Chapter Four

The sluggish English vessel tried to make a run for it but it was like a tortoise trying to outrun a fox.

Alex waited until they were well within firing range and ordered a shot fired over its bow. His crew had improved considerably and the shot landed just beyond the ship. The Charlotte, he saw from the writing on the side.

A good English name. It whetted his appetite.

He ordered the French flag hoisted. That had been enough, with the sight of his guns, to cause the surrender of the other two ships.

Instead, the ship turned again. It was making for Antigua, hoping, he thought, to find help.

There would be none for the Englishman. The ship he’d sent to France wouldn’t yet be close to that country, and news of the one he’d sold in Martinique would take weeks to travel to an English port, then on to London.

He’d become so deadened to violence, he felt little sympathy. Still, a small glimmer of admiration stirred in him. This captain, like him, obviously believed in hopeless causes.

He ordered the gun crew to send another ball across the ship’s bow.

The aim was nearly perfect, splashing about twenty-five feet past the fleeing ship.

Still, the merchantman didn’t stop.

Because of valuable cargo? He hoped so.

Through the telescope, he saw men manning the four guns on deck.

“That captain must be insane,” he said to Claude, who stood nearby.

“Oui,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

“He must have something valuable, to risk his neck,” Alex said. “Aim for their masts.”

They were closing rapidly.

One cannon roared, then another. The deck lurched as the cannon recoiled beneath them. One shot felt short. Another smashed into the mizzen topsail.

He expected the ship to surrender then. Instead, he saw men working the enemy ship’s guns. A ball ended fifty feet short of the Ami. The next splintered the deck.

He spun around at the shouts of his crewmen. None looked seriously injured other than several minor wounds from wood splinters.

“I want that ship,” he said, his anger vibrating in his voice. A rolling round of thunder responded. One ball tore into the Charlotte’s mainmast. Another hit the deck. Smoke enveloped the ship.

Yet it fired back, this time the ball falling five feet short of the Ami.

He ordered another round of cannon fire, this time over the bow. Despite his angry words, he did not want to destroy the ship. He wanted its cargo and wanted to get that cargo to a French port. A destroyed ship with no sailing power would not suit his purposes. The volley of all his guns should show they meant business.

In minutes, the English flag dipped. They were surrendering.

He assigned a prize crew, then decided that he himself would go over. The captain was a fool, but a brave one. He also wanted to see the cargo that had been protected at such risk.

As the boat was being lowered, Francois, one of his youngest sailors, ran over to him. “Captain, come quick.”

He followed the sailor to find Meg lying on the deck, a large splinter from the deck rammed halfway through her shoulder. Robin was kneeling next to her, holding her hand.

Her lips were clenched in pain but she didn’t make a sound.

Alex glared at Robin. “So this is how you keep your word,” he said, to defuse his own fear for the lass.

Robin looked down at the deck.

“’Twasn’t his fault,” Meg said. “He tried to keep me from coming up, but I darted out and he came after me.”

“Find Hamish,” Alex said. Hamish was the closest thing they had to a doctor when he wasn’t serving as sailmaker. They had not been able to find a physician before sailing, but then Alex had never had much faith in them anyway. He’d always objected to the principle of bleeding someone who had already lost a lot of blood.

He tore away the cloth around the wound. Some of the material had been driven into the wound by a three-inch wide splinter that had gone nearly through Meg’s arm. He swallowed hard. His own wounds had not been as hard to bear as this one. He felt every moment of the pain, knowing the burning, tearing agony Meg must be feeling. He only hoped the splinter had missed the muscles.

Meg looked at him with huge eyes the deep blue of a Scottish loch. She would be very pretty someday with her dark red hair and vivid eyes. But now her hair was hacked off, and she had the usual smudge across her face. Her front teeth were biting her lower lip as she tried to contain her pain.

She was a gallant little soul, although he would love to strangle her at the moment. He should have locked them in the first mate’s room, or his own. Or he should have taken them back to France.

But now he suffered with her.

Hamish came through the hatchway door. “Wha’s wi’ the lass?” He knelt next to Meg. “Ah, lass, I have to be taking this out of you.”

She nodded.

“Hold tight tae the lad,” he said.

Alex inwardly flinched as Hamish took out a clean cloth from the bag he’d brought and told Robin to hold it with his spare hand. Then he pulled the large piece of wood from her arm; blood poured from the wound. Meg paled yet still didn’t utter a word.

Hamish stanched the bleeding with the cloth, then studied the wound. “I must fish around for the cloth that was driven in,” he said. “It could cause putrefaction.”

Alex saw her small hand grip Robin’s even tighter. He wanted to take the other one that was knotted in a tight fist, but there was no place for him. Pain ripped through his body as she gave a small, brave nod. “’Twas my fault,” she said. “Will told us …”

Alex wanted to say nay, but he couldn’t afford the sentiment. They had to learn to obey. The consequences were too disastrous otherwise.

Burke crowded in. “How’s the lass? I heard she was—” He looked down and the tough outlaw swallowed hard as he too watched every move Hamish made.

“Sir?” Claude was playing with his hat. “The boarding party is ready. Do you wish to go with us?”

“Aye,” Alex said. He really did not want to go. He wanted to stay and comfort brave young Meg, but Robin seemed to be filling that function.

Keep your distance. He had tried to do that these last months. One day they would leave him. They would be on their own.

Robin looked up at him with wounded eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been quicker.”

Alex did not trust himself to speak.

Instead, he turned and made his way to the boat that was ready to be hauled away. He sat down at the stern and tried to concentrate on the matter before him. They were all armed, in the event that all the fight wasn’t quite gone on the part of English captain. Still, he couldn’t get Meg off his mind, or the way she’d tried so hard to be brave. She’d always been brave. She’d also always been reckless.

They reached the other ship and climbed up the ladder. They were met by a man in a blue uniform. His eyes were fierce with anger.

“How dare you fire on an English ship?”

“By the authority of the French government,” Alex said. “I sail under a letter of marque.”

“You are nothing but a bloody pirate,” he said. “Our navy will hunt you down, and I’ll watch you hang.”

“Perhaps,” Alex said. “In the meantime I would like your log and bill of lading.” He paused. “Whom am I addressing?”

“Captain John Talbot. And who will I be watching hang?”

“Captain Malfour,” Alex said. “But if you are this foolish again, I doubt you will ever watch anyone hang.”

Talbot’s lips pressed tightly together, and a muscle leapt in his throat. He was furious that someone would accost a British vessel. Typical English arrogance, Alex thought.

“Your cargo?”

“Wines, flour, lard, candles, tools, furniture.”

“Nothing so grand as to risk destruction of the ship. And the lives of your crew,” Alex said.

“You are Scottish.” Talbot uttered the words as if they were an accusation.

“How astute of you.”

“A damned Jacobite.”

“Who is now your captor. You might remember that. Why did you fire those shells? Surely you knew you were outgunned.”

Talbot’s face grew red. “I didn’t know your intentions. You might well have killed us in any event. A civilized crew does not fire on another.”

“There we are again,” Alex said lazily. “Talking about who is, and who is not, civilized.”

“Damn you. What do you plan to do?”

“My prize crew will take over your ship and sell it in Martinique. You and your seamen will join us on my ship. I am afraid I will have to confine all but the officers until we arrive.”

A pause. “I have passengers.”

“They will not be physically harmed.” He stressed the word “physically.” He would not guarantee their property. Not until he knew who and what they were.

Talbot clamped his lips together as if he wanted to say more.

“Have all your crew and passengers come up on deck. I want your mate to show this man your weapons closet.” He nodded toward Burke. “My first mate will want your log, lading, and ownership papers,” Alex said. “As soon as we’ve secured the weapons and log, we will transport you to the Ami.”

Another hesitation. Then, “I have several ladies aboard. I want to be assured that they will be treated with respect, that they will not be harmed.”

Alex suddenly knew why the merchantman had hazarded firing shells. Perhaps they had thought him a true pirate and had not wanted to risk the ladies. Alex’s respect for the English captain rose a notch.

“I do not hurt women,” Alex said. “Unlike the English.”

“I take offense at that.”

“Then you were not in Scotland after Culloden.”

The captain looked offended. “You lie, sir. The English honor women.”

Alex balled his fists. “Unless they are Scots. Or Irish.”

The captain flushed. “I want your oath that you will not harm the ladies,” he persisted.

“And you are asking that of a liar? That is not the way to gain a favor.”

“I will not move from this deck, from this spot, until I have your oath.”

“You have it. We have no interest in pale Englishwomen.”

“Two of them are Scottish. One is a lady.” The captain hesitated again.

“The name, Captain?”

The man’s reluctance warned him. “I imagine her name is in your log,” Alex prompted lazily.

“Lady Jeanette Campbell,” the captain finally said.

“Campbell?” His fists had relaxed. Now they tightened again. If there was one family in Scotland that he held responsible for the destruction of many clans, it was the Campbells. His sister had married one who’d turned out to be a rotter of the worst sort.

He hated the Campbells with every fiber of his being.

The captain must have seen his reaction, or even felt the enmity radiating from him.

“Your oath,” he demanded again.

“You get nothing, Captain Talbot,” he said coldly. He turned away from his prisoner. “Burke, find the weapons storage and place three of our men there. Then flush the passengers from the cabins. Mr. Torbeau, you will search the captain’s cabin for his log and for any instruments you think we can use.”

“Aye, sir,” Claude said.

Alex stood there, watching as his men rounded up the crew and isolated them on the bow. Then the passengers were brought on deck.

There were ten in all, including three women. He identified the Campbell immediately by her dress. Though simple, its quality was evident. So was the way she held herself, even as she had an arm around another slender woman.

One of the prisoners came up to him, blustering as the captain had about being an Englishman.

“I would not brag about tha’ in this company,” Alex said, deepening his Scottish burr. “There is no love for your kind on my ship.”

His gaze did not move from the woman. A Campbell. She would bring a good ransom if he could bear the presence of her long enough to collect it.

She was not a particularly comely lady. Or perhaps that was his prejudice speaking. She was slight and her light brown hair was untidy. Her face was unusually darkened by the sun, which meant she seldom wore a hat, but oddly enough she wore gloves up to her elbows despite short sleeves of a simple gown that had no hoops.

Her eyes—a blue green, almost the color of the Caribbean sea—were her best feature. They were sparking with outrage.

Well, he had his own outrage.

“My lady,” he said in a mocking tone. “I understand I have the … dubious honor of addressing a member of the Campbell clan.”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was considerably less than his own. “I am Jeanette Campbell,” she said, her gaze sweeping over him with contemptuous dismissal. It did not hesitate on his scar, though, as the gazes of so many did.

She had spirit, if little else.

“Campbells are a plague upon Scotland,” he said, turning to the pale woman beside her. She was obviously suffering from mal de mer. She looked as though she could barely stand. “And this is …?”

“Celia, my companion,” the Campbell woman said. “If you harm her, I’ll see you hang.”

“My, but you are a bloodthirsty bunch,” he said. “’Tis to be expected of a Campbell.”

“And you are?” she asked with more courage than the others apparently had.

He bowed. “Will Malfour at your service.” His mocking gesture belied his words. “Gather what possessions you wish to take. Only what you can carry. One of my men will go with you to collect them.”

“What about the rest of my belongings?”

“I’ll decide that later,” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere without them,” she said.

“Yes, you will. The question is whether you will go with something or with nothing,” he said, making his voice harsh. “My men are more than capable of bringing you over.”

She blanched. “Why can I not stay on this ship? What are you going to do with it?”

“It will be sold. With all contents.” The warning was clear. “All prisoners will be on my ship where they can be watched. I want a minimum crew on the Charlotte,” he said, “though I don’t believe it necessary to make any explanations. That, my lady, will be my last one.”

Her face darkened with anger. She wanted to retort. Alex could see that. He watched the struggle in her face before she composed herself.

He looked toward two of his sailors. “Go with her.”

She stared at him defiantly. “Where are you taking us?”

“Martinique.”

“I am expected in Barbados.”

“So, I imagine, is your good captain. Unfortunately both of you will be disappointed.”

“But I must get there.”

“And why is that, my lady?”

“I am to be married. My betrothed—”

“Your betrothed will have to wait,” Alex said. At least she had the opportunity for marriage. The English had ensured that he would not.

He turned around as if she no longer existed for him. “Start transferring the prisoners,” he said. “The crew first.”

Out of the corner of his left eye, though, he saw her take her companion’s hand in hers and disappear down the companionway, two of his men behind them. Ah, someone who followed directions. That was a promising turn after his young charges’ disobedience.

An older man stepped up to him, his arm around his wife. He was pale but obviously determined. “I want assurance that none of the women will be … harmed.”

The woman was quaking.

Alex did not change his expression. “Your name?”

“Geoffrey Carrefour,” the man said. “My wife, Mrs. Carrefour. I have a plantation in Antigua.”

He stared at them for a moment. He wondered whether they had any Scots as bond slaves. He’d heard that some had been shipped to English possessions.

“The women will not be harmed,” he said. “You can find passage from Martinique to a neutral island, then passage to Antigua. I suggest you get your belongings quickly. One of my men will go with you. Any attempt to take a knife or firearm and you will take nothing.”

He turned to the captain. “That applies to you and your men,” he said. “Any attempt to smuggle a weapon onto the Ami will result in my putting all your men in irons for the remainder of the journey.”

He turned to the next passenger, the youngest of the men. “And who are you?”

“David Edwards. I’m also bound for Barbados.”

“With Jeanette Campbell?” He purposely omitted the courtesy title.

“No. I just received a position with a shipping company.”

Alex turned to the last two men. They were obviously nervous. Neither of them said anything. “Have neither of you a tongue?”

The shorter of the two stepped forward. “Jonathon Pruitt. I … have been sent to Antigua.”

“Sent?”

“I … work for the government.”

“The British government?”

Pruitt trembled. He had obviously heard part of the other conversations.

Alex turned to the last passenger, a large man with a bulbous face and a skewed wig. It was obvious he had thrown it on in a moment of haste. “And you?”

“Thomas Turvey. I—I … also work for the government.”

Alex glared at him. “Take what you can carry yourself. No more. Remember what I said about weapons. I won’t guarantee your safety if you try to smuggle a weapon on my ship.”

There were three more men, none of whom posed a threat. He turned away. Claude was approaching with the logbook and bill of lading. “A fine cargo,” he said. “Poor wine compared to ours, but …”

“You’ve tried it then?”

“Oui,” Claude said with a quick smile. “To see what we had.”

“Now that you’ve attended to that, let’s start getting the crew over to our ship. I don’t want to stay here like this any longer than necessary.”

Claude nodded, and started barking orders. The first members of the Charlotte’s crew climbed down the ladder under the prompting of guns. When the boat was full, the sailors were pressed into rowing.

One by one the passengers appeared. Captain Talbot stood by, obviously determined to stay by the side of his passengers.

Alex’s admiration for him increased, though he continued to frown. Martinique was a few days’ sail from here. He did not want any trouble during the voyage. Fear was one way to insure there would be none.

The quarter boat disgorged its occupants, and returned. Again it was loaded. The process took one more trip to finish the transfer of crew.

The passengers were back on deck. Fear was still written on their faces, all but on that of Lady Jeanette. She was all outraged dignity. She now wore a bonnet that did nothing at all for her. She still wore the gloves that were oddly out of place. Her eyes sought to impale him.

A moment of admiration ran through him. She’s a Campbell with all the Campbell arrogance. And she was looking at him as if he were the devil himself.

Well maybe he was.

And maybe that impression was the best possible thing that could happen.

When the longboat returned, the male passengers hung back. “Lady Jeanette,” he said, wondering whether she would be as brave climbing over the rail and scrambling down a ladder in her skirts.

“Oh no, my lady,” her maid said. “I canna do that. I will fall to my death, I will.”

“I will go first,” she said. “You will see how easy it is.”

To Alex’s surprise, Claude appeared out of nowhere and offered his hand.

She ignored it and climbed over the barrier, then very carefully took one step after another. She almost slipped at one point, and he found himself holding his breath. She might be a Campbell, but he’d always liked spirit in a woman. His sister … well, his sister had had more than he’d ever expected.

Two sailors reached for her as she took a final step to the bobbing boat. Alex caught a glimpse of petticoats and even a leg. Her face turned rosy as she looked up and her gaze found his as she regained her balance on the rocking boat.

She quickly looked away, her eyes obviously searching for her companion. “You see, Celia, no one is going to let you fall.”

The woman named Celia gave a little cry.

“I’ll take her, Captain.” Alex glanced up at hearing Burke’s voice.

So apparently did Celia.

She quickly moved over the railing to avoid him and started climbing down, terror in her face. She stilled, her hands seemingly frozen to the rope ladder.

A wave broke over the bow of the quarter boat, and the maid to the Campbell wench screamed. The boat bobbed and Alex knew that if she fell, she might land between the ship and the quarter boat and be crushed.

He didn’t wait. Ignoring the pain and awkwardness of his leg, he climbed down the net to where she clung. “It’s all right,” he said in a voice he barely remembered. Soothing. Reassuring. “You’ve done very well. I’ll be in back of you. You cannot fall.”

She hung there for another moment, sighed as if she’d been holding all her breath inside. Then she let one hand go and grabbed another piece of rope. Alex moved behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. Then they waited until the longboat moved back into position.

“Let go,” he said, moving to the side. “The seamen will catch you.”

She turned, frightened cornflower blue eyes staring at him, stared at him for a moment, then she did as she was told and toppled backward into the hands of two sailors.

He climbed back up without looking behind him.

“Mrs. Carrefour,” he said.

She too looked frightened. But she looked even more offended. “My husband can go down first. He can help me onto the … the boat.”

“As you wish. You have two minutes to get in, or all your belongings will be heaved into the ocean.”

Geoffrey Carrefour moved faster than Alex thought possible. He climbed down the ladder as well as any monkey. Alex decided to check the couple’s belongings. He would not, as he promised, allow harm to come to them, but he was bloody hell ready to relieve a slave-owning plantation owner of some of his ill-gotten gains. In his eagerness, Correfour almost missed the boat as it bobbed and weaved again. One leg went into the ocean, the other into the boat, and the seamen clasped his waistcoat, hauling him inside.

He muttered audibly about Scottish bastards, then found a more secure perch in which he awaited his wife’s descent.

After that, the other passengers descended one by one without comment. Their belongings were thrown into the boat. Finally there were only Captain Talbot, Claude, and the second mate, who would sail the Charlotte to Martinique.

“I leave it with you, Marcel,” Alex said. “You have enough sail to make it to Martinique. You’d better keep flying the British flag. We will catch up to you.”

“Aye, sir.” The second mate’s eyes glowed at the chance.

Alex turned to Talbot. “Your turn, Captain.”

Talbot didn’t say anything but climbed down. Alex and Claude followed him.

As the oarsmen rowed away, Alex sat in the back of the boat and examined his passengers. The Carrefours had their hands on a valise. The two government servants looked as if they were going to their deaths. Captain Talbot stared at his ship.

Alex’s gaze lingered on Miss Campbell, who sat next to her companion, eyes fixed on the ship they were leaving. For the first time, he saw uncertainty in her face, even as she sat primly, her hands clasped in front of her.

Still, she reached over and patted her companion and whispered something to her. Something, he was sure, reassuring.

Bloody hell, he didn’t want to admire her, but he did. Not a word of complaint, not like the others.

Just outrage.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Nor had she looked away from his face.

Those two facts intrigued him. Far more than they should.