Dominic wheezed as he fought his way back to his knees. When Fitzgerald aimed his boot at him again, Dominic moved aside with the lightning reflexes Abigail had seen during the storm. He caught her father’s foot. With a grunt, he twisted it.
Fitzgerald fell to the floor. Dominic’s fist struck his nose, knocking him flat.
“That is for Abigail,” Dominic snarled. “Now this one is for—”
A gun barrel appeared in front of his face.
Raising his hands in surrender, he smiled as Fitzgerald rose slowly. As Fitzgerald shook out his clothes, Dominic said nothing. He leaped to his feet, knocking the gun aside as Fitzgerald whirled to face Abigail, who was watching in horror.
“Don’t hit her again, Fitzgerald!”
“She is mine! I will do with her as I wish.”
“If you—” Before Dominic could take more than a step in Abigail’s direction, pain seared across his skull.
Edwards chuckled as Dominic collapsed. Running his hand along the gun he held by the barrel, he tilted it toward Abigail. She fought against the hands holding her.
“You bastards!” she snarled.
Her father gripped her face. “Such language! Just think what your Aunt Velma would say if she knew her stepdaughter was using such words.”
“You mean her niece.” Had Dominic’s blow unsettled her father’s mind? No, he had had this frightening glitter in his eyes from the moment she woke in this house to discover her father was in London and that Munroe and Edwards were part of the crew of his new ship.
He laughed. “I mean her stepdaughter. Don’t tell me you never suspected that your dear uncle was your real father.”
“Why should I suspect that?” She tried to edge past him to reach Dominic, but he stepped in front of her again, blocking her way.
“Because it is the truth. I had thought he would have bragged about bedding your mother before he married Velma.”
Realizing he would not let her go to Dominic, she sank in the nearest chair. “Are you saying that Uncle Jareb and my mother were in love? If she loved him, then—”
“Be silent!” He struck her again. When she cried out in pain, he smiled. “You are a whore just as she was, but you may continue to have some value.”
“Value? What do you mean?”
“Be silent while we deal with this French pirate.”
“No! Don’t hurt him.” Erupting to her feet, she pushed past her father—no, he was her uncle. She pushed past Captain Fitzgerald and ran to where Dominic lay. When she saw he was still breathing, she knelt beside him, trying to shield him from the fury around them. “Stay back!” she cried as she pulled out the knife she had known Dominic would be wearing beneath his coat.
“Drop it!” Fitzgerald ordered.
“Let us go! Get on your ship and leave England. Forget you found us. You left me to Dominic once. It should not be difficult for you to do the same again.”
He smiled coldly. “Don’t be foolish.” Taking the pistol from Edwards, he aimed it directly at Dominic’s head. “Drop the knife, Abigail, or you will find you are resisting for no reason.”
In horror, she gazed at the man who was proving again how little he cared about her. She wanted to demand that he tell her why he had insisted she sail with him on this voyage if he despised her so. But would she change the decision she had made when she left New Bedford? If she had not come on this voyage, she never would have met Dominic.
She could not let her father kill him. She must … All her thoughts disappeared into a crescendo of pain.
Arthur Fitzgerald picked up the knife that had skittered across the floor when Abigail dropped, senseless, to the floor beside St. Clair. Wiping it off, he smiled grimly at Munroe, who was putting the wooden bookend back onto a table.
“Bring the carriage. We shall leave now.”
“Captain?”
He glared at Edwards. “What is it?”
“Them.” He pointed to the Frenchman and Abigail, whose limbs were revealed by her dress that had risen nearly to her knees when she crumpled. “How … that is, what do you want us to do with them?”
“Secure St. Clair and stuff him in the boot. Treat Abigail with more care.” He glanced at her and smiled coldly as he tossed the knife onto the table next to the bookends. “Munroe, you know what needs to be done.”
“Yes, Captain,” he said with a broad smile. He knew exactly what the captain intended for both his captives.
The carriage rolled along the road in front of the grand house. Set on a prominent position overlooking the small village of Morristown, the house commanded a view of the whole valley as it had when it was a feudal castle, first raised here nearly a millennium before. Wide windows had replaced the arrow slits, and any remnants of the outer wall had disappeared through the years.
Abigail had not looked out of the carriage at the twisting road which narrowed to the width of a single vehicle along the ridge. She had no interest in where she was going. All her thoughts were riveted on the jail where Dominic was. Asking Captain Fitzgerald about what would happen to Dominic had been useless. Captain Fitzgerald had refused to answer any question about Dominic or the Republic or his new ship.
She could think of nothing else. When they had stopped in the village at the base of the hill, it had been beside a grim, filthy prison. The rattle of the manacles that must have been snapped around Dominic’s arms and legs before they left London resonated through her ears still. He had been stiff from the long hours of riding in the cramped boot. Her one attempt to speak with him had been for naught, for Captain Fitzgerald had clamped his hand over her mouth, silencing her. She had been able only to watch as Dominic vanished past the thick wall of the prison.
Captain Fitzgerald’s words to the jailer continued to sicken her. “Make certain he is put in the deepest hole. It will give him a good idea of the hell awaiting French pirates when their necks are stretched.” Then he had laughed with triumph.
Abigail leaned against the wall of the carriage, wanting to put as much distance as possible between her and the man she had believed was her father. She never would think that again. She did not want even to consider him as her uncle. He was a beast, hateful, vengeful, and cruel—the very thing she had so foolishly believed Dominic was.
The carriage slowed as it reached the house. It had been nearly a half mile from the gatehouse to the portico where guests were invited to climb the steps to an open veranda. Along the private road, the gardens had offered a somnolent beauty. Everything was tranquil, save for the pain in her heart.
A footman leaped forward to open the door of the carriage as it came to a stop. Stepping back, he placed a small stool in place so his master’s guests would be able to alight with ease. He bowed and murmured, “Welcome, sir, miss.”
Abigail did not look at the lovely flowers surrounding the veranda as she allowed Captain Fitzgerald to take her hand. Arguing now that she did not want to be here with him would gain her nothing but more abuse. Her gaze remained on the ground, because she was tired of seeing exultation on his face.
Captain Fitzgerald chuckled. “Why so glum, Abigail?”
“Are you as devoid of wit as you are of compassion?” she fired back, refusing to let him rejoice in her pain any longer. “What have I done to make you hate me so much? I did not die when the Republic sank, but that is no crime.”
“I find it odd that only you and St. Clair survived.”
“I jumped from the stern windows before the ship was detonated. Dominic tried to fight off your crew. The explosion sent him overboard. He was washed ashore.”
“And no one else?”
“Dandy.”
“Who?”
“My cat,” she replied coolly.
He cursed. “No other person?”
“No one alive.” She shivered as she recalled the seared corpses.
“How do you know that pirate did not kill them?”
“He could not have killed a sand flea in his condition!” Her laught
er faded as she realized the truth had betrayed her.
“Traitor!” he muttered, and she knew he did not want anyone to overhear this conversation. “I have fed and clothed you! And what do you do to repay me? You nursed that bastard back to life!”
“And why should I be loyal to a father who provides guns to his country’s enemies?”
“You are not my daughter!”
“So you have said.”
“Don’t be pert, girl.” Closing the distance between them, he continued in the same taut whisper, “I should have known you would be just like her.”
“What do you mean?”
He grasped her arms. “Your mother was a whore. A beautiful whore. She pretended to be in love with Jareb, but I wanted her. I … I convinced her to marry me.”
Abigail’s face paled. From his vicious scowl, she knew that she had not been the first to suffer his cruel hand. Somehow he had browbeat her mother into becoming his wife so she could not marry his brother.
His cold laugh froze her blood in her veins. “She failed to mention she was pregnant until the vows were exchanged. She intended to leave me when Jareb returned from his voyage.”
“Why didn’t you let her go?”
“She was mine!” he snarled. “You were not even weaned when she tried to run back to him. I took care of her after I told her I would take care of her bastard.” He smiled. “And take care of you I have, daughter.”
She stepped away from him. Was he mad? No, Captain Fitzgerald was sane. Obsessive jealousy made him act like this.
“You took care of my mother?”
Although she had not expected he would be honest, his smile warned he was eager to brag. “It was an accident. She fell onto the pier. Broke her neck.” His smile broadened.
“Oh, sweet heavens,” she gasped, realizing what that smile meant. “You pushed her!”
“Don’t be silly, Abigail.” He patted her cheek. “That would have been too risky. She might not have died.” Taking her arm, he continued up the stairs. “Now, you be a good girl. It would be a pity if history repeated itself.”
She planted her feet, refusing to follow him willingly, even though he might break her neck, too. “Where are you taking me?”
“I thought you would be glad to know that I am fulfilling a pledge I made to your mother before she died.”
“A pledge to destroy my life?”
He laughed again. “I vowed that I would see that her daughter was taken care of as she deserved.”
Abigail did not give him the pleasure of asking again what horror he had planned for her. She could not care about her future when he had arranged to have Dominic stand trial for piracy. She knew what the sentence would be.
Death.
She did not dare to dream that Dominic would be exonerated. As soon as he opened his mouth, his French accent would deem him guilty.
Her arm was taken in a tight grip, but she refused to look again at Captain Fitzgerald. He was dressed in well-made clothes for this call, and she still wore the elegant dress she had donned for the Sudleys party. Why were they calling at this house when they should have been fleeing from England now that Captain Fitzgerald had gained his revenge on Dominic? She had no idea. Fitzgerald had not told her, and she refused to ask him, not wanting to let him gloat more.
At his tug on her arm, she walked forward. She could not fight Fitzgerald when her heart lay shattered within her. Her foot caught on the first step.
“Watch where you are going!” he snapped. “Didn’t your aunt teach you a lady’s graces?”
“My aunt taught me many things, but your belated interest in my education strikes me as ludicrous, Father.” She made the name a vile epithet. “Of course, at this point, I find everything about your interest in me ludicrous.”
“Be silent!” His face reddened with fury. “If you do not—”
“What will you do to me that is worse than what you have already done?” she asked, stopping in the middle of the long flight of steps edged with Grecian columns. “You have taken me away from my aunt who loves me. You condemn my mother and me, although we both wanted nothing more than to stay with the men we love. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am not betraying our country by bringing guns to sell in England.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know what I saw in the Republic’s hold. Do you think that fact will be listened to when I state it at Dominic’s trial?”
“You will not be testifying.”
“No?”
“No.” He smiled. “I have arranged for you to be busy with other concerns.” When she did not answer, he asked, “Don’t you want to know what?”
“All I care to know is that you have had the man I love arrested. What else can you do to hurt me?”
His eyes narrowed. “If you do not want to learn the answer to that, which I assure you will be to St. Clair’s detriment, come with me now.”
Abigail wanted to retort, but feared any protests would persuade him to find a way to arrange for Dominic’s trial to be held without delay. She suspected he had had Dominic imprisoned because this was his way of controlling her. He would use her fear for Dominic whenever she balked. With a sigh of resignation, she knew she had no choice but to capitulate … for now. There must be something she could do. Until Dominic was sent to hang, she would not give up.
But why was her father, an American, wandering freely about England and turning his enemies over to English justice? Why had he brought guns here? Why had he left her on the Republic even though he spoke again and again of her value to him?
The boards of the porch creaked as they crossed them. The door swung open. She shivered with sudden fear. An invisible, odorless miasma oozed out of the house to encircle her in a clammy caress.
“Good afternoon, Captain, miss,” said a butler who appeared out of the shadows beyond the door. His gray hair was drawn back sharply from his face and matched the pearl color of his immaculate breeches. His coat was a brilliant red. “May I take your cloaks?”
Captain Fitzgerald dropped his cloak quickly into the butler’s hands. He turned to Abigail, but she moved to evade his fingers. She undid the ribbons at her throat. Removing her cape, she held it out to the butler. He took it as she gazed around the foyer instead of meeting Captain Fitzgerald’s fury.
She noted the curved staircase with its marble risers and the richly polished furniture filling the broad hall, which seemed to run the depth of the house. It was even fancier than Lady Sudley’s house in London.
A form moved in the shadows. Unlike the grace of the tall butler, this squat man waddled toward them. She frowned as she looked at him. She was certain she had seen him before. At the Sudleys’ soirée last night? Mayhap, but she had met so many people, she could not put a name to his round face.
“You are here at last,” he said, his voice sounding as if it echoed in the vast caverns of his body. Her head ached at the rumble. “Arthur, my friend, I am so delighted to see you unharmed after your trials on this voyage.”
“It was a challenge, but one I bested.” Captain Fitzgerald flashed a smile at Abigail, but she ignored him.
“I have heard you lost your ship and cargo to a French pirate. A true shame, for we anticipated the delivery of your cargo with eagerness.”
“But I was able to retrieve my lost Republic’s most precious cargo. My daughter Abigail.” He smiled when she looked at him as if he had lost all sense. He pulled her forward. “Abigail, this is Sir Harlan Morris. My good friend.”
Sir Harlan Morris?
She dipped her head to him, but did not curtsy. If he was a friend of Captain Fitzgerald’s, he was someone she must be wary of. Dominic had been right about Fitzgerald’s treachery, as he had been right about so many other things. Panic clutched her. She was becoming further enmeshed in Captain Fitzgerald’s web. She must discover a way to escape.
Sir Harlan chuckled. “So she is your daughter. I thought that might be so when we met last night at the Sudleys’ assemb
ly. Your description of her was excellent, my friend, so I felt quite confident about sending for your men to retrieve her.”
“You?” Abigail gasped. “You sent for Munroe and Edwards?”
Instead of answering her, he put his hand beneath her chin and tipped her face up. She tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened on her cheeks. “Lovelier even than you described her, and a redhead as well. Delightful, Arthur.”
A renewed surge of fear gripped Abigail when she heard Captain Fitzgerald chuckle with satisfaction. Before, that sound had forecast disaster for her.
Sir Harlan said, “Come to my study. We can speak in private there. I prefer this first meeting to be without too many curious eyes.”
First meeting? Abigail frowned. What was the baronet talking about? Captain Fitzgerald’s words had suggested the two men had spoken often, and she had been introduced to Sir Harlan last night.
When she stepped into the study, she saw that it opened into a lovely garden, but those doors were closed. Rich wood covered the walls, but was lost behind the multitude of paintings. Several were portraits. She identified one as a young Sir Harlan and guessed the woman next to him was his wife. A young boy stood beside the woman, who held a baby on her lap. Abigail recalled Clarissa’s distasteful comments about the son Sir Harlan wished to find a wife for. She wondered which of the young men that was.
The exquisitely appointed furniture must have been carved by a master craftsman. This room was furnished with luxury, but she sensed a coldness that would never have been found even in Aunt Velma’s front parlor, which was used only for weddings and funerals.
When Sir Harlan pointed to a chair, she sat, grateful. The lack of sleep last night was gnawing on her, threatening to steal her composure and leave her weeping. She held the chair’s arms tightly while she listened to the two men talk with the ease of longtime friends. They sat opposite her in two heavy oak chairs. As she scanned the room, she tried to determine what horror Captain Fitzgerald intended to inflict on her.
Silent servants came into the room with trays. Abigail remained silent as they placed a bottle of brandy and a full tea on the table beside Sir Harlan. Brandy? Lady Sudley had never served anything but tea and cakes. When Sir Harlan glanced at her expectantly, she clasped her hands in her lap. She was not going to pretend she was glad to be here and offer to serve. She had no reason to distrust Sir Harlan other than his genial welcome to Captain Fitzgerald. That was enough.
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