Cate must have dozed, for the rattle of keys and squeal of hinges jerked her awake. She lurched up; head reeling, stomach threatening, she clutched the edge of the stone ledge. A shaft of light shattered the darkness as two bottle-green-coated guards burst in, seized her and dragged her away.
Frozen-faced and silent, the two carried her suspended between them, grunts of effort, the creak of their belts and scuff of their boots the only sounds. Her bare feet slipped in the occasional patch of mold, her escorts bracing her up more out of necessity than courtesy. One of the guards carried a lantern, its golden light pooling on the floor and curving up the walls. She took a small pleasure in seeing where she was going now for what little that was worth.
As they passed door after door, she noticed most were secured with chalk numbers and notations either on or around them. Periodically, the faint smells of spirits, spices, cheese or olives touched her nose; this wasn’t a catacomb of dungeons, as first suspected, but storage rooms.
A curving stone corridor, stairs, a door, another corridor, more stairs, another door… Gradually, the stones lost their centuries-old patina and became brighter, the air less dank. With each step, she rose from the earth, freed from her entombment, resurrected to the glories of light, and, the highest glory of all, people! As she stood waiting for another door to be unlocked, she caught a glimpse of a long row of cells and heard the sounds of humanity: a cough, a groan and low conversation. Not much, but more than she had been allowed.
With so much climbing, her legs began to wobble, and she grew giddy-headed. She ruefully considered that she might as well go ahead and collapse, for she would be delivered to wherever it was they were taking her one way or another, and could save herself a great deal of effort in the bargain. Determination to represent herself credibly kept her erect. Somehow, in all of this, there had to be a way, if not to escape, then prevent Nathan from being captured.
At the end of a long passage, they drew up at a barred-and-studded door flanked by armed guards. They waited while the guard acting as doorman slipped inside. The door opened, and they were bid to pass.
Cate’s step momentarily slowed. She hadn’t been quite sure what to expect—assuming she was still among the Company buildings—but certainly not this richly appointed room. Compared to the spaces in which she had been confined of recent, it was vast, the ceiling soaring to cathedral-like heights. A pair of standing candelabras lit the room, bright in their immediate circle. It faded quickly, however, casting the room’s perimeter in deep shadows. A marble – framed fireplace dominated one wall, with brass firedogs and tools polished to as much of a shine as brass could be wrought. Another wall was taken up by a long row of towering paned windows much like those she had seen on a building from the harbor.
The windows stood open, but the shutters had been drawn. Sunlight slanted through; it was still day outside. That small bit of information buoyed her up, setting her a bit more square with the world. Whether it was the same day as she landed or a day, week or even fortnight later, she had no notion. Through the wood slats came the distant sounds of a busy waterfront and birds chittering; the world was still out there and carrying on, with or without her. Covertly, she drew in several breaths, clearing her lungs and head of the cumulative stench of God knew how long.
Her two escorts guided Cate across the room, halting before an elegant campaign-style desk. A man sat at it, head bent over some papers in the light of a lamp.
The pair snapped to attention. “By your leave, sir. Prisoner.”
The man slowly looked up with eyes so pale it was difficult to discern a color. It was a narrow face, sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, tightness about the eyes and mouth rendered it too severe to be called handsome, but appealing, at least. Slim, laced, satined, brocaded and silvered, he was meticulously dressed, with linens in a state of a freshness that would have demanded hourly changing in the heat and humidity. A full wig topped off his ensemble, powdered, curled and ribboned.
A shooing motion set the guards on their way.
“Well, well, what have we here?” he sighed, carefully setting down the quill.
He slowly rose. He proved to be quite tall, his clothes carefully tailored to hide a slim build that verged on slight.
“Madam?” he said in measured politeness. He pointedly looked down at her wedding ring. “It is Madam, is it not?”
Reflexively closing her hand, Cate buried it in the folds of her skirt. “Widowed, actually.” Roughened by disuse, her voice was strange in her own ears.
A corner of his mouth twitched. “My condolences.” He had a surprisingly soft voice, words, nay each syllable, uttered with precision.
“Accepted.”
“I require a name,” he said blandly.
Cate bit back her urge to point out the ineptness of having someone kidnapped and not knowing who they were. Instead, she raised her chin. “I was taught propriety demanded the man should present himself first.”
“Very well, then.” Duly chastened, he struck a formal stance and made a stiff, but very elegant leg, showing off his white hose and silver-buckled silk shoes. “Lord Breaston Creswicke, your servant, Madam.”
Cate jerked, her fist knotting against her leg. She had expected a minion of some sort, not the grand man himself. She eyed him with a new curiosity, a rapid sequence of thoughts racing through her mind. This was the man who had dominated her world since she had boarded the Ciara Morganse. The Constancy’s crew had told her of him, in an odd mix of reverence and contempt.
Her heart pounded so hard in her ears, she missed part of what he was saying.
“…I fancied you might be disquieted at being unescorted in a room with a strange man, and so I invited Miss Frobisher to join us, so that you might be more at your ease.”
He smiled engagingly.
Not a word of that did Cate believe, although the thought on its barest measure was flattering. It had been a long time since anyone had shown such concern for her sensibilities. She followed his gesture to the corner and a woman sitting there in an elbow chair, resplendent in a unique shade of violet stripe and floral. So deep in the shadows, she might have gone unnoticed. Roughly Cate’s age, slanted cat-eyes peered out from fine, pointed features that gave Miss Frobisher a foxy, pixie-like appearance. Cate turned the bit necessary to make her salutations. A stiff nod was returned, bringing a pair of light brown eyes into the light, a color near to matching the liquor in the glass at her knee.
Creswicke gestured toward a chair before the desk, in a virtual spotlight under the standing candelabras. “Pray, would you care to sit?”
With considerable relief, Cate accepted. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been inclined to tell him where to stuff his chair, but she needed to sit, badly! And now, she did so before the very person she had hoped to never meet. Miss Frobisher was still visible, but at the extreme edge of her line-of-sight. She had the sense of another person being there as well, somewhere behind her.
Creswicke moved to a small, gilt side table. “Brandy or claret?” he asked, gesturing toward a pair of crystal decanters. “Although it does seem an early hour for brandy.”
Only late afternoon, then, Cate observed privately and then allowed “I prefer brandy.”
One eyebrow lifted slightly in surprise. “Ah, a lady of fiber.”
The ring of crystal filled the room as he poured. As he did so, Cate took the opportunity to look further about. Creswicke was clearly a man who could afford his luxuries and didn’t scruple to surround himself with them. From the corner of her eye, she could see the mantle lined with porcelain figurines. Paintings lined the walls, pastoral, ships sailing the Company flag and a few Dutch still-lifes. The desk set was silver, the candles not tallow, but beeswax, giving off an earthy, sweet scent. The carpet under her bare feet was thick turkey, the upholstery on the elbow chairs damask. She had the sense it was an anteroom of some sort. The head of the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company would have something much grander, a main office, where its master would attend his daily, public business. This was where he conducted the business with people he didn’t wish to be common knowledge.
With the shutters closed, any moving air was cut off, rendering the room quite stuffy. It was a wonder as to why one would cut off the sea breeze, the only saving grace in the summer tropics. A flutter of a fan showed that Miss Frobisher suffered it. One had to assume it was either to block the view, whether from the inside out or the outside in being the only remaining question. She looked longingly to the cold fireplace. The cold of the stone of her dungeon had saturated her bones; she wasn’t sure if she would ever be warm again.
Had it not been for the strawberry blond hair on the knuckles, the hand which gave over the snifter was fine-boned and delicate enough to be a woman’s. She could see then that his brows and lashes were the same reddish-blond color, nearly as pale as his face. As he moved a faint waft of lemon verbena met her nose, leaving her to wonder if it were Creswicke or Miss Frobisher wearing it. It was an odd scent for a man.
The snifter, gold-rimmed with RWIMC gilded on the bowl, was proffered, but then withdrawn just out of her reach, when she tried to take it.
“Might I have the pleasure of your name, now?” he asked.
“With all due respect, Your Lordship, my name would prove to be of little consequence,” Cate said with a coy lowering of her lids.
His eyes narrowed a fraction. Exhaling through his nose—demonstrably for one of his reserve—he gave her the glass, nonetheless. With some regret as she took it, she noticed her hand shake. The chill of her cell was worse than she had thought.
Cate sipped, watching Creswicke as he returned to his desk, wondering if perhaps she were mistaken. She had been taught early in life to reserve judgment of another person, to trade hearsay for personal observation. It would be a tragedy to think her revulsion of a person had been misguided or wasted. She had met both villains and would-be kings. Without their entourages, none would have seemed remarkable in a crowd; rarely did they meet up to expectations.
The man before her was quite charming, disconcertingly thoughtful, even engaging, in an aloof sort of way. It was difficult to imagine him capable of the monstrous deeds he supposedly committed, one of questionable tastes. Perhaps this was a different Breaston, a twin, with parents who had a droll sense of humor, she thought.
She took a sip. It was a very good brandy. Its vapors shot up through her head, clearing it more effectively than a burned feather. It landed hot and glowing on her empty stomach, sending instant fingers of warmth snaking through her, stiffening her spine and fortifying her nerve.
Creswicke shuffled through the papers on the desk for some moments. Finding the one he sought, his finger followed the lines as he read. “Captain Mordecai Chambers, of the good ship Constancy, bound from Bristol to Kingston, reported that on the fourteenth of May, of the year of our Lord, 1753, they were most egregiously set upon by pirates—the Ciara Morganse, specifically—and that one Mrs. Catherine Harper was taken.” He looked pointedly at her ring again. “Might I assume you are Mrs. Harper?”
“Widowed,” she finally surrendered, working her wedding ring between her fingers.
“My condolences.”
She glanced up, surprised by his earnestness. “Accepted.”
Creswicke sat at his desk once again, taking time to sip his drink. The thin lips tended to purse when he was puzzled. He set the glass down with measured care. “The Constancy was of considerable interest to me; the Lady Littleton, wife of the soon-to-be governor, was my mother’s second cousin.”
“My condolences.”
He bent his head. “Accepted.”
A long, speculative gaze over his glass followed. Finally, he blinked and returned to the papers. “According to reports from Commodore Harte, some weeks later, you escaped from said pirates.”
He leaned back. Propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, he tented his fingers to his lips, a sandy brow lifting in question. “That would be quite a feat, I would imagine.”
“Not nearly as impossible as you might imagine,” she said off-handedly then smiled prettily. “Or else I shouldn’t have managed, should I?”
A sandy brow raised slightly higher, the colorless eyes sharpening over the fingertips. “And then, you returned.”
“To the pirates?” Cate plucked at her skirts, attempting a version of nonchalance. “On the contrary, Your Lordship. Commodore Harte’s Marines proved to be markedly inept, and I was recaptured. A woman could have hoped for more safety under their protection.”
Creswicke took another drink, rolling it thoughtfully in his mouth before swallowing.
“How did you find life among the pirates?” He stole a sideways look as if attempting to catch her in an unguarded moment.
A rustle of silk from the woman in the corner distracted her momentarily.
“How would any woman find it, Your Lordship?” Cate shot back. The brandy burned in a merry little fire in her belly, her courage restored.
Her impertinence brought a rustle of clothing and creak of leather from behind her. Someone was indeed there. A commanding glare from Creswicke restrained whoever it was.
Creswicke lurched to his feet and moved restlessly about the room. “That idiot Captain Galashield tried to tell me Nathan was dead, while another set of idiots reported him alive and well virtually at the same time. He’s not dead,” he said, more as if convincing himself. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
He turned, looking for her assurances. Concern flashed across his face, as heartfelt as from a father, a brother… or lover. It mirrored the agony she had suffered, worrying for Nathan and she felt a surprising bond bloom within.
How Creswicke had known that she knew Nathan lived was a wonder. It hadn’t been through any second sight or special powers, just a gut feeling. And now, it was confirmed, although true belief and relief wouldn’t occur until she saw Nathan with her own eyes, a remote prospect, at that point.
Creswicke waited for her acknowledgment of his observation.
He waited in vain.
He took a drink, his fine fingers worrying the glass. Perspiration sparkled on his upper lip. “Either way, we’ll know soon enough. I’ve ships and lookouts covering a sweep from here to Kingston in a grand circle.”
“Here” meant Bridgetown. Barbados. Her West Indies geography was shaky at best, but recalling Nathan’s charts, it was a very long ways. A circle of alert of that dimension would entail scores of ships and hundreds of men.
A smile flashed, brief and a bit self-conscious, as he said, “In the meantime, I aim for you to enjoy my humble hospitality, and aim that we might come to know each other so very much better… and make plans.”
“Plans?” she echoed, her warmth for him faltering. She wondered if a dank cell, thirst and starvation were his idea of “hospitality?”
“Nathan was a disappointment,” he said, ignoring her. He moved about the room with measured elegance. “With his notoriety and seamanship, men will follow him anywhere. Add my connections, our profits could have soared. It would have guaranteed my naming as Governor—”
“And Bob’s your uncle, your own little empire!”
Creswicke turned to sketch the faintest of bows. “A smart woman. I’m beginning to appreciate what Nathan sees in you. It’s not an all bad ambition,” he said, resuming his point. “But alas, every use outruns its course.”
Cate jerked her shoulders, her mood darkening. “He’s a human being, not trash to be thrown aside.”
“Indeed?” he mused, intrigued by an obviously foreign thought. “I had ever so many uses in store for him, by which many he could have benefited. Anyone too dull-witted to take the hand of success when it is offered, is too dull to be trusted to their own devices.”
“And so for his own welfare, you made him your property.”
God, the straight-face liar! As Nathan’s employer, Creswicke had tricked Nathan into a cargo of children, white slaves, snatched from the streets, often from their parents’ arms. As predicted, Nathan had sought to set them free and Creswicke’s men were waiting. Nathan was arrested. Falsified documents were presented at his trial, all aimed at destroying Nathan and his chances of ever being captain again. Then, a slave woman was brought forth, to testify that Nathan was her son, making him a slave, Creswicke his master and branded him as one.
“I took him in as I would a starving dog,” he said benignly.
“Except that starving dog turned around and bit the very hand that sought to feed it,” Cate said, glaring.
With the help of Thomas and another friend, Nathan had escaped, knowing if he was ever captured he would be returned as Creswicke’s property. And so, guided by the friends, Nathan had slipped away into piracy, the only place he could once again captain a ship. And from there, he had managed to make Creswicke’s life miserable.
He whirled around and hissed, “I mean to teach that cur to appreciate what’s offered.”
“He’ll die first.”
Much recomposed, Creswicke glanced in Frobisher’s direction and said coldly, “That can be arranged.”
For stretches of time, Cate had forgotten Frobisher. She watched carefully for any signs of a relationship, some small signal of affection or feeling between the pair. Nothing. A familiarity, and or understanding, but completely impersonal, in a business sort of way. If Creswicke were a cold fish, Frobisher was a dead one.
The woman was by no means a woman-of-business. What or who she was, however, was a wonder. Periodic and well-timed glances had revealed much, and yet, little. Her sempstress’s eye took in a myriad of details about Frobisher’s dress, a polonaise, including the goldworked stomacher and tiers of Versailles lace, was of the finest fabric and finest work. In spite of her dress, her small waist and pert bosom, however, Frobisher exuded very little in the way of femininity. Cate had gone from being at Court to skulleries; women were much the same. Regardless of their means, there were habits of bearing and deportment that all women knew or were taught from the time they could sit up. There were subtle differences in Frobisher’s carriage, the way her skirts were arranged about her, the set of her head, the way her hands rested on the arms of the chair as opposed to in her lap. Her feet sat straight, as if more accustomed to boots than the embroidered slippers. And above all, she sat with her back in the chair, like a man, rather than erect. All in all, she was a woman not entirely comfortable in her environment as she wished to appear.
Creswicke sipped his drink, one hand behind his back, staring at a painting of two nymphs entwined in a misty grove. “Nathan is no fool. He won’t come charging in here, because he won’t risk losing his precious freedom.” He spoke more for his own benefit than anyone else.
Well, at least he’s a step closer to understanding the man.
“Still, there is the odd chance Providence might smile, and I’d capture him,” Creswicke added as an afterthought.
“Then why take me? If you know the bait won’t answer, then why go through all the effort of setting the trap?” Speaking of herself as bait didn’t come easily, but there was little to be gained in beating about the bush.
Creswicke turned to regard her with surprising admiration. “Ah, as direct as ever. Not normally the most flattering trait in a woman, but it suits you.”
Cate bent her head in thanks, he returning the gesture.
He refilled his glass and then moved about the room in determined steps, working his way around behind her. A bit of air slipped through the shutters, stirring the scent of lemon verbena once more.
“Under that filth, you’ve the skin and speech of a lady—higher quality than is Nathan’s norm—but one who has obviously fallen on hard times. You are a woman of little substance. No resources: no husband, no family, no connections… no one.”
So, here it comes, she thought, turning her head in order to see him.
Cate lowered her lids demurely. “You’re too kind. Life can be uncertain.”
He popped up next to her with a suddeness that caused her to jump. “I can offer you certainty.”
She found herself looking into the eyes of a predator, as cold and penetrating as a falcon. Up close, she could see his face wasn’t powdered; it was his natural pallor. He had that pale skin which tended to freckle when he went out in the sun, which was rare, by all appearances. At his temple, a droplet of moisture trickled from under his wig.
“You are a woman of charms, Madam Harper.”
Cate shifted uncomfortably under his assessing stare. She had seen much the same look as when a stockman was seeking to purchase a broodmare. In the face of all this finery, she was painfully aware of her appearance: grubby, tattered and still showing the signs of rough handling. What a frightening sight she must have been. Every move she made stirred the stink of sweat and foulness, bilges, tar and dank stone. She raised a self-conscious hand toward her hair. Her fingers need only to brush the tendrils at her shoulder to confirm the worst. Her hair could be wild on the best of days, a “maddening tangle” as Nathan called it, which could only be tamed into obedience with long and firm application of a brush, of which it had none in God knew how long. By then, it had to have been a matted snarl bushing about her head, making her look positively crazed.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a disadvantage; I’m not at my best.”
“Nonsense! Charm him—you could, you know.”
Sad to say, His Lordship was attempting to do that very thing, but fell far short of Nathan’s power of charms.
“Who? Blackthorne?” She smiled knowingly. “You want something.”
Creswicke’s mouth tightened in a strained smile, displeased by her failure to follow his script. Everything with this man was a calculation. He leaned back against his desk. “Something very simple, a minor thing,” he said, rearranging the lace at his sleeve. Eyes that held no warmth came up to meet hers. “Him.”
“’Him?’”
Creswicke wanted Nathan, of that there was little doubt. But was it a matter of power and control, or was he in love with Nathan? The first were definitely the man’s passion, but whenever he uttered Nathan’s name, there was a catch in his voice—slight, but detectable—and a pained, loneliness in his eyes which usually rose out of passion of another sort.
One was obliged to believe the animosity between Nathan and Creswicke went back many years, before Creswicke took Nathan’s ship and enslaved him, probably a result of rivalry, sleights, insults or just male competitiveness. In his youth, Nathan had to have been quite the dashing figure, someone with Creswicke’s lack of looks having no hope of competing. A large part of it had to have been brought on by Nathan bedding both Creswicke’s mother—which he claimed to have had no idea as to her identity—and Creswicke’s sister—who had pursued him, in his own defense. In defense of his womenfolk, Creswicke had called Nathan out. Swords being the weapon of choice, it had all ended with Creswicke taking the worst. “It was a helluva place to be wounded,” was all Nathan had said, but allusions later made to Creswicke’s impotence, or strong likelihood. If the injury had been deliberate or accidental was anyone’s guess; Nathan wasn’t saying.
The thought occurred that perhaps there was a competition of not just ladies’ attentions. Perhaps it was jealousy of another sort. Perhaps the insult went deeper. Being in love with a man who you could never have, only to see him give those very favors you longed for to others, namely his mother and sister, and a host of others. To have been rendered impotent by that very same had to have been insult to injury.
This wasn’t her first time to be disparaged as a pirate whore. While on New Providence, Commodore Harte and Lady Bart’s guests barely veiled their disgust. Creswicke’s contempt for her, however, seemed to go far deeper, fueled not by social mores, but jealousy.
She wanted to say, “You can’t have him.” Instead, she said, “Caging a wild thing won’t tame it.”
“Ah, but it would be in my cage.” Creswicke’s thin lips drew back into what might have been meant as a smile. Revealing a double row of small square teeth, it came off as more a leer.
Cate met it unwavering. “Only hate and resentment can rise from that.”
“Gratitude can be induced,” he retorted coldly.
“The natural sort is ever so much more rewarding,” she said, with a knowing arch of her brow.
The thin lips pursed in puzzlement, as if trying to fathom if gratitude or any kindly thought, were at all possible, without first being bribed, cowed or threatened.
“I am in a position to restore everything you lost.” The colorless eyes fixed keenly on her.
Caught in the midst of taking a drink, she lowered the glass. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
Bribery or coercion of some sort had been expected, but not that. But still, what exactly was “everything?” How much he knew about her past was the grander question? Given his position, presumably everything. Was he speaking in the broader sense, as in a monetary equivalent to establish her at something near how he presumed she lived? Or, was he promising—if that could be the word—everything, as in her former life, in its entirety? Creswicke possessed both the money and connections to make it so; a pardon wasn’t beyond his reach. Nor would it be outside his realm of influence to find Brian, if… if he still lived. And then, home to Scotland, back to as if Charles Stuart had never appeared.
A dream… an impossible dream.
Everything.
“And for all that, all I need do is…?” she prompted with an already fair idea of the answer.
“Give me Nathan.” His very being quaked with eagerness. Whether it was motivated by the prospect of material things or of the flesh was difficult to discern. His body angle, the glow of his eye, the avidity in his voice suggested his desire went far deeper than the prospect of acquisition of an object.
If one was inclined toward being generous, there was the vague possibility—very vague— that Creswicke’s offers to take Nathan under his wing were meant for Nathan to join him in his grand fortunes. Misguided, intentions to say the least, with no understanding of the man he loved.
You don’t understand him like I do, she thought smugly. She had something Creswicke could never have: Nathan’s attentions, dare she venture to say, affection? It would be disingenuous to claim more. But still, it was more than Creswicke could ever hope for.
“How many times do you have to destroy a man, before you’re finally through with him?” She bit her lip, hoping he hadn’t noticed the vehement quaver in her voice.
The corner of Creswicke’s mouth quirked. “Do not flatter yourself as being clever. Your allegiances are misplaced.”
He bent once more, imposing himself over her. “Charm him,” he purred. “And bring him to me.” There was a lilt in his voice which almost made her physically ill.
Cate sat back. Now that she knew what was on the table, the rest would be easy.
She flashed an engaging smile. “I appreciate the offer of such favors. From my perspective, however, I see one small, but grand, significant flaw in your proposal.” She paused to build her point. “Such favors can be readily revoked, no doubt the moment you found another use for me.”
He sat back, a cat pleased at the mouse’s bravado. “You don’t trust me.”
“Not remotely. I’ve met your sort before, Your Lordship. You are a man of power; you expect to get whatever it is you want, when you want it.” She paused to take a sip. “I venture to say Greed is your demon, or is it your master?”
“Success is neither the curse you imply nor a demon. Success is a privilege reserved for the few.”
Cate shrugged. “Easy philosophy to spout when one is sitting on the laurels of that privilege.”
He rose, stiffly and glared. “You have the look of a woman about to allow the opportunity of a lifetime to slip through your fingers.”
“I heard once it was a wise person who creates more opportunities than he finds. I prefer to think we are all masters of our fate.” A cautioning voice warned that the brandy might be talking, and not to her advantage. There was a light—and not at all unpleasant—buzzing in her head and the room tended to tilt whenever she closed her eyes.
“Do not flatter yourself, Madam. You are merely one more in a long line of trollops. He’ll toss you aside as he would yesterday’s slops. You’re no more than his whore, a pirate’s whore. I could have you hanged simply for that.”
There was a movement of feet behind her; whoever Creswicke’s minion was, he was closing in. Discontent radiated from Frobisher’s direction, as well, who had been strangely silent throughout the interview. A witness, true enough, but certainly not there for her own sensibilities. Her time was drawing quickly to a close: take Creswicke’s offer or suffer the consequences.
She looked up as Creswicke loomed over her. His earlobes poking out from under his wig had gone scarlet.
“Bring me Blackthorne.”
She smiled benignly. “Betrayal is not my nature.”
“A strumpet with scruples,” he chuckled coldly in Frobisher’s direction as he turned away.
“No, a woman who credits when she’s being used,” she shot back, mimicking his measured cadence.
“Clearly you require time to reconsider.”
Cate drained her glass with a quick toss. “You’ll find me stubborn.”
“Mr. Spears, if you please?”
A curt nod from Creswicke and the man who had been lurking in the corner shot around and slapped her hard across the face.
It wasn’t the first time she had been struck. Exhaustion, frustration, brandy and a sense of nothing to lose, however, blocked all caution. With a low animal sound, she kicked out, aiming for Spears’ knees. She dashed the glass on the arm of the chair and launched up, aiming the jagged edge at his face.
Small and wiry, with a pocked, hatchet face, Spears’ weasel-like eyes rounded with a mix of bemusement and disdain. He drove with a fist deep into her middle, driving the air from her lungs. Doubled over, Cate caught the edge of the chair, her mouth moving like a landed fish as she wheezed. Knees buckling, she wobbled, breathing now a foremost concern. Her eyes squeezed shut as she sought to force her lungs to move. Through a fall of hair, she looked up into Creswicke’s face. Half-bent, like an avid spectator, she saw something move in his eyes like a cat anxious to see a mouse die, and she broke for the door. Within a stride or two, she was grabbed by the hair, yanked around and thrown against the wall. Her head slammed into it and the room pitched at sickening angles.
“Mr. Spears, I believe the prisoner is trying to escape. If she doesn’t cease this persistent struggling, I fear bodily harm might befall her.” Creswicke’s measured voice came from very near.
Cate pried one eye open. Feet braced wide, Spears’ eroded face was before her. Stonily calm, he drew back a hand and clouted her once and then again. Cate brought up a knee, aiming for his crotch and then swung. He easily fielded her fist in mid-air and gave her arm a viscous twist, resulting in a searing pain and crunching sound in her shoulder. Arm hanging uselessly at her side, she was hurled against the wall again and hit several times more. She slipped slowly to her knees. The world narrowed to swirling pinpoints; a hollow ringing in her ears grew to a deafening pitch. The pinpoints converged, constricted and then faded away in a long trail, leading her to peace.
A throbbing face and head greeted Cate when she woke. Too exhausted and too afraid to move lest what new pain might be invoked, she laid as she had been dropped, eyes closed.
A stirring of air, the rattle of palm fronds, the lack of dampness and warmth suggested she now occupied a new cell. Curiosity didn’t outweigh the effort or hazard of opening her eyes in order to see it. Plenty of time for that. A slight shift—ever so careful, a foot deemed the least effort-demanding means—found a surface considerably softer than the stone ledge under her. A bit further probe and a more forceful shift of her weight produced a wooden creak. A cot, then.
She tried to sniff, but her nose was clogged. Twitching to clear it required moving her mouth, alas. She swallowed or, rather, tried to and choked on the semi-congealed globs of God knew what in her throat. Choking set off a chain reaction of pain, jerked movement, and more pain, until she laid gasping, while at the same time striving to remain as still as a catatonic. Even at that, wakefulness required a deeper intake of air, and so she strove for a more controlled effort. Her stomach muscles and ribs, however, thought otherwise, spasming with inordinate frequently.
Her tongue, once pried from where it had been stuck, felt as if it had outgrown her mouth. She tentatively ran the tip of it along lips rough with dried blood, wincing at each split, tender and raw in their newness. With a shaky hand, she carefully probed her face. Through the stickiness of more dried blood, she found puffed lips, a thickened nose, a hot hard lump near her temple and an eye swollen to nearly closed.
Vague uncertainty shrouded her recollections of departing Creswicke’s office to the delicate clink! of crystal as a drink was poured.
Sodding sadistic bastard. She wasn’t sure if she had actually spoken that sentiment aloud or had only thought it.
Pain wasn’t new; she had been beaten before and far worse. It was a fascination how one could recall an emotion—happy, sad, joy, sorrow, fear—and it would almost instantly bloom to full flower. With pain, however, one could remember the incident, the horrible degree of it, and yet the pain itself was elusive. When injured again, the body said, “Ah, yes, I recall; I’ve done this before,” and set about dealing with it. Certain pain becomes familiar and readily recognizable: the peculiar ache of a cracked rib, the particular burn of a broken bone. The pulsating throb of a toothache is different from one knocked loose. Women know the difference between the cramping of her monthlies from a belly ache. Constant pain can become so familiar, one no longer feels it, or one can feel pain in one spot, while not realizing discomfort in another until it is inadvertently touched. All of that, and yet none of it could be replicated without being physically warranted, while emotions—especially the darkest: fear, sorrow, anguish—could strike, sometimes at the least passing thought.
In hopes of a reprieve from her misery, she sought to call several emotions forth—joy, happiness, contentment—but her theory was disproven immediately. Nothing would come. She resorted to the one source of all her highest moments: Nathan. Fondling her necklace with clubbish fingers, his face rose so readily, yet for all the ease he offered, she refused him, conjuring up the darkest, most disturbing thoughts possible to keep him away. The very memories which she had strove to culture and cherish were now the very ones she had to deny, for to bring them forth might somehow call him to her, and that would be tantamount to calling him to his death. She would rather never see him again than to think she might have had a hand in his captivity, a fate worse than death for a man with “Freedom” on his chest. She had sent Brian off to his captivity under the guise of safeguarding her. Never again. She had borne that once; she wasn’t sure she could survive that again.
Stay away! If you care for me at all, stay away!
Thirst was the worst, an almost overwhelming need, enough so that she finally pried one eye open to peer around in the vague hopes of finding a pitcher, a glass… anything. A brief glance through fogged vision confirming she was in a different cell: bright and airy compared to her last places of confinement, a narrow window near the ceiling. Her eyes rolled closed, and she sank in disappointment. How she would have managed had there been a pitcher was a question neither asked nor answered, for there was none.
Perhaps she hadn’t been taken from the cell deep in the bowels of the earth to begin with, she mused. Perhaps she was still lying on the dank stone, and all this agony and anguish was the figment of an imagination teetering on madness.
A part of her mind—a very small part—operated with crystal clarity and made several observations.
Spears hadn’t used his fists on her. Whatever he used had been hard enough to knock her bloody and senseless, yet there were no broken bones, no missing teeth, nor shattered ribs. Great care had been taken not to do mortal damage.
Creswicke didn’t want her dead. He needed her.
Voices and the rattle of keys jerked Cate back from her floating Eden. She inwardly groaned, for surely nothing good was to come of it. The door swung open with a loud, complaining grind of iron against iron, followed by the expected scuff of boot leather on stone. She thought it all a dream, however, when she heard the rustle of skirts and the light footfalls of slippers, followed by the sensation of someone standing over her staring down.
Cate opened her eyes and blinked, trying to sort out the face before her, bent low and peering with great concern.
“Prudence?” Cate croaked. She would have rubbed her eyes had she the courage or wherewithal to do so.
“You’re surprised,” the girl declared, beaming.
“Well, yes,” Cate stammered, still suspicious it was a dream. “How could I…?” Speaking became too much effort.
Some weeks after Cate boarding the Ciara Morganse, Nathan had kidnapped Prudence, the fiancée of Breaston Creswicke, and a kingly sum had been paid. Being a kidnap victim herself, Cate had suffered a great compassion for the girl and had done everything she could to protect her. The daughter of a prominent Boston merchant, however, Prudence was spoiled, self – indulgent and meddlesome. Not a few smiles could be seen, amid sighs of relief when she was finally seen down the side after the ransom had been paid.
The girl hadn’t changed, although blessed little could be expected to, in the handful of weeks it had been since last seen. The China-doll face was still there, as were the cornflower blue eyes, so large she looked a combination of both surprised and startled. The glossy black hair was pulled up into a more stately arrangement and her dress had the lines of a lady.
Prudence gestured off-handedly to a guard who came in bearing a ewer, bowl and a cloth as she tossed off her shawl onto the back of the chair and pulled off her gloves. She bent to gaze down at Cate with solemn concern.
“But how…? Where…?” Cate groped to pluck a solid thought out of her confusion.
“I’m married,” she beamed. Holding up her hand, a band of jewels flashed on her finger.
“To who!?” blurted Cate. Perhaps she was still dreaming or rather caught in a nightmare. She remembered hitting her head, but Lord, she didn’t think it had been that hard.
Prudence sat back, her lower lip plump with disappointment. “Well, Lord Creswicke, of course. He raced to see me and insisted we be married that instant.”
“Yes, I suppose he would.” By slipping a ring on the finger of the daughter of one of the most prosperous merchants of Boston, Creswicke, governor of the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company, had gained access to routes which allowed him virtual domination of the entire British sphere of influence in the New World.
“It’s Lady Creswicke, now!” the child cried, displaying her ring once more, as if Cate might have somehow forgotten that quickly.
“Prudence, please, I beg,” Cate said, interrupting. “Might I have a drink?” The last came out in a wheezing rasp.
The girl stalled in mid-sentence, her smooth brow furrowed with momentary puzzlement, a bit put off that Cate wasn’t attending. Of all her faults, Prudence had been well-schooled in manners and they kicked in then, however, playing the good hostess as she poured a bit and pressed the cup to Cate’s mouth. It was only a few sips, not near enough to quench her thirst—an entire water butt couldn’t achieve that—but it was enough to trigger warning wave of queasiness, one she wouldn’t have been able to heed had she been left to her own devices. Cate closed her eyes, reveling in the relief of the cool wetness, her tongue shrinking down to something nearer to its own size and the fire in her throat lessened. Prudence’s words were lost to Cate as she luxuriated in the joy of something to drink, her tongue flicking out to pluck up every stray droplet on her lips.
Looking down at Cate from where she sat, Prudence hesitated, as if unsure as to what to do, like a hostess faced with an unexpected guest. A spark of an idea touched her eye as she dipped the cloth in the bowl, wrung it out, and began to mechanically dab Cate’s face and neck.
“I had hoped to find you well. His Lordship represented Captain Blackthorne had treated you abominably, but I had no idea. Such a violent man,” she said, clucking her tongue. She checked herself several times from making a face—that would be too indelicate—at the wreck that was Cate’s face. It was clear, however, that she really wished she wasn’t obliged to such ministrations.
“His Lordship said you had fallen on hard times.” Prudence rinsed the cloth and delicately wrung it out. “Captured or some such something,” she added, with a baffled shake of her head, the ringlets bouncing at her shoulders. “I worried for your safety, for you were far too reckless…”
Her admonishments went on beyond Cate’s ability to follow and she surrendered to a descending fog. Perfunctory as it was, having her face washed was a bit of unexpected heaven. Hours, nay days of soaking in hot water wouldn’t be enough to rid her of the stink and filth, but something so superficial was so cool and refreshing, returning at least a semblance of being human. She hadn’t realized until then how much she had missed another person’s touch.
“You could have made it so much easier on yourself and everyone involved had you taken Commodore Harte’s offer.” The mention of that less than illustrious character snatched Cate’s pleasurable fog away.
“Prudence—” Cate began, barely containing her irritation. She was cut short by the cloth rushing over a particularly sore spot on her cheek.
More babbling.
For a moment, Cate had the sensation that she was up in the corner, like a fly on the wall. She was looking down at some kind of farcical play, herself one of the players. With crystal clarity, she saw herself—battered and swollen—laying there, her face an ashen blot amid a wild tangle of hair. She slowly closed her eyes as if to drift off into precious sleep. A noise caused her to jerk them open, and she was on the cot once more, looking up into the doll-like features. The perfectly shaped bow-mouth was moving, but the words were lost.
At length, Prudence bit her lip, but her dissatisfaction couldn’t be contained. “It was most cruel of you and everyone to try to keep me from all this.”
“It wasn’t some grand conspiracy,” Cate began testily. Although on the surface, the three people closest to her planning her future would seem like that. “We were trying to protect you.”
“From what? Money? Position? Power? These women—everyone trembles when I enter a room. I’m respected and admired and—”
“That’s not respect. That’s fear—”
“Of what? Lord Creswicke isn’t anything like the monster everyone made him out to be. He’s kind and generous and genteel and the perfect gentleman, so much the gentleman, he has pledged to never bother me with all that… that… wifely duty business,” she finally landed on, blushing.
“I dare say,” Cate muttered dryly, shifting restlessly, wincing. “A helluva place to be wounded” as Nathan had said. Impotence or an aversion to women in the physical sense? Still difficult to say.
“Prudence—”
“It’s Lady Creswicke, now.”
“Prudence, what are you about?” Cate finally blurted, wincing at the sudden movement. She had thought marriage would have matured the girl. But then, how much of a miracle could be expected in barely two months? “I thought you were in love with… whatever his name was, the lad.” The few sips of water had freed her tongue and mouth enough to be able to manage conversation a bit easier.
“Oh, him.” A vague wave of the hand. “What’s love when you can have all this? How could one dull boy ever equal having virtually the world at my fingertips?”
“Not in life,” Cate sighed, confident by then nothing she said would make one wit’s bit of difference. “It’s a match made in Heaven, to be sure.” Cate gave a low hiss at the sting of a split in her lip reopening.
Prudence leaned to enthusiastically grasp Cate’s arm. “Oh, Cate! I’m so pleased you see it that way.”
She sat back, folding her hands in her lap. Coy was never the girl’s strength; marriage hadn’t improved that either, to any noticeable degree. She leaned toward Cate, and with a conspiratorial lowering of her voice—not too much, however, still loud enough for whoever was outside the door to hear—“Breaston said—I can call him Breaston, now—if you were to co-operate, things might go ever so much more pleasant.”
“Might?” Cate echoed dryly. “For you or for him? Rest assured, I’m nowhere in that equation.” Resentment surged at being manipulated and so heavy-handedly. She had credited Creswicke with being smoother than this. Damn him for trying to use a small bit of friendship to his own gain.
He was a cold fish.
“Have you any notion of what he is asking?” Cate asked, growing more restless.
The cornflower-colored eyes rounded. “Why, he’s only trying to aide in enforcing the law. After all, Captain Blackthorne is just a p—”
Prudence checked herself. She had once uttered much the same words, and Cate had slapped her for it. It wasn’t that Prudence was lying. Nathan was indeed, a pirate; there was no denying that. It had been a matter of the ingratitude and contempt with which it had been said. Once more, Cate felt her blood rising. Good, bad or otherwise, Nathan had gone a long way to assure Prudence’s well-being while in his custody. It was considered the height of indelicacy to repeat some of the things that had happened to similar kidnap victims to someone as young as her, but perhaps a bit of shock was what the child needed to appreciate what she didn’t get.
Still, lessons to be learned didn’t seem appropriate just then.
“I need help, Prudence,” Cate said earnestly. The admission didn’t come easily, but if she could either escape—highly unlikely—or get a message out to… oh, someone, perhaps she could prevent Nathan from being caught.
Cate had risked everything, as had Nathan, in the spirit of helping the girl on New Providence. Her most desperate hope was that the girl might return at least a small part of that favor.
The hope was in vain.
Prudence dropped the cloth into the bowl and sat back. Hands clasped in her lap, her bow – shaped mouth pursed in prim displeasures as she gazed down at Cate, as if she were a child gone simple. “His Lordship had warned me that you would say that. When we make the decisions to break the law, then we make the decision to accept the consequences,” she said with a slight frown, as if straining to recall the exact words “He said you were a traitor, and took part in some ugly little war against our King and country.”
The death of tens of thousands didn’t qualify as a “little war,” Cate thought moodily, especially to the families of the dead, let alone those crippled and maimed, not to mention the smashing of the Highland’s way of life. To make that point, however, required energy she couldn’t find. Besides, it would be too much like arguing with the wind.
Futility in making the point kept her from bothering further. Her frustration and anger grew, not with Prudence. Heaven help the idiot, you can’t blame a chicken for not having sense. The anger and frustration was aimed at herself, for having been so damnedably naive as to have expected anything different.
“Oh, dear, whatever are we going to do with this hair?” Prudence said, fondling a lock at Cate’s shoulder. “I have a stylist who is a wizard. He studied in Paris, if you can imagine,” she said, with an affected roll of her eyes. “He could render Medusa into a raving beauty.”
Cate lacked the will or the energy to take affront at that broad fling. Appearances and tangle hair seemed too superficial to even give it thought.
A discrete clearing of the throat came from the direction of the door.
“I must away,” Prudence declared, rising quickly. She donned her gloves and arranged the shawl about her shoulders, but then bent over Cate once more. “Please, do as he ask. Breaston can be ever so generous. Perhaps we can have our elevenses or dinner after,” she said, her eyes brightening as she straightened. “Yes, that would be lovely. You must call on me, although not tomorrow. I have some calls to make, and then I simply must see the umbrella-maker, and then there’s that charming man who makes the most delicate fans.”
She paused long enough to place a sisterly peck on Cate’s cheek and then whisked out the door in a rustle of silk.
The door swung shut, leaving Cate to luxuriate in the quiet—solitude did have its benefits— and consider that she had, indeed, been hit on the head harder than imagined.
Cate dozed, fitfully twitching and jerking, ache, hunger and thirst barring her from anything more restful. A few times, she roused to the pattering of mice, the heavier rustle of rats, and the faint slither of what she could only hope was a lizard.
No one came with food. No one came with water.
Once more, the clatter of keys roused her. Battered muscles, stiffened by sleep, protested at being yanked up when she failed to show a leg to the guards’ satisfaction. She was half-carried, half-dragged past a long row of cells, wondering dimly what a mercantile company needed with so many? If questioned, she couldn’t have explained exactly how she knew, but it felt as though it was at the ground floor or perhaps a level higher. A more convenient location, she judged. Whether that was good or bad was unclear, however. One door and two stairs: it was a considerably shorter walk to the long corridor which led to Creswicke’s office. Just short of the doors, a cluster of men, a few guards and some in plainclothes, hung about in an alcove. She felt their gazes as she passed, speculative and measuring, exuding an animalness which made her glad to leave them behind.
The same ceremony as before delivered her into Creswicke’s office. Deposited near the center of the room, she weaved precariously as she stood; only by some miracle was she able to remain upright. Both eyes had swollen, one nearly shut, leaving her vision blurred and severely narrowed. She didn’t dare move her head by much, lest she undo her fragile balance, so it was difficult to orient herself as to exactly where in the room she was. Creswicke and his desk was before her, its lamp and the glow of the coals in the fireplace the only light.
Miss Frobisher’s corner was empty. Even with a nose clogged by swollen membranes and dried blood, Cate could still smell her lemon verbena. Surely it was hers; no man wore such a scent. It caught at the back of her throat and stabbed the backs of her eyes. She stirred her head, seeking to clear it, but to little avail.
The windows had been closed, the shutters drawn tight. The absence of light behind them suggested it was after dark. The quiet waterfront and lack of bird chatter, aside from the periodic squeegee! of a nightjar, all pointed toward the same thing. Night then, but for how long it had been, or if it was even the same day, she had no notion.
Watching Creswicke busy with something, her dulled senses pleaded for all this to end. Whether she would be hurt was no longer a wonder; now it was a matter of how badly. Through a brain fogged by fatigue, hunger and thirst, she dimly recalled concluding that Creswicke wasn’t going to kill her, but couldn’t recollect by what reasoning she had arrived to that end.
Cate moved her head the fraction necessary to see the fireplace, wondering why someone would wish a fire in the Caribbean. Still, she was more chilled than she thought; the heat felt glorious. She considered telling Creswicke he could do with her as he wished, so long as she could lie before the fire and sleep for a month, perhaps two.
She passed her tongue along her lips, brittle and split; thirst was becoming an overwhelming drive. She gazed longingly at the decanters barely more than an arm’s length away, but stubbornness wouldn’t allow her to ask the bastard for a drink. She closed her eyes, and the room pitched.
“Ah, our guest!”
Creswicke’s voice drew her back. At some point, he had risen. He was considerably more causal then, wearing only an open-necked shirt and breeches. His wig was gone as well, revealing a closely polled head of the same reddish blond as his brows.
“I hope you found your accommodations to your liking,” he said.
Cate began to answer, but was overtaken by a wave of dizziness that left her unsure as to whether she still stood. Finally steadying, she found him scowling, annoyed.
She coughed to clear the blood and mucous from her throat, and croaked “Your hospitality has been too generous.”
“Ah, I’m pleased to hear it. I’ve grand news! Nathan is alive, and he is here!” The declaration was delivered with a joy which bordered on giddy for one of his reserve. “Not here,” he chided at seeing her apparent worry. “But on Barbados. Several lookouts and a welcoming party—two I sent, actually—reported seeing him firsthand.”
Cate shifted, not liking the sound of “welcoming party” or “first hand.” It meant Creswicke had lain in waiting for Nathan, and he had walked right into it, reckless fool!
Creswicke looked expectantly for her gratitude for that bit of information. There was none, not enough at any rate to warrant the effort of forming the words.
“Your allegiances to Blackthorne are endearing.” He flashed what was probably meant as an engaging smile. “Hopelessly misguided, but endearing, I assure you.”
He came closer and gasped in exaggerated shock when she swayed precariously. “You’re pale and shivering. Pray, be seated here by the fire; you need warming.” He clucked over her like she was an aged aunt as he guided her to an elbow chair there.
“Really, Mr. Spears! Someone must be spoken to regarding this discommoding of our guests.”
Apparently the minion was somewhere in the room.
“A drink!” Creswicke declared, reaching for the decanters. “Yes, certainly, a brandy. As my memory serves, brandy was your preference.”
Steadied by sitting, Cate reached for the glass with a hand so clubbish it didn’t seem her own. Her thirst was so overwhelming, she cleaved onto the glass, her hand shaking so violently a good portion of it spilled down the front of her as she drank. The brandy was a cruel joke; it burned the cut and raw spots in her mouth, bringing tears to her eyes. The liquid landed in her stomach like one of the fire’s coals. She gasped, the sharp movement triggering enraged muscles in her ribs and stomach. The bastard had discovered a new level of evil, she thought ruefully: torture by hospitality.
Said bastard was close enough now for her to see the lines in his face. Red-rimmed eyes and the smell of liquor about him were all signs of a rough day.
Things had gone wrong, she mused.
If he had captured Nathan, he would have been crowing. But he wasn’t, which meant his “welcoming parties” had failed. Her glee at that, however, was immediately dampened by haunting visions of Nathan lying somewhere bleeding, wounded, or worse.
Creswicke moved to the fireplace. “Have you considered my offer?” he asked conversationally as he poked the coals.
“Have you considered my answer?” she shot back evenly.
The brandy fumes spiraled up her body, filling her chest and swarming like bees in her head with a pleasant buzzing sound. At the same time a tingling sensation shot down her arms all the way to her fingertips. Breaking out in a cold sweat, Cate shifted ever so slightly toward the fire’s heat.
“Relax, dear Madam. Coward that he is, Nathan won’t come charging in here or anywhere near. It’s just as well, for that was not my sole purpose. The perfect plan has many evolutions, allowing for the shift and flow of the inevitable unforeseen.”
Words and thoughts came in disjointed broken clumps, one, two or three at a time, but no amount of combining or recombining would make any sense.
You’re losing it, girl. You’re losing it.
Cate brought the drink nearer to her nose as if to take another drink and inhaled the sharp vapors. The liquor’s sharpness shot through the dried blood and bruised membranes with eye – watering results.
“You inquired earlier as to your role in all this escapade,” he said, coming back toward her.
“Bait, I assumed,” she rasped glumly.
Creswicke smiled as if at a private joke. “Bait in a trap I didn’t intend to spring. No, this is more an educational endeavor.”
“And I’m to learn…?”
His smile tightened. “Not you. Nathan. If you shan’t be my partner, then you shall be my messenger. Ah-ah! I shan’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Nathan won’t come, not for me,” she said testily. “I’m just a whore, remember? One in a long line.”
He inched closer. His fair skin was flushed, the colorless eyes bright and avid. “Very true, you are but a strumpet, but there’s more to it than that, far more,” he added with disquieting emphasis. “But Nathan will come; he will most definitely come. A man must know his adversary, and I know Nathan so very well.”
His smugness was both annoying and disquieting. Cate shifted in her seat to ease several sore spots. It wasn’t the damask chair from before, but leather, hard to the point of almost wood, and with curved arms.
“Capturing Nathan is like trying to catch a bit of ice on a marble floor: the harder you try to snatch him up, the more he slips through your fingers. It’s an admirable trait, but Nathan isn’t without his flaws, one significant above all others.”
“And that is?” she finally asked, prompted by the expectant arch of his brows.
“Nathan is protective, fiercely so, often to the detriment of those around him, of anything which is his and you, Madam Harper, are most definitely his possession.”
Mine. The last words Nathan had said to her, perhaps the last ones she would ever hear in that gravely, gruff voice. He had said it several times, not an outright declaration of his feelings, but the closest thing to it, an endearment that she had taken to heart. And now, Creswicke had dirtied that precious moment.
Creswicke plucked a humidor from his desk and opened it. “Please, join me in a cigar, won’t you, Mr. Spears? My apologies, Madam,” he said, ducking a stiff bow. “Certainly, you shouldn’t object to two gentlemen indulging in a small pleasure?”
Cate was lucid enough to realize a bizarre game was unfolding, but couldn’t sort out much beyond that. Thinking was too much like slogging through mud, a struggle to put one thought before another. She touched her tongue to her lip, tasting the blood as she worked it against her torn lip, worrying it as one would a sore tooth, using the pain to clear the muzziness. Suddenly, the room was insufferably warm. Sweat trickled a long path down between her breasts.
Spears appeared to one side of where Cate sat. Creswicke, on the other, poked through the long-handled tools, their heads deep in the coals, until he found one to his satisfaction. The glowing end of the poker was extended toward Spears’ waiting cigar, but paused well short, squarely before her. It was no ordinary fire poker, but a branding iron, shaped in the letter “P.” The smell of hot ash and metal curled up her nose, its heat prickling her skin.
Creswicke turned the iron in his hand, considering. The red-hot glow highlighted the bones of his face, casting the hollows in deep, skull-like shadows. “Upon my word, look at this! This is the very much like the one I used on Nathan, the day I made him my property.” His voice took on a lyrical quality, like someone relating a fairy tale to a child.
Cate’s bravado eroded as the reality of his intentions crept in. She closed her eyes, and the room began to whirl. She braced her head against the chair’s back and clutched the arms to keep from being flung out. Under her fingers were ridges in the wood. She looked down to see that they weren’t random scratches, but claw marks, as made by fingernails.
Rotating the glowing iron before her, Creswicke’s lips drew back in leering skull’s grin. “Have you ever seen a branding, Madam?” He shuddered dramatically. “Revolting, too disgusting for anyone of such delicate sensibilities as yourself.”
Cate averted her bruised face, throbbing from the radiant heat.
“They scream, you know… horribly.” His gaze was fixed on the red-orange end. “I’ve heard it said Nathan could be heard all the way to the other side of town. It’s a sizzle, at first, when the metal first touches the skin and then a vile smell.”
His eyes rolled closed and his nostrils flared, like someone before a savory meal. “You are familiar with the smell of roasting human, are you not? Not the same as beef or goat, is it? It’s been my experience each body has its own unique smell, women being somewhat the sweeter. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
The bland eyes gleamed from the pits of his skull. “Since, as you say, Madam, you are a woman of principle, not to be corrupted, then you shall be the messenger.”
She squirmed as the iron came closer. It loomed within inches of her face, her skin near to the point of blistering. Her breath quickened, fanning the iron brighter. Her hair stirred, touching the metal, the smell of it singeing burning her eyes.
“This will be your mark,” he hissed, looming over her. “’P’ for pirate whore; ‘P’ for possession, for I will own you; ‘P’ for you being but a mere piece in my game. The message, you ask?”
She nodded mutely, her mouth gone too dry to speak. Her stomach convulsed and her bowels threatened to turn to water.
“Recall these words well or I will have Mr. Spears carve them in that lovely skin: This is only the beginning.” His lips had gone white, his breath coming faster. “Rest assured, dear Madam, we shall do all this again, and again and again, until Nathan finally learns there is nothing that I can’t take from him, anything, anytime. I’ll see him pounding at my door, begging to be allowed in.”
His threat was a recurring nightmare, and yet there was a hidden message of hope. Thoughts bobbed like apples in a barrel. She snatched at one and then another, had it, and lost it. Ah, yes, there it was! A glimmer of hope: if she was to be recaptured, it meant he aimed to turn her loose…
But only as bait.
No… no… no…! Stay away.
You’re losing it, girl. You’re losing it.
“There is a way you can save yourself: bring me Nathan, the next time—and I promise you there will be a next time—I take you, won’t be so pleasant.”
Cate’s gaze settled on the shuttered window. Some place, out there beyond, salvation awaited. She lunged up and made a mad dash for it. In her mind, she leapt like a deer, but aching muscles, brandy and hunger left her stiff and weak. She managed only a few strides before Spears was on her, yanking her to a halt by a handful of her hair. He was a small man, but wiry. A fist to the kidneys knocked her breathless and senseless. By the neck and the waist, he spun her around. Creswicke came toward her, and she kicked out; Spears’ fingers dug deep into her jaw.
“Do that again and I’ll snap your neck like a twig.” His breath was hot on her neck.
Sweat gleamed on Creswicke’s face, the collar of his shirt darkening with it. His eyes bright and avid at seeing Cate struggle. “Mr. Spears, it would appear our prisoner is trying to escape again. Her clothing will be ripped if she doesn’t stop struggling.”
Spears reached around and gave her bodice a wrenching jerk. The old fabric readily gave way with a cool burst of air as both of her breasts fell free. Sweat gleamed on Creswicke’s closely – cropped crown, darkening the collar of his shirt. He seized one breast and gave it a savage twist. Cate’s pained cry was cut short by Spears’ hand on her jaw. Something moved in Creswicke’s eyes, dark and animal, as he adjusted his grip and twisted again. Nausea coiled like a fist in her gut, leaving Cate to wonder if, when she did vomit, if it would reach his silver-buckled shoe.
Creswicke stepped back, panting. “Hold her.”
Spears wrenched Cate around and flung her back against a table along the wall. With his hips against hers, he pinned her to it, bent her back over it, and extended her arm on the table by the wrist. Cate clawed and flailed with her free hand at Spears’ eyes and nose, seeking any point of weakness. His grip on her throat tightened and her efforts grew feeble, spots dancing at the edges of her vision.
Creswicke’s face was mere inches from Cate’s, his eyes glazed, lost in his own euphoria. He brought the iron close, searing the tender skin on her wrist. “There is a skill to this, did you know that? One I learned too late, poor souls,” he said without remorse. “Press firm and a mark is made; press too firmly and one mightn’t ever use that hand again.”
Agony struck. Not just a quick flash, as when one touched a hot griddle, but lingering, unyielding, as if her hand were melting from the end of her arm. She heard a scream, high and thin, barely human; the tightness in her chest and tearing of her throat said it was hers. Finally, it died off in a pitiful whimper, the smell of burning meat meeting her nose. The dots in her vision went red and increased, spiraling around Creswicke like a hive of angered bees as she watched him pick up the brandy decanter.
“Have a care, Madam Harper. That is a most egregious wound which should be attended. You shouldn’t wish it to fester.”
She smelled the brandy and felt the wetness a fraction before the pain struck anew as he trickled it over her arm. Another scream squeezed from her, thin and wailing, a last dying breath.
Oblivion danced at the edges of her consciousness. “Mr. Spears, you may call in your friends” she heard as if through cotton in her ears.
Oblivion closed in and enshrouded her in darkness.
“Thank you.”