Chapter Ten

Jenna tried to keep her temper intact. No matter who he was, no matter how he carried himself, he had the manners and demeanor of a ruffian.

She would not have left, had the child not been asleep. She hadn’t wanted the tension to somehow affect her. But she was indeed tired, and she was glad to be free of the captain’s presence.

For a moment, when he had touched Meg, she thought she possibly might have been wrong about him, that he did have some decency and humanity left inside. But then he had growled at her yet again and glowered as if he hated her.

Well, ’twas obvious he did. And oddly enough because of her name and not because of the mark she bore. Perhaps because he considered her so poorly, he cared little about it. Perhaps he had not even noticed it.

How could he not notice her mark? Except hers was of God’s making. Or the devil’s, as so many claimed.

Yet he had never thrown it at her.

He has not yet had time.

And what did she care in any event?

She could not get the picture of Meg out of her mind, or the ugly wound. Neither could she dismiss the image of the captain. He had been soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his head, lines crinkling around tired eyes. Perhaps because his face had been etched with weariness, the scar had been more visible as it turned up his lips. Only it had been more grimace than the curious half smile that usually hid his emotions.

When he’d touched Meg with gentleness, she’d felt an odd tug in her heart. Would a murderer and thief have a tender touch?

Even a tiger had a care for its young as it devoured other more helpless beasts, she told herself.

She was determined not to be a more helpless beast.

She made her way back to her cabin, but it was locked, and there was no crewman there to open it. She knocked and heard a wailing inside.

“Celia,” she yelled through the door. “Are you all right?”

“Aye, my lady,” came a weak voice.

“Is that you crying out?”

“Nay, it is Lady Blanche,” Celia said. “She is ill.”

“And you?”

“Not as badly,” Celia said, but she sounded awful. “And you, my lady?”

“I am well. Unhurt. I’ll try to get the captain to let you stay with me.”

Another wail.

Poor Celia. Jenna expected her maid’s cabin mate—Blanche—was worse than the seasickness.

She debated whether to return to the sick bay to make her request, or wait until later. When would she have more chance of success?

She turned back toward the sick bay and opened the door. The interior was dark but so had been the rest of the bowels of the ship. Rob was asleep on the chair. Then she saw the captain. He was next to Meg’s bed, his long legs folded, his head slumped on his chest. For a moment, she did not know whether it was in defeat or sleep.

Then he slowly moved and raised his head. She knew then it had been sleep, and she regretted her decision. She did not care about his welfare, she told herself, but she did about the ship and the people on board. At least some of them.

He rose, and his limp was even more pronounced. Something deep inside responded to the man who looked so utterly tired and, for the first time, vulnerable. He came to the door, held out a hand to direct her back outside, and then closed it behind him.

“Aye?” he said.

No title. No courtesy. Only an abrupt, irritated question.

“Celia … my companion … I would like her to stay with me. She’s been ill and—”

“And you need a maid?” He turned back to the door in dismissal. “Well, this is one Campbell who will have to go without.”

The area was dark, and she could not see his eyes or even much of his face. But his voice was rude and presumptive.

“I want to look after her, not the other way around,” Jenna said, her anger now equal to his. For a moment earlier, their joint concern over a child had united them in a common cause, or so she had thought. He made it clear now there had been no common cause, no temporary truce.

He turned and stared at her. She wondered if he could see more of her face than she could of his. He seemed catlike in his movements, uncanny in his ability to see in the dark.

He didn’t say anything, but she still felt his enmity like a palpable thing. She was a Campbell. She suspected whatever she did, or said, was not going to make up for that. And it was one thing she could not change.

She waited, refusing to be cowed or intimidated.

He hesitated, then nodded his head once. “Go. I’ll have one of my men bring her.”

“Thank you,” she said through clenched teeth. If nothing else, she was a pragmatist. Anger over his rudeness and unfairness accomplished nothing.

“And you will stay there until I say otherwise,” he said. “I do not want you wandering the ship.”

“I would be delighted if that means I will not see you,” she said with the same contempt he’d put in his voice. So much for holding back her anger.

“Then we are agreed on that point,” he said. She felt his gaze on her again. “Go,” he said.

She turned around, afraid her defiance might prod him to change his mind.

Why had she said anything at all?

Because she had wondered for a split second whether there was more to the man than she’d first thought.

There was not.

He would get some rest in Claude’s cabin.

Damn, but he hated to give up his own quarters, with the only bed on the ship large enough to accommodate him.

Still, the infernal Campbell wench needed sleep of her own, and she would never get it with the bawling Carrefour woman.

He rubbed the corner of his left eye. He had not meant to go to sleep. That he had dozed meant he needed it badly. He woke Rob. “I am going above to see whether Hamish can join you. If not, I’ll send Burke to relieve you. Then you get some sleep. I will be in Claude’s cabin.”

Rob nodded, his gaze going over the still form on the bed. “Is she …?”

Alex shook his head.

“Miss … Lady Jeanette was … kind.” The lad’s words were tentative, unsure.

“She wants to stay alive,” he said curtly.

Rob did not say anything else, and Alex left him. Damn, but his leg hurt. If he weren’t careful, it would give way at any time. As it was, every step was agony.

Hamish was seeing to the repair of the hauling of sail. A sliver of light peeked through distant clouds, though rain still fell steadily. The waves had diminished in strength. So had the wind.

The lifelines were still in place, though, and the ship still leapt through heavy seas.

He approached Claude, who was next to the wheel. “See anything of the Charlotte?”

“Non. I hope it avoided most of the storm.”

“Burke?”

“Here.”

Alex spun around. Burke was indeed next to him. It was uncanny the way he always appeared at the right moment.

“Stay with Rob and Meg in the sick bay,” he said.

“Aye.”

“And get that Campbell lass’s maid. I want her sent to my cabin.”

Burke raised a surprised eyebrow. “I thought ye would be using it.”

“Just do it,” Alex said.

Claude turned and gave him a searching look. “Ahhh,” he said.

Alex glared at him. “I’ll use your cabin for the next two hours to get some rest, then I’ll relieve you.”

“Oui, whatever you say, Captain,” Claude said with an amused look.

Alex was damned if he was going to explain himself. Instead, he left the quarterdeck, trying not to hear Claude’s chuckle.

He was not softening toward the Campbell wench. She would be no good to Meg if she too did not get some rest, and she obviously would not do that if she were worried about her maid.

Worried about her maid? A Campbell?

Campbells were a devious lot. Dishonor ran in their blood. She would be no different from any of them.

Damn her anyway.

A few more days and she would be off his ship.

Celia was pitiably grateful for her new quarters. Dawn’s light was now creeping into the captain’s cabin, and it must have looked very grand to her after the tiny quarters she’d been assigned to earlier.

The maid’s face was white. Her dress was soiled, and her hair looked as if it had not been combed in a week. “Oh, miss, I did so worry about ye,” she said.

“No more than I of you,” Jenna said.

“You look tired, my lady,” Celia said.

“And you look ill.”

“I will no’ be sorry to see land,” Celia said, her pale face looking even more pinched. “They will let us go?”

“Aye,” Jenna said, not nearly as sure as she hoped she sounded. But Celia needed the reassurance.

“They did not lock the door here,” Celia noted.

“An oversight, no doubt,” Jenna replied dryly. “Or else they know we are no threat.”

She put a hand on Celia’s shoulder. “Let me help you with your dress, then you can help me with mine.”

She undid the buttons down the front of Celia’s dress and tugged it down. Celia did the same with hers. Then they both stood in their shifts. “You take the bed, my lady,” Celia said.

“Nay, it is large enough for both of us.”

They looked at each other as a knock sounded at the door.

She did not have a key. For a moment, fear returned. Then for some reason it faded. The captain might despise her, yet she knew deep down he would do her no physical harm, nor allow it to happen by someone else’s hand.

She went to the door and opened it a crack. A young sailor stood there, a jug in one hand and a basket in another. “The captain sent this.”

“What …?”

“Some wine, miss, and some bread and crackers and cheese.”

She reached out and took the offerings, handing the jug to Celia. “Thank you.”

“Yer welcome,” the sailor said, then turned and disappeared.

Jenna stared at the gifts, for surely they could be nothing else from captor to captive, and wondered at the paradox that was both gentleman and pirate.

Alex woke with a huge ache in his head, a leg that did not want to respond, and a glowering discontent.

He did not want to deal with the Campbell woman.

Meg. How was Meg? Someone would have wakened him if she were worse, but still …

He hurriedly dressed. Shaving could wait until later.

He looked out the porthole. Blue sky, by God. The ship still rolled, which meant the seas were running high.

He left the cabin and strode straight to the sick bay. Meg was awake. Both Burke and Rob were with her.

“How do you feel?” He felt her face. He would swear the fever was lessening.

“You look terrible,” Meg said.

“We are not talking about me.”

“Are you worried about me?” She looked pleased even if her smile seemed more like a grimace in her too-pale face. She was definitely a female. And definitely getting better.

“Aye. It would be inconvenient if anything happened to you,” he said.

“Why?”

He grinned at her. It had been a long time since he had done that. “I would miss you,” he admitted wryly.

“Really?”

“Aye. But I would have preferred missing you if you’d stayed in Paris.”

“They dinna care about me.”

“They did, or they would not have offered to take you in.”

“I dinna need charity,” she said belligerently.

Now he knew she was feeling better.

He understood. Dear God, he understood. But what to do with a lass of eleven years whose manners and speech were atrocious and who did not know the meaning of obedience? Her one goal in life seemed to be to vex him.

He would have missed Rob and her, had they not stowed away. But the last few hours had proved just how dangerous it was for them.

Yet there was little he could do about it now. In the past hours he’d considered leaving them on Martinique or another French island, but he knew no one he could trust to care for them. If he left money, who was to say the children would not be abandoned and the money stolen? As dangerous as the Ami might be, it probably was no more so than the alternatives.

It strengthened his resolve to end his privateering for the immediate future and try the diamond business. It had, after all, been the original plan.

After selling the captured Charlotte, he would change the name of the Ami and sail to Brazil.

What about the woman?

He would leave her and her maid with enough money to get to Barbados. The rest they could manage on their own.

He owed it to her. As much as he disliked acknowledging it, she had helped Meg. He paid his debts, particularly when owed to the Campbells and their English allies.

The sun streamed into the captain’s cabin, waking Jenna.

Celia was still sleeping next to the wall.

Leaving her maid to rest, Jenna rolled off the bed and stood. The ship seemed to be skimming over the sea now, rather than rolling or floundering in it.

She chose a dress she could don without help, then looked for something to use to transfer the jewelry from the stained dress she’d worn when captured to the one she was wearing. Jenna wanted her jewels with her. They were her only safety now, her only means of escape and survival. At best, she would have to pay passage to Barbados for herself and Celia.

She should have arrived today. Would her prospective husband worry when she did not arrive today, or tomorrow, or even weeks from now?

She found her sewing kit intact and quickly sewed the jewels into the dress she intended to wear. Then she stepped into the dress and laced up the front, trying to be as quiet as possible. Like most of her dresses, this one had long sleeves. After a moment’s thought, she discarded the matching gloves. What difference did it make if anyone here saw her birthmark? Many had already seen it. Word of the devil’s mark had probably already traveled throughout the ship.

She tried the door. To her surprise it was unlocked.

She’d been warned last night—or was it this morning—not to leave the cabin without permission. But she had to know how Meg was doing, and she had no idea when someone would remember—or care about—her existence. Opening the door a bit wider, she looked in both directions, seeing no one.

She cautiously made her way to the area used as a sick bay, fearing that any moment the captain would appear.

Light streamed through the passageways, which meant all the hatches were open. The warmth felt good after the chill of last night. She reached the door of the sick bay and hesitated, listening for voices. When she heard none, she knocked lightly, then went inside.

The man called Burke was trying to spoon some food into Meg’s mouth. The girl was sitting up, and her face looked far better than it had earlier. Serious blue eyes regarded her cautiously.

“Hello,” Jenna said. “I came to see how you are.”

“Burke says I am better.”

“You look much better.” She leaned over and lifted the poultice. Some of the inflammation had subsided. Maybe the oil worked as well as the milk she always used in poultices.

She felt Meg’s cheek. It was warm still but not like early this morning, and the lass’s obvious appetite was a good sign.

Rob stood in a corner. He swallowed, then approached her. “Thank you for looking after Meg last night,” he finally said, the words obviously difficult for him.

“You helped just as much,” Jenna said. “You are a good friend.” She hesitated, then asked, “Did you get any sleep?”

“Aye, I did.”

They faced one another awkwardly, a woman and lad separated by a war, by a battle, by prejudice, by so many things. They had worked together last night, yet in the glow of day, that bond had frayed. His eyes were cool. It was clear that her name was a major obstacle, even with these children.

“I want to help,” she said.

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“Is it so impossible to think a Campbell might want to help?”

“Aye,” he said.

“I like …” She started to say children, but these two were no longer children. “To be useful,” she finally finished.

“We no longer need ye,” Burke said roughly.

Surprisingly, tears gathered behind her eyes. She had not cried since she was a very small child. She had always felt alone, but that had been all she had known. But now this particular rebuff was especially painful, perhaps when delivered by children.

She backed out, then turned and walked down the passageway. She stopped at the hatch. She could go back to the captain’s cabin and possibly wake Celia, or she could go up on deck and breathe in the fresh air.

She proceeded carefully. She was not up to meeting with the captain, though she supposed he was probably asleep.

On deck, a number of sailors were sewing and repairing sails under the watchful eyes of Hamish. A carpenter was repairing a quarter boat that had been ripped from its moorings. Four men were up in the rigging.

No one paid her any mind.

She found a secluded place out of sight of most of the crew and sat on a coil of rope. It was damp, but she did not care. The rain-washed sky was as pure a blue as she had ever seen. Heavy dark clouds roiled in the distance, but the few above scudded across the sky like balls being kicked by a child.

Why did she keep thinking of children?

She breathed deeply. The air was cool with a tangy and fresh scent. Overhead, a seagull circled with a lonely cry that seemed to echo across the endless sea.

They must be close to land if seagulls reached them.

Land that belonged to the French, or the English, or the Dutch?

It was strange how attached she had become to young Meg in the past days. Would she feel that way about David Murray’s children?

But somehow that seemed a long way, a long time, from this ship and the man who had captured her.

She took another deep breath of air as she rose. How she would like to drink a cup of tea out here as the wind blew free!

A gust of wind hit her, taking with it the ribbon securing her hair at the nape of her neck. Jenna pushed her hair back, plaiting it roughly, knowing it would soon blow free again, yet not caring to return to the captain’s cabin. The sea wind had, from the day they left England, awakened something inside her, giving her a sense of freedom she’d never had before.

As she finished braiding her hair, she took several more steps away from the forecastle and halted to stare at the man who seemed to dominate sea and sky alike.

He was at the wheel of the ship, the unscarred side of his face toward her. It was stubbled, but that seemed to add a dash of intrigue to him. From this side, he looked uncommonly handsome, his face all angles and strength. He easily handled the wheel, which she knew required enormous strength, as if it weighed little more than a pound.

He wore an open-necked white linen shirt with flowing sleeves and tight breeches that gloved his long legs. His eyes were fixed on the distance as if seeing something no one else could see.

He looked powerful and wild and free.

Magnificent.

The impression hit her so strongly, she reached out to catch a corner of the forecastle to keep from falling.

In that instant, she knew she would always think of him this way. Not with the frown, or the limp, or even the scar. But as someone free and grand.

Her heart suddenly jerked. How could she feel that way about a pirate? A thief? Possibly a murderer?

A man who hated everything she was?