Pirates (24 page)

Phoebe laid down her fork, her appetite forgotten. “Someone told you.”

Lucas gave her a rueful look. “No one needed to do
that,” he said. “My brother is the object of a dozen warrants. The British want to hang him.”

The reminder made Phoebe’s stomach churn. “How can you possibly take their side against Duncan,” she asked, “when you know what the English did to him before?”

He pushed his plate away. “He told you about that, did he?”

Phoebe nodded.

“It’s true that Sheffield’s actions were unconscionable,” Lucas admitted, and the pallor beneath his tan told Phoebe he was remembering the day Duncan had been whipped in vivid, bloody detail. “On the other hand, Duncan knew better, even at fifteen, than to”—he paused to clear his throat, and a faint blush pulsed on his cheekbones—“than to be—er—intimate with another man’s wife. Few things wound more deeply than that.”

“He was fifteen years old,” Phoebe insisted. “He might have been grounded, or sent to bed without his supper. But
whipped
? An animal shouldn’t be treated that way, let alone a human being!”

Lucas had gotten snagged further back. “ ’Grounded’? What the deuce does that mean? It sounds absolutely brutal.”

Phoebe had almost forgotten, by that point, that she was a time traveler, and had lived a very different life in another world. “Never mind,” she said.

“No, please—I’m curious. Tell me.”

She bit her lower lip. A thorough explanation would involve things she didn’t really want to go into—she’d have to tell him about airplanes, and how the term “grounded” meant they couldn’t fly, for one reason or another. Even if she managed to steer Lucas past the concept of flying machines, he still might not see the correlation between keeping planes on the ground and making a kid stay home as punishment.

“It’s a colloquialism,” she said lamely, because she knew Lucas would insist on some definition. “Meaning Duncan couldn’t go out for a few weeks or so.”

Lucas frowned. “That would hardly have served as chastisement,”
he replied. “He’d have slept and read, indulged his penchant for music, and bedeviled the servants the whole while.”

“You think he deserved to be whipped?”

Lucas paled again. “Of course not!”

“Then what?”

“I think,” Lucas said briskly, setting his napkin on the table, “that Duncan should have stayed away from Francesca Sheffield in the first place.”

It was an impasse, a Mexican standoff. Phoebe sighed and looked forlornly at her food. It had tasted so good, but now she felt as though someone had wadded a beach towel and stuffed it down her throat.

“What happened to your hair?” Lucas asked, after a long and awkward silence.

Phoebe considered several replies, excluding the truth, of course, and decided on a convoluted version of the O. Henry yarn. “My dear old mother was dying. I sold my gossamer tresses to pay for her medicine.”

Lucas stared at her for a moment, obviously confounded, and then rose from his chair. “Come, Mistress Rourke,” he said. “You are obviously exhausted. I’ll see you safely to your cabin.”

Phoebe balked. Duncan had said she’d be safe with Lucas, but he might not know his brother as well as he thought he did.

Lucas smiled, linked her arm with his, and patted the back of her hand. “I am a gentleman,” he said. “Even if I weren’t, I could not forget for a moment that you are my brother’s wife.”

She felt a blush warm her face. Lucas was telling the truth; she knew that, though she couldn’t have explained the instinct in concrete terms.

He escorted her to her cabin, which was comfortable and private, equipped with a washstand, towels, and a soft berth with crisp linen sheets, and waited properly on the threshold while she surveyed her quarters.

“Get your rest, Phoebe,” he said. “And don’t worry
overmuch about Duncan’s coming to Charles Town. He’s remarkably good at evading the British.”

“Yes,” Phoebe replied evenly. “As long as he’s not betrayed by someone he trusts, I’m sure he’ll be quite safe.”

Lucas colored slightly. “Do you think I’m leading Duncan to his doom, the way a Judas goat leads sheep to the slaughter?”

“Are you?”

“No.” Although Lucas spoke the word softly, it was as if he’d shouted. “No,” he said again, more moderately, straightening his waistcoat. “Despite our political differences, my dear, I love my brother. I would sooner forfeit my own life than see him perish.” He paused and inclined his head, somewhat stiffly, by way of a farewell bow. “Good night,” he said and closed the door.

Phoebe went over and threw the heavy brass bolt before turning away. After undressing, using the chamberpot, and finally giving herself a splash-bath at the basin, she donned a nightgown, blew out the oil lamp on the wall, and crawled into bed. Her concern for Duncan ached in her stomach and throat and behind her eyes, like some kind of psychological plague. Despite Lucas’s assurances that her husband would be safe in Charles Town, the fact remained that the city had fallen to the British General Clinton in May. The place was crawling with redcoats, any one of whom would be thrilled to claim the bounty for collaring the notorious Duncan Rourke.

For the hundredth time, Phoebe wished she’d read all of that worn-out copy of Duncan’s biography, instead of just skimming. If she had, she would have known whether or not he would be captured in Charles Town—and how long he was destined to live. Among other things.

She shivered although the tropical night was balmy. It was better going into the Charles Town situation blind; to know the exact date and means of Duncan’ s death would be unbearable.

Tears threatened again, but Phoebe pressed her fingertips under her eyes until the urge passed. Maybe she was doing all this worrying for nothing, she thought, with an inelegant
sniffle. He’d palmed her off on his family; maybe he had no intention of going to Charles Town …

She shook her head, unable to deceive herself. Duncan hadn’t changed his mind about seeing his father; she’d seen the look in his eyes earlier, aboard the Francesca, when Lucas had said the man was old and fragile. No, whatever the cost, her husband was bound, as surely as she was, for his family’s plantation on the Charles River.

Duncan stood at the rail of the
Francesca
, watching his brother’s hired ship sunder the spill of moonlight quavering on the dark waters. His wrists still burned a little, and he was aware of a hundred bruises in as many parts of his anatomy, but the worst injury had been to his pride. Being a pragmatic man, however, he had already dealt with his feelings about nearly losing his ship to a band of pirates and then being rescued by Lucas.

For now, Phoebe was safe, that was the important thing. The only thing.

He smiled. She was bound to liven things up, once she reached the family plantation.

Duncan rested his elbow on the rail and rubbed his chin. He doubted he would ever forget how Phoebe had looked, standing in the center of his cabin with that ancient pistol in her hands, holding her ground to the last. It was God’s own blessing that she hadn’t known how to load the damned things; she probably would have shot off one of her feet and sunk the
Francesca
in the bargain.

He frowned. Perhaps it was time to give the ship a new name.

In the next moment, Duncan brought himself up short. None of his men had been killed in that day’s skirmish, but several were wounded, and he had no business standing about on deck thinking fanciful thoughts. He was asking his crew to sail into the mouth of the yawning jaws of the lion by taking them to Charles Town, and that was a matter for sober reflection. His fingers itching for the strings of a fiddle or a lute, the keys of a pianoforte or a harpsichord, Duncan
turned from the sight of the retreating
Charles Town Princess
and set his mind on work.

The next morning, Phoebe used the last of the water in the pitcher on her washstand to make herself presentable, put on fresh clothes from her trunk, and hurried out of the cabin, eager for the sight of the
Francesca
. The ship was a magnificent, stirring sight, and there was always the chance that she might catch a glimpse of Duncan.

But there was no sign of the other ship. The
Charles Town Princess
was alone.

Lucas must have been watching for her, because he appeared almost immediately, and the look of amused compassion on his face told her he had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. And feeling.

“The sea has different routes,” he said, “just like the land. You’ll see Duncan when we make port, I promise.”

“What makes you so sure?” Phoebe asked in a small voice, still staring at the empty horizon. She felt a little queasy, and she was reconsidering last night’s theory that Duncan might have hit the road, now that he’d discharged his “responsibilities” to the woman he’d so rashly married.

“It’s quite simple,” Lucas replied. “He can’t live without you.”

T
hey were a full eight days at sea, during which time Phoebe failed to catch so much as a glimpse of the
Francesca
, though she spent hours pacing the decks. Despite Lucas’s constant reassurances, she was desperately worried about Duncan.

Charles Town Harbor was splashed with sunlight and crowded with British warships on the morning of their arrival. There were also American clippers, obviously confiscated, with their sails folded and redcoats patrolling at their rails. The city itself, to Phoebe’s twentieth-century eyes, looked like a theme park, except for various real-life touches, like sweating slaves carrying barrels and cobbled streets dotted with horse dung.

The
Charles Town Princess
tied up to a long jetty, and a contingent of British officials came out to greet the ship as her passengers began to disembark.

Phoebe’s blood froze at the sight of them. Lucas might be on their side, politically at least, but they were bound to ask questions. They could not help noticing her short hair—she wished she’d thought to cover it, using a curtain or even a lace tablecloth for a mantle—and if they connected her with Duncan, she would be arrested.

“Be silent and keep your eyes lowered,” Lucas rasped, though he was smiling broadly at the approaching Brits. “I’ll handle this.”

Phoebe stared at the warped boards of the jetty, her heart thudding in her ears. She didn’t need to remind herself that these were people who wanted to hang her husband; the thought was branded on her mind.

“Hello, Rourke,” one of the men said, in a blustery voice. Through her lashes, Phoebe saw a heavyset fellow with snow white hair, bright blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. He looked like someone’s grandfather and probably was.

“Major Stone,” Lucas replied smoothly. “To what do I owe the honor of a personal welcome?”

Stone’s chuckle turned into a cough, and several moments had passed before he was ready to frame an answer. “Damn tobacco,” he said. “Got to give it up.”

Lucas said nothing, and Phoebe remained silent as commanded, though she couldn’t help shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

Major Stone coughed again, then went on in a booming, jovial voice Phoebe suspected was quite typical of him. “Can’t be too careful,” he said. “Thought you might have seen that brother of yours in your travels.”

Phoebe’s heart stopped, then started again with a painful lurch. Here, however unexpected, was the moment of truth. For all his pretty promises, Lucas was a loyal subject of His Majesty, King George III, and he might well betray both Phoebe and Duncan.

“Duncan is lost to us, I’m afraid,” Lucas said sadly. “Would that it were not so, but, alas, he has strayed from the fold, never to return.”

Phoebe let out her breath. Lucas had kept his word, but there was still a very real possibility that he’d arouse suspicion with his bad acting.

“And who might the young lady be?” Major Stone asked with cordial curiosity.

Phoebe very nearly looked up and met his gaze, which
might have been disastrous, given the fact that her emotions were usually plainly visible in her eyes.

“Her name is Phoebe,” Lucas explained, taking a rather rough hold on his sister-in-law’s upper arm. “She’s a serving wench—a mute, as it happens.” He ruffled her hair indulgently, as if she were a pet, and Phoebe seethed. “Suffered a head wound once, and they had to shave her like a monk.”

“Looks to be a sturdy creature,” Major Stone commented, as though discussing a prize heifer. “Where did you say you picked her up?”

“I got the chit from another planter, down the coast a way. He owed me for four suckling pigs and a dray horse.”

Phoebe felt her face turning crimson.

“A good bargain,” thundered Major Stone. There was a short, resonant pause. “You’ll send word, won’t you, Rourke, if you hear from your brother?”

“Of course,” Lucas said. “But don’t stay up nights waiting. Duncan is too crafty by half to show his face around Charles Town.”

Major Stone made a
harrumph
sound, then signaled his men to precede him back along the wharf to the shore. He hesitated, and Phoebe felt his eyes on her, and although she knew the man wasn’t evil, she felt a chill of fear all the same. That was the trouble with wars: there were good people on both sides, doing what they saw as their duty, believing what they had been born and raised to believe.

“Mind you keep the wench close by whilst in Charles Town,” the British officer said. “My men are randy, and while they’ll leave the ladies alone or feel the bite of the lash, they see these poor wretches as fair game.”

Phoebe’s heart was now pounding so hard that she thought surely both Lucas and the major could hear it. Her opinion of the lash as punishment notwithstanding, she was keenly annoyed that only “ladies” were protected; bondswomen, slaves, and prostitutes were on their own.

Lucas’s grip tightened, as though he sensed Phoebe’s rising ire. “Don’t worry, Basil,” he said, in the soothing
tones of an old friend. “I look after what belongs to me and mine.”

Phoebe, again peering through her lashes, saw Major Stone hesitate and then turn and follow his men down the jetty.

“He suspects something,” she murmured. Lucas was hustling her along in the major’s wake. He retained his hold on her arm, though there was a subtle difference; before, his hold had been protective. Now, he was restraining her, probably fearing that she would do something stupid.