Heart's Safe Passage (7 page)

“Or you will be slitting my jugular?” Docherty snorted. “And where will that be getting you, lass? Tossed overboard, I’m thinking.”

Phoebe nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “A risk I’ve calculated. But you’ll still be dead.”

“I don’t want to be dead,” Belinda whimpered from where she’d retreated to the furthest end of the window seat. “I want to stay alive.”

“No one will harm you, Bel.” Phoebe tightened her grip on Docherty’s shoulder. “Will you?”

“Not a lady with a bairn coming.” His hand still rested on the hilt of his dirk. “I’d prefer not to harm any lady.”

“You’ve already done that by bringing us aboard an enemy ship.”

“I am not your enemy.”

“Then drop the knife.” Phoebe hardened her voice.

“If you insist.” He drew the dirk from its sheath.

Phoebe tensed. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder, and with one flick backward, he could gut her like a trout.

He tossed the knife onto the desk, his head turning to follow the trajectory. The blade slid into the slot cut to hold the fiddle board. “Foolish of me not to remove the key. Clever of you to find its hiding place. But you’re not clever enough if you think that one wee lass can get a whole crew of fighting men to do her bidding.”

Phoebe tossed her head and laughed, a little too high, a little forced. “Only if they don’t care for their captain.”

“At present, they are not so happy with me.” He sighed, the motion pushing the folds of his damp boat cloak into Phoebe’s face, smothering her with aromas of wet wool and tar, salt and man, a dizzying bouquet of scents.

She breathed through her mouth so she couldn’t inhale the aromas, and closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the sway of the lantern light. “Maybe they’re unhappy with you because you abducted two ladies.”

“Nay, ’tis because I have not let them take a prize for the past three months and will not let them take one for another two.”

“Until we rescue George?” Belinda asked.

“Aye, ’tis so.”

“See, Phoebe, I told you he is a good man.”

“Me being aboard this brig says he is not a good man.” Phoebe slid her left hand toward his neck, grabbed a handful of his hair, thick and soft and so warm beneath that she realized she’d been chilled until that moment. “Give the orders, and all will be well.”

“You said you were not a violent person. Which leads me to something to ponder. Either you are too kind to harm me and thus this is naught more than a ruse, and your word is good regarding that, or you will slit my throat and take the consequences, and your word is good on that. Which is true, madam?”

Bile choked Phoebe like the words she could not speak. Of course the former was true. If she spoke the truth, she wanted to rest her head against the broad, strong back in front of her and weep, pleading for him to take her ashore, let her go to Tabitha and Dominick, who would surely be able to welcome her back after a year, take her to freedom to practice midwifery and be a useful female.

But pleading with men only got a body hurt.

She swallowed the bile. “Are you willing to take the risk that the latter is the truth?”

“Aye, I do believe I—” He broke off on a muttered oath as a tapping sound rattled in the companionway.

“Get her, Fi,” a child’s voice cried.

Belinda screamed. Phoebe jumped and dropped the dagger. With a swirl of fabric like mammoth wings, Docherty’s cloak sailed through the air and around Phoebe’s shoulders. And around, trapping her in a cocoon of warm, damp wool.

“Fi, do not—”

Docherty’s command came too late. Growling, a black-and-white dog no larger than a barn cat sank its teeth into the hem of Phoebe’s gown and through to her ankle.

To her shame, she screamed too. The lantern light blurred, blackened before her eyes, then flared brighter than ever. She sagged in the enveloping cloak, in Docherty’s supporting arms. “Stop it.” She croaked the command. Tears of pain and mortification spilled down her cheeks.

“She only listens to me and Captain Rafe.” A youth of perhaps eleven or twelve trotted into the cabin, crouched, and disengaged the dog from Phoebe’s ankle. “You’re a grand girl, Fiona McCloud.”

“And you’re a disobedient imp.” Docherty’s tone was dry. “I told you to go to your cabin.”

“Aye, sir, and I had to come down here to do so, and I could not help but listen in the companionway.” Grass-green eyes in a too-thin face glanced up. They twinkled. The full lips curved into a three-cornered smile like an elf. “And ’tis a grand thing I did or you’d be eating your dinner through your gullet ’stead of your mouth.”

Phoebe blinked down at the child. “You not only force innocent women aboard, you force children too?”

“He did not force me.” The lad rose and planted his hands on his hips. “I came aboard of my own free will and stay of my own free will.”

“If not mine,” Docherty muttered. “But if you do not vacate this cabin with that wee beastie, Mel, I’ll be putting you ashore first chance I’m granted.”

“Virginia can’t be far off,” Phoebe suggested in dulcet tones.

Docherty’s arms tightened their imprisoning hold. “’Tis not close enough for going back. And I would not leave the la—the lad on enemy soil.”

“We’re not enemies to children.” Belinda made her way forward, gripping a chair then the desk for support. “You should be our cabin steward for the voyage. I’d like that.”

“I would too.” The lad rose with the dog in his arms.

Phoebe’s ankle throbbed at the mere sight of the little mouth of the beast, but she felt no warm trickle of blood, only the nauseating ache of the impact of teeth through her gown and onto her flesh. She rather welcomed Docherty’s supportive hold. Without it, she might be spinning with the cabin, the swaying lantern light, Belinda plump and smiling in her lavender-soaked gown, the child and dog shifting with the motion of the deck. Spinning. Spinning. Darkening—

“Do not faint on me, Mrs. Lee,” Docherty said into her ear. “You’ll be disappointing me.”

“With all reverence, God forbid I should do that.” Phoebe blinked hard, tried to move her arms.

The cloak held them captive. Her lungs felt compressed with air too difficult to breathe. She gasped.

“She’s gone all funny colored,” the elfin child cried.

The next moment, the cloak fell away. One hand pushed her onto the window seat. Another pressed on the back of her head, lowering her face to her knees.

“Breathe,” Docherty commanded. “Mel, get that cur out of here, and if I learn you taught her to bite, you’ll be spending the voyage below deck with Mrs. Lee.”

“I needed some kind of protection.” Mel sounded sulky. “And it worked. She saved you.”

“As if I need a wee dog to rescue me from a wee lass.” Docherty crouched before Phoebe and nudged her chin up.

For a moment, their faces hovered mere inches apart, close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her lips. Close enough for her to see her reflection in his gray eyes.

“You’re looking better.” That odd tenderness had crept into his voice again, a compassion that belonged in a pastor or friend, not the captain of a privateer who had allowed her to be abducted.

Her insides quivered like a plain of quicksand. She straightened but didn’t look away.

“She’s still a funny color,” announced Mel, the child with the vicious dog.

That dog now rested in her master’s arms as limp as a fluffy toy.

“You can’t continue to be sick,” Belinda protested. “You’re here to take care of me.”

“But you’re not ill.” For the first time, Phoebe realized that the lad bore the same burr as the captain.

And the same red hair.

She glanced from one to the other, noted the cheekbones, the straight noses, and the shape, if not the color, of the eyes. “A young relation?”

“Aye, for my sins.” The glance Doherty cast Mel held pure affection.

Phoebe managed a smile. “Which are numerous.”

“Like the stars in the heavens, no doot.” He rose. “Mrs. Chapman, will you tend to your friend’s injuries?”

“Me?” Belinda paled. “I’ve never done anything of the kind. Blood makes me ill.”

“There’s no blood.” Phoebe started to hold out her foot, realized she would be displaying her ankles to a man, and tucked her toes inside the folds of her gown. “I can manage myself.” She started to rise.

Fiona raised her head, muzzle twitching.

“Take that menace elsewhere,” Docherty commanded Mel.

“But—”

“Do not argue with me. If she bites anyone else, she’ll be going ashore.”

“Lucky dog,” Phoebe muttered.

At that moment, with Docherty’s kindness still radiating around her, slipping out of the stern windows and swimming ashore sounded like a fine idea and the only way to make up for her horrendous behavior. Unless scrubbing decks or cooking meals for the crew would serve better.

Or staying aboard to tend to Belinda, regardless of the fact it made her a traitor to her country.

God, what would You have me do?

More shame burned through her. She’d acted without praying, had taken the human way to obtain their freedom. Not the first time she’d done something so foolish. This time, the results weren’t half as bad—yet.

Maybe she could simply slither under the table until he departed. Better yet, ask to spend the voyage in the hold unless Bel needed her so she didn’t have to look at him.

Outrage, anguish, a hint of despair clawed at her belly. Phoebe drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

In front of her, a hand on the lad’s shoulder, Docherty spun him to the door. “Scoot.”

“Aye, Captain.” Mel trudged from the cabin.

Docherty turned back to Phoebe and held out his hand. “The key.”

“It’s still in the lock.” Fatigue washed over and through Phoebe. Speaking seemed like too much of an effort. She put her head down on her knees and closed her eyes. “Just let me get wherever you want me below and let me sleep.”

“I’ll let you sleep here.” The lock to the weapons snicked closed.

“You forgot the dagger,” Belinda said.

“Aye, so I did.” He returned to Phoebe’s side of the cabin, taking up the open space, filling it with his scent, with his heat.

Phoebe tightened her arms around her knees.

“The storm is abating.” Docherty spoke right above her. “You should rest easy now, but there’s more of the ginger water on the desk, should you be needing it.”

Phoebe managed a muttered, “Thank you.”

For what felt like forever, he didn’t move away, then suddenly, the cabin felt larger, colder, and the door latch clicked. The lock grated.

“God is certainly smiling on you tonight.” Belinda joined Phoebe on the window seat. “The captain could have stopped you in a moment.”

Phoebe nodded. Of course he could have. He’d been toying with her, letting her think she controlled the moment. Of course she hadn’t. She couldn’t have hurt him. Not once had he been in real danger from her, and he knew it. All she’d done was make a fool of herself.

And she was completely in his control, locked in like a prisoner, sequestered with Belinda. Phoebe was at her beck and call too. Nothing forced Phoebe to do her sister-in-law’s bidding. Experience told Phoebe that giving in turned out easier than living with the consequences of refusal.

Oh, she was going to need that ginger water. Though the waves no longer felt like the brig sailed through the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the cabin door remained firmly in place, and her stomach began to flip and churn again.

She rose and took the tankard from the desk. “Go to bed, Belinda. You need your rest.”

“I am tired.” Belinda stumbled to the bunk and slipped beneath the quilt. “This isn’t big enough for both of us.”

“You should have thought of that before you forced me to come along.” Phoebe sipped at the ginger water. The aromatic herb began its ministrations on her middle. “But never you mind. I’ll manage on the floor.”

Except she was cold. She hadn’t been warm aboard the brig except for those moments when Rafe Docherty had wrapped her in his cloak.

She began to search for another coverlet, a blanket, a cloak. A chest beneath the bunk proved to be locked, but the window seat lifted to reveal a second boat cloak of fine black wool. She wrapped it around herself, inhaling the sweetness of the chest’s cedar lining.

“You shouldn’t be going through his things,” Belinda muttered into her pillow.

Phoebe curled her upper lip. “He should think of my comfort.”

But of course he was. He hadn’t stuffed her into the hold or even forced her below deck. He’d given up the comforts of his cabin. He hadn’t hobbled her in any way, except for that locked door, which she mustn’t think about. He’d brought her ginger water and comfrey salve.

And she’d repaid him with a knife to his jugular.

A vein in the neck he’d known the name of, oddly enough. Phoebe knew it. Tabitha insisted she know things like that, read and memorize important veins and muscles and bones from medical books. But an ordinary man wouldn’t know such a thing.

Rafe Docherty was no ordinary man.

A shiver ran through Phoebe, and she wrapped herself more tightly in the cloak. “I’m going to blow out the light now.”

“What if we need to see in the night? I’ll fall over something in the dark.”

“It’ll be light before you need to get up again.” Phoebe removed the second pillow from the bed and wedged herself between the window seat and another locked chest at the foot of the bunk.

Above her, Belinda began to snore lightly like a cat. Higher up, someone paced the quarterdeck. Back and forth. Back and forth. Restless. Monotonous. The motion of a caged wolf.

Or a sentry.

Phoebe went to sleep with the image of a wolf guarding prison gates.

She woke to the rhythmic slapping of waves against the hull and a field of blue—from robin’s egg to indigo—blazing through the stern windows, blue sky meeting bluer sea and not a speck of land in sight. Finding the cabin stuffier than the night before, Phoebe rose and opened the stern windows for a blast of cold, fresh air.

“Close the window,” Belinda grumbled from the bed. “It’s cold.”

“I need the fresh air.”