Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  The ships, needed to free O’Malley.

  Christiana fought back the panic that threatened to seize her heart. A damaged frigate might sail to Jamaica, but if pursued, they’d never make it out of British waters. And the longer O’Malley remained in Port Royal, the more beatings he would endure. At what point would he give up hope? On what day would they go too far?

  For Mattie’s sake, she managed a smile. “Thank you. As for breakfast, don’t trouble yourself on my account. A cold harbor’s fine. There’s fruit and bread and cheese. I’m anxious to get down to the wharf and see the damage for myself.”

  Half an hour later, the two women were headed for the waterfront but detoured, on Christiana’s insistence, when she saw the crowd gathered on the wide veranda of a neat two-story house with thick stone walls. A flame-haired young woman was busy, checking the women and children who were injured in the storm. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat that protected her fair complexion, but not enough to keep auburn freckles from sprinkling her pert nose.

  Mattie reluctantly introduced Christiana to Comfort McBride, Angus’s twenty-year-old daughter whose burgeoning belly was discernible beneath her sprigged cotton sack dress. The older woman was clearly uncomfortable with Comfort’s state, unwed and expecting. Although she might not approve, thankfully, neither did she preach about it. A woman of deep faith, Mattie was more spiritual than religious. She had a soft spot in her heart reserved for widows and orphans, and was grateful that Comfort had found one of them, her young ward Adrienne, who’d gone missing and had ridden out the storm aboard the Raptor.

  The young Scotswoman was confident of her abilities, and made no excuses, expressed no regrets for her pregnancy. It seemed that she took full responsibility for herself—and everyone else who came to her for help. Christiana observed that, despite their differences, Mattie and Comfort were much alike. Mattie took care of Vallé’s household, and Comfort took care of his people—and his cat, Christiana soon learned. Buí, the large yellow-orange tomcat that had belonged to Vallé’s mother, was not the seafaring cat Jamaica was. The tom favored Comfort and used her residence as his base of operations, coming and going as he pleased. This morning, he was in danger of being overwhelmed by the children, who needed the tactile reassurance of soft, warm fur as much as they needed Comfort’s skills as a healer.

  Mattie excused herself to return to her cottage. Christiana stayed and helped Comfort, distracting the little ones with silly finger games and nursery songs while Comfort cleaned wounds and bandaged contusions. When Mattie returned with a spyglass and offered to trade places, Christiana could have kissed her. Anxious to see the storm damage, she left Mattie to assist Comfort in tending her flock and headed for the dock.

  Lifting the lens to her eye, Christiana focused on the Raptor. Its prow rose and set with the swell, the fore-mast and splintered end of a broken main-mast tracing arcs against the azure sky while tars swarmed around the mizzen mast, removing the broken yard. From what she could see, the other ships—a two-masted schooner, a hundred-ton sloop, and an eighty-foot brigantine—had sustained similar damage.

  “It could be worse.”

  The fine hairs on Christiana’s neck prickled at the sound of Bryce’s voice. She lowered the spyglass but did not collapse it. Instead she held it before her, with two hands firmly gripping the narrow end of the brass tube.

  Old habits die hard, but fighting back yesterday had been a breakthrough for Christiana. Today she felt more wary than threatened. Of course, it helped that others were close by. Not Vallé. Bryce would not have dared approach her if he were near.

  She noted that Bryce had changed since yesterday too. Gone was his usual brilliant plumage. Instead he sported well worn boots and serviceable knee breeches, a cambric shirt and sleeveless vest. His unshaven face was scabbed where she had scratched him. He was wise enough to keep well out of her reach.

  “Yes, it could be worse,” she said, not feeling the least bit guilty. She turned her gaze back to the Raptor, the pride of Justin’s fleet. “Only one mast seems damaged.” Unfortunately, it was the main mast on the flagship of Vallé’s fleet and would be the hardest to replace.

  “We were lucky this time.” Bryce angled a pointed look at her. “But who knows when the next storm will descend, and what destruction will be left in its wake, hmm?”

  Christiana felt like someone had stepped on a grave. Gooseflesh cascaded up her arms, and she resisted the urge to cross herself. Spring weather was fickle, and they could ill afford delays, not when O’Malley’s life might well hang in the balance.

  Raising a hand to his face, Bryce stroked his beard-stubbled chin. “I offered to help with repairs but my brother forbade it.” He paused, and turned the full force of his enigmatic blue gaze upon her. “He has ordered me off the island.”

  “He told me. I am certain you will understand when I bid you Godspeed rather than au revoir.”

  Bryce offered the semblance a smile. “Ma petite, you wound me. Again. Is this not punishment enough?” he asked, turning his marred cheek to her. “I fear you have marked me for life. I would rather we have parted friends.”

  “Perhaps one day, we may be,” she conceded. “When you have proven you can act like the gentleman you were born to be—and accept that I have never wanted anything more from you than friendship.”

  “And what of my brother?” he asked after a moment’s pause. “What do you want from him? Friendship? Or do you perhaps wish for something more? An affaire de cœur? An avowal of love? A proposal of marriage?”

  His intention to goad her was clear. She saw it in his eyes before he shuttered them. Frustration tightened her throat when she realized that she could not, dare not give voice to her secret wish, her hopes and dreams. She wanted a future with Vallé, wanted peace between the brothers, but somehow fate had made her a bone of contention in a struggle that could have only one winner.

  And it would not be Bryce.

  His mouth tightened. The corner of his lips twisted into a bitter line. “I’ve seen that look before,” he murmured. “Your choice has been made, to my sorrow. May I wish you luck in succeeding where beauties with fortunes have failed? I warn you,” he said grimly, “he will never keep you. He’ll use you until it’s time to free your father, but once he returns….”

  Christiana collapsed the spyglass. She turned on her heel, refusing to hear more, but Bryce stepped in her path. He did not touch her, yet the urgency in his voice commanded attention. “Listen,” he said, “and listen well. You do not trust me, and that is my fault. I let my desire for you overcome my sensibilities to your tenderest feelings and now, I fear, you close your ears to the truth. Justin sails for Jamaica in five days. I know that he’s refused to take you. There is a reason,” he said darkly, stirring a sudden dread in her chest. “You have only to go to my room, to know it, to see the truth for yourself. When I’m gone. If you dare….”

  Old habits, accepting dares regardless of consequences. Once it had cost her a broken leg. This time, her heart was at risk.

  “Look well at the picture of my mother,” he instructed, “and you’ll see your ring upon her finger. That’s why Justin sails alone! Not to rescue O’Malley but to seek revenge! Our parents were murdered, the ship plundered, and O’Malley had their rings. Both of them—the one on your finger and the one that led to his capture!”

  While Bryce stood like Cerberus at the gates of hell, Christiana felt the world disintegrate beneath her feet. “No,” she whispered, as hurt by his accusations, and Vallé’s betrayal, as if he’d dealt her a physical blow. “It can’t be. He’d have said something—”

  Bryce laughed. “Why should he? You wear our mother’s ring. O’Malley held it for you. By keeping silent, Justin could have you, and the ring, and the gold you paid him to free O’Malley. Except he’ll never walk free, ma petite. He’s a dead man either way—by British noose or Justin’s blade, but dead nonetheless. And where will that leave you, hmm? When Justin returns here saying he was too l
ate, that O’Malley was already hung or that he died of bad food or prison fever before he was turned off, will you still believe whatever he chooses to tell you?”

  Christiana parted her lips but nothing emerged, neither protestation of innocence nor vehement denial. She might not know the entire truth—might never know the whole truth—but she recognized enough elements of it to lend credence to some of Bryce’s tale. Remembering the times that Vallé had held her hand, had stroked it and kissed her ring, she was certain that she’d find exactly what Bryce described, the portrait of their mother wearing the emerald-studded band.

  Thoughts of what it might mean made her legs tremble so badly, Christiana was surprised she was still standing. “But what can I do?” she asked herself, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud until Bryce answered her question.

  “Go for O’Malley yourself,” he said softly, after looking around to make certain no others were in earshot.

  Christiana met his gaze and knew how Eve felt, dealing with a serpent.

  “Oui,” he said bluntly. “Justin keeps the key to his treasure room in his library, in the upper left desk drawer. Bring it to his office the night before he sails, when he’s already on board awaiting the morning light, and I’ll see you get to the Bold Avenger with more than enough money for the necessary bribes.”

  The Bold Avenger? How did he know about O’Malley’s ship? Unless….

  “You’ve seen her.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Oui. At Île à Vache. And,” he said, “they know you are here.”

  Christiana’s instincts bade her to tread warily around this Vallé brother, who had not proved to be the most trustworthy of men. “Île à Vache is a pirates’ cove. How do I know you will take me to the Bold Avenger and none other?” she countered. “What proof can you give?”

  Bryce rubbed the back of his neck—a move so like Vallé’s that she blinked to shake her fancy free. Vallé and Bryce were mirror images, she’d often thought, but had her view been distorted by love? Were the brothers more alike than she knew?

  He released his breath in a short, agitated puff, clearly unhappy with her demand. “I’ll get something—bring along one of her crew when I return. Whatever, whomever you wish. You have only to name it.”

  “Jimmy.” The name flew out before she could even consider another choice. “Lieutenant-at-arms James Kincaid,” she told Bryce, giving him the full name of the former cook’s mate. Despite the teasing he’d peppered her with, in their youths, she knew she could trust Jimmy with her life.

  “Kincaid it is.” Bryce nodded curtly. “Remember, mademoiselle. Four nights from now. Justin leaves his office unlocked. Meet me there at midnight with the key to his treasury—and make certain, whatever you do, that you don’t arouse his suspicion between now and then, otherwise our plans will be for naught.”

  Christiana swallowed the sudden tightness that gripped her by the throat and refused to let go. In a few hours, Vallé would be home, expecting dinner and her presence along with it. How could she face him, she wondered, and hide her turmoil? How could she carry on polite conversation when so many questions must remain unspoken and unanswered?

  And how could she resist him if he came to her tonight and took her in his arms, wrapped her in the heat of his embrace and seared her soul with his fire? Choice was gone, and fate was proving a fickle bitch. For better or worse, she loved him. Loved him with a passion that defied all logic and threatened to shatter her already-fragile dream of independence. Was this passion’s price, then? she wondered, the forsaking of all reason and self? If not carefully tended, would her growing need for Vallé consume her, until she would be a hollow shell without him, like the Lady of Shallot, destined to wither away, consumed by bitterness and old before her time?

  Christiana nodded, biting her lip and refusing to let Bryce see how much the thought of Vallé’s perfidy had hurt her. Could the tender, passionate lover who’d taken her to paradise time and time again coexist in the same body with this…pirate…who, according to Bryce, planned to murder her father? It was unthinkable—and yet, when she searched Bryce’s implacable gaze, she saw only confidence, and the certainty that she would be unable to prove him wrong.

  “I must go,” he told her, casting his gaze toward his brother’s ships, then turning back to focus on the emerald ring that banded her finger. His mother’s, and Vallé’s. “Justin’s orders,” he added, bitterness tingeing his voice. “But I’ll be back. I swear I will. I will make certain you see your father again.”

  Bryce nearly smiled when he saw the direction of Mademoiselle Delacorte’s troubled gaze, drawn toward his quarters above the office. Justin might believe that he held the upper hand, but soon…soon, he’d show his brother who was the more worthy opponent.

  At last. He would show his brother. Show the world! After all, hadn’t he fooled their father, who’d believed himself no more capable of mistakes than God? Working side by side, he’d played the obedient son while funneling shipping information to his silent partner, in return for a cut of the take when one of his father’s cargos was seized.

  Bryce did smile then. It had served his father right, after refusing to pay Bryce enough to support himself in the manner to which he was accustomed. It took money to live, to eat and drink and gamble. It cost to court the most virtuous daughters and to slake his loins in the best bordellos. He’d found a way to have nearly everything he had always wanted, and eventually he’d had Felicia, too.

  Felicia. Beautiful, virginal, curious Felicia. Fair of face, with a fetching smile and a passion which had so nearly come to match his own that his greatest triumph became his arrant weakness. He’d made the mistake of caring for her too much. But he had his pride. When he saw that Felicia was as mercenary as most women, that she was prepared to bow to her family’s wishes, not because of duty but for the riches she hoped to gain, in the end, he’d let her go—

  And she’d died because of it.

  Years of practice allowed Bryce to quell the guilt. He had loved Felicia as much as he was capable of loving anyone, he supposed. Only she’d chosen his resurrected brother when the time finally came to commit to marriage. Not that he blamed her any longer for her desertion. Non, he blamed himself, for allowing himself to care. He’d opened himself to the risk of rejection, and he’d been bitterly, deeply disappointed. He had vowed never to lose another woman to his brother, not ever again.

  Bryce stroked his chin and watched the tantalizing sway of Mademoiselle Delacorte’s slim hips and indulged himself in fantasy. He saw himself lying on a bed piled with his brother’s gold. The door pushed open, and she came into the room on hands and knees, crawling to him, begging him, pleading with him to intervene on her father’s behalf.

  Warmth curled in his belly, but he kept firm control over his body’s reactions to the scene playing out in his mind. It wouldn’t do to let anyone see how much he wanted her at his mercy, how much he looked forward to taking her as she crawled, taking her like the bitch she was, pushing up her petticoats and shoving himself inside and finally finding an answer to his question, discovering if she were still a virgin.

  And if she had, indeed, lain with Justin….

  He was certain that he could find ways to use the girl that his brother never dared to try. Oui, he thought. He would tutor her as he had hoped to Felicia, would train her in debauchery and sybaritic pleasures, until she was spoiled for other, less imaginative men. He would be the master of her passion, the sole proprietor of her body. She would bow to him in all things, no matter what he asked of her, and never wish to give herself to another.

  Bryce smiled darkly and patted his bulging pocket, heavy with the weight of the purse tucked into its depths. A richer purse than Justin thought, since he’d counted the coins inside, then helped himself to as many more. Over the years, he’d made numerous connections—connections that still enabled him to have a small income independent of his brother’s piddling pay. Men—and women—of many talents, o
ne of which was crafting keys.

  Like father, like son, mused Bryce. It served Justin right, to steal from him when he refused to share their family’s wealth. Wealth that would come to him, should his brother die. When his brother died, he corrected, feeling a brief flare of anger that his plans had nearly been spoiled. By a prostitute, no less. One he believed incapable of thinking with anything beyond what was between her legs. Druscilla, whom he’d used but underestimated, a whore who’d gotten what she deserved when she wanted more to keep quiet, threatening to tell what she knew.

  It was a shame he couldn’t have been there to watch, but he’d heard the details, a recital so eloquently rendered that he’d nearly felt the throes of her final orgasm while her body jerked and her windpipe collapsed beneath the crush of someone else’s fingers, just before he slashed her throat.

  Bryce wanted Justin dead, true—but on his terms. He wanted Justin to go to his grave knowing that his own brother was the instrument of his destruction. He wanted him to burn in hell alongside Felicia, joined in death as they’ve never been in life, while he was left, rich as Croesus and very much alive, with Mademoiselle Delacorte at his mercy.

  And as for O’Malley….

  ‘Twas a tragic thing for a man to be cut down in his prime, but Bryce supposed there would be no help for it, not when he had dared so much, done so much, to make his dreams come true.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Turquoise water lapped at the white sand beach, the calm after the storm that had resurged with a vengeance and still raged inside Christiana’s breast. Last night—only last night—it felt as if some part of her world had been set aright, that she and Vallé had finally begun to make amends. But Bryce had torn away the illusion. Now she must force herself to look behind the curtain and see what manner of man lay beyond. One who would lie with her even as he lied to her. Yes, she loved Vallé, but she could not fully trust him. Neither could she trust his brother. She could rely only on herself, could trust only herself to free O’Malley, but she needed help to mount his rescue. In light of Vallé’s perfidy, she had no choice but to accept Bryce’s offer, and pray that she got to O’Malley first.