tired of purloined pies and stale bread.”

  “Until I can walk around enough to slip away if one of the English comes near, I am afraid the taste of fish will remain only a fantasy. I shall remain cooped up in this hut, going mad with boredom.”

  “Can you whittle?” she asked slowly.

  He sat back on the floor. “Not without a knife.”

  “True, and I would be a fool to steal you one.” Abigail smoothed her tangled hair back from her face. Every day she longed more for the comb she had had on the Republic. Her braid was thickened with snarls she could not loosen with her fingers.

  He scowled and folded his arm on his drawn-up knee. The other leg remained stretched out so he did not put any extra pressure on the splint. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Why should I?” She met his gaze evenly, so he could not suspect she had both the knife at her waist and the pistol which was hidden beneath her wrapper in the far corner. He thought she used the wrapper and her nightdress only as pillows, not suspecting what she concealed under them. “Why should I trust you when we are enemies?”

  “Because we are not enemies any longer.”

  “Oh? Has Napoleon apologized to President Madison for his pirates preying on honest American sailors and ships?”

  He snorted loudly. “Honest and American are two terms that do not go together. You preach your frontier idealism to anyone foolish enough to listen, but your father’s cargo proves that you care only about trading your so-called virtues for gold as if you were the cheapest streetwalker.”

  Abigail flushed. “That language is not necessary.”

  “No?” He grasped her wrist, pulling her toward him.

  “Let me go!” she cried as she tried to tug away.

  “Not until you prove you have more sense than your witless father.”

  “If you think I will steal a knife for you …” Her eyes widened as he held the blade near her face. Touching her waist, she discover
ed that he had disarmed her without her realizing it.

  His smile broadened as he placed the flat of the knife against her cheek. His arm encircled her waist. “Chérie, you look quite pale. Could it be that you fear I will kill you?”

  “No. Then you would starve to death. You cannot get your own food now.”

  “I suspect I would find a way.”

  She did not answer. Applying the slightest pressure of the knife to her cheek, he tightened his arm around her waist and leaned her down toward the floor. When she held up her hands to halt him, he turned the blade so the edge brushed her chin. In horror, she drew her fingers back. She stared up at him as he leaned over her.

  “Do you think I will force you to submit to me?” With a quick motion, he made the knife disappear beneath his shirt. “Have you forgotten? I told you I would not need force to seduce you.”

  “Dominic!”

  He sat up and chuckled. When she scrambled to her knees, she knew she wanted him out of her hut and out of her life. Immediately would not be soon enough.

  “That blade is not very sharp,” she said, “but it might be enough for you to make us some utensils to eat with. I am tired of using my fingers all the time.”

  “’Twas sharp enough for you to fear I would slice into your throat.” Dominic withdrew the knife and ran his thumb cautiously along the blade. He grimaced. “I think my fingers might do better than this dull knife.”

  “Stop complaining!”

  Taking her hand, he said, “Chérie, forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? You are apologizing?” She stared into his dark eyes with amazement.

  “I always apologize when I am wrong.” He caressed her cheek and chuckled. “When I know I am wrong, not when others think I am.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  His hand splayed across her cheek, sending tendrils of yearning deep within her. “I like the idea that you keep anything about me in mind, chérie.”

  Abigail stood, not wanting to be caught up in his seductive web again. “It is not easy to forget something as irritating as a toothache.”

  “Where are you going?” he called as she reached for the door.

  “To get some kindling and down to the stream to find a flat stone to cook those eggs on.”

  “You should wait until darkness.”

  She scowled. He was right, but she did not want to admit that when her only other choice would be to remain here. “You did not seem too distressed that I was sneaking to that farm and stealing your supper.”

  “The farm would be nearly deserted at midday. The stream may not be. Stay here until dark, Abigail.”

  Facing him, she fisted her hands on her hips. “I do not take orders from you any longer.”

  “You never did!”

  She smiled coldly. “But now you take orders from me. Sit still,” she said when he started to stand. “The swelling is going down in your ankle, but if you start hopping around like a one-legged rooster, you will be sure to injure it again.”

  “I promise I will behave as long as you promise to stay away from the stream until twilight sends the English back to their homes.”

  “Dominic—”

  He caught her hand and kept her from turning away from him. When she looked from her fingers to his smile, she waited for him to speak. If she pulled too hard, she might tip him over and hurt his ankle worse. She doubted that even the blows that had left cuts beneath his hair could reach through his thick skull, which seemed impervious to good sense.

  “Promise, Abigail,” he ordered in a deceptively calm tone.

  “Very well. I promise I will not go to the stream until dark.”

  “Good.” He released her and leaned back against the wall. Folding his arms across his chest, he smiled at her like a benevolent king meeting with his least important subject.

  As she went out the door to gather some wood for him to carve and for a fire to cook those stolen eggs, she heard him laughing. A smile edged along her lips. He was the most exasperating man she had ever met, but she knew once his ankle could support him, he might be her best chance of escaping from here alive.

  As soon as the stone Abigail used to cook their supper cooled, Dominic used it to hone the knife. It took hours until it was sharp enough for his use. Whittling wooden forks and spoons kept him busy. As he worked, he sat in the doorway, looking through the trees to scan the horizon, but the ship he sought never came.

  The lure of the sea haunted him. Every night he went to sleep listening to the sound of the waves stroking the sand, whispering soft secrets only a sailor could comprehend. The same song woke him and taunted him.

  “You look pensive,” Abigail said as she came out of the woods and put some berries in one of the chipped cups. Holding it out to him, she added, “They are not quite ripe, so do not eat too many.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “Not hungry?”

  He smiled at her astonishment, then sighed. “All I can think of is how long it may be until I can be asea again.”

  “I know how this must be so difficult for you.”

  “You know?” he asked irritably as she clasped her arms around her knees and stared at the leaves rocking gently with the breeze. “How could you know? You are a landswoman.”

  “No one who lives in New Bedford can be indifferent to the sea.” She smiled. “And it is not a crime to be born to a life on the land.”

  “Did I say that? I simply said that a landswoman cannot begin to understand the lure of the ocean.”

  “I know its call well. My aunt’s house overlooks the harbor, and the rhythms of the sea were bred in me. My father is a sailor. My uncle was, also. His ship was sunk just over a year ago.”

  “Did he survive?”

  “No.” Her face became a mask of sorrow, and he regretted asking the question. “His ship went down with every hand. I know how seldom anyone is rescued.”

  “I was.”

  “You?”

  He tapped the gold ring in his ear. “Didn’t you know what this means? A sailor wears an earring to show that he has survived the loss of his ship at sea.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “You thought it was just an affectation?”

  She shook her head, and her silken hair that she wore pulled back in a braid brushed his arm. “I thought it was what all pirates wear.”

  “Privateer, chérie.”

  “The difference is very slight.”

  “The difference between being hanged and having your throat cut is very slight, too, but the latter is much quicker.” He started to add more, then snarled, “ventre bleu!”

  Abigail glanced at him with sudden concern. She began to laugh when she reached for the bandage around his head. It was drooping across his face. She pushed aside his hands, which were trying futilely to fix it. She knelt as she retied the cloth around his head.

  “There,” she said after she had adjusted it to her satisfaction. “How is that?”

  “Marvelous.”

  Her gaze lowered to meet his. When he ran his finger along the skin bared along the top of her shirt, she pulled away. “You could have some gratitude for what I do for you.”

  “I do. Trust me. I do appreciate everything you do for me.”

  “You are incorrigible!”

  She stood and went out the door, walking toward the stream. Dominic did not call after her to remind her that she had promised not to go there during the day. His very shout could be what betrayed them to their neighbors. When she turned toward the strand, he cursed. He envied her her ability to wander about the countryside, while he was imprisoned in this tumbledown hut.

  “Damn!” he muttered when a chip of wood popped out of his hands to roll across the floor to land on her wrapper. If Abigail stepped on it, she could cut her foot. Then both of them would be unable to walk. Then both of them might starve.

  He stretched his hand out as far as he was able. When his shoulder was seared by pain, he sat upright again. The
burned skin allowed him too little motion. Concentrating on not putting any weight on his ankle, he shifted himself along the floor.

  When his fingers touched something hard beneath her wrapper, he scowled. Slipping his hand under her cast-off clothes, he withdrew a pistol. She must have hidden it there. When? Had she had this ever since she came ashore?

  Glancing from the pistol to see Abigail returning to the hut, he checked the gun. He cursed. It was useless. It had been ruined by the seawater. Mayhap if she had cleaned it immediately, the mechanism might have been saved, but rust dotted the metal and the hammer refused to pull back.

  He lowered it to his lap. Damn! It would have made the situation easier if they had had some weapon other than his knife.

  A shadow crossed Dominic. Raising the gun in a swift motion that he had practiced as a boy until it was instinctive, he heard Abigail’s sharp intake of breath. That she did not scream and race away like a frightened child showed him again that she was not given to swoons.

  He tossed the gun across the floor. When she choked out a warning, he said, “Don’t worry. It is useless.”

  “Can it be repaired?” she asked, her face regaining some color.

  “If we had access to a gunsmith’s shop, possibly. Here, no.”

  “I was afraid the gun had been ruined, but I did not want to fire it and waste the only ball in it.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Were you saving it for a special occasion?”

  “Mayhap I was.”

  “You should have told me that you had it. What else have you hidden from me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “An easy answer.”

  Her sapphire eyes sparked like his knife on the honing stone. “The truth is always easy, Dominic. You might know that if you spoke it more often.”

  “You are accusing me of lying when—”

  “I did not lie to you. I simply did not tell you about the pistol. I was saving it for an emergency.”

  He scooped it up again and shook his head in regret. “Then you would have faced an enemy and been unable to fire it. This little pistol would have guaranteed your death, chérie.”