by Brenda Novak
* * *
Treynor’s injured arm began to throb as soon as he grew warm enough to feel it. Propping himself against a cannon on the badly battered gun deck, where three of the French crew guarded him and the other prisoners with pistols, he proceeded to extract the splinters, gasping from the pain with every jerk.
Blessed darkness hovered at the corners of his mind as he worked, but the thought of Jeannette, frightened and alone in Lieutenant Favre’s quarters, kept him from succumbing to oblivion.
Laying his head back and breathing deeply as the rain fell on his face, he let himself rest when his grasp on consciousness became too tenuous. Then he started again.
The French had given them blankets, but brought no food or drink. Treynor longed for a bit of rum or brandy to steady his hand and ease the pain. Or some nourishment to rebuild his strength. His only respite from the gruesome, bloody business with his arm turned out to be Smedley, who moaned next to him, gut-shot.
“Smedley.” He gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Hey!”
The tattoo artist peered up at him. “Sir?”
Still trying to avoid the light-headedness that plagued him, Treynor breathed through his nose. “We have to do something.”
“Aye, sir.” Smedley’s exhale was accompanied by a rattle in his chest. “You don’t fancy the thought of prison, eh?”
“I have too much to do in England.” Treynor was thinking of his mother at that moment. For the first time in his life, he regretted having been so hard on her. She had caused him a great deal of pain, but somehow what had happened before didn’t matter so much anymore. He was a man now, and lucky to be alive. The time had come to make peace with his past.
Smedley pulled him from his thoughts. “What do you suggest?”
Treynor focused again on the urgency of their situation. The three French guards, huddled together against the rain and the penetrating cold, were talking and laughing. From the smell of it, they were drinking, too. They ignored their prisoners.
Treynor doubted they spoke English, but he lowered his voice, just in case. “I would guess there are fifty or sixty of the French. Maybe more below. There are almost forty of us, though many are injured.”
“Don’t look good, eh?” Smedley grimaced as he licked dry, cracked lips.
“No. But you feel the rain. A storm’s coming on, and I am not so sure the Superbe won’t suffer the same fate as the Tempest. Did you hear Favre say they have lost their Breton navigator?”
Smedley’s nod was almost imperceptible, but Treynor continued. “He thinks we have open sea to the north of us, which means we are probably somewhere off the approaches to Brest, west of the peninsula, maybe beyond the Passage du Raz and the Pointe de Saints. Only I think we are closer to the coast than he expects. The wind carried us due east throughout the battle.”
With a curse, Treynor shifted to relieve the throb in his arm, but to no avail. “With the sky so overcast, there is no way to know for sure.”
It was several moments before Smedley could respond. “I’m sorry we couldn’t take ‘em, sir,” he said. “We should’ve blasted ‘em out of the water—”
“What is lost is lost,” Treynor broke in as he glanced toward the French sailors. They were still talking and laughing. He could hear snatches of their conversation on the wind, but he was too tired to translate their words into English. “Favre seems more interested in savoring his sudden command and the spoils of war than in keeping a sharp lookout. He thinks he need only wait out the storm, then dock at Brest, probably tomorrow, when he can use daylight to his advantage.”
“Meanwhile, he’s planning to entertain the baron’s wife—at your expense, eh?” Smedley said.
When Treynor scowled, Smedley chuckled.
“You don’t have to admit it, sir. I saw it in your face back there.” Clutching his stomach, he fell silent.
Treynor didn’t relish the thought of being so transparent. “This has as much to do with saving our hides as it does hers.” He kept his voice even, kept working at the splinters in his arm, but he longed to tear Favre’s heart out with his bare hands.
Noticing that he was busy, Smedley lifted his head and indicated Treynor’s arm. “What are you up to there?”
“A little surgery of my own.” The words were more of a grunt, spoken as he pulled out a large piece of wood.
The world spun, then went black, but he must not have been out for long, because Smedley’s next question made sense and seemed to follow.
“What do you think we should do, sir?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Wet. And I could use a drink.”
“I promise you will get one.”
Drawn by the sound of Treynor’s voice, some of the other prisoners stirred and moved closer, although most were nursing injuries of their own—or despair. After a time, the officers could expect to be traded for French prisoners of war. But the rank and file often faced long stretches in prison barges.
“What ye sayin’, Lieutenant?” Mrs. Hawker asked. Her taciturn husband stood behind her. Amelia hovered nearby, trying to shelter her baby from the cold. Bonnie lay on the deck with her tongue lolling out, the picture of canine exhaustion.
Having extracted the last of the wood from his arm, Treynor couldn’t answer right away. When he did, he spoke through his teeth as he wound his shirt, already sopped in Cunnington’s blood, around his arm to staunch the bleeding.
“‘Ere, let me ‘elp ye with that.” Mrs. Hawker had her husband give up his own shirt and tear it into strips. Then she bandaged Treynor’s arm as best she could under the circumstances.
“There’s not many of them, and they have lost their senior officers, so they are not well organized,” Treynor said when she finished. “The ship is steering wildly, the rain is coming harder, and the sea is getting rougher. Soon they will have to turn their attention to the storm if they want to survive it. When they do, we will have an opportunity.”
“How so?” Mrs. Hawker asked. “They know this coast better’n we do.”
“But they don’t know where we are in relation to it.”
“I’m willin’ to take any chance, no matter ‘ow slim,” her husband chimed in. “We will not see the inside of a French prison. Not if I can ‘elp it.”
“Good.” Treynor searched the deck for any sign of Favre. “Then pass the word to the other men. They must be ready to grab any weapon they can find and put it to good use as soon as I give the word.”
He looked at Smedley, but the tattoo artist gave no sign he’d heard, making Treynor wonder if he’d slipped into unconsciousness. “Smed?”
The man nodded. “Just tell me what and when,” he breathed, his face ashen, “I will do what I can.”
“Your task will be a simple one,” Treynor told him. “We just have to wait for the right moment.”
* * *
Wearing the boy’s clothes Favre had brought her, Jeannette sat alone, silent and still as a stone, staring at her reflection in a basin of water.
She hardly recognized the tired face staring back at her. Never had she dreamed she would find herself sitting in the captain’s quarters of an enemy ship, awaiting a complete stranger, a man who made no secret of his salacious intentions.
But preserving the second lieutenant’s life outweighed her fear for her own safety. She didn’t regret, couldn’t regret, what she’d done.
Numbly, her gaze circled the room. Rich wooden paneling and cabinetry covered every wall. An abundance of Louis IV furniture sat on thick rugs and competed for dominance.
There had to be something amid the clutter she could use to defend herself, she thought, but she’d gone through all the cabinets and drawers, even searched the armoire—and found nothing.
She dipped a rag in the basin of water, destroying her pale reflection, and began to bathe. Beyond her fear for the immediate future, she felt a strong sense of loss for her way of life and the France she once knew. The crew of the Superbe called themselves Frenchmen, but the
y were strangers to her. Part of a new breed. The enemy.
The sparkle of a shiny object in the mirror stole Jeannette’s attention from her ablutions. She crossed the room to investigate and discovered what looked to be a table knife on the floor beneath the captain’s desk.
Favre had made a cursory search of the cabin, to make sure it was safe to leave her alone, but if he’d seen the knife, he’d not thought it enough of a threat to remove it.
Jeannette fingered the blade. If it was sharp enough to cut meat …
The knife might be sufficient for the job, but was she capable of stabbing a man?
She shuddered at the thought.
A knock on the door nearly made her drop the potential weapon.
“Madame? Shall we eat?” Favre called.
Jeannette shoved the knife into her right boot just before he entered, wearing a fresh uniform. “Oui. I am ready.” She inclined her head, hoping to look demure.
With a bow, he held the door for her.
As she passed through the door her trousers fell in baggy folds. But her short, low-heeled boots fit far more tightly, holding the knife securely to her ankle. Favre must have taken them from a boy—most likely a victim of the battle.
The French lieutenant led her to the wardroom where four other men waited around a rectangular table. Several seats remained empty, attesting to the number of casualties among the officers.
Jeannette didn’t speak as Favre seated her next to him and the French cook served supper. By then, the rain was pounding out of the sky and the Superbe was rocking so violently she could scarcely eat for the roiling in her stomach. She wanted to slip her bread, at the very least, into her pocket and somehow convey it to Treynor, in case the prisoners hadn’t been fed. But Lieutenant Favre watched every move she made with growing interest.
“Do you not like the fare, madame?” he asked. “I assure you our cook is one of the best.”
“It is excellent,” she murmured, speaking in her native tongue, as was he. “It is the rocking of the ship that disturbs me.”
“One grows accustomed to it.” He smiled confidently, although at least two of those who dined with them looked nearly as green as she was herself. “So, tell me, how is it that an English baron has captured the heart of such a beautiful French lady?”
“Love knows no bounds,” Jeannette replied, thinking of Treynor. Her parents would never consider him a viable suitor, but she couldn’t tell her heart not to love him.
“Spoken like a true Frenchwoman.” He toyed with his mustache as he considered her. “However, I would guess your marriage had much more to do with saving your neck than love.”
Jeannette shrugged. “And if it did?”
“Then we are fortunate to have you back.”
A young man with fair hair and a fuzzy upper lip cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Favre, sir. I hesitate to interrupt, and I mean no disrespect, but…” He glanced at those around the table, all of whom gazed back at him, chewing in silence. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “But the storm worsens, sir. And many repairs are necessary—”
“Are they not being made at this very moment?” Favre snapped, swilling his wine and studying the burgundy liquid.
“Yes. But we are so short-handed, sir. Certainly there are better things for us to be doing than dining as though—”
Favre scowled. “We’ve got to eat. Even the captain ate, did he not?”
“Yes, sir. But…”
“But what, Mr. Croutier?” Favre set his glass back on the table and fixed his eyes on Croutier’s reddening face. “Am I not in charge here? Are you accusing me of not knowing what I am doing?”
Croutier looked to those around him again, but no one dared offer their support. “No, sir. Of course you do, sir. It is just that the rain is coming so hard now. And I thought that—well, perhaps we should hurry.”
“Then hurry, Croutier. You can have the first watch.” Favr The only reason he is where he’s at e smirked at Jeannette. “I will be busy for a while.”
Jeannette tried to swallow another tasteless bite and nearly gagged. She set her silver back on the table so the men wouldn’t notice how badly her hands were shaking and concentrated on the feel of the knife in her boot. She would have to use it. There was no one else to save her.
After Mr. Croutier’s comments, the meal passed quickly and in silence. Evidently Favre’s intention to show her off as a prize of war hadn’t brought him quite the satisfaction he’d anticipated. His men were too concerned with other things—the storm above all.
Lightning flashed across the sky as the French lieutenant led Jeannette from the wardroom to the deck. He kept her elbow gently but firmly in his grasp as he spoke with the steersman and put Mr. Croutier in charge. Shielding his face from the rain, he called to the lookout, who cried back that he saw nothing but gray and didn’t expect to see more until after the storm lifted.
Finally, he bowed to Jeannette. “Shall we retire to the captain’s cabin, my lady?”
Jeannette couldn’t bring herself to nod. “If we could just look in on the prisoners,” she said, raising hopeful eyes to the lieutenant’s face.
He shook his head. “It’s too wet out here. And it could get much worse. Croutier might be right. We should hurry.”
For the first time, Favre’s face held a glimmer of doubt as he stared at the mountainous waves that tossed the Superbe like a child’s toy. “I might be needed on deck,” he added.
“But it will only take a moment. Then I will go with you willingly.”
“You have no choice, regardless,” he told her and pressed his lips to hers in a sloppy kiss.
Jeannette couldn’t help wrenching away. Her reaction far more instinctual than calculated, she wiped his saliva from her mouth, and Favre slapped her.
“I will have none of that, my pretty whore,” he gritted out, but Jeannette’s ears were ringing so badly she could scarcely hear him. “You will give me all you gave your English husband and you will act like you enjoy doing it. Do you understand?”
Getting wetter by the moment, Jeannette stared at him, numbly fingering her cheek. The motion of the ship, combined with her stint in the ocean and her own anxiety, left her almost too weak to stand. “Yes, sir. What you want is plain enough, but you will get nothing from me unless you allow me to assure myself of the prisoners’ safety. If they are dead, there is certainly no reason for me not to join them.”
“They are alive.”
“Am I to take your word?”
He cursed, but relented. “As you wish. A quick turn past them is all, however. And you will have my promise that they will shortly receive some food.”
She tilted her head. “That is enough.”
Wanting to get in out of the rain, Favre kept his promise to the letter and made their stop at the prisoners a mere second. Jeannette scarcely had time to find Treynor. When she did, she noticed that he watched her and her escort with the eyes of a stalking cat.
Not wanting him to worry, she nodded slightly to tell him she was all right.
Lieutenant Favre commanded one of the guards to bring bread to the prisoners, and Jeannette turned her face away. Remembering the glint in Treynor’s eyes, and the hard planes of his face, she moved forward. Crawford Treynor might die this night, she thought, but if she had anything to do with it, Favre would not be the man to take his life.
Nor would the Frenchman rape her.
When they arrived at the captain’s cabin, Favre waved her inside. “After you, madame.”
Jeannette walked through the portal, her mind focused on the blade pressed to her ankle—and a fervent prayer that her nerve wouldn’t fail her.
Chapter 20
The wind made short work of the Superbe’s sails. Already shot through and nearly in tatters, their poor condition hindered the steersman who struggled to keep the damaged frigate under control. The loss of her mizzenmast only compounded the problem.
Silent and pensive, Treynor listened to the howl
of the wind, wanting to lend his own voice to its keening wail—to sound a battle cry as ancient as any on earth. The sight of Jeannette with Favre had nearly driven him to desperate measures. He longed to kill the Frenchman and free her, but he had no chance of getting more than ten paces from the spot on which he sat. That his opportunity might arrive too late, if it arrived at all, only caused his rage to mount.
Finally Mrs. Hawker placed a hand on his arm. “Ye’ll be no good ter ‘er if ye don’t use yer ‘ead, Lieutenant,” she cautioned.
“Good advice,” he responded. But it didn’t erase the vision of Favre forcing himself on Jeannette.
“What means more to ye, ‘er life, or ‘er virtue?” she asked.
Her life. That meant everything to him—but still he couldn’t bear the thought of her being hurt, especially in that way.
“She’s strong,” the bosun’s wife continued. “‘Ave no fear of that.”
Far past the point of calm reason, he said, “I will kill him.” He could see only red, feel nothing but the desire to wring the breath from the French lieutenant’s body. “Just give me one chance,” he said, “and Favre is a dead man.”
* * *
“Now you know what it feels like to be kissed by a real man, a Frenchman.” Lieutenant Favre pulled back from pressing his lips to Jeannette’s to look in her eyes as they stood next to the bed.
She cringed at the sour smell of his breath, wishing she could wipe away the moist imprint of his mouth. One of his hands clutched her breast through her shirt while the other cupped her buttocks and pressed her against him.
He released her long enough to remove his shirt, and she stumbled back, nearly falling onto the bed.
I can do it. I won’t look at him. It’s not real. She stared at the design on the carpet as the lieutenant’s outer garments hit the floor with a soft poof, and almost pulled her knife from its hiding place right then.
But it was too soon. Favre would only wrestle it from her. Difficult though it was, she had to be patient.
The sight of the lieutenant’s bare chest, pale beneath the thick black hair that covered it as well as his shoulders and arms, increased her terror by a staggering degree. Only the vision of Treynor held hostage by surly guards not far away made her control the impulse to protect herself or flee. Treynor needed her to have his kind of courage. They all did.