“Well, I’m not,” she declared, lifting her chin. “I don’t want to be married. I particularly don’t want to be married to you.”
A murderous light appeared in his black eyes. “How unfortunate, since you signed the marriage contract.”
“A minor thing. I spoke no vows, made no pledges in church.”
“Minor to you, perhaps, but it gives me the right to defend your honor as my own. I wonder how you will like seeing your rescuer spitted on my sword?”
She stared at him in consternation. “You wouldn’t!”
“You doubt me?” he asked in heavy irony.
“It would be the most flagrant ingratitude, since Ryan is providing the means of your escape from the island.”
“The injury he has done me is greater than the favor.”
“Impossible,” she said hotly. “I don’t know why you still want to marry me. I’m well aware you have no affection for me, that you never did.”
“Are you so sure? That is not the issue, however. It’s a question of honor, as you must realize. Maybe the actor has a point, maybe what you really want is to see two men fighting over you, ready to spill their blood for your sake.”
“No such thing! The thought sickens me.”
“Too bad. I have a great need to teach Bayard that it is a dangerous business, deflowering other men’s brides.”
“He saved my life.”
“I see you don’t deny the deflowering. I thought not.”
She stared at him in despair at the futility of trying to make him understand. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.”
“It’s possible the fault may not lie with him, but that is something I will have to look into when I have taught him a few of the finer points of being a gentleman. It may be I will join you in his cabin then. I believe persuading you to give me the answers I seek could turn out to be — pleasurable.”
He meant to frighten her. It was a mistake. She had known real terror in the past few days, and survived it. Her eyes narrowing to a gray glitter, she said, “You will need to take care. You have a reputation as a swordsman, but then so does Ryan Bayard.”
He made a disparaging gesture. “Cut-and-slash fighting like a common pirate. There’s no skill in that.”
“There is strength and endurance, and a certain facility for staying alive.”
He started to reply, but his words were lost in a hail from the crow’s nest above the sails.
“Sail away! Off the port bow!”
Durant and Elene swung to look. Durant’s gaze widened, then a slow smile edged with malice curved his lips. “Maybe I won’t have to trouble myself with Bayard after all.”
“What are you saying?”
“It appears he intends to engage another foe.”
Elene guessed his meaning almost before he spoke, alerted by the sudden flurry of motion aboard the Sea Spirit as orders were shouted and men scurried here and there. To the port side was a fat-sailed merchantman with the stubby shape of an English vessel. The Sea Spirit came around, preparing to intercept. Along the deck, where the women were seated, Madame Tusard began to scream in sudden hysteria.
“He can’t do this, not with all of us on board,” Elene said under her breath.
“Can’t he now? He’s a privateer and the ship yonder is a prize. Why should he not take her? Prizes, of one sort or another, fair or not, seem to be his greatest interest.”
She threw him a flashing glance. “If you are suggesting that he views me as a captured booty, I find it insulting.”
“I would hate to think that you surrendered to him,” Durant said softly.
The sound of his voice sent a shiver along the back of her neck, but she refused to be intimidated by it. She picked up her skirts and stepped away from him. “Think what you please!”
He thrust out his hand, catching her arm, halting her where she stood. “Oh, I will. And if I prove it, not only your privateer is going to be sorry.”
8
RYAN TOOK THE QUARTER DECK as the gap between the two ships closed. She should have known he would, Elene told herself; he was Bayard the privateer, not just the ship’s owner. Somehow she had managed to avoid considering what that meant on the sea. She had expected that Captain Jean would continue to order the setting of the sails and the actions of the crew as he had done all morning. To see Ryan striding across the deck without coat or cravat, with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows for action and his sword bright at his side, gave her a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She had known Ryan was a decisive man, one capable of sudden movement and violent acts. Still, watching him direct the Sea Spirit toward her target with single-minded precision was chilling, even frightening. The lumbering vessel they were steadily bearing down upon seemed at too great a disadvantage. She knew an errant need to warn those aboard the merchantman of their danger, like shooing away a bird from the path of a stalking cat.
Orders had been given for the Sea Spirit’s passengers to go below. Morven and M’sieur Tusard lingered, but the women, for the most part, had departed with scarcely a backward look. Elene hesitated. If there should be gunfire, she could not bear to think of being trapped below decks, helpless to know where the next shot might land, unable to get out if the ship should begin to sink.
The danger was slight, she realized that. Most merchantmen were built to carry the greatest amount of cargo with the least amount of crew, and with little space allotted for heavy armament. Few such ships carried guns at all. In any case, the merchandise stacked in the ship’s hold belonged to men with money to invest who remained safely on shore. The captain and crew were not likely to risk their lives to save the profits of others. Still, there were captains who invested in the cargoes they transported, men who fitted their vessels with bow guns loaded with grapeshot that could cut a boarding party to pieces.
Ryan’s voice rang out in a hard order. One of the Sea Spirit’s guns that had been run out of her gun ports boomed in a thundering report. The shot arched across the bow of the merchantman, not so near as to be a danger, but not so far away as to give hope of mercy. The crew of Ryan’s ship fell silent as they waited for some sign of flight or surrender from the English ship.
Elene looked once more toward where Ryan stood balancing with the rise and fall of the ship in easy grace with his hands on his hips. The wind fluttered the sleeves of his shirt and ruffled the polished walnut darkness of his hair. He was familiar, and yet remote, a figure of authority and implacable intent with little regard for anything other than the task at hand.
What had this privateer to do with her, or she with him?
The destruction of the life she had known had been so sudden, so complete. She felt cast adrift. She had no idea whether she had done the right thing in trusting Ryan Bayard, sailing for New Orleans, or even in denying Durant’s claim upon her. Of only one thing was she certain: she had no wish to see Durant challenge Ryan over her. Whatever else the privateer might have done, he had without doubt saved her life. He deserved a better recompense.
A ragged cry went up around her. The English ship was losing way, striking her colors. It seemed the prize had been gained without the loss of a single life, without even a fight.
Bayard went aboard the captured vessel to meet with its captain. He returned with a number of trunks and boxes, then dispatched a prize crew to take the merchantman to Cartagena. There in that haven for privateers and pirates it would be sold for Ryan’s profit.
In an amazingly short time, the English ship was disappearing over the horizon. The Sea Spirit resumed its course, under full sail as it glided over the water.
There was a feeling of anticlimax in the air. It was not that anyone was disappointed that there had not been a desperate fight between the schooner and the merchantman. Still, they had all braced themselves, and the effects of that useless expenditure of effort were felt in varying degrees. Hermine was euphoric, ready to dance and sing and open the wine, while spots of the high color of fra
ntic excitement lingered on Josie’s cheeks. Madame Tusard was as irritable as if she had dressed for a ball that had been canceled, and her husband, perhaps as a consequence of her mood, was glum. The planter Mazent seemed to have gained vitality, being greatly reminded of an incident in his youth, which he insisted on telling to anyone who would listen, concerning a pirate attack he had helped prevent. His daughter Flora tried to discourage her father’s reminiscences one moment, then the next turned to listen with rapt attention as Morven, dress sword in hand, demonstrated with dialogue and fierce action the way he had played the role of a courageous sea captain defending his ship in some melodrama.
Josie, watching also, clapped her hands with a flirtatious shake of her dark cloud of curls. “Isn’t Morven a wonder?”
“Yes, isn’t he?” Hermine said, her tone droll. To Morven’s wounded look in her direction, she merely returned a moue.
Josie’s attention shifted to Ryan as he approached. “Here is our bold privateer! Tell me, sir, what did you get? What was the English ship carrying? Jewels, perhaps? Or was it chests of silver and gold?”
“Nothing so fine,” Ryan said easily, his air of hard authority banished as if it had never been. “The days of the Spanish treasure ships laden with gold are gone, worse luck.”
“What, then? Do tell us!”
“A cargo of rum and sugar from Jamaica in the main, with the addition of some rosewood and mahogany from South America bound for a cabinetmaker’s shop.”
“Oh, but that doesn’t account for the trunks and boxes you brought on board.”
“Books, chère. Still interested?”
Josie gave a pettish shrug. “How boring.”
“Isn’t it?” Ryan said with sympathy, though there was the gleam of suppressed amusement in his eyes as he glanced toward Elene.
Durant, standing beside Elene’s chair under the awning where they were all gathered, spoke up. “One can easily see why the English captain did not choose to die for his cargo. What a boon for you, Bayard, that he was a coward.”
“The man was a realist.” There was a sudden alertness in Ryan’s gaze, but his words were without heat. His glance dropped to Durant’s fingertips, where they rested on Elene’s shoulder, and the corners of his eyes tightened.
“I wonder would you have attacked so quickly if he had been a man of stronger principles, and his ship better armed.”
A perceptible tension vibrated between the two men. Elene, feeling it, fearing what it meant, snatched Durant’s hand from her shoulder. Before she released it, she met her former fiancé’s gaze. Her voice low, she said, “Please, don’t.”
Ryan heard that plea. It gave him a hollow feeling inside that was more disturbing than the entire incident with the merchantman. Deliberately he said, “It’s difficult to know how a ship, or a man, is armed until you lay down your challenge.”
“Still, it’s always possible to withdraw in haste if the quarry proves too strong for you.”
“Sometimes events move too fast, go too far.”
If there was a warning in Ryan’s words, Durant would not heed it, any more than he would heed Elene’s gaze upon his face. “All in all, I think you prefer a helpless quarry, don’t you, Bayard? They give you less trouble, rather like a defenseless woman.”
The others, grouped around them, had fallen silent. Now there was a faint gasp from among the women at this pointed insult.
“Is it my character or my lack of courage for which you wish to call me to account, Gambier? Or something else entirely?”
The hard rasp of Ryan’s voice scraped along Elene’s nerves. The threat it held was not directed at Durant alone. There was the promise of a reckoning in the privateer’s gaze as it raked over her. Her eyes widened as she felt its impact, realized its cause. He thought that she had been complaining of his conduct toward her to Durant, that she had brought this quarrel upon him. She wanted to protest, to assure him it was not so, but could think of no way to say it that would not inflame Durant further, make him all the more set upon the course he was following.
Durant drew himself up as he made his answer. “Whichever you prefer.”
“I would not want to disappoint you,” Ryan said softly. “Do I take it the weapon is swords?”
There was a sharp cry and the sound of running feet behind them. Elene turned her head in time to see Durant’s mistress, Serephine, leaving the gathering in a flurry of skirts and with her head down to hide her face. Devota rose at once and went after her.
In the brief moment it had taken to follow that small contretemps, Durant and Ryan had drawn their swords and matched them as to length. Now the chairs and the awning sail were whipped out of the way, and everyone moved aside to give as much room as possible. The two men faced each other, Durant removing his coat and cravat while Ryan, who had not yet donned his again, pushed his sleeves higher as he stood waiting.
At last Durant was ready. He swept his sword up in a salute, his smile tight with pleasurable anticipation. Ryan, his features expressionless, repeated the gesture. “En garde,” he said.
Durant attacked in a vicious display of skill. He obviously expected to make short work of the contest, to pierce Ryan’s defenses with sudden and devastating expertise.
It did not work that way.
Ryan seemed barely to move his wrist, but the blade of the other man was turned aside smoothly, easily, again and again. For long moments, Durant forced Ryan, endlessly parrying, back step by step, then in an abrupt and brilliant riposte, the privateer gained the initiative so that Durant had to parry en seconde at speed to protect himself. The two men drew apart for the space of a breath, their sword tips barely touching.
Ryan lifted a brow as he met Durant’s rage-filled dark eyes. There was in his face the knowledge not only that Durant had expected to best him in a few easy moves, but that he was not overly concerned with what injury he inflicted in the process. Durant’s face hardened. They engaged once more.
The pace of the fight slowed, taking on an even, searching cadence as each tested the other’s strength and will, their knowledge of swordplay and experience at facing an opponent. Their concentration narrowed, closing out the onlookers, the movement of the ship, and the strain and pull of muscles. Perspiration broke out on their brows and glistened on their forearms. Their breathing deepened, rasping in the quiet, broken only by the noises of the ship riding over the waves and the quick shuffle of their feet on the deck as they shifted back and forth. Between them emerged a sense of respect that had been missing before, though there was no less anger, no less determination.
Elene stood in taut stillness against the railing. Beside her was Hermine. “Magnificent,” the actress murmured, her gaze lingering on the broad shoulders and muscles of the two men.
Elene was not blind to the superb male forms before her, but her attention was on the weapons of death in their hands. She wanted to look away from the blades that flashed and slithered like silver ribbons in the sun, but could not. Her teeth were tightly clenched, and her heart battered against her ribs with its every beat. In her mind was both rage at being made the cause of this meeting between the two men, and despair that she could do nothing to stop it. Wild impulses rioted through her. She wanted to scream at them for being a pair of fools, or else fling herself between them. The only thing that stopped her was the certain knowledge that, however much they might pretend to be fighting over her, the issue was in fact their honor, their ridiculous male pride. For that there was no curative that she could offer, and no salve except blood.
Durant feinted, lunging. Ryan parried en quatre as he stepped back, then seemed to overbalance with the rise of the ship. Durant overextended in haste in his attempt to take advantage of that moment of misfortune. Ryan recovered in an effortless recoil of taut muscles, striking with swift precision. There was a brief whirling of the blades, a teeth-jarring scrape of steel on steel. Abruptly Durant’s sword fell to the deck and he stood with blood seeping through fingers that were clampe
d to his upper arm.
Ryan stepped back at once to stand at ease, his chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. Durant looked down at the blood on his hand, then up at the other man, and his eyes were wide with disbelief. Ryan met his gaze squarely, without triumph but also without pity.
It was Morven who strolled forward to step between them. “Well, then,” he said in brisk pragmatic tones, “is honor satisfied?”
Ryan inclined his head in a small, graceful gesture. For the space of a long breath, Durant said nothing. At last he gave a slow nod. “I do believe it must be.”
The sighs of relief around Elene were short and sudden, like the expelling of held breaths. She closed her eyes and leaned back in unexpected weakness against the railing.
“Poor M’sieur Gambier,” Hermine, standing nearby, said in low, melodic tones, “someone should see to his arm.”
Elene looked around for Devota, who had considerable skill at tending wounds and illnesses, but the maid was not to be seen. No doubt she was still with Serephine. Elene pushed from the railing and moved toward the duelists. She had helped Devota attend to injuries among the slaves a number of times in the past months since her return from France. There might be something she could do.
Abruptly her way was barred by a shining, red-stained blade. She swung her head to stare at the man who held it. Ryan spoke with soft inflexibility. “No.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “He needs help.”
“Not from you.”
The concern Ryan saw in her face for the other man was galling. He had been aware of it even as he fought. It roused in him an emotion he scarcely recognized and would have denied if he could. It was jealousy, and it did not incline him to be reasonable.
Blood was reddening Durant’s sleeve, running down his fingers. It must be stopped at once, Elene knew. “Who do you suggest? You?”
“Doc will see to him,” Ryan said. “We have matters to discuss, you and I.”
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 50