And Vallé’s as well, she reminded herself firmly. Above all else, she must keep that in mind, lest she surrender to the unspoken part of the vow he would yet have her swear, that she would wait for him here.
And that was something she could not, dare not do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Comfort McBride sat hidden in the shadows of Captain Vallé’s cuisine, watching the back of his house and rubbing the ever-shifting shape of her belly. She wished she were as wide awake as her bairn. Little feet kicked gleefully, dancing by the thin light of the moon, pushing out the front of the apron she’d pinned over her work dress to protect it from whatever this night might bring.
She just wished she knew what it was. Her Gift was not giving what she wanted to know. It was as if she looked through a glass darkly. Nothing was clear—nothing save the feelings of trepidation and excitement that clamored in her breast. Something was about to happen. She knew it, but heaven help her to know what it was.
Beneath the hem of her two petticoats, a pair of cats twined around her ankles. Jamaica and Buí were getting reacquainted, courting each other while insects spiraled around her, drawn by her body’s heat only to be repelled by the herbal wash she’d worn. She had insisted that Adrienne apply the same. The lassie stood watch in front of the house, and without it, the both of them would have been eaten alive.
Comfort listened to the feline purrs, the constant drone, and jerked upright when her head fell forward. She pinched herself on the arm—a trick she’d used when she’d kept her mother’s deathbed vigil, fearing that if she closed her eyes, if she dared to sleep, her mother would pass on. It was foolish to think she could forestall death, to even wish to prolong a life reduced to nothing more than pain, but she hadn’t understood Visions then. Her mother had the Gift, and her father had lived with it long enough to have some understanding of it. He’d allowed her ceaseless vigil, had dried her tears afterwards with assurances that she was not to blame.
He’d suspected Comfort of having her mother’s sight-beyond-sight; now he knew. He’d helped her understand that she had not caused her mother’s death by falling asleep. She had simply foreseen that that’s when it would happen.
Shaking off the sad memory, Comfort rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, counted her teeth inside and out, all the while keeping her gaze focused on the house, trying to see past its walls. She felt prickly all over, as if something momentous was about to happen. What, she didn’t know, save that sometimes not seeing was worse than seeing too much.
The moon climbed higher in the night sky. Her left arm felt bruised, and she switched sides, catching a bit of skin between thumb and forefinger and inhaling sharply when she pinched too hard. She rubbed at the hurt, swearing beneath her breath…until she sensed movement in the house, saw the flicker of light that wended its way into the captain’s library.
Her heart picked up its pace, urging her bairn to dance. Tiny feet tattooed her stomach. She pressed a hand against it, quieting babe and butterflies. A long moment later, the back door cracked open, and the form of a slim young man crept out of the house.
Except it was no man. The clothes were ill-fitted, but unmistakably worn by the captain’s bold lady, Christiana Delacorte.
She waited until Christiana had cleared the side of the house, slipping into the undergrowth that constantly crept into the yard, seeking to reclaim it. Sighing, Comfort followed Christiana, wishing she’d had the foresight to don a pair of her da’s breeches.
Christiana forced herself to not run but to move with swift stealth, her breath tight in her chest, so afraid that she’d be seen, stopped, caught. Her luck held. She reached Vallé’s office without intervention, raising a silent prayer of thanks as she slipped inside the darkened building.
Struggling to remember the layout, she clutched the key in her sweaty palm and patted the wall with the other, blindly searching for the inner door. Finding the latch, relief coursed through her…until a man’s hand clamped over her fingers.
She nearly screamed.
“Christiana—it’s us.”
The blessedly familiar voice came from further away, by the stairs leading to the second floor apartment. Jimmy.
“How fare the crew and the Bold Avenger?” she whispered, ignoring Bryce’s insistent grasp. “Are they ready to sail?”
“Aye,” said Jimmy, his footsteps so soft, she’d not known he was so close. Bryce reluctantly slid his hand away, allowing her to lift the latch and slip into Vallé’s office.
Patches of moonlight filtered in the windows like shifting sand, spreading across the floor and drifting over the massive desk. Christiana didn’t have to be told that the three of them must keep free of it and stay against the far wall, hidden in the shadows.
“The key?” Bryce’s words were clipped, as if he, too, feared discovery.
Christiana slid the warm metal into his outstretched hand and followed him to the back of the room, listening as the key scratched, searching for, then lining up with the keyhole and sliding into place. A swift turn of the wrist, and the bolt slid free of the striker plate, allowing Bryce to pull the door open.
“Inside, both of you.”
Christiana stepped into Vallé’s windowless treasure room behind Bryce. Jimmy followed suit, closing the door before he lit the smuggler’s lantern he carried. Replacing the flint and steel, Jimmy met her eyes but briefly, giving her a keen-eyed glance from head to toe. He raised his assessing gaze back to her shortened hair. To his credit, he did not smile until she did.
Satisfied that she had not suffered in the time they had been apart, Jimmy slid his gaze past hers to the wealth that the room contained. He whistled softly through his teeth.
Bryce was already counting out what they’d need: enough to take to meet with the guard, who would confirm the best time to free O’Malley. The night of the break, they would leave the rest of the agreed-on sum with the guard’s wife, for him to enjoy upon his return home—should their attempt be successful. If not, Bryce had warned that he would find neither gold nor wife when he returned.
It was Vallé’s plan, with one minor change. Bryce had arranged to pay the gaoler extra to get them in the night ahead of when Vallé planned his raid. O’Malley would be gone, and Vallé would be safe, and free to return to Valhalla.
Christiana had already determined to not tell Bryce of the letter she’d left with Caleb, warning Vallé against coming ashore. Her decision was validated by Jimmy, with his lip curled and his telling gaze, as he watched Bryce shovel coins. She couldn’t think of anyone better to watch her back, and Jimmy trusted Bryce no more than she.
“Surely that’s enough,” her old shipmate growled. “Come, we must be away.”
Bryce added one more handful of coins and reluctantly tugged the drawstring on the pouch, closing it tightly and securing it with a knot. “Here.” He handed the heavy purse to Christiana and motioned for Jimmy to douse the light. “Keep close and step lively,” he said as the room returned to stygian darkness. “We’re beached to the north, on the far side of the bend.”
Jimmy pushed open the door and slipped back into Vallé’s office. The next thing Christiana heard was the lantern dropping, followed by a muffled squeak, the rustle of fabric, a frantic struggle, Jimmy’s salty curse.
Bryce pushed past her, bounding into the room. Her heart thudding, Christiana followed, fighting panic, wondering how many more waited beyond these walls.
Until she recognized Comfort. Jimmy had one hand clamped over her mouth, an arm banding her chest beneath her heaving breasts. His back was arched so that her feet dangled off the floor.
“Scottish witch,” Bryce spit. “I’ll find some rope to tie her,” he said grimly, not taking any chances. “We can leave her in the treasury. By the time she’s missed, we’ll be gone.”
“You can’t!” Christiana clamped a hand on Bryce’s forearm, staying him. “She’s too close to her lying in! What if the babe comes early, with her trussed up and helpless?”
“Jesus.” Jimmy straightened abruptly, until Comfort’s feet were on the floor. “She’s carrying?”
“Aye,” said Christiana. “And now we must take her with us or risk losing the race to Jamaica.”
“Jesus.”
Comfort shook her head, doing her best to tear her mouth free of the hand clamped upon it. “Hist!” Jimmy grated in her ear. Bryce thrust a hand into his hair, tied back in a queue and worn unpowdered, without his customary curls on either side. Christiana chewed her lip, wondering what else could go wrong.
Bryce eyed Comfort’s apron and judged it insufficient for his needs. With no regard for propriety, let alone decency, he reached beneath Comfort’s dress and requisitioned a petticoat, slicing long strips with his knife to gag her and bind her hands. While the men trussed their prisoner, Christiana picked up the lantern and carefully felt it. The glass was cracked, the metal frame and base dented, but chances were, it was still usable.
Once Comfort was secured, Jimmy grabbed the wide ribbon of extra fabric dangling from her wrists and tugged her towards the door. Christiana followed the pair, her heart as heavy as the purse she carried for involving Comfort in her scheme.
Bryce cast one last glance around his brother’s office, a cruel smile forming on his lips. He’d be back, he promised himself, when the time was right, when the long arm of British justice had descended on his brother and all of this was his. But just in case of any more unforeseen occurrences, ones that might lead to escape, he laid the key atop the office desk. If nothing else, Bryce wanted Justin to know of Christiana’s willing involvement, an act which, in his brother’s eyes, would name her a traitorous bitch, one he would not bother to look for, should she fail to return at all.
The boat that would take them to the Bold Avenger was beached on the far side of the island, hidden by the terrain from Vallé’s fleet and the islanders. While Christiana helped Bryce pull the sloop free, Jimmy waited ashore with Comfort, then picked her up and carried her to the boat, trying his best to keep her skirts dry.
“Gently,” Christiana whispered as he hoisted Comfort over the side.
“She weighs a ton,” Jimmy complained, though not bitterly. He ignored Comfort’s squeal of insult at his remark on her girth. He was still adjusting to the forcible abduction of a woman—something that went against his nature. By the thin light of the moon, he could make out wide, frightened turquoise eyes, set in a too-pale face framed with fiery hair. She smelled of lemons. And was probably just as sour, he told himself.
Pregnant. Jesus.
They successfully rendezvoused with the Bold Avenger, signaling with the damaged lantern and spotting an answering light. Once aboard, Christiana escorted Comfort below deck, glad for her familiarity with the ship’s layout. Similar to Vallé’s rules, no lit candles were allowed below deck after nine. Tonight, they would run without lights above, spreading the canvas and letting the wind speed them ahead of the Principia.
Christiana, concerned for Comfort’s well being, appropriated the lieutenants’ cabin for women’s quarters so the two of them could stay together. At Christiana’s insistence, Comfort sank onto one of its double berths. Christiana knew that Jimmy would not begrudge it, and she could use Mick’s bed. Mick, as senior lieutenant and as acting commander, needed O’Malley’s quarters to conduct the business of the ship. Which left Jimmy and Bryce still in need of berths.
“I must go. I am so sorry,” Christiana said, finally cutting Comfort’s bonds when she could not untie them. “I’ll explain everything when I return.”
“Aye.” Comfort was more gracious than she’d be, were the situation reversed, but Christiana was grateful. Outside, Jimmy agreed to bunk elsewhere, but he needed to fetch his things. Christiana asked if he would see to Comfort and get her whatever she might want.
On deck, Bryce was waiting for her, his hair like some pale beacon in the night, a phantom image of his brother. Christiana slowed her steps, apprehension gripping her chest. Her father’s men were risking life and limb racing Vallé to the rescue. Already they’d had one mishap, had been forced to take Comfort with them. What if Caleb lost the letter warning Vallé to look sharp for the Bold Avenger, hidden among the many in Kingston harbor? Christiana decided, as soon as O’Malley was free, her next order of business would be finding Vallé to ensure that he knew to avoid coming ashore. Heaven help them if Vallé went to meet the guard, already paid, with his prisoner gone. What if the guard saw an easy mark, a chance for another fortune? There was always a possibility that he would risk the wrath of Vallé’s crew on himself—and his wife—and betray Vallé to the authorities.
It was a balmy night, but Christiana shivered, gooseflesh prickling her scalp and racing down her spine.
“You’d best go change into something dry,” Bryce said softly. “Else you catch a chill again and take sick like the last time.”
She could barely see his face, but she could swear that genuine concern laced his voice. “I will,” she promised, having no desire to repeat her struggle with near-fatal illness. “After I have a berth prepared for you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” she insisted, aware that she’d not have a chance without Bryce’s aid. Whatever else he’d done, she was thankful for this, at least. “I’m in your debt, monsieur. Let me begin to repay it.”
He shook his head. “Later,” he said. “For now, I must be off.”
“What? Why?”
Bryce placed a hand upon her shoulder, and Christiana stiffened. When his touch proved as gentle as Comfort’s, she allowed herself to relax. Perhaps his time away from the island had been good for his soul, allowing him to contemplate his actions and resolve to improve himself.
“I do not sail with you,” he told her. “You know what to do, how to do it. You don’t need me. Indeed, if for any reason the Raptor should cross your path, I think it best—for you and for myself—if I am not aboard.”
She exhaled softly. “That is true. I had not thought.” She had noticed, however, that Bryce had called Vallé’s ship by her old name. Having landed on the far side of the island, Bryce had not seen the Principia. Nor had he seen the ship’s transformation.
He did not know that the Raptor had been reborn, and Christiana kept it that way.
Bryce looked around, where the tars worked in night-dark silence, preparing to cast off. “I’m going back. I’ll stay out of sight until Justin is gone,” he assured her, “and will await word of how your venture fares.” He paused, canting his head and brushing a finger across her cheek, as if painting her with stardust. “Good luck and God speed, ma petite. I look forward to when next we meet, but for now, I must bid you adieu.”
Christiana watched Bryce transfer back to the craft that had brought them from Valhalla. He freed the mooring line and let it drift away before hoisting the sail. Ghostly white rippled in the moonlight as the distance stretched between them.
The sound of wind in the rigging brought Christiana’s attention back to the Bold Avenger. She measured the stiffness of the breeze and swept her gaze towards the heavens. With the luck of the Irish, the prevailing wind would hold—enough for O’Malley’s ship to make a speed that Vallé’s frigate could not match.
Christiana leaned against the taffrail and turned her eyes toward Jamaica.
“What do you mean, they’re gone?”
Justin thrust a hand into his hair, a silent curse brewing beneath his breath, his sleep-deprived reddened eyes focused on the dripping girl before him. The sun had not yet breached the horizon when Adrienne had swum out to the Principia, and Caleb had roused him from his lonely bed. The urgency of the situation hadn’t allowed him to do more than cover himself with a shirt and breeches before she was brought in.
Adrienne did not seem to mind. “Gone, Capitaine.” She took the towels Caleb offered, dropping one to the floor to stand upon and using the other to dry herself while she continued her report. “Mistress Comfort, she watch de back of your house
an’ I watch de front,” she told him in her gentle French patois, “but when I go to find her dis morning, she was gone. Disparu. Mademoiselle Delacorte, too.”
Justin felt like he’d been gut-punched. “Are you certain?” He sat heavily in a chair and thrust one foot into a stocking, rolling it up to his knee.
The slave-born mustee raised her chin like a freeborn duchess; her amber eyes met his boldy. “Oui,” she told him. “I speak de truth. You will see dis if you come.”
Justin grunted and reached for his other stocking, taking it from Caleb’s outstretched hand. The boy’s slim fingers trembled. Justin saw that he’d started biting his nails again.
“Caleb?” Justin put his thumbs inside the top of the stocking and gathered its length.
“Sir…?”
“Relax, lad.” He put his foot into the collapsed stocking and pulled it up his leg. “We’ll sweep the ship and search on shore. They’ll turn up.”
“But…sir,” Caleb stammered. “I don’t think she’s aboard, sir.”
Justin threw a glance over his shoulder, putting his stockinged foot on the floor, boots momentarily forgotten. “And why is that, lad? Where do you think the mademoiselles have hidden themselves?”
“I don’t know about Mistress McBride,” he said, puzzlement in his voice, and a hesitancy to continue. “But Miss Delacorte—she gave me a letter to give to ye once we neared Jamaica. I don’t imagine she’d have gone to the trouble if she planned to stow away.”
“Unless it was a ruse, a trick of hers.” Justin rubbed a hand over his beard-shadowed jaw and exhaled sharply. “Fetch it, boy, and be quick about it. And send in my officers.”
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 24