The commotion caused by Adrienne’s arrival had filtered through the ship. Uriah joined him, followed shortly by Rafe and Angus.
The surgeon was white as a sheet. “Wha’ is it, lass?” he asked Adrienne. “Has the bairn decided tae come early?”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, torn, wanting to tell her former master but recognizing Justin’s place, as commander, to do so. Acknowledging it, she dropped her gaze to her slim, bare feet.
“Adrienne reports that she is unable to find either Comfort or Mademoiselle Delacorte this morning,” Justin told him matter-of-factly, having no wish to upset his surgeon any more than necessary. “But no alarm was sounded last night. There must be a logical explanation. There has to be. Perhaps they’ve gone to the cavern to fetch butter for breakfast.”
Racing footsteps sounded in the companionway. Caleb reentered the cabin, red-faced, lungs labored, a letter clutched in his hand.
He held it out. “She said to give it to ye near Jamaica, afore ye entered British waters.”
“Circumstances require otherwise.” Justin spoke firmly but gently, aware of Caleb’s dilemma. No doubt she’d made him swear an oath, and Justin was making him break a vow—an act that would have had the boy quaking in his shoes, if he’d worn them, for he feared the wrath of God more than anything on earth. Caleb had been weaned on hellfire and damnation, force fed to him from birth by his widowed mother, whose religious zeal had eventually seen her committed to a lunatic asylum.
“Caleb, you do the right thing, lad,” Justin assured him. “This may hold the key to Mademoiselle Delacorte’s disappearance. Otherwise, I’d not ask it of you.”
Justin broke the letter’s seal and unfolded the foolscap. As he read, his expression grew grim. Damn it, he thought, sensitive to the young ears in the room. He skimmed the contents a second time, to make sure of what he’d read, as if by some miracle the message would have changed. Justin raised his head; his troubled gaze volleyed to each of the room’s other occupants, finally resting on his surgeon’s tormented face.
“Unless I miss my guess,” Justin told him, “I’d say your daughter is on her way to Jamaica with Mademoiselle Delacorte.”
Angus had no such qualms, lifting a blistering curse—albeit delivered in his native tongue. Adrienne knew enough Gaelic to cringe and grow flush.
“Oui.” Justin seconded Angus’s display of emotion. Because the letter contained avowals that Christiana had clearly meant for his eyes only, he did not offer to share it. “The idea sits no better with me, but from what she has written, I cannot imagine else. Somehow she has managed to contact O’Malley’s crew and they are headed for Jamaica, with the intent to rescue him. She knows the name of the guard, where he lives, what he requires. If Comfort saw her leave and followed, they would have had to take her or risk discovery.”
Justin had never felt so frustrated. Rafe, who appreciated a woman with spirit, curled his lips in a reluctant smile. Justin answered it with a grimmer one.
“She warns us not to enter British waters. Like you, she believes it is likely a trap, that O’Malley is bait for me.”
But what hurt him most was the evidence she gave. She spoke of his mother’s ring. She was convinced that O’Malley was not the only target, that someone—possibly Druscilla’s murderer—plotted against him as well. She hoped he would understand, and promised she would answer any questions he had when next they met.
“Capitán?”
Justin tore himself from Christiana’s letter and met Rafe’s gaze.
“Shall I give the order to cast off?”
Justin shook his head. “I intend to order the Principia to sea, but you and I won’t be on her. Angus, pick a party of men. Take Adrienne back to shore. Conduct a house-to-house search. The girl can lead you to any other places where they might have, for some reason, left Comfort to be found. Uriah, I’m turning command of the frigate over to you. Sail as soon as Angus and his party return. Rafe, you and I are transferring to the Yseult. She’s the fastest in my fleet, and I want every inch of canvas spread.”
Orders given, Justin dismissed his officers. Angus took Adrienne with him, and Caleb slipped away to nurse his guilty conscience, leaving Justin alone with his mounting frustration and anger, rising on a tidal wave of fear.
He looked at Christiana’s letter, the neatly penned lines, the unexpected flourishes. He had to give her credit. She’d promised she would not stow away on the Principia, and she had kept her word. “We’ll see,” he swore beneath his breath. “We’ll see who reaches O’Malley first.”
Meanwhile, on another ship headed for Port Royal….
Laurent Dubois, commander of the Sea Siren, poured more wine for himself and his guest. Although their coloring was disparate, in many ways they resembled one another: slim, handsome, elegant. And the aristocratic blood flowing in their veins was heated by thoughts of revenge.
Across the table in the captain’s cabin, his silent business partner of three years raised his glass in a silent toast, a half smile playing on his lips.
“So, mon ami, your plan is working?”
Bryce looked up. Shrugging one shoulder, he lifted his goblet and drank deeply. “I believe it is,” he said slowly, superstitious enough to say nothing that might bring ill luck. “I’m to report directly to the governor as soon as we reach Kingston. If he doesn’t order troops, we should still have ample time to secure their escape routes. Mademoiselle Delacorte will lead her father from his prison cell, but we shall be there to see that he is returned…along with my brother. She thinks that Justin will attempt rescue the next night. Imagine her surprise when they meet at O’Malley’s cell.”
Laurent suppressed his own smile. A master of manipulation, he would continue to allow Bryce to think the plan was all his idea, and to participate in it while their objectives meshed. He cared not a whit for what happened to Bryce’s brother, other than he knew he, too, would benefit from Capitaine Vallé’s demise. The added fortune in his partner’s coffers would help outfit ships and finance additional crews. The Vallé ships would make their fleet a force to be reckoned with in these Caribbean waters.
Non, mused Laurent. He thirsted for personal vengeance: a life for a life, a fitting punishment as well as revenge. The loss of his younger brother’s sloop on a turn of the cards had led to Édouard’s suicide. He’d thrown himself off Laurent’s ship, leaving behind a note that blamed Jean Delacorte for his ruin. Laurent had vowed, on Édouard’s lost soul that, no matter how long it took, he would see Jean Delacorte—Ian O’Malley—dead.
Looking deep into his glass, Laurent thought of the plans he’d laid with Bryce, imagined O’Malley dancing on the gibbet, leaving his daughter at the mercy of a man who had none. Bryce would use her, abuse her…and eventually tire of her, if his excesses didn’t kill her first. Promising himself to be next in line, anticipation hummed in his veins, stirring his blood, turning his thoughts darkly sexual. He felt himself swell, stiffening, delicious torment as he cupped the bowl of his goblet and imagined another slender white throat beneath his thumbs.
Before his eyes, the wine turned blood red. Lifting it in a silent toast of unholy communion, Laurent drank deeply, sealing his pact with the devil.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Christiana Delacorte stood on the deck of the Bold Avenger, her green eyes scanning the deepening shadows on the Jamaican shoreline. In the distance, the Blue Mountains were barely visible, their highest ridges swathed in rose and lavender clouds that reflected the setting sun.
There was light enough to see what remained of Port Royal, taken by earthquake and water and fire—God’s judgment on the wicked, so the English claimed. The northern side had suffered the worst. The sea had claimed land, houses, buildings, and nearly half the city’s population. The island lost two forts when the shoreline shifted, leaving Fort Charles and scattered ruins of buildings. Those who chose to stay had faced perils from shifting sand, falling buildings, and the disease that comes in the wake
of such disasters. Other survivors had cut their losses and settled nearby in Kingston.
Christiana scanned the harbor, more than half-filled with dark wooden hulls. Through the tangled web of rigging, spars, and masts thrusting up from them, she could see lush tropical forests and steepening hills that reminded her of Valhalla.
She counted the palm trees fringing the white sand beaches and tried not to think of Vallé.
This morning, the Bold Avenger had slipped unchallenged past the British man-o’-war stationed off shore. Every moment since anchoring, her nerves felt overtaxed to the point of foundering—despite Comfort’s assurances that any danger would be well met. Yet even Comfort seemed a bit uncertain, casting the oddest looks at her and Jimmy over the meals they’d been taking in the captain’s cabin.
As if knowing she was in her thoughts—which, Christiana had learned, was quite possible, Comfort stepped in place beside her.
“Ye gang taenight?”
“Aye.” Tilting her head, Christiana allowed herself to smile. “Sooner than expected, but Simon didn’t want to wait.” If he’d seemed overly anxious, she could put that down to the nature of their business. Lewis Simon’s welfare depended not only on a successful prison break, but on his being seen as victim, not accomplice. He’d told her that they were rotating shifts and wanted her to come two days hence, but she refused to wait. Though it took extra coin, eventually the guard had capitulated. “And don’t ask me again to take another with me. ‘Twould draw attention we don’t need, and I will do nothing to endanger O’Malley.”
“Ye’re a braw lass, I’ll gie ye tha’.” Comfort paused, her eyes searching Christiana’s face. “Just hae a care, friend. I sense a darkness I dinnae like, and it fashes me, tha’ I ken nocht aboot it.”
Gooseflesh prickled Christiana’s arms, and she fought the urge to shiver. It wouldn’t do to confess she felt the same, felt life and death hanging in the balance, and knew that only she could determine the outcome. Somewhere soon, she would make her fate or fall victim to it. She would not go down without a fight.
The time to leave came all too swiftly. Christiana bid the crew and Comfort adieu, Wearing a shirt and breeches, she sailed the dinghy alone to shore, to minimize the risk of discovery. Once there, she pulled on a priest’s habit, a costume that would allow her to pass unmolested in the streets and gain entrance to a prison. The cowl masked her features; the robes hid, among other things, the bulging purse with the second and final payment to Simon.
Christiana navigated the streets until she reached the rough-hewn door of Simon’s ramshackle hovel. She took time to wipe the sweat from her brow before knocking.
“Yes?” The door swung open to reveal a neat young woman in a calico dress, with a dark work apron pinned to the fore. Beneath a crisp white cap, her yellow hair was pulled back sharply from a heart-shaped face, and spectacles were perched on her upturned nose. Behind the lenses, her brown-eyed gaze revealed a natural curiosity.
Christiana was certain she returned it. This woman did not match Bryce’s description of Simon’s wife, with whom she was to leave payment.
Whoever she was offered a tired smile. “May I help you?”
“Is this the home of Lewis Simon?” Christiana asked, deepening her voice to hide her gender.
“Aye, but he is not here at present,” she apologized. “He will be home in the morning, after his watch is done. If you wish to leave a message, I shall be happy to convey it.”
“Is his wife in?” Christiana asked, uneasy with the situation.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking over her shoulder to the interior, poorly lit by a single betty lamp that smelled of burning pot liquor. “She died a week ago. Ruth’s the third wife he has buried, God rest her weary soul. She was a good stepmother, a hard worker until she took ill. Members of our congregation have been taking turns, bringing meals and watching the children while Mr. Simon works. I’m Michal Bethany Lovett, the vicar’s daughter.”
The news threw Christiana off balance, but Simon had confirmed Vallé’s plan that she was to follow, including leaving payment here.
From beyond the door, an argument erupted between unruly youngsters—a common occurrence from the roll of Mistress Lovett’s brown eyes. The vicar’s daughter tipped her ear and listened for sounds of escalation. Hearing none, she turned back to Christiana, speaking softly.
“At least she left behind no helpless babe,” she murmured, shuddering at the discord behind her. “Ruth was barren, much to her sorrow.”
A high pitched squeal split the air, followed by a boy’s rude laugh and a little girl’s sobs. Mistress Lovett’s shoulders stiffened. Eyes closed, she whispered a prayer for patience and guidance. “I’m sorry. I must see to the children.”
Christiana thought twice, then withdrew the purse she carried. “I’ve brought…a charitable offering,” she told her. “May I—May I trust you to safe keep it and give it to him upon his return?”
Mistress Lovett smiled like the ministering angel she was to watch over Lewis Simon’s unruly brood. “You may leave it in good faith.”
Christiana wanted to believe her, but she’d seen too much in her life not to ask. “You so swear?”
The vicar’s daughter met her gaze unerringly. “I’m sorry, Father, but in the book of Matthew, Christ instructs us to say no more than yea or nay, for anything more cometh of evil. Now, I say again, you may leave it in good faith, or you may bring it back tomorrow. It makes no difference to me.”
She was plain spoken but polite, with a raw honesty about her that made Christiana think she could be trusted. Not that she had a choice. She was pledged to follow Simon’s demands.
“I cannot stay, and so it remains,” Christiana told her, placing the purse in Mistress Lovett’s hands. “Please see that he gets it immediately upon his return.”
“I’m sure he’ll be grateful, with the leech’s fees and funeral expenses, and young ones to feed and clothe,” Mistress Lovett said. “God bless you.”
Christiana nodded, but her words of thanks never left her mouth. From somewhere beyond her line of sight came the distinct sound of pottery breaking and the strident cry of a young girl’s accusation.
“Now look what ye done!”
“Not me,” came the snarling reply. “Twas ye, ya little bitch!”
The vicar’s daughter’s eyes rolled hard to port.
“Go,” Christiana told her. “I, too, am called elsewhere. My thanks, Mistress Lovett.”
And good luck to us both.
If Lewis Simon weren’t of such large girth, Christiana would have sworn he had the look of a ferret: sharp-nosed and beady eyes, with a cruel twist to his mouth. He enjoys his work. She knew it when they’d met earlier today. He had seemed surprised—a natural reaction if he was expecting Rafe again, or Vallé. Indeed, he’d scarce taken his calculating gaze off of her, discussing details, resisting then yielding when she wanted to push the timeline to tonight, then insisting that she and Jimmy bend an elbow with him in a toast to their good fortunes. They’d shared one leather jack of ale apiece but she’d excused herself when he pressed her to drink another.
Tonight, Simon’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was wonderin’ where ye be,” he muttered once he’d let her past the gate. “I’ve been sendin’ the old man in circles. Ye delivered the purse?”
“To Mistress Lovett, who’s watching your children.”
“Good, good.” He showed her the manacle key, the only one among many that would release O’Malley’s chains, and shoved a belaying pin into her hands. “Hide this where ye can use it. Ye can use it…?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her slight build. “Ye will use it, aye? Ye must be resolved to it, and swing hard enough to draw a knot on me and bring the priest to his knees afore ye gag and bind us.”
“I will,” Christiana said, steeling herself for what must be.
The folds of her clerical robe let her tuck the belaying pin out of sight but keep a grasp on its shaft. Simon sm
iled, pulling his lips wider over a mouth full of rotten teeth when he spied movement down the stone-paved central corridor. “Ah, there he is now.”
“Father!” he called. “Come quick! O’Malley wants to confess!”
Christiana watched as the elderly priest swung his head in their direction.
“And ye have an observer, sent to learn what it be like, working with convicts, eh? Reckon ye can teach him a thing or two.”
When the priest saw her disguise, a surprised smile deepened the lines of his tired, worn face. Watching him shuffle towards them, she grew sickened by thoughts of what she was about to do, and wondered what kind of penance she’d be assigned when next she attended confession.
“Remember now,” Simon whispered with fetid breath, motioning for her to take the lit betty lamp that sat on a nearby table. “Hit me hard enough to make it look good. With the priest as my witness, there’ll be none to doubt my story, not with him gettin’ it, too.”
Christiana felt her cheeks pale, but she clenched the lamp and followed the priest and the gaoler. She didn’t like it, but this was the only way, Simon had assured her, that she’d manage to bring O’Malley out alive.
Simon plucked the keys from his belt and sorted swiftly through them. Whistling off-tune, he stabbed the key into the hole and twisted his meaty wrist, opening the heavy door and standing aside for the priest to enter. Slipping in behind him, Christiana sidled to one side, noting the unhealthy dampness and lifting the lamp to better pierce the shadows.
The priest halted near the far wall. The cell held only one prisoner, huddled in a mass on the floor, shaggy head bent down, arms hugged to his chest to ward off the chill.
“I’m here for your confession, my son.”
The head came up, and Christiana bit her lip to keep from crying. The time spent in this prison had aged O’Malley five years, at the very least, but it had not driven out the bit of devil in his smile. In deference to the priest, O’Malley shoved himself to a shaky stand, chains rattling from the manacles around his wrists and ankles. She held the lamp higher, and Christiana’s inner rage erupted to see the marks of his suffering.
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