by Jane Feather
Dominic, hearing the unexpected sound, spun round, just as Genevieve was running for the main deck and the pump, to refill the bucket. He opened his mouth on the order to go below, then closed it again. She seemed to have her wits about her, judging by that piece of quick thinking, and he could use every useful pair of hands at the present. Danseuse seemed to be drawing all the fire, and Mouette, under full canvas like her sister ships, was now clear and running well for the Yucatan Channel. If they could maneuver to avoid being hit, Danseuse would be joining her in no time. He gave the order to wear ship again and she came round, carrying too much canvas for strict safety, but he could not afford to shorten sail and lose speed. Genevieve grabbed hold of the deck rail and hung on, staring with a mesmerized terror at the great green wall of water into which Danseuse seemed about to plunge. It seemed inevitable that she would plow her way at this great speed right down to the ocean bottom. But the nimble vessel responded sweetly to the helm as her master had known she would and came up to dance over the water, leaving the Endeavour still wondering what had happened, clumsily trying to change course in pursuit.
Genevieve relaxed and stood staring over the stern at the British ship being left fast behind. Soon her top gallants were out of sight and only her royals visible.
“Two hours and we shall have run her mastheads under.” Dominic, sounding infinitely satisfied, spoke at her shoulder.
“What happened with the others?” she asked. “Everything happened so quickly, I did not have time to notice.”
He shrugged. “Only one of the three blockaders tried to stop us, so it is to be assumed that the others split up and went after the two groups. They’ll not catch them, though.” He turned to acknowledge the bosun. “Any casualties, bosun?”
“Nothing serious, monsieur. A few splinters from a ball that hit the stern gallery.”
Dominic nodded. “Damage?”
“Just the two hits, monsieur. The one there …” He indicated the hole in the quarterdeck. “And the one at the stern. Nothing that a bit o’ patching can’t put right.”
“Nearly had a fire, though,” Dominic said thoughtfully, looking at the smoke-blackened planking of the deck. “If someone hadn’t thought quickly.” He smiled at Genevieve, and she went pink with pleasure. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely useless, after all. “Not that you should have been on deck in the first place,” he added, but without heat, as if it were simply a form reproof.
“You did not tell me to go below,” she reminded him.
“You took shameless advantage of my preoccupation,” he retorted unarguably, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and licking a corner. “You look like a chimney sweep.” Holding her face, he wiped away the smears of soot and smoke. “That dress is filthy, too. You’ll have to ask Silas to launder it for you.”
“But then I’ll have to stay in bed until it’s dry,” she protested. “That does not seem a just reward for my firefighting.”
“No?” His eyesbrows lifted in that quizzical, teasing fashion. “That rather depends on what you do there, I would have said. Or were you not thinking of having company?”
“I thought you had a ship to sail.” Her eyes sparkled with the light banter, and his own responded.
“It can manage without me for a few hours. Why don’t you run along, give Silas your gown and put yourself to bed? I will join you in a very few minutes.”
“Yes, monsieur,” she said, knuckling her forehead in a fair imitation of the erstwhile cabin boy. “Whatever monsieur says.”
“Get off this deck before I do something that you will not want witnessed!”
Chuckling, Genevieve beat a prudently hasty retreat, to be scolded by Silas on the state of her dress as if she were still in the schoolroom and had ruined her Sunday gown by climbing trees. Clearly, her exploits with the fire bucket were not considered sufficient excuse for spoiling the old sailor’s craftsmanship.
They reached Punta Gorda on the morning of the fourth day, and Dominic went ashore almost immediately. Genevieve pleaded to accompany him, but in vain. He was impervious to her cajoling, to her sulks and to her bullying, repeating his denial, patiently and without raising his voice, as often as it was necessary. This lack of reaction she found even more infuriating than his refusal, but continuing to plague him was clearly as pointless as hitting her head against a brick wall, so she had to make do with sitting on the deck looking longingly at the little fishing village. It seemed a perfectly innocuous place, sleeping in the sun, its only inhabitants scrawny children rolling in the dust, bareheaded women carrying baskets of fish, and lean, bronzed fishermen. There was a distinct air of poverty about the village with its tumbledown shacks and single dusty cart track, and no sign of the Spanish authorities, who were presumably not bothered with such an insignificant spot. Genevieve assumed that that was why it had been chosen as the delivery place. For all its apparent lack of excitement, she longed to go ashore and feel solid ground beneath her feet, but as an indication of the lessons she had learned in recent weeks, she made no attempt to defy the privateer’s edict. It also occurred to her that, although Silas had accompanied Dominic, there were plenty of the crew remaining on board, none of whom would scruple to prevent her if she did decide to leave.
Dominic and Silas reappeared after a long morning, and they were not alone. The three men who accompanied them struck Genevieve as distinctly villainous. They were bristling with pistols and cutlasses and looked much more like pirates than did the pirates themselves. Dominic, indeed, was almost elegant in his beautifully cut and laundered shirt and breeches, his boots of the finest leather, his silken kerchief knotted carelessly around his neck..
Leaning inquisitively over the quarterdeck rail, she looked down on the main deck as the five came aboard. They were speaking Spanish, a tongue that was almost as natural to Genevieve as French, her education in the necessities of Creole living having been thorough. They went over to the battened-down hatch, and then Dominic looked up at the quarterdeck. He saw her and pointed imperatively toward the companionway. Then he placed a finger on his lips. There was no mistaking the message. She was to go below without being seen or heard. She waited until the three visitors had disappeared into the hold, then dashed for the companionway and the seclusion of the cabin.
“Why must I hide?” she demanded of Dominic when he came into the cabin an hour later.
“I have no desire for those unsavory characters to know of your presence,” he told her, pulling off his sweat-darkened shirt. “It’s as hot as Hades out there.”
“Why not?” Genevieve persisted.
“Pass me a clean shirt. Because there is no knowing what use they might make of it.” He held out his hand for the shirt she handed him. “They wouldn’t think twice about kidnapping you and holding you for ransom. The weapons are a present, as you know. But they could always do with funds.”
“Oh.” Genevieve contemplated this interesting piece of information with a frown.
“They would cut your throat in the end, anyway,” he continued with brutal candor, “so there’d be little point in negotiating with them.”
“You would not attempt to save me?” she demanded with clear indignation.
“If you were stupid enough to disobey my orders, issued purely for your protection, Mademoiselle Genevieve, you would get only what you deserved.”
“How long do we remain here?” She changed the subject, since that one seemed to lead to no useful avenues.
“I will wait a couple of days for Hirondelle, Colombe, and Cygne,” he told her. “Alouette and Pique will be at least another week, even with a fair wind, so we will not wait for them.”
“It is going to be very tedious, this waiting, if I cannot go ashore, or even on deck.” Her mouth formed a small but unmistakable pout. Disconcertingly, Dominic laughed.
“It is not convincing, mon coeur. Elise’s mannerisms look merely ridiculous on you, like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes.”
“What di
d you call me?” Genevieve stared, openmouthed, having heard nothing but those two extraordinary words.
Dominic frowned, as if trying to remember. Then a startled, rueful look crossed his face. With a visible effort, he shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “Une façon de parler, sprite,” he said lightly. “I think perhaps this is another occasion when you should adopt the britches and a cap again. That way, you may go on deck without drawing unwelcome attention from our friends ashore. But you will not leave the ship. Understand?”
Genevieve nodded and went to the door, avoiding his eye. “I will go and ask Silas for my britches.”
Dominic stood for a minute looking at the closed door, then he sighed and shook his head. How had he let such an endearment slip out, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to call her? He had never used those two words to anyone since Rosemarie’s death. And he had never thought to do so again. But it had been quite involuntary, and Genevieve, of course, had noticed and had not the delicacy to let it pass unremarked. But then tact was not her long suit. He was just going to have to be very careful not to let it happen again. It wasn’t as if it was the truth. That was one damnable complication he could not afford.
Une façon de parler, Genevieve thought. Yes, of course that was all it was. He had been laughing at her when he’d called her that. It might have been different, might have meant something, if it had happened during the passion of their lovemaking. She had best put it out of mind before her imagination got the better of her. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to mean it. It would cause the most damnable complications.
The three privateers that had run to the Bay of Campeche appeared promptly, and the reunion was boisterous, to say the least. Their mission completed, the crews of all four vessels were relieved of all but vital duties for twenty-four hours, and the rum flowed freely. There was dancing and singing, but forays ashore in search of women had been forbidden, so they were obliged to make do with their own entertainment. Genevieve needed no instructions to keep to herself below. The words to the sailors’ songs would have brought a blush to the cheeks of a harlot, and the conversation of the captains of the privateers seemed little better, as she discovered when Dominic entertained them to a celebratory dinner on Danseuse.
He had suggested strongly that she spend the evening alone, in the small cabin allotted to Silas, who was serving the gentlemen in the master’s cabin and would not be needing it. Genevieve, with a stubbornness that she was to regret bitterly, said she would help Silas and grace the proceedings as hostess. Dominic had simply shrugged. It was a lesson she was going to have to learn for herself, he decided. She would suffer no more than embarrassment as long as he was there.
The captains of his fleet had had no idea of the presence of a woman on board La Danseuse, but they had no difficulty drawing the obvious conclusions. No lady would be in such a position, so it did not occur to them to moderate their tone or language in front of her when they teased Dominic for being a sly dog, stealing a march on the rest of them by bringing his own comfort with him. One or two hands groped at her as she moved around the table, trying to be as gracious a hostess as she would have been at home on Royal Street, or at Trianon. But there was no room for such niceties at this table. Their manners were atrocious, except for Dominic, who was as suave and seemingly as sober as ever, although he consumed as much wine and brandy as the others. When his azure gaze came to rest on Genevieve’s set face and flushed cheeks as it did frequently, it held mocking amusement, the satisfaction of having been proven right, and he made no attempt to tone down the conversation, or to say anything that might alter the impression they had of “his woman.”
Pride kept her in the room long beyond the point of near unbearable humiliation, although if Dominic had suggested that she leave, she would have jumped at the opportunity. But he did not; merely passed her his plate when it required refilling, and gestured toward the wine bottles on the side table when one needed replacing. When, at last, the table had been cleared and there seemed no further need of her services, and she could leave without it looking as if she were fleeing her mistake, she made for the door. Only to be arrested by a jovial demand from Mouette’s captain that she stay and entertain them. They were sorely in need of a little female company, and Monsieur Delacroix could not be so selfish as to keep her all to himself. Significant looks went to the big bed, and a rumble of eager agreement ran round the table.
“Go,” said Dominic evenly, without turning his head, and she went, trembling with shame, furious with herself for inviting that treatment, and quite unable to transfer that fury to Dominic, which made it even harder to bear. When they went on deck to smoke and clear their heads in the night air, Silas, radiating disapproval, came and told her that she could return to the master cabin in safety. She crept into bed, wondering how she was to face Dominic, only to discover that the privateer was more than generous in victory. Not once did he refer to the dreadful evening; not then or at any point in the future, but it was a long time before she could forgive herself and before the memory became sufficiently blunted to be tolerable.
The voyage home was enlivened by the capture of an Indiaman loaded with silks, tea, spices, and other luxuries that would find a hungry market in New Orleans. When the prize was sighted, the atmosphere on board Danseuse became charged, every man suddenly stiffening to attention, seeming to sniff the wind like a hound scenting the fox. Dominic stood at the helm, a smile on his lips as he looked at the clumsy vessel clawing awkwardly up to windward as if she could escape the little, fast flock of hawks that had appeared on the horizon with such obvious menace.
“Have the guns loaded and run out,” he ordered calmly. “I doubt that we will need them, but it will show we mean business.” He chuckled. “Should they be in any doubt of that fact.”
Genevieve glanced up at him. He was about to commit an act of piracy that outside wartime would be judged a piece of blatant thievery, yet he was behaving as if it were a game. For Dominic Delacroix, it was just that, she realized, seeing the glint in the azure eyes, feeling the surge of energetic anticipation in the body standing beside her. A challenging game—one that he would win.
He caught her look, and the blue eyes offered her a conspiratorial gleam. “If you wish to watch, sprite, you will be safest on the stern gallery.”
“May I not stay here? I cannot understand what is happening if I do not hear you give the orders.”
Genevieve Latour would, of course, need to understand what was happening while she watched. And she would not get in the way; that much he knew. “Very well, but keep your head below the level of the deck rail.”
She took up a position sitting in the corner, beside the taffrail, where she had an uninterrupted view and could hear everything of what was said behind her. The merchantman was running out boarding nettings, and the snub noses of cannon appeared in her ports.
So she was prepared to defend herself. Dominic’s smile broadened as he gave the order to bring Danseuse up into the wind. Her fellow privateers followed suit, and Genevieve could almost hear the panicky speculation on board their quarry. Why were the enemy coming to a halt in their pursuit? Only because they were about to concert their moves. Signals flashed between the hawks, then Danseuse’s bow swung to starboard, Colombe’s to port. Each ship, with the wind on her quarter, came racing down, a picture of malevolent efficiency with the water foaming beneath their bows. Hirondelle, Mouette, and Pique waited in the wings. If they were needed, they would join the fun.
The Indiaman sheered off in fright as Colombe bore down on her portside, but Danseuse was waiting to starboard. The privateer’s crew went smoothly into action; the only voice was Dominic’s, never raised, yet carrying. Grappling irons were thrown, and the boarding party went over the side, clawing their way along the swinging ropes to rip the boarding nettings with cutlass and hook. A few shots were fired from the merchantman and returned with a deadly accuracy that completely cowed the already overwhelmed vessel, untrained to fi
ght. And it was all over.
Piracy on the high seas, Genevieve thought in inarticulate bewilderment for the thousandth time. A deadly business that brought enormous rewards to those who dared—to those who possessed the skill and the daring. Dominic Delacroix possessed both to an inordinate degree, and she felt her heart lift as she shared the crew’s excitement and Dominic’s calmer satisfaction of a job well done. He had struck a heavy blow for his country against the enemy, struck against the fat purses of the British merchants who financed the war. His purse, of course, would be enriched by the shrinking of theirs, but this was war and privateering was quite legal. A little voice from the Ursuline convent murmured that from the point of view of a strict conscience, there were no excuses for thievery, but the moral aspect would not trouble the consumers of the goods any more than it appeared to trouble the privateers. And Genevieve realized with a little thrill of shock that while the question interested her, it didn’t seem to worry her in the slightest.
Chapter Sixteen
“Genevieve, are you feeling quite well, chère?” Hélène looked anxiously at her stepdaughter whose expression bore all the signs of impatience, and the tawny eyes were distinctly stormy.
“Quite well,” the girl replied shortly, looking across the crowded ballroom where New Orleans’s finest were enjoying the first bal de royauté of the new saison des visites. “It is just so boring!”
“You must not speak like that,” Hélène said in an agonized whisper. “Supposing someone should hear you.”
Genevieve shrugged, the gesture clearly expressing her indifference to such a happenstance. Hélène sighed. Genevieve had become almost impossible since her return from the convent. No longer overshadowed by her elder sister’s beauty, she was rapidly becoming one of the most sought-after young maidens of this season, but her habitual expression of bored disapproval would inevitably be offputting, once the novelty of her rather unusual beauty had worn off. The weeks at the convent, Hélène was obliged to admit, had wrought an amazing change in that respect. The girl had blossomed quite extraordinarily and, notwithstanding her diminutive stature, she was unmistakably a mature, most out of the ordinary young woman for whom her father was already considering a respectably long list of potential suitors.