A Brother's Honor (3 page)

As light pushed back the darkness and Abigail saw the crates and iron-bound barrels, her eyes widened in disbelief. “This is all wrong! Where are the bales I saw on the wharf in New Bedford?”

Captain St. Clair shouldered her aside. She started to protest, then saw he held a crowbar.

“I knew you would refuse to believe the truth until you pried your charming nose into every corner,” he said through clenched teeth as he popped a lid open. A nail spun through the air, and he lifted the top. “
Voilà!
”

Abigail reached in. Slime coated her fingers as she stared at guns covered with grease to prevent them from corroding. As Captain St. Clair raised the lamp, she saw the word
gunpowder
stenciled on barrels.

“The war between France and England has gone on for many years,” he said. “Even England may need more weapons than they can produce, so the government would be eager to buy more.”

“My father would not do that! He … he …” She took a deep breath, but could not calm her horror. “He would not sell weapons to the English! His father was wounded in the War for Independence.”

“Then who was to receive these weapons?”

“I do not know.”

“Mademoiselle Fitzgerald—”

“I am telling the truth. I do not know!” She gazed at the boxes. What
had
Father planned? Turning, she saw one of the guns in Captain St. Clair's hands. She fought to keep from blanching. “And what will happen now, Captain?”

“Selling weapons to our enemies is a very serious crime.” He looked along the barrel before putting the gun back in the crate and wiping his hands on his breeches. He hammered the top of the crate into place. “If a man is convicted of that, he hangs.”

“You will send my father to hang?”

“Wouldn't he do the same to me?”

Abigail knew her father would be delighted to see Captain St. Clair at the end of a hemp noose. When Captain St. Clair picked up the lantern, she asked, “And what will happen to me?”

He cupped her chin and tilted her face toward him. His voice dropped to a husky whisper, “
Chérie
, I told you that you need not worry about anyone harming you.”

“Except you!”

With a laugh, he strode away. Abigail had no choice but to follow, because she did not want to be left in the dank, dark hold. She did not look away from the angry stares of her father's crew on deck. They had known. Her father could not have hidden the truth from them as easily as he had from her.

Why had Father lied to her?
And how could Father have left me here with these French pirates?
He should have taken her with him. Or were things worse on the other ship? Mayhap he had been trying to protect her the best way he could. She had to believe that.

Captain St. Clair ushered her into the saloon. As she sat, he shoved a glass into her hand. “Drink.”

“Are you afraid someone poisoned the wine?” she snarled back.

“I think only of you. If you get any paler, your freckles are going to jump off your face.”

Putting her fingers up to her cheek, she ignored his grin. Although she hated obeying, she took a sip. Its warmth oozed through her, easing the tight bands around her heart.

He sat beside her. “You must, of course, stay in France until your father's trial is over.”

She held the goblet with both hands, for she did not trust her quivering fingers. “I assumed that.”

“If your father is found guilty as I expect, it will not be easy for you there alone.”

“I assumed that, as well, Captain.” She refused to let him see how scared she was. If Captain St. Clair had a heart, he kept it well hidden.

Reaching across the table, he snagged his own wine. “Mayhap you could find work teaching English. That might serve you better than working at a harbor tavern.”

A tavern? Father had promised her the chance to meet the highest of society on this voyage, not its dregs. “If you think I would—”

He laughed. “No, I did not think you would be interested in such a position. Mayhap you might wish to return to America.”

“Yes.” She watched him. What was he thinking now? She wished she could guess … even once. “My aunt lives in Massachusetts.”

He leaned toward her as his arm slid along the table behind her. She started to rise, but his fingers around her shoulder became a clamp. His other hand tipped her face toward him. “A message can be taken to her.”

“For a price?”

His dark eyes twinkled. She did not know whether to believe the merriment in his eyes or the threat displayed on his wind-roughened face. “You are learning very, very quickly.”

“And what is your price, Captain, for delivering that message?”

“I will let you guess.” His gaze touched her face, leaving its heat as one finger stroked her cheek.

“Your price is too high.” Her voice was breathless, a mere whisper. With fear, she told herself sternly, not with delight at this pirate's touch.

“How do you know when I have not spoken it?”

“You speak it well without words.”

“Sometimes words are unnecessary.” He tipped her mouth toward his.

With a cry, Abigail leaped to her feet and away from the enchantment he spun with the ease of a master sorcerer. “Captain St. Clair, I didn't want your crewman touching me. I do not wish to have you paw me either!”

He stood, his face hardening as she put the table between them. “You would prefer to work for a man who will expect more from you than lessons for his children?”

“Good night. I have no appetite for either dinner or your company.” She faltered when she saw the shiny lock which had been set on her door.

“I am not trying to scare you needlessly.”

“Why should my future concern you?” she asked, facing him. “Rest assured, I can take care of myself.”

“True.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Even his fine feathers could not hide the truth. He was a vile pirate who was enjoying her fear. “But it is just as true that it may be impossible for you to live as you planned.”

“If I decide to sell myself for passage home, it shall not be to you.” She slammed the door behind her.

It cut off the sound of his laugh, but she knew, as he did, how futile her courage was. With a shudder, she feared he soon would tire of playing with her as Dandy quickly tired of playing with a mouse. Then he would destroy her.

Dominic St. Clair stared at the sails. They bulged with the wind that flipped hair into his face. Brushing it aside, he sighed. This ship was not as poorly made as he had feared. Still, it would need all his skills to gauge its passage. On his own ship, he could determine the height of each wave by the way
La Chanson
's bow dipped and danced.

He pushed away from the rail.
La Chanson
would be his again as soon as he delivered this American ship to France. That hour would be delayed if they were caught in the blow threatened by the dark line along the western horizon.

He snarled a curse as he almost stumbled into someone. His smile returned when he took a deep breath of sweet perfume. “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, I do not recall telling you that you may take a stroll about the deck.”

“No, Captain, you did not.” When she frowned, it ruined her gentle loveliness. The green dress with its gold lace flattered her coloring, for the sun set on fire the few wisps of her russet hair that had escaped from beneath her prim bonnet. Keeping her hair hidden was, in his opinion, a crime. Those ruddy curls should cascade along her slender shoulders and over her soft breasts. “I wish to go to the galley.”

He chuckled. Abigail Fitzgerald was as fiery as her hair, but she must accept the truth. She belonged to Dominic St. Clair by right of capture. Her wit had made last evening interesting, but he wanted more than conversation with her. He imagined her slim arms wrapped around him and those inviting lips soft with eager breaths of passion. No doubt, she would be as vicious as her cat, but he would enjoy taming her until she purred.

“Captain St. Clair, if you have nothing to say, would you be kind enough to step aside?”

Again he chuckled. If she had any idea of the course of his thoughts, she would be even more outraged. “Why do you want to go to the galley?”

“I wish to speak with Cookie.”

“Speak of what? Some conspiracy against me?”

Her laugh was sharp. “Which of Father's men would trust me when they think …?”

He cupped her chin and drew her closer. Her perfume was beguiling for a man who had been at sea for so long, but the downy brush of her skin against his finger was even more intoxicating. “When they think you are my mistress? Is that what you wish to say?”

The blush climbing her cheeks gave him his answer. She had, it was clear, more wit than her father, for somehow, even in her quarters, she had sensed the rage boiling among the
Republic
's crew. He glanced across the sun-swept deck. Would Fitzgerald's men turn that frustration on her? He must remind Jourdan, who was serving as first mate on this American tub, to keep a closer watch on Fitzgerald's crew. Especially Woolcott, he noted, when he saw the onetime bo'sun scowl at Abigail before turning to mutter to one of his cronies.

“If you are so bored in your quarters that you dare to disobey my orders,” he said, “I can suggest something to fill the afternoon.”

Sparks burned in her blue eyes. “I am sure you can. However, I am interested in something more worthwhile.”

“What could be more worthwhile than pleasure?”

Abigail considered retorting, but anything she said would be used to insult her anew. She walked away. During her three days in his captivity, Captain St. Clair had allowed no one else in the captain's quarters, save for Cookie. But Cookie had been granted no time to talk to her.

She needed to ask Cookie about the guns in the hold. She needed to ask him why the crew had surrendered instead of taking the ship to the bottom as her uncle had when attacked. She needed to know, most of all, why her father had left her here as Captain St. Clair's prisoner.

As her eyes adjusted to the companionway's darkness, Abigail saw several men in the lower passage. One man, thin and wiry, stepped forward. She pretended to be unaware of his leer. The only thing more disgusting than Captain St. Clair must be his crew.

The man put out an arm to block her way. “Come closer,” he taunted in a thick French accent. “Come closer, and share with us what you share with the
capitaine.
”

“You are mad!” she retorted, then wished she had remained silent when the men edged closer.

“I speak only of business.” His friends laughed as he continued, “Our reward for capturing this scow will be grand. Why not earn yourself some gold instead of just giving yourself to the
capitaine
for nothing?”

She tried to slide away. “Leave me alone!”

“Jourdan!” cried one of the men. She could not understand the rest of his words.

Her eyes widened.
This
was Captain St. Clair's first mate? The man who was supposed to help protect her from his salacious crew?

Jourdan cursed as another shout rumbled along the passage. She recognized that voice. Captain St. Clair! She opened her mouth to answer, but, as the other men scurried to answer the command, Jourdan snarled, “Tell the
capitaine
of this and you will die.”

Leaning her head on the wall, Abigail shivered. A hand touched her arm. She whirled and screamed.

“'Tis me, my girl.” Cookie's face was taut with fury.

“They tried—”

“To frighten you, but you are a Fitzgerald. You will not let them scare you.”

“I will try to be brave,” she whispered.

“Good. Come with me.” He led her to the galley.

The heat from the stove reached out to suck them in, but Abigail did not notice as she continued to shake.

Cookie sat her on the nearest barrel. “Ye shouldn't be down here alone, my girl.” He pulled a cup from a shelf and opened a canister. Filling the tin cup, he held it to her lips. “Drink.”

A flame rolled along her throat with the rum. Tears blurred her eyes, and she choked. Pressing her hands to her chest, she fought the fire. Cookie slapped her on the back.

“Thanks,” she gasped. “If thanks is the proper word.”

“Ain't nothing like rum to cut to the quick of the problem.”

“To the quick, anyway.” She rested her head against the uneven wall. Gazing up at the greasy ceiling, she mused, “Mayhap we should cut our throats and be done with it. If the French hangman does not have us, it will only be because these pirates have murdered us.”

Cookie took a gulp of rum and smacked his lips. “Ye don't believe that.”

“I do not know what to believe any longer.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “Cookie, there are weapons in the hold.”

“Yer father wasn't breaking no law.”

“Are you sure? Will you testify to that under oath?”

“Abigail!”

“Cookie, I know you would do anything for Father.”
Even lie
, she thought, but could not say the words aloud.

“Aye,” he breathed as he stared into his cup. “But what good will it do? Those accursed Frenchies won't believe an honest American sailor.”

She grasped his arm. “But why are there guns in the hold? Who was Father planning to sell them to?”

“What ye don't know, Abigail, that French cur can't seduce out of ye.”

“Cookie! The only one who shares my bed is Dandy.”

His wrinkled face brightened as he smiled. “I'm right pleased to hear that. If yer father were to learn ye were bedding down with that Frenchie, he'd be furious.”

“If he cares …” She glanced away. She could not let Captain St. Clair taint her thoughts with lies. But why had Father left her behind on the
Republic?
That one thing she could not understand. Not at all.