“Who’s that?” Bewick asked, surprised by his captain’s recognition of the name.
“No one,” Andrew snapped, cutting short the older man’s speculation.
No one . . . Just a man who took obvious pleasure in the abuse of the innocent and powerless. Who hoped to have the ownership of an extraordinarily valuable plantation one day. Whose influence extended beyond local merchants and passing sailors to the highest levels of society in Antigua.
The man who meant to tame Miss Tempest Holderin.
“And the other fellow?”
Caesar shrugged. “Don’ know his name. A church man, Mas’r Gillingham say.”
A clergyman. And clearly in Delamere’s thrall. It seemed Cary had been right to worry, after all.
Quickly, Andrew considered the very limited options before them. The first question was what do with the boy. Rescue from one tyrant would not spare him a flogging from another; when his master saw the mess that had been made, punishment would surely be forthcoming.
“Fancy a change of scenery, Caesar?”
“How’s that, sir?”
“I could use a cabin boy aboard the Colleen,” Andrew said, ignoring the warning shake of Bewick’s gray head.
“Leave Mas’r Gillingham?” Some of the brightness in Caesar’s dark eyes began to return.
“I imagine he’ll be glad enough to part with such a clumsy lad,” Andrew replied with a half smile, laying his palm on the boy’s dark, curly head.
“Aye. Fer a price,” Bewick confirmed, and then spat. The boy looked from one man to the other.
“Then we’ll pay it,” Andrew declared, fishing in his pocket for a few coins and tossing them into the puddle of ale on the floor. “Consider yourself free. Now, can you walk?”
When Caesar nodded, Caliban bounded forward to lick the child’s face. The boy laughed, grimaced against the sharp stab of pain it caused, then finally gave up and laughed again, wrapping one arm around the dog’s shaggy neck and the other about his own injured ribs. Some of the tension ebbed from Andrew’s shoulders as he looked on. No lasting physical harm had been done, it seemed.
“Mr. Bewick,” he said, turning toward the quartermaster, “you and young Madcombe take the boy to the ship. Try not to attract any attention. Caliban and I will meet you there, after I’ve made certain neither Mr. Gillingham nor his lordship have decided to interfere in our plans.”
“An’ then what?” Bewick asked, raising one skeptical brow.
“We sail.”
“Where to, if’n you don’ mind me askin’?”
Andrew hesitated a moment longer than should have been necessary. “London.”
Timmy’s eyes widened, but Bewick only crossed his arms before his chest. “Lon’on?”
“Aye.”
He had already ordered the ship to be provisioned for the six weeks’ journey. The only question now was whether he meant to take Tempest Holderin along.
The encounter with Delamere had given him proof of the truth of Cary’s words. It had also shown him how dangerous it would be to get embroiled in their affairs. This kidnapping—or rescue, or whatever one called it—was a risky business indeed, and while Andrew had taken many risks in his life, the benefit to him had always been clear. What did he stand to gain in this case? Or, more accurately, what did he stand to lose?
“But before we leave Antigua, we must stop at a little slip called Angel’s Cove, in the northeast corner of the island. We’ve some valuable cargo to take aboard there.”
Bewick studied Andrew’s expression without revealing anything in his own. “As you wish,” he finally said. “Cap’n.”
In another moment the threesome was shuffling toward the door.
* * *
Frustrating did not begin to describe it.
“Why do you refuse to speak seriously about the matter, Mr. Whelan?” Tempest asked, struggling to keep her voice calm and businesslike.
“’Tisn’t a matter to be discussed with a lady, Miss Holderin,” explained the architect as he dug in his ear with his little finger and then inspected what he had mined. “Besides, you haven’t the authority to order work at Harper’s Hill. Only Mr. Cary can do that.”
“But he has already hired your company to fix the mill,” Tempest explained, forcing herself not to look away as he wiped the finger clean on his sleeve. “I am merely here to see that the work is completed in a timely fashion.”
“Gets done when it gets done, miss. Difficult job, and I haven’t got but two masons right now.”
“I realize, of course, that skilled slaves are in high demand,” she began.
Mr. Whelan nodded. “Desperate hard to teach those savages how to lay stone properly. The devil’s in ’em when it comes to hard work.”
At the familiar complaint, her jaw tightened. “Perhaps you’d find free labor more willing to learn.”
“Free—?” Whelan gave a snort of derision. “Best not to worry your pretty head about it, miss. Have Cary come down tomorrow. He and I can talk sense.”
“Talk sense! My pretty—!” The disjointed words exploded from her with such energy that they brought her to her feet, forcing Whelan to rise as well, albeit much more slowly. “I will thank you, sir, to recollect that Harper’s Hill will be mine one day. Then I will be the one making decisions about such matters—and the tradesmen with whom we do business.”
Skepticism lined the man’s weathered face. “Not the way I hear tell it. Good day, Miss Holderin.”
She wanted to know what Whelan meant by such a remark, but not enough to listen to his answer. Whirling on one heel, she marched from his office, further disgruntled when the door clicked quietly closed behind her.
Across the street, however, another door slammed with exactly the sort of rattle and crash she craved. The noise made her look up with interest, but the sight that greeted her eyes was far less satisfying. Lord Nathaniel was striding away from Mr. Gillingham’s pub.
She shrank out of sight, pulling herself into the shadow of the awning that ran along the row of shopfronts. But he never glanced her way as he parted from his companion, Reverend Goodacre. Instead, Lord Nathaniel turned toward the harbor, tugging his waistcoat into place over his breeches, setting his clothing to rights. As he disappeared down another alley, she could see dark streaks of damp down the back of his red duster.
Before she could even begin to speculate about what had happened inside to dishevel him so, three more people left through a side door: two sailors and Mr. Gillingham’s potboy, Caesar.
The child looked . . . frightened? Injured? She couldn’t quite decide. Nor could she imagine why two strangers would be dragging him away.
No, that was not true. She could imagine. She had heard stories, the kind to which she had been warned never to listen. They might be taking him away to use him. Abuse him. And then sell him to someone else.
Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, she clutched her reticule against her skirts so it would not betray her with a jingle and set off after them. When Caesar’s steps lagged, one sailor put an arm around the boy to urge him along, but their progress was curiously unhurried. Tempest stayed just a few paces behind as they made their roundabout way to the waterfront.
The scents and sounds of the harbor rose like a cloud as they approached the water, dead fish and raw sugar mingling in a heavy sweetness that could not quite mask the stench of decay. On the docks, men, mostly black, shouted and spoke in a welter of languages, almost none of them English.
She watched the three climb into a rowboat and make for a ship anchored in the deep water of the harbor, the two sailors pulling at the oars while the boy huddled in the prow. As the boat slipped through the shallows, she considered what she could do to save him.
“Missy Hold’rin?”
The voice belonged to Darius, the foreman at the warehouse where the produce of Harper’s Hill was usually stored. A smile of greeting split his jet-black face, but his eyes darted uncertainly past her. “Is Mas’
r Edward here with you?”
“No,” she said, returning his smile. “There was something I needed at one of the shops in town, and I didn’t like to bother him.”
Darius was not to be so easily put off. “Omeah here, then? You never come alone, missy?”
“It’s not I you should worry about, Darius,” she insisted, shifting his attention to the rowboat, now a speck in the distance. “Those sailors have taken that boy!”
“He yours?”
“Mine?” Tempest scrambled for an explanation that might lead to the desired solution. “Yes, of course. He’s a—a new houseboy. Yes. I brought him with me to—to carry my packages. And those men snatched him away. Can you help me get him back?”
“Go after ’em?” Darius looked deeply suspicious of the proposal. “Like to be twenty, thirty men on that ship, missy. Best we call for help.”
“Oh, there isn’t time! Just take me out there, and I’ll speak to them,” she pleaded.
Darius hesitated. He clearly did not want to disobey the orders of a white woman, but he also no doubt realized that putting her in danger was equally likely to earn him a whipping. If something happened to her, even Edward, who never raised a hand to anyone, would be unlikely to intervene on his behalf.
Hating to put Darius in an untenable position, but unwilling to see the boy come to harm, Tempest knew she had to act. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she dropped her reticule, jumped off the dock onto one of the flat-bottomed lighters, and lifted the heavy pole to push off.
“Missy, wait!” he shouted after her, but the raft was already skimming across the harbor.
It was harder to steer than she had ever guessed while watching the men work from the shore, and she had not gotten very far before her arms and shoulders ached with the effort. When she at last drew abreast of the ship, the rowboat had been pulled up to the ship’s railing and not a soul was in sight. But there was still a makeshift ladder dangling over the ship’s side, and with only a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the heavy rope with both hands and pulled herself upward, through an empty gun bay, bumping her head against the frame of the narrow opening as she did so and knocking her bonnet into the water.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she could make out a little of what was around her. The ship was slight compared to most of the West India merchantmen, agile, built for speed. She peered down into the dark, stifling hold. The ship wasn’t used to haul slaves—her nose had already told her that, and the absence of stocks and chains confirmed it. Instead of bodies, there were barrels and crates of supplies. Gunpowder. Ballast. But very little in the way of cargo. Perhaps it simply hadn’t been loaded yet?
She creeped cautiously around, ignoring her headache, wondering where to look for one terrified little boy. From above came rumbles and shouts. The crew was at work, doing what, she could not be sure. She would have to risk exploring the other decks, though, if she expected to find Caesar. Stepping into the square of light at the bottom of a wooden ladder, she looked up.
A handsome brown face was looking down. “Well, well, what have we here?” An educated voice. But not English.
With three quick steps he was down the ladder and standing beside her. Tempest did not try to run, since there was nowhere for her to go. “I demand to see the captain of this vessel,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
The man inspected her with a curious eye. “And I’m quite sure he’ll want to see you. Up you get.” He gestured with his chin for her to ascend the ladder and followed close behind, touching her only when they arrived on the uppermost deck and her feet would no longer obey her command.
Men of every shade and a range of ages stopped whatever task had employed them and turned to look as he propelled her toward the rear of the ship with one strong hand on her elbow. When they reached the short flight of steps that led down into the captain’s cabin, he preceded her, rapping against the door with the knuckles of one hand.
“Enter,” came the muffled command.
He opened the door and stepped through. “It would seem we’ve a stowaway, Cap’n,” the man said before motioning to her. “Come along, then.”
Heart pounding, she descended to the doorway. What she could see of the cabin’s interior looked neat and surprisingly spacious. The captains of merchant vessels were a fairly gentlemanly set, as a rule. Perhaps she had nothing to fear. She would tell him what she had witnessed, demand Caesar’s return, and then ask him to escort them back to shore. No doubt he would be happy to be rid of her.
“Sir,” she began, stepping over the threshold, “I—”
The captain was standing at a table in the center of the room, his dark head bent over the chart spread out before him. Her heart, which just a moment ago had threatened to leap from her chest, stopped beating. Or so it seemed, at least. She could not see his face yet. But she knew.
Oh, she knew.
At the sound of her voice, she saw him stiffen, then slowly raise his head. “Welcome aboard, Miss Holderin,” said Captain Andrew Corrvan, fixing her with his pale green eyes.
Chapter 4
He was not yet sure he would call it a stroke of good fortune. Admittedly, she had saved him a great deal of trouble. But for all that she had come to him, the sugar princess radiated fury.
“That will be all, Mr. Ford,” he said to the ship’s carpenter, who was looking from one to the other, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes.
Caliban trotted forward and sat down beside her, nuzzling against her hand, asking to be petted. When she winced at the contact, Andrew came around to the front of the table and took her hand in his, turning the palm upward to his gaze. To his surprise, she did not resist.
Blisters. What looked like rope burns. And dirt.
He dropped her hand and leaned back against the table’s edge, crossing his legs at the ankle and surveying her from head to toe. Good Lord, but she was filthy, her face and dress streaked with grime and sweat, her hair a tangled mess, and no bonnet to be seen.
“Mr. Ford,” he called before the man was out of earshot.
“Yes, sir?”
“Ask Mr. Beals to come up when he’s finished.”
“Very good, Cap’n.”
“I am not at liberty to wait for this Mr. Beals,” she said primly when the door closed behind Ford.
“Oh?” Andrew folded his arms across his chest, fighting a smile. Did she never back down? “Just where were you planning to go, Miss Holderin?”
“Home, of course,” she answered with a defiant tilt of her chin. “After I get what I came for.”
“And what would that be?”
“A boy called Caesar.”
Her answer ought not to have surprised him, but it did.
“I saw two men carry him away from the King’s Arms,” she explained. “They forced him on board this ship, no doubt for some less-than-savory purpose. And I intend to put a stop to it.”
Uncrossing his legs, he levered away from the table and took one step closer to her. “Don’t assume his life was more savory at Mr. Gillingham’s establishment than it will be aboard my ship,” he said, more irritated by her insinuation than he should have been.
Her mouth popped open to retort, but before she could speak the cabin floor shivered and seemed to shift beneath their feet.
“Are we . . . moving?” she asked, stretching onto her toes to scan the view from the windows behind him.
As if the answer to her question were not already obvious, the ship gave a great lurch and threw her off balance. She stumbled forward, landing with her head on his shoulder, her breasts against his ribs, and her skirts tangled about his legs. Reflexively, his arms came around her, steadying her, drawing her to him.
For the merest fraction of a moment, she did not protest. Shock, he supposed. Or perhaps fatigue. He could not imagine how she had managed to get from the docks to the ship without assistance. But before he had time to marvel at her combination of strength and softness, she was pushing h
erself upright, pushing away from him.
It was undoubtedly the smartest thing she had done all day.
“Yes, we’re under sail,” he confirmed, as she looked daggers at him.
“I demand to be set ashore this instant,” she said, setting her feet apart so the ship’s motion would not catch her off guard again. “With the boy.”
Andrew glanced behind him at the receding view of English Harbour. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid.”
“Wh-wh-where are you taking me?” she spluttered, the barest hint of anxiety now creeping into her voice.
“As luck would have it, I’ve just given orders to make for the north side of the island,” he told her. At her skeptical glance, he stepped away from the table and motioned to the charts spread across it. “See for yourself.”
She stepped forward and peered down at the map, tracing one finger along the route he had marked out. “Why, there’s Angel’s Cove.”
“Aye.”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “I would think a merchant ship’s captain would conduct his business in the docks.”
“Not all of it,” he said, locking her gaze until she looked away.
“So you will take me home.”
It was not exactly a question, so he evaded it. “It grows late. I won’t risk my ship, slipping into unknown waters after dark. We’ll have to wait until morning to make landfall now.” He felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving her. But she would learn the truth soon enough. And he would arrange to be out of earshot when she did.
“I couldn’t possibly stay on board overnight.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” he replied with a half smile. “Unless you fancy swimming to shore.”
“I can, you know,” she insisted, drawing herself up. “Swim.”
A forbidden image rose in his mind, of a water sprite with red-gold curls and stormy eyes, emerging from the sea clad only in a clinging wet shift . . .
But the fantasy evaporated when she added, “Edward taught me.”
Cary was the very last person of whom he wished to be reminded right now. “I wouldn’t recommend it, all the same,” he snapped, dismissing the heat in his voice as annoyance. “Ship’s surgeon, Mr. Beals, will be here soon to look at those hands. And I’ll send up some food and hot water too.”
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