The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (792 page)

In fact, it came that night. I woke in the very early morning, dreaming of corpses. I sat up, heart pounding, to see Roarke and Moses at the rail, and a dreadful smell in the air. It wasn’t a smell one would ever forget, and when I got to my feet and went to the rail to look, I was not at all surprised to hear Roarke murmur, “Slaver,” nodding toward the south.

The ship was anchored half a mile or so away, its masts black against the paling sky. Not a huge ship, but definitely too big to make its way into the small channels of the island. I watched a long time, joined by Jamie, Roger, and Ian as they woke—but no boats were lowered.

“What d’ye suppose it’s doing there?” Ian said. He spoke in a low voice; the slave ship made everyone nervous.

Roarke shook his head; he didn’t like it, either.

“Damned if I know,” he said. “Wouldn’t expect such a thing in such a place. Not at all.”

Jamie rubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. He hadn’t shaved in days, and, green-faced and hollow-eyed beneath the stubble—he’d vomited over the rail within minutes of rising, though the swell was very gentle—looked even more disreputable than Roarke himself.

“Can ye lay us alongside her, Mr. Roarke?” he said, eyes on the slave ship. Roger glanced at him sharply.

“Ye don’t suppose Brianna’s aboard?”

“If she is, we’ll find out. If she’s not—we’ll maybe find out who yon ship has come to see.”

It was full daylight by the time we came along the ship, and there were a number of hands on deck, all of whom peered curiously down over the rail at us.

Roarke hallooed up, asking permission to come aboard. There was no immediate response to this, but after a few minutes, a large man with an air of authority and an ill-tempered face appeared.

“What d’ye want?” he called down.

“To come aboard,” Roarke bellowed back.

“No. Shove off.”

“We are in search of a young woman!” Roger called up. “We should like to ask you a few questions!”

“Any young women on this ship are mine,” the captain—if that’s what he was—said definitely. “Bugger off, I said.” He turned and gestured to his hands, who scattered at once, reappearing in moments with muskets.

Roger cupped his hands to his mouth.

“BRIANNA!” he bellowed. “BRIANNAAAA!”

One man raised his gun and fired, the ball whistling safely over our heads, and ripping through the mainsail.

“Oi!” shouted Roarke, incensed. “What’s the matter of you?”

The only answer to this was a fusillade of further shots, followed by the opening of the port lids nearest us, and the sudden appearance of the long black noses of several cannon, along with a more intense gust of stink.

“Jesus God,” said Roarke, astonished. “Well, if that’s how you feel about—well, God damn you!” he shouted, brandishing a fist. “God damn you, I say!”

Moses, less interested in rhetoric, had made sail with the first shot and was already at the tiller; we slid past the slave ship and into clean water within moments.

“Well,
something’s
going on,” I remarked, looking back at the ship. “Whether it’s to do with Bonnet or not.”

Roger was clinging to the rail, his knuckles white.

“It is,” Jamie said. He wiped a hand across his mouth, and grimaced. “Can ye keep in sight of her, but out of range, Mr. Roarke?” A fresh wave of the smell of sewage, corruption, and hopelessness hit us, and he turned the color of rancid suet. “And maybe upwind, too?”

We were obliged to sail well out into the ocean and tack to and fro in order to meet these various conditions, but at length had beaten our way back and anchored a safe distance away, the slave ship barely visible. Here we lay through the rest of the day, taking it in turns to keep an eye on the strange ship through Captain Roarke’s telescope.

Nothing happened, though; no boats came from the ship, nor from the shore. And as we all sat silent on deck, watching the stars come out in a moonless sky, the ship was swallowed by the dark.

107

THE DARK OF THE MOON

They anchored long before dawn, and a small boat took them ashore.

“Where is
this
?” she asked, voice rusty with disuse—Bonnet had wakened her in the dark. They had made three stops along the way, at nameless coves where mysterious men came out of the shrubbery, rolling barrels or carrying bales, but she had not been taken off at any of them. This was a long, low island, thick with scrub forest and hazy with mist, looking haunted under a dying moon.

“Ocracoke,” he answered, leaning forward to peer into the fog. “A bit farther to port, Denys.” The seaman at the oars leaned harder to the side, and the nose of the boat turned slowly, drawing nearer to the shore.

It was cold on the water; she was grateful for the thick cloak he had wrapped around her before handing her into the boat. Even so, the chill of the night and the open sea had little to do with the small, constant shiver that made her hands tremble and numbed her feet and fingers.

Soft murmurs between the pirates, further direction. Bonnet jumped off into waist-deep, muddy water, and waded into the shadows, pushing aside the heavy growth so that the water of the hidden inlet showed suddenly, a smooth dark gleam before them. The boat nosed its way under the overhanging trees, then paused, so that Bonnet could pull himself over the gunwales, splashing and dripping.

A shattering cry sounded near them, so close that she jerked, heart pounding, before realizing that it was only a bird somewhere in the swamp around them. Otherwise, the night was quiet, save for the muted, regular splash of the oars.

They had put Josh and the Fulani men into the boat, too; Josh sat at her feet, a hunched black form. He was shivering; she could feel it. Disengaging a fold of the cloak, she put it over him, and put a hand on his shoulder under it, meaning to give him what encouragement she could. A hand rose and settled softly over hers, squeezing, and thus linked, they sailed slowly into the dark unknown beneath the dripping trees.

The sky was lightening by the time the boat reached a small landing, and streaks of rose-tinted cloud reached across the horizon. Bonnet hopped out, and reached down to take her hand. Reluctantly, she let go of Josh, and stood up.

There was a house, half-hidden in the trees. Made of gray clapboards, it seemed to sink into the remnants of fog, as though it weren’t quite real and might disappear at any moment.

The wind-borne stink, though, was real enough. She’d never smelled it before herself, but had heard her mother’s vivid description of it, and recognized it instantly—the smell of a slaver, anchored offshore. Josh recognized it, too; she heard his sudden gasp, and then a hasty murmur—he was saying the Hail Mary in Gaelic, as fast as he could.

“Take these to the barracoon,” Bonnet said to the seaman, pushing Josh in his direction and waving at the Fulani. “Then go back to the ship. Tell Mr. Orden we sail for England in four days’ time; he’ll see to the rest of the provisioning. Come for me Saturday, an hour before high tide.”

“Josh!” She called after him, and he looked back, eyes white with fear, but the seaman hustled him along, and Bonnet dragged her in the other direction, up the path toward the house.

“Wait! Where is he taking him? What are you going to do with him?” She dug her feet into the mud, and grabbed hold of a mangrove, refusing to move.

“Sell him, what else?” Bonnet was matter-of-fact about that, and also about her refusal to move. “Come along, darlin’. Ye know I can make ye, and ye know ye won’t like it if I do.” He reached out, flipped back the edge of her cloak, and pinched her nipple, hard, in illustration.

Burning with anger, she snatched the cloak back and wrapped it tight around her, as though that might soothe the pain. He had already turned, and was making his way up the path, quite certain that she would follow. To her everlasting shame, she did.

The door was opened by a black man, nearly as tall as Bonnet himself, and even wider through the chest and shoulder. A thick vertical scar between his eyes ran nearly from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, but it had the clean look of a deliberate tribal scar, not the result of accident.

“Emmanuel, me man!” Bonnet greeted the man cheerfully, and pushed Brianna ahead of him into the house. “Look what the cat dragged in, will ya?”

The black man looked her up and down with an expression of doubt.

“She damn tall,” he said, in a voice that held an African lilt. He took her by the shoulder and turned her round, running a hand down her back and cupping her buttocks briefly through the cloak. “Nice fat arse, though,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Isn’t it, though? Well, be seeing to her, then come tell me how it is here. The hold’s near full—oh, and I’ve picked up four—no, five—more blacks. The men can go to Captain Jackson, but the women—ah, now, those are somethin’ special.” He winked at Emmanuel. “Twins.”

The black man’s face went rigid.

“Twins?” he said in a tone of horror. “You bring them in the house?”

“I will,” Bonnet said firmly. “Fulani, and gorgeous things they are, too. No English, no training—but they’ll go for fancies, sure. Speakin’ of which, have we word from
Signor
Ricasoli?”

Emmanuel nodded, though his brow was furrowed; the scar pulled the frown lines into a deep “V.”

“He be here on Thursday.
Monsieur
Houvener comes then, too. Mister Howard be here tomorrow, though.”

“Splendid. I’m wanting me breakfast now—and I imagine you’re hungry as well, aren’t ye, darlin’?” he asked, turning to Brianna.

She nodded, torn between fear, outrage, and morning sickness. She had to eat something, and fast.

“Fine, then. Take her somewhere”—he flipped a hand toward the ceiling, indicating rooms upstairs—“and feed her. I’ll eat in me office; come find me there.”

Without acknowledgment of the order, Emmanuel clamped a hand like a vise on the back of her neck, and shoved her toward the stairs.

The butler—if one could describe something like Emmanuel with such a domestic term—pushed her into a small room and shut the door behind her. It was furnished, but sparsely: a bed frame with a bare mattress, one woolen blanket, and a chamber pot. She made use of the latter object with relief, then made a rapid reconnaissance of the room itself.

There was only one window, a small one, set with metal bars. There was no glass, only inside shutters, and the breath of sea and scrub forest filled the room, vying with dust and the stale smell of the stained mattress. Emmanuel might be a factotum, but he wasn’t much of a housekeeper, she thought, trying to keep her spirits up.

A familiar sound came to her, and she craned her neck to see. Not much was visible from the window—only the white crushed shells and sandy mud that surrounded the house, and the tops of stunted pines. If she pressed her face to the side of the window, though, she could see a small slice of a distant beach, with white breakers rolling in. As she watched, three horses galloped across it, vanishing out of her view—but with the wind-borne sound of neighing, then came five more, and then another group of seven or eight. Wild horses, the descendants of Spanish ponies left here a century ago.

The sight of them charmed her, and she watched for a long time, hoping they would come back, but they didn’t; only a flight of pelicans passed by, and a few gulls, diving for fish.

The sight of the horses had made her feel less alone for a few moments, but no less empty. She had been in the room for half an hour, at least, and there were no sounds of footsteps in the hall outside, bringing food. Cautiously, she tried the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked.

There
were
sounds downstairs; someone was here. And the warm, grainy aromas of porridge and baking bread were faint in the air.

Swallowing to keep her stomach down, she moved soft-footed through the house and down the stairs. There were male voices in a room at the front of the house—Bonnet and Emmanuel. The sound of them made her diaphragm tighten, but the door was closed, and she tiptoed past.

The kitchen was a cookshack, a separate small building outside, connected to the house by a short breezeway and surrounded by a fenced yard that also enclosed the back of the house. She gave the fence—very tall, and spiked—a glance, but first things first: she had to have food.

There was someone in the kitchen; she could hear the movements of pots, and a woman’s voice, muttering something. The smell of food was strong enough to lean against. She pushed open the door and went in, pausing to let the cook see her. Then she saw the cook.

She was so battered by circumstance at this point that she only blinked, certain she was seeing things.

“Phaedre?” she said uncertainly.

The girl swung around, wide-eyed and open-mouthed with shock.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” She glanced wildly behind Brianna, then, seeing that she was alone, grabbed Brianna’s arm and pulled her out into the yard.

“What you doing here?” she demanded, sounding fierce. “How do you come to be
here
?”

“Stephen Bonnet,” Brianna said briefly. “How on earth did you—did he kidnap you? From River Run?” She couldn’t think how—or why—but everything from the moment she had learned she was pregnant had had the surreal feel of hallucination, and how much of this was due to pregnancy alone she had no real idea.

Phaedre was shaking her head, though.

“No, miss. That Bonnet, he got me a month ago. From a man name Butler,” she added, mouth twisting in an expression that made clear her loathing of Butler.

The name seemed vaguely familiar to Brianna. She thought it was the name of a smuggler; she had never met him, but had heard the name now and then. He wasn’t the smuggler who provided her aunt with tea and other contraband luxuries, though—she
had
met that man, a disconcertingly effete and dainty gentleman named Wilbraham Jones.

“I don’t understand. But—wait, is there anything to eat?” she asked, the floor of her stomach dropping suddenly.

“Oh. Surely. You wait here.” Phaedre vanished back into the kitchen, light-footed, and was back in an instant with half a loaf of bread and a crock of butter.

“Thank you.” She grabbed the bread and ate some hastily, not bothering to butter it, then put down her head between her knees and breathed for a few minutes, until the nausea subsided.

“Sorry,” she said, raising her head at last. “I’m pregnant.”

Phaedre nodded, plainly unsurprised.

“Who by?” she asked.

“My husband,” Brianna answered. She’d spoken tartly, but then realized, with a small lurch of her unsettled innards, that it could so easily be otherwise. Phaedre had been gone from River Run for months—God only knew what had happened to her in that span of time.

“He’s not had you long, then.” Phaedre glanced at the house.

“No. You said a month—have you tried to get away?”

“Once.” The girl’s mouth twisted again. “You see that man Emmanuel?”

Brianna nodded.

“He an Ibo. Track a haunt through a cypress swamp, and make it sorry when he catch it.” She wrapped her arms around herself, though the day was warm.