Beloved Castaway (7 page)

“Sit,” he demanded, standing to push the crude wooden chair in her direction.

Rather than accommodate him, she grasped the back of the chair with both hands to steady herself and regarded him impassively as she began to recount silently the words of the Twenty-third Psalm.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down—

“Sit down!”

Stunned, Isabelle mutely obeyed. Beneath her feet, she could feel the roll of the deck as, outside, the squall’s intensity increased. A furtive glance at the captain’s face showed that his countenance mirrored the ferocity of the storm.
 

He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul—

The captain pounded a fist upon the table, and its contents jostled about. A decanter half filled with some dark liquid toppled and emptied its contents. “Upon my soul, Isabelle Gayarre, I shall have the answer I seek.”

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness—

“For all that is righteous,” he shouted as he threw his chair to the floor, where it splintered, “I should have you keelhauled and hung upon the yardarm for attempting to defraud me. In my world, the penalty for deception is death.”
 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me—

“Where are you, woman? Awaken from your stupor and answer me.”

Isabelle forced herself to blink as she watched the captain reach for a piece of wood from the remains of the chair. He pounded it on the edge of the table, then wielded it over his head like a man gone mad.

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies—

“I demand your attention,” he said, his voice suddenly and eerily calm.

Rather than acquiesce to his demand, Isabelle began to count the amber drops of wine as they spilled onto the floor.
 

My cup runneth over.

Suddenly the decanter of wine disappeared, swiped away by the hand of Josiah Carter. It landed in a heap of shattered glass. The remainder of the chair followed.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me. . .

“Follow me,” the captain said as he pulled her to her feet.
 

“No,” she whispered, unable to give a stronger voice to the plea.

Just as his colleague before him, Captain Carter began to haul her into the darkened hallway. Behind her, the yellow glow of the lantern beckoned while nothing but blackness stretched on forever.

Then something inside Isabelle snapped.

She jerked away from the captain’s grasp and stopped short, her slippers still within the ring of light from the lantern. The hem of her cloak swung against the back of her legs, and she felt the coins shift. Mentally, she counted them, tabulating the cost of freedom should she have to cast her garment aside to escape.

But as she watched the fury cross Josiah Carter’s face and saw his hand tremble when he reached for her, she knew no amount of money could save her now. Her only hope lay in the Lord.
 

I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
 

This thought gave Isabelle comfort as her control slipped away, giving panic and abject terror free rein. She began to scream.

Chapter 7

J
osiah clapped his hand over the howling banshee’s mouth and instantly regretted his action. At best, Mademoiselle Gayarre would but harm herself; at worst, her flailing arms and legs just might harm him, as well. All his shouting and flailing about hadn’t worked one whit to cower the lass, and he knew he could carry on the ruse of playing the madman for only so long before it became tiresome. Better he try another approach.

“Be still,” he whispered into her ear, “or the entire crew will think I’m in need of rescuing and come running.”

To his great pleasure, his captive quieted herself, leaving only the heaving motion of her shoulders to show for her prior exertions. Wild eyes, barely blinking, stared at him.

“You are afraid.” He offered a slow smile. “Or perhaps you are merely biding your time until you flee.”

Her pleading look answered for her. Of course, fear would rule her actions. He notched up his smile and looked past her to the single window where only the faintest light penetrated the gloom.
 

“Mademoiselle Gayarre, should I choose to unhand you, I will require a promise.” Satisfied with her weak nod of agreement, Josiah pressed on. “I insist you remain silent and docile, speaking only when addressed and making no effort to escape. Will you agree to this?”

Again, she nodded.
 

“In return you shall be treated with fairness and dignity, so long as you deserve it.” Before he could act to release her, however, the woman had the nerve to sink her teeth into his hand. “By all that is holy, woman,” he avowed to her retreating back, “dare you accost me?”

The only answer he received was the sound of footsteps trodding a brisk pace on the stairs. So she thought to escape?

Josiah chuckled and stood by the door to wait. A moment later the steps halted, and, save for the noise of the docks and the storm outside, silence reigned.

“Mademoiselle?
Ça va bien
?” he asked, knowing she was more than fine, although she might not yet realize the fact.
 

She also had yet to discover she’d landed in a trap, for the stair held no visible exit. The
Jude’
s
former owner had outfitted the passage with an ingenious system of doors serving to confuse the uninitiated and conceal the unpleasant.
 

The hatch at the bottom of the stairs opened directly into a small yet comfortably furnished chamber of dubious purpose. Beyond the room lay the vast holding area where the African prisoners of war, set to become cargo, had once been quartered one against the other like hogsheads in a warehouse.

The image flashed through his mind, an imagined scene that, should he descend to the depths his father thought him capable, could one day become all too real. Faces peered at him from the shadows of the hold, differentiated only by variations in the color of their skin or the shapes of their faces.

Human faces. The odor of their misery still permeated the ship. A wave of nausea threatened.
Liar. You are not that man. You never were, and you shall never be.

Slowly he pushed the thought out of his mind, replacing it with the problem at hand.
 

To exit the captain’s meeting room through the stairwell, one must know the complicated process. The Gayarre woman would never manage it. Only he and two select crewmen, Harrigan and Banks, could manage the convoluted maneuver, and to prevent prying eyes from learning the secret, the passageway remained cloaked in darkness.
 

Perhaps he should leave the golden-haired woman to her own devices and make his way out of the room and the situation. A second, less-visible exit lay at his disposal. An opening into a corridor below had been hidden in a floor panel and covered by a seemingly immovable trunk. He could easily use it now to leave and send one of the crewmen to claim Isabelle Gayarre, thus ending the charade.

An amusing thought, indeed, but not a solution to his lack of funds. For that, he needed the cooperation of his guest. Until he extracted payment in coin, his ship would remain anchored in New Orleans. The longer the time at anchor, the greater the danger of his plans for William being thwarted.

Atop one of the trunks lay a document of ownership to a parcel of land and a dwelling of some sort in Clapham, the single item of value gleaned from the woman’s trunk. He considered offering the certificate in return for cancellation of his debt—the
Jude
for some bucolic spot called Woodbine Park in Clapham, a quaint burg known for its do-gooders and zealots—but he knew it would be an arrangement most unsatisfactory to his creditor.
 

Only gold could settle the debt.

Josiah inhaled a deep draft of damp air and listened to the rumble of thunder as it rolled across the Mississippi. Shrugging the tightness from his shoulders, he turned to stare at his reflection in the pier glass.
 

The man in the mirror frowned. Josiah looked away.

Before landing in New Orleans, he had felt that the disconcerted-ness he was experiencing must be due to the unfamiliarity of the vessel and the nature of his mission. At the moment, he attributed the feeling to the fact that his prime means of escape now stood in peril.

Josiah sighed and studied the teeth marks on his palm. Un-fortunately, leaving the woman to rot in the pitch-blackness of the vestibule was not an option. A second plan began to take shape.

“Mademoiselle,” he called, easing the slightest bit of jocularity into his tone, “perhaps you’d like to join me before the river rats take notice of your scent.”

A shuffling sound and a soft gasp gave the only indication of the lady’s presence in the stairwell. Josiah leaned against the polished mahogany wall and stared down into the darkness.

Stubborn woman.

“I assure you,” he added, “your safety is my utmost concern.”

A most unladylike sound emanated from the darkness. “Should I be forced to choose, Captain Carter, I would prefer the company of the rats,” she said, her voice quaking with either anger or fear.

Josiah preferred to think he heard fear. “As you wish.”
 

He stalked away from the door and settled onto the single remaining chair. Propping his feet on one of the women’s empty trunks, he crossed his arms over his chest and set out to watch for his guest’s return. To help pass the time, he looked to the shelf in the corner, where part of his collection of books had been stowed.
 

Bypassing the King James Bible of his youth, a chronicle both amusing and slightly unsettling, he retrieved a well-worn copy of the memoirs of Vidocq, the French police agent, and turned to the first page. Two chapters later, he tired of the ruse.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he shouted as he replaced the volume on the shelf. “Appear forthwith, or I shall be forced to come down and fetch you myself.”

He paused. “Or perhaps you prefer I send for your lovely traveling companions.” Another pause, this one calculated for the maximum effect. “I would so enjoy an interview
with each of them,” he said, punctuating the statement with a chuckle before adding, “individually and at length, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary,” came the small, uneven voice.
 

A moment later, Isabelle Gayarre stepped out of the shadows, her face showing equal parts defeat and defiance. She seemed to be having difficulty accustoming herself to the change in light, and leaned heavily against the wall, shielding her eyes.

Josiah gave no show of sympathy as he leaned over to kick at a small traveling case, then watched it slide across the floor to land at the woman’s feet. She jumped in surprise and knelt to set it to rights.

If only she knew how little chance she had of actually being hurt by him. No, the sins of the father would not be visited on this son.

“I will be brief,” he said. “I require payment as promised. Until such payment is delivered, you and I shall be at odds. Unlike the arrangement with your sister, I demand gold for your passage.”

Before his eyes, the cowering lass stood, her backbone straight and her eyes shining. She cradled the case in the crook of her arm as it were made of pure gold. Her full lips twitched, and she looked as if she were about to say something.

Josiah congratulated himself. An unpleasant situation had been averted. The truth of her deception would now be told and his debt to the Spanish noble-brat be paid.

“Speak your mind, Isabelle Gayarre.” He cast an offhand glance at the woman before turning his attention to the basket of apples on the table. “Settle this matter so that we may sail.” He reached for the largest of the heap and polished it on the lapel of his frock coat while he glared at her. At least, he hoped he managed a passable glare.

“Sir,” she replied as she seemed to watch the movement of the apple rather than meet his gaze, “I’ve but one thing to say before the matter is settled.”

Josiah rested a boot on the chair and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Then proceed to enlighten me, mademoiselle.” He took a large bite of the sweet red apple. “I await your every word of wisdom like a deer panting for a cool stream.”

“You, sir,” she said, enunciating each word as if he were a lad still in knee pants, “are a thief.”
 

---

A thief.
 

Had she actually said the words her mind had so nimbly wrapped around? Isabelle’s blood boiled and heated her skin as it rushed past her ears, rendering her both speechless and deaf. From the looks of the man, she’d said exactly that—or worse.

He choked and threw the remains of the apple against the wall. Pieces of red skin and white flesh exploded to cover the dark surface of the floor. An odd white fleck or two decorated his leather boots and spotted the hem of his black frock coat, but he seemed to resist any urge to wipe them away.

Josiah Carter stood in the midst of the chaos, a man obviously much aggrieved. A man whose wrath she’d grown tired of seeing. Still, perhaps she might have remained silent rather than risking the chance to speak her mind.
 

Watch him, Izzy. Pray for God to restrain his hand. Ask for protection; ask for peace.

Peace? From whence had that come? Surely there would be no peace between a man of Captain Carter’s reputation and herself.

Isabelle waited for him to strike her, knowing the blow would come quickly once the captain digested her words. Like a fellow wrapped in the fog of a siren’s enchantment, however, Josiah Carter stood transfixed. His fingers twitched, and his face darkened with what had to be rage. Still he did not move.

From nowhere, she felt words bubble into her throat and emerge. “This temper of yours, has it always been so fierce?”