Chapter 14

Jock crossed the market square for the third time and cursed under his breath. Where in hell do the lass think she's goin'? She'd vanished like a will-o'-the-wisp! "Damn it!" None of his plans for the evenin' included chasin' down Bradford's half-wild granddaughter. He liked the lass well enough, but free nights in Annapolis were few and far between for an overseer. He'd looked forward to sliding between the sheets with a soft young thing.

With a scowl, Jock turned down an alley toward the stable where he'd left his horse. Adam was out at Kentwood Manor with the gently; he'd have to ride out and tell him. He'd bet a month's wages none of them knew the puir wee thing was gone. Heaven only knew what she had in that head of hers to make her want to roam the streets of Annapolis on such a night. Living with the savages like she'd been doing, she was an innocent. A wee bairn would be better prepared than she for the dangers that an unescorted lass might meet.

Oh, Adam had raved on and on about Rebecca being some kind of an Amazon, but Adam was something of an innocent himself. He was fair smitten with the lass, the more so because it was bloody unlikely that old Thomas Bradford would even consider him a fit match for Rebecca. Adam had a lot to learn about life if he thought love and marriage went together. Love was for bards and unwed maidens; Jock had given up on it long ago.

Rebecca waited for several minutes in the shadow of the ship chandler's warehouse after she had seen Jock disappear down the dark alley. He'd been more persistent than she'd expected, even stopping people to ask if they'd seen a dark-haired lass "aboot so high" in a blue dress. She wondered if he would make the effort to hunt down Adam or her grandfather at Kentwood. Probably he would. But it would take time, and she could do a lot of interesting things in that time.

Around the corner, she'd seen a witch telling fortunes. A girl had said the woman was a Gypsy, but she looked like a witch. Otter had been able to see into the future by staring into a pool of water or sometimes by joining his mind with that of the spirit of fire. He had even foretold his own death.

What was it Otter had told her about a bird? "I see you under the folded wing of a great bird," he had said one starlit night. "There is danger, but a warrior will come and win you free. There will be blackness and then light."

Rebecca had laughed it off. "It would have to be a great bird to tuck me under his wing." Still, the words had made her uneasy, as had his prediction that she would be the mother of many sons. How could that be when he was not capable of fathering a child? It was then that he had told her gently of his own death.

"With the first snowfall," Otter had murmured, "I will breathe no more, and the north wind will carry my spirit across the river of no return."

He had been right. Rebecca shivered in the warm November night. She didn't want to think about such things now. Only foolish English men and women would pay a witch to tell them of troubles yet to come. Trouble would find you soon enough; there was no need to part the clouds of tomorrow to see it far off.

"Good evening, pretty thing." A man's hand closed on Rebecca's shoulder. "Oh, I beg your pardon, mistress." He swept off his hat. "I mistook you for a friend."

Rebecca stepped back and eyed the dapper young man warily. "I don't know you," she said. His uniform was unfamiliar but of costly material. She wondered if he was a soldier. "I am called..." She hesitated. Should she give her name? "Rebecca."

"And I am Roger. Roger... uh... Roger Smith, at your service, mistress." His broad smile was disarming. "I was about to hunt out an inn and quench my thirst. Will you join me in a cup?"

"Are you a soldier?" Rebecca was not unaware of the effect his dashing figure and smooth manner was having on her lighthearted mood. "I'm not sure I have enough coins left," she admitted.

Roger chuckled warmly. "I was asking you to be my guest," he assured her. "My ship sails tomorrow, and I know no one here in Annapolis. That's why I was so excited when I thought you were someone I knew from home."

"Your ship? You have a ship?"

Roger gauged the wide green eyes and took a chance. "Yes, the Constant, anchored just beyond that ship. I'm the youngest captain in the fleet," he lied blithely. He had seen her earlier looking out at the ships, and he'd planned to use her interest as an opening. His friend Will would never believe the wench's stupidity, mistaking a training cadet for a captain. Boldly he took her arm.

"There's a refined place just a short distance away where we can share a few drinks and a little conversation. The bridge is a lonely place. I couldn't bear the thought of spending this evening alone too. It will be many weeks before we sight land again."

Rebecca allowed herself to be led along the street. The English captain seemed harmless enough, and he had promised to share his money with her. Perhaps he would tell her more about the great ships and the distant shores they visited. She wondered if it would be rude to ask for wine. Ale she found too bitter for her taste, and the moonshine was doing strange things to her head and middle. "Is your family in England?"

"I've none left but a sister just about your age," Roger replied, ruthlessly cutting from his family tree his parents, four older brothers, and a bevy of sisters. "She lives in Lincolnshire, and I see her only infrequently." He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Simpleminded or not, the wench was an armful, with a face like an angel. She'd make a tasty morsel, something to think about on the endless voyage ahead.

The lack of women was the worst thing about a life at sea, and women were very important to him. Damn the luck that had made him a fifth son of a tight-fisted baron! He would have preferred almost anything else. At least at the end of his two years of sea duty he would be eligible to become a first officer and eventually a captain, if his luck didn't suddenly change and his brothers all be wiped out by the plague. As captain, at least, he would have a measure of freedom.

The wooden sign of King William's tavern loomed ahead and Roger escorted the young woman inside and safely to a corner table. "What will you have?" he asked. "Rum for me," he told the serving girl.

"Wine," Rebecca answered. "Red wine, if you please."

A faint doubt nagged at Roger. The wench was too well spoken for a serving girl; her manners were more those of a lady. Doubtless she was some colonial lady's maid putting on airs. It made no difference to him anyway. Lady or maid, if they were old enough and willing—or could be made willing—the results were the same.

"Bring us each a bottle," he ordered. "And a pewter goblet for the lady."

The barmaid grimaced, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried to fill the order. "Men! They're all the same," she mumbled to no one in particular as she threaded her way through the crowded public room. Like as not the girl wouldn't even have sense enough to get paid for it!

Rebecca curled her feet up under her and listened to the fables the captain was telling about a tribe of Indians that rode on elephants. He had sworn he was telling truth and that he had ridden the elephants himself, but Rebecca knew a tall tale when she heard one. She knew that the land stretched to the west so far that a man could ride a horse through all the seasons of the year before he came to the other great salt ocean beyond the Sky Mountains. But no tribe that she had ever heard of had elephants. Horses and buffalo, but no elephants. Besides, he talked of cities and towers and jungles. He must believe she was stupid to swallow his stories so easily.

The girl returned with the bottles and poured them each a glassful. Rebecca smiled at the barmaid and got only a frown in return. English! She would never understand them. Hesitantly, she tasted the red wine; it was like nothing she'd ever had before, and it intrigued her.

"You're the prettiest thing I've laid eyes on in years," Roger was saying as he sipped his own drink. "If it wasn't so late and we didn't have to sail in the morning, I'd take you out to my ship and show you around."

Rebecca's eyes widened with interest. "You would do that?" She hadn't finished her wine yet, but he filled the goblet to the brim. "I could see your ship? I could climb the"—she searched for the right English word—"the mask. My grandfather said he would take me to see one of the ships, but he couldn't. The sheriff wouldn't let him."

Roger choked on a mouthful of rum, then went into a coughing spasm. Rebecca jumped up to slap him on the back, then sat down quickly. "It's all right," he gasped. "I'm all right."

Rebecca blinked and rubbed her eyes. It was suddenly very warm in the room, and her stomach felt as if she had eaten green cherries. She blinked again, trying to focus on the captain, who looked for an instant as though he had four eyes. "I think I have had enough wine," she said weakly.

"I think perhaps you have." He dropped a few coins on the rough wooden table, tucked the bottle of rum under one arm, and caught her by the other. "If we hurry, we might have time to see the ship. There's something in my cabin I'd like you to see. It's a monster we caught off the Cape of Good Hope. It's got two heads and a dozen arms and teeth the size of eggs."

Rebecca swayed slightly on her feet and giggled. More lies. English children must have minds like rabbits to believe such tales. "But I want to climb the mask," she reminded him.

A pale-faced man wearing a uniform much like Roger's came across the room and called to him. Roger frowned and shook his head. "Not now, Will." He motioned toward Rebecca.

The blond man grinned. "What are friends for? We've shared before, and that looks like enough to go around." He gave a mock bow in Rebecca's direction. "Will Rodale, esquire, mistress. And what might your name be?"

"Forget it, Will." Roger's face hardened. "Not this one. I'm taking her out to see the ship. Go down to the captain's skiff and see that the men are ready to row us there."

Will arched an eyebrow. "You're not serious!"

Rebecca looked suspiciously from one to another. "I think I will see the ship another time."

"And miss seeing the monster?" Roger grinned at her. "I'll have you out and back before your mistress even knows you're gone." His dark eyes narrowed. "Quickly now, Will, before I lose my temper. I'm too soft on you for friendship's sake, I know."

Will folded his arms over his chest and shook his head slowly. "Not without something for me. It's too big a risk."

"Give me an hour then." Roger's arm went around Rebecca. "Come, mistress. I'll show you something you'll want to tell your friends about; the tale will keep them spellbound."

The blond man nodded, turned on his heel, and hurried from the room.

"I don't believe your story of the monster," Rebecca murmured, "but I will come to see the ship. Will you raise the sail for me?"

"Anything your heart desires, sweet. I'm the captain, aren't I?"

* * *

Outside the great hall at Kentwood Manor, Isabel Sinclair descended on Jock with the rapacity of a barracuda. "Where are they?" she demanded.

Jock stepped back into the shadows of the overhanging porch roof. "Ay don't know what yer talkin' aboot, Mistress Sinclair. Ay've come to find Adam, that's all."

"He's not here, and neither is Rebecca!"

Jock exhaled loudly. "Ay saw the wee lass, but she was alone. Adam was nae wi' her. Ay thought he was here."

"He was here. They both were," Isabel hissed. "And now both are conveniently gone. Can you imagine what this will do to Rebecca's reputation? To her chances of a good marriage?"

"Aye, mistress. Ay think ay can." Jock shifted uneasily from one foot to another. The lassie had truly ruined his night! If Adam wasn't here at the manor with the gentry, he had to be at the Merry Widow. He himself had wasted nearly an hour riding out here when it seemed that all he had had to do was step across the market square and seek Adam out. Damn the luck!

"I've lied to her grandfather and told him the girl is ill. If she's not here in the morning, the shock will kill him. You find Adam Rourke and tell him to bring Rebecca back here at once. He must bring her into the house secretly. God alone knows how he got her out without being seen." Isabel gave Jock a withering stare. "And if I hear you've mentioned a word of this, I'll see you end up herding pigs in Boston."

"Ay don't need ye to tell me to hold me tongue, Mistress Sinclair," he answered stiffly. "Ay came here to Kentwood only because I saw the lass in Annapolis and knew she wa' in danger, runnin' aboot by herself." Jock put his hat back on and yanked it into place. "Ay'll find Adam and tell him. If anyone can fetch her back, it be Adam."

"If you saw her, you should have had sense enough to bring her back yourself," Isabel said sharply. "If anything happens to her, it will be on your head."

"No doot." Disgusted, Jock mounted his horse and rode off into the night. He hoped that Adam was at Big Kate's; if not, he, Jock, would have the thankless task of looking for the lass alone!

* * *

Rebecca's heart was pounding as the little skiff moved across the water toward the larger vessels anchored in the harbor. A burly seaman sat on the bench in front of her, rowing. He used two paddles instead of one as the Indians did. Another man was rowing behind her, and the "captain" shared her bench, his arm around her waist to keep her from falling into the water.

"I'm a good swimmer," she protested. "I can manage a canoe almost this big by myself. You needn't worry about me falling in and drowning."

"You couldn't swim in this harbor," Roger lied smoothly. "There's a swift undertow and there are whirlpools beneath the surface." He pulled her a little closer to him. "As it is, I'm breaking the rules in bringing you out here. If there should be an accident, think how it would look."

One of the sailors muttered something under his breath, and Rebecca looked back over her shoulder at him. The man was large and red faced; his single pigtail was soaked in tar and hung like a club down his back. She wrinkled her nose. He smelled like rotten fish. It never ceased to amaze her that white men referred to Indians as stinking savages when it was the white men who seldom bathed.

The captain, at least, was clean smelling. Rebecca pushed his hand away; she didn't like being touched by strangers. Among the Shawnee, it was considered very poor manners.

Lights flickered and voices called out from the ships as they passed. Close up, the sailing ships were even larger than Rebecca had imagined. They smelled of dampness and moss and tar. She let her hand trail in the dark water, still amazed at how warm it was for November.

"Will winter come at all this year, do you suppose?" she asked Roger. "At home we would have had snow by now."

He shrugged. "I've never known it to be this warm. It was spring the last time we anchored in the Chesapeake. When it does get cold here, you'll probably have snow up to your a—" He cleared his throat. "To your neck. I heard that the bay froze from bank to bank one year, hard enough to walk across."

"There she be, sir." The man in the front of the boat rested his oars, and pointed at the ship directly ahead. "Hello, the Constant!"

A torch bobbed, and a face appeared at the rail. "Who—?"

"'Tis I, Falk. Hold your tongue and drop the ladder," Roger called. "I'm coming aboard."

"Aye, sir." A rope ladder tumbled over the side.

"Don't be frightened," Roger said to Rebecca. "I'll be right behind you. I won't let you fall."

The men held the small boat close to the side of the ship as Rebecca scrambled up the rope ladder. A big man glared at her as she climbed over the gunnel and dropped to the deck. Roger followed.

"Be about your business, Falk. The wench is my affair."

"She'll be your affair if Mister Durban sees 'er," the man grumbled.

"And where, may I ask, is our Mister Durban?" Roger's tone was full of sarcasm.

"It ain't for the likes o' me t' say."

Rebecca watched the huge sailor from under her lashes; she didn't like him one bit. He made her nervous, staring at her with his bulging eyes. She wished she hadn't come. Not even having the opportunity to see the wonderful ship was worth the price of being insulted by these English scum. "I think I will go back now," she said to Roger.

"Drunk again, is Mister Durban? I thought as much," Roger said to the man Falk as he took Rebecca's arm. To her he said, "Not yet, sweet. There's much I promised to show you." His voice hardened. "A wise man would see nothing, Falk, if he preferred to keep his hide on his back."

With a grunt, the man turned and walked away. Roger guided Rebecca along the deck, pointing out items of interest. Her uneasiness grew. The ship seemed almost deserted; its shadowy masts and unfamiliar sounds gave her a sense of foreboding.

"The Constant's a two-hundred-and-eighty-tonner. She's square rigged and carries eight cannon." Roger paused before a low door and glanced around the empty deck. "She's faster than she looks. Of course, we'll be slowed by the fleet, but last time, we crossed the Atlantic in thirty-one days." He opened the door and stepped back to let her pass. "Go on in, Rebecca. This is my cabin. The creature I told you about is in here."

"You go first."

Roger chuckled as he stepped around her into the darkness. In a minute there was a flicker of light and then the glow of a whale-oil lamp. Its light revealed a spacious cabin.

"There's nothing to be afraid of." Roger laughed as he took her hand. "Come. Sit down and we'll have a sip of brandy." He slid the bolt on the cabin door behind her.

"I want nothing more to drink. I have had enough." It was true. The boat ride had cleared her head a little, but she still felt strange. "Show me your monster and then take me back to shore." Her grandfather would be very angry if she didn't get back to the house before anyone realized she was missing. It was late, and Aunt Isabel would be returning to her room by now.

Hesitantly, Rebecca followed Roger to the center of the low-ceilinged room, her eyes taking in the exotic Turkish carpets and rich furnishings. The desk, the bed, everything but the chairs seemed to be built into the ship. She let a finger slide across the polished surface of the desk; the wood was beautiful and unfamiliar. The lamp gave off a strong smell that blended with the odors of tobacco and spice. Maps lay scattered on the desk beside a tray with crystal glasses and a matching brandy decanter; a pewter plate with a single crust of cheese and a wicked-looking ivory-handled knife rested on the maps.

It was a gentleman's room, and judging from the books and beautiful objects, one that belonged to a man of taste and wisdom. Rebecca was surprised that so young a captain as Roger would appreciate such fine things. "What is this wood?" she asked, touching the desk again. "It does not come from our forests."

"It's called teak." His grip tightened on her fingers, and he pulled her closer. "But let's talk about something nicer, Rebecca. Let's talk about you and me." He put his other arm around her and kissed her suddenly on the mouth.

"No!" She jerked back and wiped at her lips with the back of her hand. "I do not wish to kiss you. I want to go back. Now!"

Roger's face creased in a scowl. "Did you think I bought you drinks and carried you out here to take you back without so much as a kiss?" His fingers bit into her wrist; she gasped at the pain and brought her knee up to strike him in the groin.

"None of that, my girl!" he said, sidestepping the attack. He yanked her arm down and twisted it behind her back, striking her twice across the face with his free hand. "Behave yourself," he threatened, "and we'll have a good time."

Stunned, Rebecca stared wide eyed as realization flooded her brain. Red-hot anger rose to dull the smart of her swelling cheek.

"Don't make me play rough, little colonial," Roger murmured huskily. "I like a woman with fire, but not too much of it." He applied a hint of pressure to her wrist and began to fumble with the ties of her gown. "Let's see what you've got hidden in there."

With a whimper, Rebecca closed her eyes and let her muscles go limp. Instinctively, Roger released her wrist and caught her falling body. Her teeth closed on his arm and bit until he screamed with pain. He threw his hands up to protect his face from her slashing nails, and agony washed over him as her foot connected with his knee. He fell backward with her on top of him, his head striking the corner of the desk. Rebecca rolled free and came to her feet, breathing heavily.

"I think you do not know what means to play rough, English-manake," she whispered.

"You bitch." Roger's hand went to the back of his head and came away wet and warm with blood. "I'll kill you for this."

"Matchele ne tha-tha." Rebecca's eyes glittered in the lamplight. "Come, little captain, and we will see who kills who." Sweeping aside the crystal glasses, her hand closed on the ivory-handled knife. "Your scalp will hang from a Shawnee lance," she promised softly. "And I will feed your bones to the earth."