The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  You owe her nothing.

  But now those crystal blue eyes locked upon his as if he were her only lifeline in a storm threatening to drown her beneath its waves. Dirt smudged her face and neck. Dark circles tugged the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair hung loose in tangled nests upon a stained and tattered gown. “Mr. Mason.” She managed to whisper his name, and that one whisper held all the desperation and pleading he needed to continue.

  “The lady is mine, sir.” The rotund merchantman gave Nathaniel a cursory glance. “I have already made a bargain with this man, and as you can see I am sealing it with my payment.”

  “Aye, let ’im have her,” a lanky man from the crowd barked at Nathaniel. “Garrison ain’t had no lady in years.”

  Laughter roared across the mob like a sudden thunderstorm, and the merchantman’s face blossomed in a mad dash of crimson. He shot the man a vicious glare before continuing to count his money.

  “Me vote goes t’ the young sailor,” another shorter man bellowed. “He looks like he’s been out t’ sea far too long an’ needs a wench t’ warm his bed.” He surveyed the chortling mob. “Who’ll care to place a wager on him?”

  An onslaught of bets saturated the air like a tropical downpour.

  Nathaniel shoved his way between Mr. Garrison and Hope, guiding her behind him, and faced the auctioneer. “Is the auction closed, sir?”

  “Nay.” The man grinned. “Not as long as the bidding continues.” He wiped spittle from his chin. “Truth be told, I may get to my drink early today.”

  “Then I believe the last offer was nine pounds.” Nathaniel reached for his money pouch.

  “Ten.” Mr. Garrison waved Nathaniel off and snapped open his pocket watch. “Best that or leave.”

  Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder at Hope, whose moist eyes sparked with fear, then out on the bay where his ship rested idly in the turquoise waters. He’d come to St. Kitts to fill her hold with tobacco, sugar, cotton, rum, herbs, and salt—a shipload of cargo to take back to Charles Towne. He had lined up willing merchants and farmers, and if all went well, he stood to pocket a huge profit for his trouble. Enough to purchase another ship for his burgeoning fleet.

  His gaze settled back on Hope. Tears now spilled from her eyes, winding slick trails through the dirt on her cheeks. “Please help me, Mr. Mason.”

  Facing forward, Nathaniel swallowed a lump of emotion he could not describe. He doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Eleven.”

  It was all he had.

  “Twelve.” The man uttered the word without hesitation and scratched beneath a wig as stiff as his resolve. He shot an annoyed look at Nathaniel. “I intend to have her, sir. I suggest you stand down.” He snapped his watch shut and returned it to his pocket.

  Nathaniel rubbed his eyes. What should I do, Lord? He couldn’t leave this lady in the lecherous hands of these men, but he had nothing else to offer. Nothing, except his ... Nathaniel snapped his gaze back to his ship—the ship he had built with his own hands, the ship he had spent four years working as a carpenter to pay for and another year to build.

  He clutched his side where an old wound began to burn.

  What is the value of a ship compared to a human life?

  The auctioneer tapped his boot on the wooden platform. “Can you best the offer or not, sir?”

  A burst of blood rushed to Nathaniel’s head. His lungs collapsed under the weight of what he knew he must do. He gasped for breath amidst the air saturated with the stench of human sweat and the sting of rain. He faced the auctioneer, avoiding Miss Hope’s desperate eyes. “I offer ... I offer you my merchant brig,” he spit out the words before he changed his mind, then he clenched his fists, not believing the words still hanging on the wind.

  The auctioneer’s eyes widened, and he studied Nathaniel as if to ensure he was not mocking him, but Nathaniel knew not an ounce of humor would be found on his expression.

  “Which one is it?” The auctioneer gazed out upon the water.

  “’Tis the two-masted brig, there in the center, by the East Indiamen.” Nathaniel pointed toward the pride of his fleet as his heart sank. “The one with the blue cross painted on her stern. I built her myself.”

  “Ah yes, I see. She’s a beauty.” The auctioneer slapped Nathaniel on the back. “I’ll take her.” He poured Mr. Garrison’s coins back into the man’s hand, then glanced at Miss Hope. “Though I daresay I fear I am getting the best of our bargain.” He chuckled.

  A collective gasp shot from the horde of men, followed by renewed profanity and further feverish wagers.

  Mr. Garrison squeezed his hands over the clanking coins and thrust them toward the auctioneer. “I do protest, sir. He cannot offer his ship. This is unheard of.” His cheeks budded in patches of purple and red, and his dark eyes darted between the three of them like grapeshot searching for a victim.

  Nathaniel couldn’t move his feet. Every part of him seemed numb save his pounding heart and the odd buzzing filling his head. Had he just sold the Blue Triumph, his best merchant ship?

  And for a woman who did naught but spurn him at every turn.

  She wasn’t spurning him now. The taut lines in her face had softened, and she smiled up at him with thankfulness and admiration.

  He tore his eyes from her. He must think. He could still change his mind. Save his ship and walk away. He clenched his jaw, then his fists, until his nails bit into his skin. Maybe the pain would return his senses to him. He released a long sigh, hoping it would stifle the sinking feeling that dragged upon his heart. It didn’t.

  Of course there was no other choice. O God, give me a way out.

  The auctioneer faced Mr. Garrison. “Counter the offer, sir, or I suggest you take your money and leave.”

  “I am not authorized ... I mean to say, I cannot...” he blubbered and removed a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his neck. After firing one last angry glance their way, he turned and waddled down the stairs, cursing his way through the laughing rabble.

  Groans emanated from the men who had lost their wagers as the clank of coins rang through the humid air.

  Miss Hope clutched Nathaniel’s arm with a grip that said she would not easily release him. A month ago such attentions would have pleased him, but under the present situation, nausea bubbled in his gut.

  The auctioneer swatted at the crowd to dismiss them. “Be gone with ye. I’m done for the day.”

  Cursing, the men dispersed while Nathaniel begrudgingly made arrangements with the auctioneer to transfer the ship to his care.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hope could not stop trembling. Her whole body shivered as if she were in the midst of an icy winter on the shores of Portsmouth. Yet it was anything but cold in the stagnant sweltering air of the tiny room into which Mr. Mason had thrust her over two hours ago. Where had he gone?

  Hugging herself, she lay back on the lumpy bed and stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Once they must have been smooth and beautiful, but now they were marred and stained—just like her, worn out and impure. The sounds of bells ringing, horses clomping, and people chattering reached her through an open window that allowed not a hint of a breeze to enter. In the tavern below, men quarreled and laughed as they took to their drink while some sotted fool hammered out a morbid tune on a harpsichord.

  She longed to cry, to let out all the horror of the past few weeks, but she found she could no more force her tears to come than she could will herself to stop shaking.

  A vision of the lewd throng of men reaching out for her with coins in their filthy hands seared across her mind. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to erase the scene, but instead, the flabby face of the merchantman who had nearly purchased her penetrated her thoughts until her stomach soured.

  But she had been delivered.

  She could scarce believe it, and in particular, she could scarce believe the form in which her deliverance had come. Not in Lord Falkland, a gentleman and the man who had claimed to love her, but in Mr. Mas
on, an uneducated commoner—a man she had done her best to avoid in Charles Towne.

  The door to the chamber slammed open, and Hope sprang from the bed. Mr. Mason marched in, tossed a brown bag into the corner, and slammed the wooden slab behind him. Without glancing her way, he stormed to the window and gazed out as if he wished he were anywhere but here with her.

  “What is that?” She pointed toward the large bag and leaned on the bed before her wobbling legs gave way beneath her.

  “All I have left of my ship.” The fury in his voice jarred her.

  Though she had thanked him over and over after they’d left the auction block, he had barely spoken two words to her. He hadn’t offered her any comfort, hadn’t reassured her all would be well like a true gentleman would have.

  She couldn’t blame him. He had paid a high price for her redemption.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Mason.”

  He grunted.

  “I owe you my life.”

  Again, a grunt.

  “Are you to be angry with me forever?” She used her sweetest voice, the one that melted most men’s hearts.

  Finally, he turned to face her, arms clenched so tightly across his chest that his muscles bulged beneath his shirt. He had removed his waistcoat—another thing a gentleman would never do in the presence of a lady—and only a linen shirt covered the wide expanse of his chest. Hair the color of dark walnut curled at the edge of his collar. A muscle twitched in his strong, stubbled jaw, and his dark eyes reminded her of a panther about to spring.

  Spreading the folds of her torn skirt around her, she lowered her head, unsettled by another wave of familiar fear rising within her. “You were much kinder back in Charles Towne.”

  He snorted. “Back in Charles Towne, I hadn’t lost five years of hard work.” He rubbed the back of his neck, plopped down in a chair by the window, and closed his eyes.

  A gust of wind sent the tan curtains framing the window into a feathery dance and brought a moment’s relief from the heat. Hope grabbed her mass of tangled hair and lifted it off her back, allowing a whiff of air to cool her heated skin and hopefully ease her taut nerves. She eyed Mr. Mason. Once again, she found herself at the mercy of a man’s good graces. Considering the last time had not turned out so well and that this man harbored animosity toward her, she could not stop her body from trembling.

  When he opened his eyes, Hope sighed in relief to see the harshness of a moment ago had softened. Placing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward. “You have no doubt suffered greatly, and my thoughts have been for my own loss. Please tell me, Miss Hope. What happened to you? What brought you here to St. Kitts, and worse yet, to that auction block?”

  “Is that where I am?” Hope shrugged. “I’ve been locked in a cabin aboard Lord Falkland’s...” She paused and swallowed against the pain rising in her throat. “Ship for two weeks.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Lord Falkland. Is he not your beau? You and he were the talk of Charles Towne.”

  Hope squeezed her lips together. Tears burned behind her eyes, yet still they would not fall. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

  “How did you come to be on his ship?” His low, sympathetic tone comforted her.

  “I hoped to surprise him.” Grabbing a tangled lock of hair, Hope flattened it between her thumb and forefinger. “And surprise him I did. He—and his wife.”

  Mr. Mason’s brow wrinkled. “Surprise him.” He said the words slowly as if he were analyzing them for some hidden meaning. Fidgeting in his chair, he examined the floorboards beneath his boots. When he lifted his face, veins pulsed in his reddened forehead.

  “Fire and thunder.” He shot to his feet. “You intended to run away with him.” His incredulous shout boomed off the walls of the tiny chamber.

  Hope winced at his sudden outburst. “Yes, we were betrothed—not officially, that is—but he promised to marry me when he returned”—sobs crowded in her throat, causing her words to jumble—“and I thought he was simply trying to protect me from an arduous journey by forbidding me to join him.”

  Mr. Mason paced like a caged animal, hands fisted at his sides.

  “Fire and thunder!” he bellowed again, raking a hand through his hair. “Do you mean to tell me you brought this on yourself?”

  Hope swallowed. “How was I to know he was a cad, and married, and that he would hand me over to the captain to do with me as he wished?” Outrage burned anew in her chest at Lord Falkland’s betrayal. Outrage and agony. Biting her lip, she dared a glance at Mr. Mason, who had taken up his pacing again, and she feared she’d lost her only friend in this godforsaken outpost.

  His tanned complexion exploded in crimson while the knuckles of his fisted hands turned white. “Do you realize the price I have paid for your licentious affair?”

  Hope’s stomach folded in on itself. Yes, she did, at least as much as she could understand. Couldn’t the man see she was trying to apologize? His cruel words stung her. It was not the first time her association with Lord Falkland had been referred to in such a lewd manner, but it did naught to lessen the pain. “We loved one another.”

  “Yes. I can see that. ’Tis what a man does with the woman he loves, sells her off as a slave to another.” He gave a derisive snicker.

  “How can you be so cruel? My heart is crushed beyond repair.” Placing a hand on the bedraggled coverlet, Hope leaned her weight upon it and lowered her chin. “I wish I were dead.”

  He snorted. “If you intend to kill yourself, I wish you had done it before today so I wouldn’t have been forced to forfeit my ship to save you.”

  Surely he was mocking her, yet not a trace of amusement rang in his deep voice. “Am I not worth more than a boat?”

  “A brig, if you please, and one that did not come easy to me, as most things have come for you.”

  She snapped her eyes to his, her jaw tightening. “You think what I have endured has been easy?”

  Halting, Mr. Mason folded his arms across his chest. “Nay, I think you are a foolish girl with foolish dreams who hasn’t a care for the effect her choices have on others.”

  Hope shot to her feet, ignoring the pain spiking up her calves. She didn’t know whether to be angry at his vicious affront or fall to the floor in a heap of despair. She’d never met a man with so little sympathy for a lady in distress. “I thought you were a Christian.”

  “’Tis the Christian in me that saved you from that vulgar merchantman. So I’d be thanking God, if I were you. But the man in me will not toss vain flatteries and sentimental comforts where they aren’t deserved.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair and turned to gaze out the window as if she weren’t worth his time.

  Her heart crumbled. How much rejection could one lady endure? “Since you find my company so objectionable, I will relieve you of any further obligation.” The last thing she wanted to do was accept help given out of some false sense of religious obligation—especially from a man who obviously hated her.

  Hope took careful steps across the wooden floor so as not to catch another splinter in her already bloody feet. “Truly, I do thank you for all you’ve done, Mr. Mason.” Behind her, she heard his boots shuffling across the floor, but he made no move to stop her. What did she expect? He owed her nothing, while she owed him everything. Yet with each step, her knees melted. Slowing her pace, she began to sob as a million frightening scenarios scrambled across her mind of how she would make it back home to Charles Towne unprotected and all alone.

  As she reached for the door handle, her head grew light, and she blinked to clear her vision. All her strength seemed to drain from her. She turned the handle. Boot steps pounded over the floor behind her, and a warm hand covered hers. She looked up at Mr. Mason, but his gaze had dropped to her bloodied feet. Cursing, he hoisted her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, setting her gently upon it.

  When he sat beside her, an overwhelming urge to seek comfort and safety in the arms of a man overcame her and she fell against him. The sc
ent of wood and tar and man cradled her, and tears finally began to flow down her face.

  He stretched an arm around her shoulder. “All is well now, Miss Hope.” The hesitant tone of his voice belied the assurance of his words.

  Regardless, she snuggled into the warmth of his body that surrounded her like a shield, releasing a torrent of tears. Ashamed, she clung to him, not wanting him to see what was surely her swollen, red face.

  He patted her arm as someone would a pet dog—a dog that might bite him. Was he that repulsed by her? “Never fear. You are safe now.”

  Safe. Was she truly safe? She had feared for her life for so long, she doubted she would recognize the feeling. But here, sheltered within this man’s strong arms, a hint of its comfort rose within her.

  Gently pushing her away, he peered down at her injured feet. His jaw tensed. “I did not realize you had been wounded.”

  She swiped the tears from her cheeks, encouraged by his kind display. “What is to become of me, Mr. Mason?”

  Bolting off the bed, he swerved to face her, the hard glint returning to his eyes. “Never fear. I intend to return you to Charles Towne, Miss Hope. I’ve arranged for us to travel on a ship, the Lady Devon, tomorrow at sunrise. She heads for Kingstown, where I expect my other ship to arrive in a few weeks.”

  Hope drew in a deep breath of relief and allowed it to soften the rapid beat of her heart. “You are too kind, Mr. Mason. But I thought you had no money left?”

  “I do not. I have signed on as a navigator to pay for our passage.”

  “I see.” Hope bit her lip, realizing the depths this man had fallen because of her. “But you have another ship?” At least she had not completely ruined him.

  “Aye, and we can sail her from Kingstown to Charles Towne and have you home within a fortnight.” He stood, allowing his gaze to wander over her for what seemed like an eternity.

  But not before Hope saw a speck of longing in his eyes. She sighed, relieved to see she still could affect a man even in her disheveled condition. She might need to secure this man’s affection in order to get home safely.