Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  The suggestion fitted so perfectly into Hélène’s earlier musings that she started guiltily. It was as if Genevieve had been a party to the thoughts that wished her away from Trianon. “Why, no, chère, if that is what you want,” she said. “But we must ask your papa for his permission.”

  Genevieve pulled a distinctly disrespectful face. “I would like to leave on Tuesday morning. Even if I send a message to New Orleans today, I cannot be sure of receiving his response by then.”

  “But you cannot leave without it,” Hélène said with calm certainty.

  “I will send the message immediately.” Genevieve rose with an energy that made her stepmother feel hot just by contemplating it. “If he has not responded by Tuesday, I shall go anyway. If I am to come back, then you can send for me.” She smiled with bland reassurance and went into the relative cool of the high-ceilinged house. The chances of her father’s refusing his permission were so remote that she felt quite confident in making that statement to Hélène. And, besides, if her deception were discovered, it would not really matter in the scheme of things. If she could not return to Latour life after her voyage with the privateer, so much the better. Whatever Dominic might say, she knew with absolute certainty that, since she had met him, she had moved an infinity away from the type of woman who could have contemplated the conventional life planned for her. Before, she had been reluctant but resigned, never having been offered an alternative but a nunnery. But things were very different now.

  Whatever Dominic might say. Her briskly confident step faltered as she reached the secretaire. She had not thought properly of what he would say when he discovered the identity of one of his new crew. That omission, of course, was entirely typical. She sat down, drew a sheet of paper toward her and picked up a pen. Dominic had said she needed to learn to stop and think before following her nose into trouble. Well, she had stopped and was thinking now. It did not seem to affect her decision in the least. The worst he could do was to put her ashore in some inhospitable land, as he had threatened to do before. She would just have to trust to her powers of persuasion. Tapping her pen against her teeth, she felt for the right words with which to address her father, then, satisfied with the composition, wrote rapidly for a few minutes.

  The message was given into the hands of a servant, with instructions to make all speed to Monsieur Latour in the city, and to wait for an answer, if he was permitted to do so. Just as he was about to leave, however, Hélène appeared with her own missive. “I thought to visit Elise, if you are to be away,” she said to Genevieve. “I do not think your father will object, do you?”

  “I cannot imagine why he should,” Genevieve responded. “But that is not to say that he will not.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously as Hélène tried to look reproving. “It would be best to give the impression that you considered the visit to be purely duty rather than pleasure,” she advised solemnly.

  “Yes, I have done so,” said Hélène, quite failing to see why her matter-of-fact agreement should send her stepdaughter into gales of laughter.

  “Poor Hélène.” Genevieve squeezed the other woman’s arm. “It must be very difficult to be properly dutiful. I think you manage quite admirably.”

  On the Monday evening, Genevieve paddled her canoe to the bayou. There was an air of expectancy about the men that evening. Even Dominic’s usual deep composure contained another element, a tautness as if he was preparing himself, as if the time for holiday idleness was past and the serious business of the world called. Genevieve felt herself considered to be a part of that holiday idleness, felt the absence of his full attention even when they rowed to the little beach on the creek, where he lit a fire and roasted a chicken on a spit. They drank rich, full Spanish wine, and he made a strawberry patch of her body as she lay on the rug beneath the lull moon, planting the round red berries where no berries should grow. He plucked the succulent fruit from her with his lips, licking the juice from her skin until she moaned, writhing beneath the questing tongue and the sharp nibbling caress of his teeth.

  And at dawn, she left him, knowing that he was ready for her to leave, that he had turned his mind to the exciting realities of work. His farewell kiss was sweet and passionate, and it contained a lingering regret at their parting, but it was a regret that Genevieve knew would be subsumed under the needs and demands of the ship’s master, once she was out of sight. Indeed, as she turned to look over her shoulder at him, seeing him standing at the rail of Danseuse, the breeze ruffling the nut-brown hair, the turquoise eyes already focused, it seemed, on some distant shore, she felt a sharp pang of misgiving. Perhaps she had no right to intrude on the privateer’s private world of danger and camaraderie, to trespass in the personal kingdom where entry had been forbidden her. But it was too late, now, for doubts. She had made up her mind to brave the dangers of Dominic Delacroix’s anger, and nothing could be worse than remaining behind in the sweltering monotony of Trianon.

  The following evening, Genevieve was one of a number of men and boys waiting on the wharf at her father’s shipyard. They were all quiet, staring across the lake for the launch that would take them to the ship. Their kit lay at their feet in bundles and chests. Genevieve had only a cloth-wrapped bundle containing clean linen and a comb. Beneath the knitted cap that was pulled low over her face, her hair was short and neatly cut. Amelie, with great reluctance, had shorn the luxuriant mass, placing a bowl over Genevieve’s head and cutting evenly around it. The resulting haircut was hardly a thing of beauty, but it was tidy and ensured that there was no danger of premature discovery from that most distinctive feature, at least. She wore the same overly large garments that she had worn when she met with the bosun, again acquired through the good offices of Amelie. The generous cut ensured that the body beneath remained shapeless and hidden. A few smears of mud and dust on her nose and forehead completed a disguise which, while it might not satisfy someone who was looking for her, would certainly pass muster in a situation where her presence was the last thing anyone would expect.

  A low, excited rumble greeted the sight of the launch coming across the lake toward them, the voice of the coxswain calling the strokes carrying in the still evening air. Genevieve scrambled aboard with the others, taking up as little space as she could on the bottom of the cutter as she practiced the art of becoming utterly inconspicuous, the art on which the success of this venture depended.

  Danseuse loomed white and graceful in the darkness, swinging gently at anchor on the far side of the lake. Genevieve knew that the fleet had left the bayou that afternoon because Dominic was not willing to risk the location of the safe anchorage with men who were as yet untried and who had not proved their loyalty. The rope ladder hung over the stern, bobbing well above Genevieve’s head as she stood up with the others in the violently rocking launch. Dominic had always lifted her onto the bottom rung of that ladder. Now she must make the leap unaided. Unwilling to hang back until the last, when she would be noticeable, she plunged into the middle of the group of waiting seamen. As she leaped, a hand came under her backside, giving her a shove that was clearly intended to be helpful. Instead, the shock of that intimate contact brought a yelp to her lips. Just in time, she swallowed the sound and clambered up the ladder as fast as she could to avoid further assistance, tumbling over the rail to land on the familiar deck of La Danseuse. Except that it was no longer familiar. Now that her role on board the frigate was different, the surroundings seemed completely alien. She was seeing them through the eyes of a new recruit, a cabin boy who had never been to sea before, and Genevieve Latour, pampered, respected mistress of the vessel’s master, was no more.

  Her eyes went automatically to the quarterdeck. Dominic stood there, looking down at the new arrivals, the tip of his cigar glowing in the dark, one hand thrust deep into the pocket of his britches.

  “Ship’s master,” a man muttered beside her. “The best that ever sailed these waters, they say. Should come back with some good prize money, I reckon.”

  Gen
evieve nodded, then suddenly dropped her eyes as the privateer’s gaze seemed to linger on her, and he leaned over the rail. “You, there,” he called. “Come over here.” Her heart was in her throat and she looked around wildly, then saw to her relief that it was not she who had been addressed. A man behind her ran up to the quarterdeck, pulling on his forelock. “Yes, monsieur?”

  Dominic was not ill satisfied with his cursory examination of the newcomers. There was an air of expectancy, an alertness about them that boded well. There was no room on Danseuse for the unwilling, the pressed men who would cower under fire and hold back from the ultimate effort. They would only fail in that way, once, certainly, but the personal consequences of their failure were bad for morale. He knew from the bosun that these newcomers were all old hands, experienced seamen who knew what they were getting into, except for one—a young cabin boy whose enthusiasm had taken the bosun’s fancy. Dominic picked him out easily enough. A scrawny, undernourished lad. He smiled to himself. A week would make or break him. The bosun believed in rough justice and the regular application of a rope’s end in the early days of training.

  Genevieve was to have many strange experiences in the next year, but none as strange or as frightening as those she experienced during the next few days. She lost count of the number of times she swallowed her tears and bitterly regretted the impulse that had hurled her into this dreadful, uncomfortable, uncaring adventure. She need not have worried about being inconspicuous; no one took the least bit of notice of her, except to cuff her when she was in the way, or bellow if the decks, which seemed to be her single responsibility, showed the slightest smudge on their pristine whiteness. She had no berth of her own, but was expected to curl up in a corner of the fetid between decks cabin, while the ribald talk went on around her, as the crew, in various states of undress, took what hours of rest were permitted them. She gradually became inured to the glimpses of male nakedness, although she spent most of the time in the cabin with her eyes tight shut, but visits to the heads were sheer torment. She would creep out in the middle of the night, praying that no one else would be there, since privacy was almost nonexistent. Why had this obvious problem not entered her head when she had planned this ridiculous, lunatic journey? One day, she would learn to stop and think before following her nose.

  She was constantly aware of Dominic, although convinced that he barely noticed the presence of an insignificant cabin boy. Once, when she had swabbed the deck for the sixth time since the early dawn, cold, gray, scummy water slopping around her ankles, he had walked straight across the still damp, freshly cleaned area, leaving muddy footprints, and she had had to start anew before the bosun saw it. There were no excuses, she knew from bitter experience. The temptation to hurl the bucket of scummy water at the master’s immaculate, oblivious, white-shirted back had been almost overpowering. But they were not yet far enough into the Gulf for her to declare herself. And after what she had already gone through, Genevieve was determined that Dominic was not going to be able to put her ashore.

  It was on their third day into the Gulf that matters reached a head, and the cabin boy finally had to throw in the towel. It was a hot, lazy afternoon, the wind a mere whisper so that the fleet drifted idly on the blue waters, where schools of dolphins played around them, showing off to the amused sailors who leaned over the rail, laughing and applauding at the antics of the graceful creatures. Genevieve sat in the spot on the deck that she had adopted for her own. It was against the hatch, out of the sun, so not popular with anyone else, and relatively secluded, which also made it unpopular with her gregarious fellow travelers.

  “Hey, lad!” A voice boomed into her ear. “Come over here. Time for your initiation, we reckon.”

  She looked up into a circle of grinning, bronzed faces, and realized with a sinking heart that they were up to no good. Boredom played havoc with idle hands and bred mischief that was clearly intended for the shy, scrawny little cabin boy.

  “Fancy a swim, then?” A hand, its back masked in black curling hair, caught her beneath one arm and yanked her upright. “In with the porpoises.”

  “No.” Terrified, she shook her head. They could not be intending to throw her overboard, surely! But someone swung her into the air, and the next minute she found herself suspended over the blue ocean far beneath. She heard her scream and the roar of laughter that greeted it, then, miraculously they had returned her to the deck.

  Dominic, watching from the quarterdeck, smiled and shrugged, turning back to the helmsman. The bosun was there if the horseplay got out of hand, and there wasn’t a man on this ship, including its master, who hadn’t endured his own initiation.

  “If you don’t want to swim for us, lad, then you’ll have to dance,” someone announced. A cutlass shivered into the deck at her feet, and she jumped back with another scream. There was another burst of laughter. “Let’s have his clothes off,” someone suggested. “He can’t dance properly in those. They’re too big for him, anyway.”

  Genevieve ran, through the grinning circle, taking them momentarily by surprise so that she managed to evade the grabbing hands. Then they were after her, all laughing, all knowing that the pursuit could be as leisurely as they pleased; there was nowhere the lad could run to on this little vessel becalmed in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. But, to their amazement, the boy hurled himself at the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. The bosun bellowed at him. No member of the crew went up there unless invited, or sent. Swinging his rope’s end, he went up after the truant.

  Dominic spun round from the wheel at the sounds of commotion, an ominous frown drawing the fly-away eyebrows together, darkening the turquoise eyes so that the bosun began to apologize even as he lunged for the fleeing figure of the cabin boy.

  “Dominic, don’t let them!” The unmistakable voice of Genevieve Latour spilled from the lips of his cabin boy, and the diminutive figure in its grotesque garments shot behind him, cowering against the rail, seeking the protection of his back.

  The bosun stopped dead, his mouth falling open, the rope twitching in his hand. He knew that voice as well as did Danseuse’s master. The laughing group of seamen fell silent, crowding round the bottom of the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. As one body, they moved back into the waist of the ship so that they could look up at the drama being played on the deck above.

  That eerie, motionless quiet settled on the ship as everyone waited for Monsieur Delacroix to make a move. Then, quite slowly, indolently almost, he reached behind him, his fingers curling in the collar of Genevieve’s shirt, and yanked the shrinking figure out in front of him.

  “Well, well,” said the privateer thoughtfully, regarding his prize with a degree of interest. “It seems that you never learn, do you?” His hand tightened in her shirt collar and jerked upward, forcing Genevieve onto her toes. She swallowed convulsively and began to wish that they had dropped her overboard with the gamboling dolphins. The waiting silence stretched thinly into infinity, and nothing existed but the mingled blues of a glinting azure gaze, of a cloudless sky, and a quiet sea.

  “If I had a grain of common sense, I would hand you over to them and turn a blind eye.” Dominic spoke at last, the soft voice nevertheless grating in the stillness. “Can you give me one good reason why I should not?” Another jerk on her collar punctuated the question.

  Genevieve forced herself to meet his eyes, although her throat had closed so that no words would come forth. But the tawny eyes carried the bold conviction that had brought her to this situation in the first place, and that had enabled her to endure the last few days. It was that that saved her. Had she begged, wept, offered excuse, given way to the fear that she could not hide, the privateer, in his fury, would have left her to fend for herself.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Very well, you will take your chance with me.” He looked past her at the bosun, who still stood, but awkwardly now, quite unsure how he was implicated in this inconceivable muddle, but knowing that in some way,
he was responsible. “You will have to manage without a cabin boy, it would seem, bosun. Maybe, in the future, you would examine the credentials of applicants a little more thoroughly.” Monsieur’s smile was silken, the tone pleasant as he made the request, but the bosun was not deceived. He muttered something inaudible and disappeared down the ladder.

  “March!” Dominic snapped suddenly, seizing her belt and pushing Genevieve in front of him, still holding her shirt with his other hand so that her heels barely brushed the deck. She scrambled down the ladder as best she could, enduring the fascinated stares of those hands who did not know who she was, as well as those who did, as she was propelled in this undignified manner across the main deck and down the companionway.

  Silas, busily polishing the rich cherry wood of the table in the master’s cabin, looked up, startled, as the door crashed open. He had barely noticed the novice cabin boy in the last few days. Now he stared at the tiny figure in monsieur’s hands, and recognition dawned gradually. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

  “Get out of here, Silas,” Dominic ordered curtly.

  “Yes, monsieur.” The sailor picked up his cloths and polish and left the cabin, closing the door quietly on whatever was about to happen within.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the silence that followed the click of the door, Dominic released his grip on Genevieve and strolled across the cabin to the chart table beneath the porthole. He bent over it for long minutes, making rapid calculations on a piece of paper, seemingly so absorbed in his task that he was oblivious of the still figure, standing where he had left her in the middle of the cabin, in front of his desk.

  Genevieve felt excruciatingly awkward and uncomfortable, ignored in this way, yet she seemed to have no choice but to remain where she was. Even walking over to a chair struck her as impossible, although why it should be so, she had no idea. So she just stood and stared at the paneling on the bulwark, as if seeking the answers to the universe in the rich patina.