Chapter 8

Charmantes

BENEATH a blackened sky and cold, steady rain, the sorrowful procession picked its way along the craggy path to the cemetery. They stood before an open grave, where Michael Andrews intoned the dirge: Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. The men lowered John’s casket into the deep hole, and the first shovelfuls of dirt were thrown on it. Charmaine closed her eyes and wept pitifully into Frederic’s shirtfront, his strong arms encircling her. The twins were wailing. Paul was at their side, his eyes stormy. Flanked by Rose and Mercedes, George’s head bowed farther to hide his tears, though his shoulders shook with grief. Charmaine couldn’t bear it. She was going to die, too … Oh God, let me die, too!

She awoke, her heart pounding and her body saturated in a cold sweat. She was staring at the ceiling. It had been a dream—just a dream, yet she knew John was dead. She struggled out of bed, rolling with her cumbersome belly, but as her feet touched the floor, she doubled over in pain. She was in labor.

Elizabeth smiled at John as he approached, but oddly, the distance between them remained constant. His eyes left her face for the small child she held by the hand. It was Pierre, smiling up at him. John broke into a run and, after an eternity, reached them. He lifted Pierre and the boy flung his arms around his neck. “Papa,” he said. “Where were you?”

“Right here, Pierre,” John whispered. “I was right here.”

“We missed you! Mama and I missed you!”

John turned to his mother, but Colette smiled up at him now. He reached for her, and she stepped into his embrace. “You did well, John,” she murmured. “You righted the wrong, and now it is over.”

“Colette,” he breathed, “Colette.” He hugged mother and son tightly to him and savored her sweet fragrance. He was at peace.

Charmaine groped through the darkness to Paul’s room, hunched over with another contraction. She rapped on his door, pounding harder when he didn’t answer.

“Charmaine?” he queried when he opened to find her there. “What is it?”

Then he knew: The baby was on the way, one month early. He lifted her into his arms and quickly carried her back to her room. “Stay here, I’ll get Rose and Loretta and set out for Dr. Hastings.”

“Paul!” she called as he reached the door. He turned to face her. “John is dead. Dear God—I know he’s dead!”

He returned to the bed, grasping her hand and holding it tightly as another contraction seized her, waiting for the pain to subside. “You don’t know that, Charmaine.”

“I had a dream,” she moaned, her breathing rapid, “but I know it was real! I’ve lost him!”

“You’re in labor, Charmaine, and your mind is playing tricks on you. Now, try to relax, and I’ll be back soon.”

He left her again, beset with worry.

Marie Elizabeth Duvoisin was born not two hours later, a loud wail greeting the doctor, who arrived too late. It had been a surprisingly easy labor, especially for a first child, and Rose beamed at her prowess as midwife.

Dr. Hastings stayed until he was sure mother and child were fine. The babe was small, but quite healthy, he reassured. Her early delivery was induced by anxiety, he diagnosed, which he admonished Charmaine to subdue, lest she bring on complications. He spoke to Paul on his way out. “I hope your brother won’t be disappointed with a daughter.”

“No, Adam,” Paul murmured, “John won’t be disappointed.”

Charmaine gazed down at her infant daughter, who was already searching for a nipple. She wept, her tears falling onto her daughter’s head, a baptism of abounding love.

“Marie, my sweet little Marie, if only your father were here … ”

Leaning over, Charmaine kissed her head, the fuzz of red-blond hair, soft as down. The baby looked like John, already she looked like John, save the blue eyes, the beautiful blue eyes that opened now and then. Her tiny fist clutched Charmaine’s finger, and Charmaine brought it to her lips for another tender kiss.

Rose and Loretta bustled about the room, removing the soiled linens, shooing people away from the door. “Give Charmaine a moment’s peace. She wants to have the babe all to herself for a spell.” The twins had been awoken with all the commotion, and they were the most anxious to see the newest Duvoisin.

Marie began to fuss, letting out a fierce cry that turned rhythmic, the volume increasing. Rose quickly dropped what she was doing and came around the bed. “She wants to nurse,” she stated mildly and proceeded to show Charmaine the proper way to offer the infant her breast. The tiny lips rooted around and latched firmly onto the proffered nipple. The suckling sensation was both uncomfortable and exquisite. Together they fed a burgeoning contentment, and Charmaine was blanketed in an unfathomable peace.

When Marie fell asleep, she made herself presentable, allowing her pillows to be fluffed before sitting back into them. Twice Loretta attempted to put Marie in the cradle, but Charmaine cuddled her daughter all the closer. “No, let me hold her. I need to hold her.” Loretta nodded in understanding. Rose invited the family in for their first visit.

Yvette and Jeannette danced with delight as they beheld their niece.

“Wait until Johnny comes home,” Yvette said.

“He will be so proud,” Jeannette added.

Paul stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the tender vision. Charmaine looked radiant, bearing the twins’ comments with quiet dignity, a faint smile on her lips. He wished she were cradling his child. He loved her, he suddenly realized. If John didn’t return, he vowed to take care of her and perhaps, if she’d have him, marry her.

Sunday, December 16, 1838

Charmaine had enjoyed a wonderful birthday, as wonderful as it could be without John. Next year would be different, everyone reassured her. This year, the entire household had taken great pains to make it a happy occasion. She even felt better, nearly restored to the woman she’d been before her confinement.

Now, with Marie sound asleep in her cradle, she stroked the mane on the rocking horse. She turned to the other birthday gifts, most of them for her daughter. Charmaine didn’t mind; she enjoyed looking at the pretty little dresses and stockings. She spent the next hour or so rearranging drawers to make room for Marie’s layette. She decided to combine John’s clothing into five drawers, as there was more room in his chiffonier than hers.

She was working on the second drawer when she found it— tucked between two shirts, neatly folded and worn. As if scorched, she dropped Colette’s love letter, her shaking hands flying to her mouth, the sheets fluttering to the floor.

Charmaine composed herself. She didn’t know it was a love letter. She had only read a small portion of it that day almost a year and a half ago.

The days, the weeks, the months fell away, and she was back in John’s room, searching for the twins, rankled by the draft that had strewn so many papers on the floor. She was picking them up again, rearranging and reading them. It didn’t seem possible it was John, her John, who had stormed into the room that morning—that such terrible rage and hatred had ever existed between them. And yet, she’d gladly go back, if only he could be with her now.

The letter remained on the floor, yet, like a magnet, tugged at her heart. Indecisive, she stepped back. She shouldn’t read it. But John may never come home, and he is your husband. You have a right to know! You have that right. But did she want to know? It’s no longer private, her mind screamed. John has told you everything … But has he really? Isn’t it better to know for sure?

Swiftly, she snatched it up. The last page was on top, and she read the closing: Until we meet again, Your loving Colette. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Why was she putting herself through this? She folded the pages, angry she’d started at all. John had been furious when she had read his private correspondence before. She would not be guilty of doing so now. Besides, she didn’t want to know Colette’s innermost feelings for John, refused to give them power over her. Drawing a ragged breath, Charmaine quickly replaced the letter in the drawer.

Her terrible nightmare took hold, and a chill chased up her spine. If the dream were real, if John had died, he was with Colette. He had her all to himself now, for his father had remained behind with the living. This letter John cherished and cradled amidst his personal belongings was testimony to his desperate love for her, even unto death. No wonder he wasn’t afraid of dying in pursuit of Robert Blackford. He knew Colette was waiting for him in the afterlife.

Charmaine thought of the single letter she had received from him over three months ago. If Colette were alive today, I would still choose you. But Colette wasn’t alive. She was in paradise with Pierre at her side. John was with his family now. She knew it. Charmaine just knew it. She closed her eyes to the vivid vision of them embracing him, and she fought back tears. “Oh God!” she moaned and threw herself on the bed, sobbing bitterly.

Thursday, December 20, 1838

Paul was alarmed to find the Heir docked in the harbor. She had left Charmantes in late November and should have been well on her way to Europe by now. “Will!” Paul called as he climbed aboard, “what has happened?”

The captain frowned. “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Paul.”

Will Jones recounted the Heir’s arrival in New York, and the events that followed. Paul rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing what to make of it, Charmaine’s premonition taking root.

“Your father told me to weigh anchor on the ninth if they didn’t appear, but I waited an extra day to be certain. I even sent a man in search of your brother. Apparently, the police were scouring his place. They came snooping around the harbor, too—on the docks and at the warehouse—but were tight-lipped, so I don’t know what happened. I would have been here sooner, but the weather down the coast was rotten, blizzard conditions nearly half the way.”

Will read the dread on Paul’s face and added, “Perhaps your father and John knew about the police and laid low. I know your father was concerned about police involvement.”

“Or,” Paul countered aloud, “Blackford injured them, and the authorities were looking for someone to contact the family.”

Will shrugged. “At this point, we don’t know enough to assume the worst.”

“True, but how do we find out?”

Paul spent the rest of the day working alongside the dockworkers and sailors. The grueling labor of reloading the ship helped clear his mind so he could think rationally. He toyed with the idea of setting sail for New York immediately, but ruled that out when he thought of Charmaine. He couldn’t tell her what he’d learned. She’d be terribly upset, and if he left before Christmas, she’d know something was wrong. That would add up to two more weeks of worry. No, the answers would have to wait a bit longer—until Christmas was over.

With dusk on the harbor and the lading finished, Paul came to a decision. The Tempest, his newest ship, was due in port any day now. After the holiday, he’d take her on to New York himself.

Christmas Eve, 1838

Charmaine sat on the sofa in the drawing room, little Marie comfortably nestled in her arms, sound asleep. This dismal Christmas Eve mocked last year’s sad holiday, for although the manor was serene, it was a shaky peace. They hadn’t heard from either John or Frederic for three months now. Though Paul assured her no news was good news, Charmaine knew her premonition had signaled some dire event. As she adored her babe, she offered up another petition to the litany of those that had gone before.

Rose and the twins fastened the last of the festive decorations to the mantel, their stockings hanging from the fireplace in anticipation of St. Nicholas. The girls had even fashioned a stocking for Marie. When Charmaine warned them about expecting too much, Yvette had countered that St. Nicholas was bound to come this year, since there was no Agatha to frighten the merry old elf away. Charmaine looked at Paul, but he seemed unaffected, his eyes twinkling in knowing merriment.

Joshua and George were playing a game of chess (they got along famously) while Loretta and Mercedes leafed through a catalog of baby items. Mercedes was large with child, her own days of confinement nearing their end. Soon little Marie would have a playmate.

Paul stood at the fireplace, deep in contemplation, his eyes going frequently to Charmaine. His attentiveness was not lost on Loretta or Rose. Espoir had been all but forgotten, and though he was needed more desperately here, they knew Charmaine was the reason he stayed on Charmantes.

George was worried, too, but his concern centered on John and Frederic. Paul had told him about the Heir’s aborted mission, and although he’d advised Paul not to jump to conclusions, he’d conjured a few terrible scenarios himself. When Paul decided to head for New York, he was relieved. If Mercedes weren’t so near her time, he would have volunteered to go. But he wouldn’t ask his wife to endure what Charmaine was enduring.

Presently, he stood and conceded the game to Joshua. Helping Mercedes out of her seat, they bade everyone goodnight.

Charmaine looked to the yawning twins. “It’s time you found your beds as well. You don’t want St. Nicholas to pass you by. I hear he only visits the homes of sleeping children.” They went off with Rose.

With an expansive stretch, Joshua said goodnight, and with some reservations, Loretta said the same. Paul walked over to Charmaine and sat beside her. He didn’t say a word, but he studied her with a faint smile.

Despite her sadness, Charmaine treasured the happiness that Marie stirred in her heart. She looked at him and saw the laughter in his eyes. “What are you smiling at?” she asked.

He shook his head and gave a slight shrug as if to say “nothing.” When he was certain no one would return, he reached behind the sofa and retrieved four packages. Though each one was small, they were wrapped, complete with ribbons.

“What is this?” she asked in surprise.

“St. Nicholas has arrived,” he said, before walking to the hearth and depositing two gifts in each stocking.

“What are they?”

“A set of playing cards for Yvette and dice.”

“You’re joking!” Charmaine laughed.

“On the contrary,” Paul replied.

“But your father will be furious!”

“If he comes home, I’ll be happy to face his punishment.”

The spontaneous comment annihilated the cheerful moment, and Charmaine bowed her head to a sudden surge of tears. “I’m a coward, Paul,” she whispered, looking down at her daughter. “If I faced reality, maybe this emptiness in my heart would begin to heal.”

Her declaration reverberated about the room. Hadn’t he come to believe the worst himself—John and his father had attempted to apprehend Blackford on the sixth of December and something had gone terribly wrong? Are they dead? Paul clenched his fists angrily, a violent reaction he had been unable to quell since the day the Heir had docked on the island.

Charmaine distracted him from his murderous thoughts. “What are in the packages for Jeannette?”

“A locket and a miniature horse,” Paul replied, forcing a smile.

“Would you hold Marie for me?” she asked, wondering whether he would be comfortable with the request. Had he ever held a newborn?

But the invitation pleased him, and he plucked the baby out of her arms, cradling her as if he had done so many times before. Charmaine realized he’d most likely held Pierre and the twins when they were infants.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” she answered, sweeping from the room.

She came back with her own gifts and stuffed them into the girls’ stockings, which were now bulging with booty. Satisfied, she faced him. “Marie won’t sleep much longer, so I had best get some rest.”

He nodded, for he had often heard the baby’s cries during the night, but when she reached for Marie, he shook his head. “I’ll take her,” he offered.

Nestling the infant in the crook of his arm, he stood, put his other arm around Charmaine’s shoulders, and accompanied her upstairs. The lamps burned low in the sconces, the house ever so quiet. When they arrived at her door, Paul strode into the room and gently laid Marie in her cradle.

He turned back to Charmaine, considering her in the lamplight. “What would you like for Christmas, Charmaine?”

“John,” she gushed without thought, her throat constricted, “only John.”

Just the answer I want! “Well, Charmaine,” he proceeded, “I’ve been giving that a great deal of thought—ever since the night Marie was born. The day after Christmas, I’m setting out in search of your errant husband and my father. It’s about time we found out what has happened.” Seeing her surprise, he continued. “One of my ships is in port and is scheduled to travel to New York and Boston. I’ll be on board when she sets sail.”

“Paul? You’d do that?” she asked, her heart leaping with hope.

“My Christmas present to you. However—” he hesitated, hoping to provide a beacon in the storm he feared she had yet to weather “—I want a promise from you.”

“What is it?”

“If I come back with bad news—and I’m not saying I will—I want your promise that, after a reasonable time has passed, you will consider marrying me.”

Charmaine lowered her gaze to the floor, bombarded by many emotions.

“Is marriage to me revolting?” he queried, misreading her.

“No, Paul—of course it’s not,” she choked out, her eyes meeting his.

Realizing she was about to cry, he enclosed her in his arms. She grabbed hold of him and wept softly. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head, his heart aching with the feel of her in his embrace. When she lifted her head, he could hold back no longer. He lowered his lips to hers and tenderly kissed her. She accepted his gentle overture, then stepped back. “I love you, Charmaine,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to take care of you and Marie.”

She was astounded, and new tears filled her eyes; now she ached for him.

“I—I know you do, Paul,” she murmured, wiping her cheeks dry. “And I thank you for being here for me. But I can’t—”

“Very well, Charmaine, I won’t press you. But I want you to know you need never be alone.”

She inhaled raggedly, aware she would have to face reality sooner or later. “I will consider your offer,” she said. “But only after I know what has happened, when all hope is lost.”

Paul retreated to the door. “Goodnight,” he murmured, then slowly retired to his lonely chambers.

For a moment, Charmaine considered running after him. She longed to sleep in someone’s arms, not to make love with him, but to be held, to feel protected once again, to shake off this overwhelming despair.

Marie began to stir, and she knew she wasn’t alone at all. She lifted her daughter and climbed into bed. Marie nuzzled close, eagerly accepting her breast. Soon they fell into a peaceful, symbiotic slumber.

Christmas Day, 1838

Rebecca Remmen placed the boiled potatoes on the table and settled into her chair, watching Wade carve thin slices of the ham he’d brought home for their Christmas dinner. With fresh bread and sweet green beans, it was their finest meal of the year. They’d have the ham for a few days, and Rebecca would coax a soup from the bone, stretching this rare indulgence into a week’s worth of meals.

It was pleasant having Wade home for the day. Usually, she was alone, and more often than not, lonely. She’d just turned seventeen, and Wade would not allow her to work anywhere in town, fearful a young woman as lovely as she would get herself into more trouble than she could handle, especially with surly longshoremen coming and going daily. She could take care of herself, but she hadn’t convinced Wade of that, so other than the weekends when they’d stroll into town together to shop for necessities and socialize, Rebecca scarcely went farther than their tiny yard. Paul Duvoisin’s grand ball had been the single most enchanting event in her short, disenchanting life, an occasion she treasured.

Three years ago, she and her brother had reached Charmantes, and life had drastically improved. They had food on their table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. Rebecca wanted more: to write a letter, to read a good book, to cipher so she could pay Maddy Thompson for their purchases. She was tired of cleaning the spotless cottage, sick of weeding the flowerbeds, hated tending the vegetable garden. She’d darned enough socks and mended enough shirts to clothe an army. But if she must do it, she’d rather do it for a husband. When her chores for the day were done, she would step out of the cottage and sit under a palm tree in the backyard, waiting for Wade to come home. Each night as dusk fell, she fantasized about a life of adventure, but most of all, she dreamed about Paul.

Her life had changed forever on the day the captain of the Black Star had marched them in front of the man and declared them stowaways. Paul did not scoff at her brother’s daring scheme to start over. He listened when Wade described the squalid slums of Richmond. He understood their unorthodox pilgrimage to the “promised land”—Les Charmantes—the fabled paradise island of the Duvoisin dynasty. He nodded when Wade insisted he was strong and willing to work, that given a chance, he would make the Duvoisin family proud.

Those first few days, Paul saw to it they were fed and clothed. He set them up in the neglected cottage where they now lived and put Wade to work. Part of her brother’s wages would go toward the purchase of that property. Over time, Wade did prove himself, assuming greater responsibility, ignoring the grumbles of some of the older men. Now three years later, he was in charge of the mill and had the respect of many, all because of Paul. For this, Rebecca’s innocent heart placed Paul on a pedestal. He was her hero.

Though he hardly knew she existed, she was thrilled when she and Wade were invited to his spectacular ball. But Wade didn’t want to go, maintaining they’d be out of place. She disagreed, and for weeks she’d pestered, wheedled, and begged, until finally, he gave in. Unfortunately, he was right. She was unprepared for the disillusionment of stepping into that grand banquet hall and beholding the most elegant of women in their finest garb. Paul would never notice her in her plain dress, certainly wouldn’t dream of asking her to dance.

On a whim, she sought him out. All she needed was a few moments of his time; he’d have to notice her then. She knew she was attractive. She’d heard the whistles and catcalls from the sailors when she and Wade passed by Dulcie’s. But she had botched her opportunity in the Duvoisin kitchen, had acted like a ninny. She’d vowed to be truthful with him. Yet, where had it gotten her? In his eyes, she was little more than a silly, tongue-tied girl, blurting out her childish adulation. For months, she had fretted over her behavior that night.

Her brother’s illness last September changed all that. Although Paul might not like her, at least now he knew she wasn’t some simpering simpleton. She could stick up for herself and her brother. Like Wade, she had strength of character.

“Rebecca?” Wade interrupted her deep contemplation. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Why are you always daydreaming?”

She smiled brightly at him. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I’m going to be extremely busy for the next few weeks.”

“Why? Is Paul going to Espoir again?”

“Weren’t you listening to anything I said?” he chided with a scowl. “He’s leaving for New York tomorrow to track down his father and his brother. He’ll be on the Tempest when she casts off at dawn.”

“But why is he doing that?” she queried in alarm, remembering Felicia’s words of yesterday. Charmaine has him wrapped around her little finger. Why, he’s so blind he’ ll do anything for her.

“He’s worried,” Wade explained. “He hasn’t had word from them in over three months. He’ll be gone for at least two weeks and he’s putting me in total control of the sawmill. That means no George checking in.”

Rebecca cared little about her brother’s gratification. She was very upset and ate most of her meal in silence, her brother’s comments doing cartwheels in her head. When he left the table to leaf through a newspaper, she slipped next door to wish the Flemmings a happy Christmas and speak privately to Felicia.

“Did you know Paul intended to follow his father and brother to New York?” she asked when she and Felicia stepped out the back door.

“I’m not surprised,” the woman said flippantly. “Charmaine’s probably cried on his shoulder, and now he wants to make her happy by bringin’ John home.”

“But if she’s after Paul as you say, why would she do that?”

Felicia laughed. “She doesn’t really want her husband back. She just wants Paul to think she does.”

“Why would she want him to think that?” Rebecca pressed.

Irritated by the obtuse question, Felicia’s face twisted in haughty contempt. “Agatha got rid of Pierre for the money, and Frederic and John are probably dead at her brother’s hands. Charmaine will have it all if Dr. Blackford kills Paul, too—her baby the sole heir to the Duvoisin fortune.”

“Do you really think Dr. Blackford has killed Frederic and John?”

“You figure it out! Why else haven’t they sent word?”

Rebecca was truly worried. If Paul’s brother and father were dead, then he was headed for the same trap.

Felicia babbled on. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s working with Blackford.”

“Oh, Felicia, I can’t believe that!” Rebecca objected.

“No? Well, you don’t know the woman like I do. Everyone knows her father’s a murderer. She’s been sly from the start. I’d even lay money down her daughter isn’t a Duvoisin. She married John in April, one week after he came home. Babies take nine months to arrive. Hers came in eight.”

Rebecca could not sleep that night. She didn’t believe everything Felicia had told her, but still, she was concerned. Lying there in the dark, in the dismal quiet that mimicked her life, she decided she was sick and tired of sitting back and doing nothing.

Rising, she tiptoed into her brother’s room and groped furtively through his drawers, pulling out trousers and a shirt. She couldn’t write, so she couldn’t leave him a note, and she wasn’t fool enough to wake him. If she told him where she was going, she wouldn’t get out the door. No, let him think she’d gone off somewhere on the island to be alone. She dressed quickly, pulling a length of rope through the belt loops of the baggy trousers and knotting it at her waist. She grabbed his cap off the peg by the door and tucked her hair into it, then took a chunk of leftover bread from the cupboard and crept out of the slumbering cottage.

In no time, she was on the wharf, standing before a tall ship, majestic and still on the rippling water. Stealing a glance in both directions, she quickly scurried up the gangplank. A couple of sailors were asleep on the open deck, but she hastened past them with her head bowed. Nobody could see her face in the darkness.

Where to hide? When she and her brother had stowed away over three years ago, they had squeezed between the large casks in the hold, squatting there for nearly a day. She did not fancy doing that now, but it was the best way to lie low until the vessel was well into the Atlantic. Then the activity on the deck would die down, and she could meander up above. If she kept her head down, no one would take much notice. She’d wait for the right moment to slip into Paul’s cabin and hide there. She hoped he would stay above deck until nightfall. By the time he found her, they’d have voyaged a fair distance, and she’d have time to reason with him.

Wednesday, December 26, 1838

Paul left the house while the stars still studded the sky, a gibbous moon bathing the front lawns in heavenly light. He had said his goodbyes the night before, savoring his last few minutes with Charmaine.

“Take good care of Marie while I’m gone.”

“You don’t know how much this means to me, Paul,” she had whispered.

“I think I do.”

By the time he boarded the Tempest, the first rays of sunlight streaked the eastern sky. The sailors were preparing for departure in the predawn light. Philip Conklin, the Tempest’s captain, greeted him. Philip knew this was not a typical voyage, although the tobacco in the hold would be sold at auction in New York. Paul assisted with the preparations, and in less than a half hour, the Tempest was pushed from the pier. The tide was going out and the wind took hold of the sails. The ship sped out of the harbor, through the cove, and onto the open sea.

Six days, Paul surmised, and he’d have some answers. What would they be? Was he prepared for them? Never had he known turmoil of this magnitude, and he prayed God would be merciful. Did he want his brother dead? Certainly not. He was glad John had found happiness, even at his own expense. John and Charmaine loved each other. For that reason alone, he wanted to bring John home alive. But if providence deemed otherwise, Paul was prepared to step in and cherish Charmaine as his brother had. Don’t think about it, his reasonable mind cautioned, for he knew her pain would be devastating. What is done is done. Very soon, you will know the truth.

Rebecca paced the cramped cabin. Her plan had gone off without a hitch. Since early afternoon, she had sat quietly in the stuffy cubicle awaiting Paul. She was tired and ached all over from hours squashed between hogsheads in the hold. The small bed looked inviting, but they hadn’t traveled far enough yet, and she had to be awake in case somebody ventured into the cabin before dark. If that happened, she would bow her head, mumble an excuse, and scurry away. Once darkness fell, she began to breathe easier. The first day was over.

The hour grew late. Six bells rang out, signaling the sixth half hour of the night watch—eleven o’clock—and still Paul did not come. She began to think she was in the wrong cabin, though this one was next to the captain’s quarters and spacious in comparison to the first mate’s cell. So much the better if he didn’t bed down here. She’d wait an extra day before confronting him. There would be time enough to convince him not to do anything dangerous, especially for his scheming sister-in-law. She, Rebecca Remmen, loved him— was free to love him! Perhaps she wasn’t as old and as sophisticated as Charmaine Duvoisin, but she had never belonged to another man, either. Closeted together for days on end, he would recognize her love and hopefully return it.

She espied a knapsack tossed beneath a small table and opened it. It was filled with essential, finely tailored clothing. This was definitely Paul’s cabin. She concluded he had chosen to sleep above deck, under the starry sky. Rubbing her eyes, she realized her fatigue was rivaled only by her hunger. She ate the last of her dry bread and washed it down with fresh water from the bucket that sat in the corner, then stretched out on the small cot and turned toward the wall. The rocking ship lulled her to sleep.

Paul entered the cabin near midnight and groped his way to the desk where an anchored lamp sat. Blindly, he struck the flint and ignited the wick with a tiny spark, illuminating the room with a low, glowing light. He rubbed the back of his neck, sitting down on a stool to pull off his boots and shirt. He stood to unfasten his trousers when he noticed the bundle in the middle of his bunk. Frowning, he stepped closer, staring down in irritation at the young man with long hair sound asleep in his bed.

“What in hell?” He gave the lad a sharp nudge.

The boy groaned and turned over. His eyes fluttered open in confusion, and he scrambled from the bed, brushing the hair from his face.

“Jesus!” Paul swore angrily. This was no lad at all, but one Rebecca Remmen. “What the hell are you doing here?” he roared.

“I—I stowed away,” Rebecca muttered.

“How? When?”

“Last night,” she said anxiously. “It was easy. Everyone was asleep.”

Paul rolled his eyes in utter amazement. “Why?”

Rebecca took a deep breath and bit her bottom lip. “Because I was afraid for you. I don’t want you to—to get hurt—to be murdered.”

Paul drove both hands through his hair. “Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

“No—I mean—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I was just—” She threw her hands up in the air. “I love you—and I don’t want to lose you.”

Terrific! Paul thought, jaw clenched. Just what I need! An imbecile chasing me up the North Atlantic coast! “Are you mad or just stupid?” he expostulated.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, momentarily hurt. She had bared her heart, and all he could do was call her names. “Go ahead and make fun of me!” she blazed. “But I’m the only one who cares what happens to you!”

“I don’t need you to care. I don’t want you to care! Now get out, I’m tired!” He thrust a finger toward the cabin door.

“What?” she asked, aghast.

“Get out,” he reiterated indifferently. “Find somewhere else to sleep.”

“But—I can’t go above deck. When the men realize I’m a woman they’ll—”

His derisive laugh struck her dumb. “Woman? You have nothing to fear, my dear,” he countered, his eyes raking her from head to toe. “They’ll see you’re only a little girl. Or is it a boy?” He thought of Charmaine, and added, “After all, no woman would ever do what you’ve done.”

Her throat stung, yet she gritted her teeth. “I’m more woman than your precious Charmaine!” she hissed, as if reading his mind.

His nostrils flared. “What would you know of Charmaine?”

“More than you can guess,” she answered, raising her chin a notch.

“Try me,” he growled. This girl was more trouble than she was worth.

“I know she’s using you to get what she wants!” Rebecca exclaimed callously. “She doesn’t love you, but she knows you love her! She’s certain you’ll do anything for her if she just acts shy and occasionally looks your way. She throws crumbs at your feet, and you grovel for the few you can catch!” In her insane jealousy, Rebecca blathered on. “It’s disgusting, really, and everyone on Charmantes is laughing at you!”

“Out—get out!” he bellowed. In two strides, he grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the door.

“No! You can’t send me out there!” she shrieked, slapping him across the cheek with all her might. “Let go of me!”

He was astonished, and his eyes turned steely, infuriated by her smug face, her hand poised to strike again. “Oh no, you don’t!” he snarled, catching her wrist and giving her one hard shake.

“Let—me—go!”

“I’ve had enough of you, Rebecca Remmen. It’s high time somebody put you in your place.”

He dragged her across the cabin and sat hard on the cot, pulling her across his lap. She didn’t scream, but she fought like a wild animal, and he had all he could do to pin her flailing limbs with one hand while he wrenched the rope belt free with the other. He yanked the pants down, baring her firm bottom. His palm smarted with the first crack of his hand, but he was gratified when she cried out. She thrashed violently, nearly squirming free. He readjusted his grip until she lay taut across his thighs. This time, he spanked her harder. She yelped, then sank her teeth into his forearm. He released her with a loud oath, the bite deep, blood trickling from his wrist. “You damn little wench!”

She clambered from his lap and tripped over the trousers bunched around her ankles, lying sprawled at his feet. He threw back his head and laughed, lunging forward and grabbing hold of the pants, pulling them free. She was up in a flash, streaking bare-bum to the door. But before she could throw it open, he was upon her again, yanking her around. His anger had evaporated, vanquished beneath a rush of passion, the animal instinct to dominate and conquer, and he relished the arousal her struggles had ignited.

“Now, where will you go without any pantaloons? Or aren’t you afraid of those men anymore?” She pushed hard against him, but he didn’t budge. “I know,” he chuckled. “You aren’t frightened. You’re a strapping lad! Let me see your muscles.”

Before she could react, he ripped the shirt open, revealing perfect little breasts, round and inviting. Aghast, she pummeled his hairy chest with both fists, but he ignored the admirable attack as he swept the tattered garment from her shoulders, leaving her naked before him. He pinned her to the door, grabbing her bottom with one hand and the hair at her nape with the other. He pulled her head back and kissed her passionately, forcing her lips apart and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. His hand traveled from her buttocks along the curve of her hip and up to her breast, which he cupped and kneaded.

The sensual assault left Rebecca reeling. She relinquished the battle with a feeble punch, prisoner to Paul’s blistering kiss and her own smoldering passion. If he didn’t release her mouth she would faint, and yet she hungrily kissed him back, quickly noting how it was done. Her mutinous hands grabbed hold of his corded arms and swept over his broad shoulders. She savored the feel of his skin under her palms, her breasts crushed against his rock-hard chest, and luxuriated in the arousing heat of his body.

He abruptly tore away, and she teetered on weak legs until he scooped her up and turned toward the bed. She didn’t fight him when he put her there, observing him through hooded eyes as he ripped off his trousers and joined her.

“So you want to be a woman?” he queried, his voice husky.

“Your woman,” she murmured, titillated by the unbridled lust in his eyes.

Her words were as intoxicating as her unadorned beauty, and his loins ached for her, the fire that burned there volcanic. His mouth possessed hers again, a consuming, breathless kiss. When he released her, she sighed, but his lips pursued their sensual assault, tracing a searing path along her jaw and down her throat. His coarse moustache raked her soft flesh, meeting the callused hand that fondled a firm, yet pliable breast, sampling the delectable orb, teasing the nipple with his tongue until it stood erect.

The familiar wanton desire that was triggered whenever she looked upon him was stoked to an unbearable degree, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, joyous tears trickling into her hairline. His roving hands continued to explore the curve of her hips, her belly, the inside of her thighs. Upward he stroked, until his fingers found and probed that most delicate of spots, already moist in anticipation of his lovemaking, the center of all pleasure, craving him now in unchaste abandon. She groaned with expectancy and agony when he mounted her.

She was a virgin. In all his thirty years, he had had many women, but never a virgin. The thought that this young woman had never lain with another fanned his ardor. He would make certain she yearned for him when this was over, so he fought to subdue his soaring need and lay still until her pain ebbed, basking in the sweet sensations of rapacious lust, until he could stand it no longer, her supple body responding beneath him. Shifting on his elbows, he began to slowly move inside of her, each throbbing stroke exquisite.

Rebecca pressed her head back into the pillow and closed her eyes to ecstasy. He kissed her all over, his lips constantly coming back to hers, then roaming afield again. His rhythmic invasion evoked familiar, ravenous sensations in her loins. As he grabbed her buttocks, she wrapped her legs around his hips to receive more of him. He rode her harder, faster, plunging ever deeper, and her body answered with a will of its own, hips writhing, the sublime sensations indescribable—building—the summit nearly reached. Suddenly, he groaned and, with one final thrust, collapsed upon her, clutching her closely in resplendent gratification. Surprisingly, it was his stillness, the press of his body, that catapulted her into the realm of rapture, an upheaval of such enormous proportion she shuddered violently, the spasm sucking him into the very depths of her womanhood, leaving her tummy and pelvis quivering, surpassing any act she’d initiated in her lonely bedroom. She lay with her eyes closed, astounded, her heart pounding, her breathing as ragged as his. When he moved, she hugged him closer, reveling in the feel of his blanketing body.

Eventually, he rolled on his side, still very close in the cramped cot.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

She frowned up at him. “I thought it was wonderful.”

He smiled in spite of himself, a plaintive smile. She was lovely, and she was a woman. He’d just made her his woman. But he was already thinking about Charmaine and was ashamed. This was the second time he had proposed to her and the second time he had dishonored that proposal. What is the matter with me? He rose and began to dress.

“I love you,” Rebecca whispered, desperate tears welling in her eyes. “You’ll marry me now, won’t you?”

Paul looked back at her and saw her anguish. “No, Rebecca, I won’t marry you. Like I said, what happened between us—it shouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s your precious Charmaine!” she lashed out. “Fool! You think you love her!”

“Don’t!” he warned, angry with himself when she faced the wall. She was crying, but he feared if he consoled her, he’d take her all over again. Unsettled by that thought, he grabbed the blanket that had fallen to the floor. As he shook it out to spread over her, he noticed a strange scar on her derrière, below the curve of her hip.

“What’s this?” he growled, touching the mark, irritated by the imperfection.

She vaulted as if branded, then recoiled. “It’s from my father,” she ground out. “He was cruel, too!”

The declaration hit its mark, and Paul stepped back, duly chastised. He tossed the coverlet on the bed and deserted the cabin. He needed time to think.

The night sky was black. Dense clouds roiled above, blocking even the brightest stars, the deck illuminated only by a series of dimly lit lanterns. Paul picked his way around the sleeping sailors, who preferred the open air to the stuffy forecastle quarters below. He went to the railing and stared out into the dark void, breathing deeply of the salty air.

What have I done? Not so long ago, he would have already dismissed this romp. But then, this experience had been different from any other.

He remembered his first sexual encounter. He had turned fifteen, and John and George thought it was high time they pay his way at Dulcie’s. John wagered George ten dollars he wouldn’t get through it successfully, but John lost that bet. Of course, Paul never let John know he had left the brothel concerned. Even though the strumpet had had more men than she could count, he worried that he’d impregnated her; no child should ever endure what he had.

There was no turning back, however. He’d tasted the pleasures of the flesh, and it eclipsed his fear of fathering a child. And there was no more paying. Paul knew he had charisma, and many of the women he met at home and abroad were ready and willing. They were always older or experienced, and he let them know from the start they would not leave his bed carrying his babe in their bellies. There were ways around it. He learned how to elicit great pleasure and to withdraw before he ejaculated. If the woman was responsive, especially if she had shared his bed before, she might satisfy him in her own way. His love life was robust, yet he was confident he had never spawned a bastard.

Tonight with Rebecca, that nagging fear hadn’t even crossed his mind. He had taken her fiercely, spilling every bit of his seed deep inside of her. What are the odds she’ ll conceive from this one time? Slim, very slim. His heart mocked his rational mind. Not slim enough … Their lovemaking had been dynamic—intoxicating. Who had dominated whom?

He had heard tell a virgin did not experience the full depth of her womanhood, but Paul knew Rebecca had been deeply satisfied; even now, he could feel her hips undulating, hear her moaning in ecstasy. Was it because she loved him? He inhaled deeply, reliving those intense moments of consuming pleasure. Was this love? It couldn’t be. He hardly knew her.

He raked his hands through his hair and thought once again of Charmaine. He had wronged her. But he had wronged Rebecca as well … just like his father with his mother and Elizabeth. Don’t think about it! Don’t be a fool. Watch and wait. That’s all you need do.

When he grew tired, he went back into the cabin. Rebecca hadn’t moved, and he assumed she had cried herself to sleep. Fully clothed, he lay down next to her and quickly dozed off. Almost as quickly, he began to dream.

He rode up to the manor on Alabaster. Charmaine was sitting on the swing, and little Marie was crawling on a blanket next to her. She saw him and waved. As he dismounted, she picked up Marie and walked over to him. Together, they strolled into the house and climbed the staircase. She put Marie to sleep and opened his bedchamber door, sauntering in. He followed her, closing and locking it behind them. She undressed and stepped into his embrace. He kissed her and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. He made love to her, but when he was finished, she rolled away from him, tears in her eyes, leaving him empty.

Next, he was headed for a day’s work, checking on the mill and nodding to Wade. He turned his horse toward town. Then, he was walking up to the Remmen house. No one answered when he knocked, so he pushed his way in. Rebecca was standing there, her eyes flashing. She knew he’d been with Charmaine, and she spurned him. But he was certain if he kissed her, she’d be a slave to her passion. She attempted to flee, but he crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into his arms. She ceased to struggle when his lips conquered hers. He kicked the bedroom door open and took her to the bed. He rode her hard until all his passion was spent, then cradled her in his arms, satiated, savoring his ebbing pleasure.

“Paul—what are you doing?”

John was standing in the doorway.

Paul’s eyes flew open. His breathing was ragged, his pulse quick, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow. He stared up at the ceiling, slowly realizing where he was; it had only been a nightmare.

Rebecca had turned in her sleep and was now cuddled close to him, her head resting on his shoulder, an arm thrown across his chest. Despite his resolve, he pulled her closer. “. . . but I do love you,” she murmured. Paul swallowed hard, befuddled, for he wanted to cry. He closed his eyes to the urge and, after a long while, succumbed to exhaustion.

Light pouring through the porthole awakened Rebecca. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, and her body ached all over, especially between her legs. She shifted and realized her cheek rested on Paul’s chest. She rolled away, rousing him. As his eyes opened, she was filled with shame and tried to cover herself.

“Here,” he gently offered, stripping off his shirt and draping it over her bare shoulders. She pulled it tightly around her, dropping her gaze to the bed. “I’m sorry about last night,” he remarked.

“You said that already,” she replied hotly.

“We need to talk,” he pursued, aware of her anguish despite her ire. “You’re very beautiful, Rebecca, and someday you will find someone who will make you happy. But that someone is not me.”

Her eyes glistened with tears, and once again, she averted her face. But he cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. “Last night, you said I loved Charmaine. You are right, I do. I set out on this voyage to find my brother, but if I don’t bring him home alive, I’m going to marry her. I promised her that before I left, before all of this happened. Do you understand?”

She refused to answer him and pulled away.

“Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand, all right! She’s sending you to your death, just like she did with her husband and your father!”

Unlike the night before, Paul didn’t get angry, though his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“If your father and John are dead, and Dr. Blackford kills you, Charmaine’s baby will inherit the entire Duvoisin fortune. Isn’t that true?”

Paul put his head in his hands and let out an incredulous laugh.

“Isn’t it true?” she pressed, offended by his sardonic bemusement.

“Yes, I suppose it’s true,” he conceded. “But Robert Blackford is not going to kill me.”

“He might—if you chase after him!”

“I’m not chasing after him, Rebecca, and Charmaine didn’t want John chasing after him, either. I’m going to New York to find out what happened to my brother and father—to bring them home, one way or another. Where did you get these ideas, anyway? Not from Wade, I hope.”

“He doesn’t know anything about this,” she hastily replied. “It was Felicia, Felicia Flemmings.”

Paul scowled. “Did Felicia tell you I fired her for spreading lies?”

“No,” she whispered. “She said she quit because she couldn’t tolerate … ”

“Charmaine,” he supplied.

“But not everything she said was a lie!” Rebecca rallied, unhappy he still revered his sister-in-law.

“Perhaps she told you she has lain with me—many times,” he continued sharply. “That she hoped our romps would turn into something more. That she’s jealous because Charmaine married into my family and she did not.”

Rebecca’s face bore her injured pride. “And now you think I’m trying to do the same thing,” she murmured, casting her eyes to the floor.

“No, Rebecca,” he replied softly. “I don’t think that of you.”

She heard none of it, rising from the bunk and retrieving her pants from the floor. She pulled them on through her tears. “Don’t worry,” she whimpered. “Once we get back to Charmantes, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“When we get to New York,” he said, ignoring her desperate promise, “I’ll buy you something more appropriate to wear. Then, if I do find my father and John, I’ll tell them you stowed away, hoping to see the city sights. Is that acceptable?”

She didn’t answer, and he was uncertain if anger or pain left her mute.

Thursday, December 27, 1838

Benito St. Giovanni took the intrusion of John Ryan in stride. Things could be worse: the tunnel he’d nearly completed could have been discovered, or his time could have run out. When Ryan came careening into his prison almost four weeks ago, Benito had cautiously observed him for a week.

“What’s this about John Duvoisin’s wife?” Ryan had demanded.

Benito did not immediately answer, his thoughts lingering on the new Mrs. Duvoisin. So, this is her family background. How revolting!

When Ryan pressed the issue of John’s wife, Benito said, “Does the name Charmaine Ryan ring a bell?”

John Ryan eyed him speculatively. How does this man know my daughter’s name? Enlightenment came slowly.

The priest smiled. “That’s right, old man. Charmaine is John Duvoisin’s wife. I’d say your daughter has done quite well for herself. You, on the other hand, have not.” Giovanni allowed the words to sink in. “It’s common knowledge Charmaine’s father—that would be you—beat her mother to death. John will not be happy when he returns to find you here. He has quite a temper, if you didn’t already know.”

“Whaddaya mean, when he returns?” John Ryan sneered.

“He’s abroad right now,” the priest supplied, “chasing down another murderer. Then he’ll be back for us— you and me.”

John Ryan pulled two rumpled letters from his pocket. “So these must be from him,” he mumbled.

“Where did you get those?” the priest asked, his interest instantly piqued. Charmaine’s name was written across both envelopes.

“Aboard ship. I heard Simons talkin’ to the captain, heard my daughter’s name mentioned, and I saw him hand these here letters over with a whole pile of others. Later, I moseyed on over to where they was settin’ and helped myself. I can’t read none too good, but I know how my daughter’s name is spelled.”

Giovanni smirked. “Would you like to know what they say?” Clearly, Ryan wanted outside information, but when Giovanni motioned for the letters, the man refused to hand them over.

“What did you do?” Ryan asked.

“I’m not prepared to talk about that.”

“Well, maybe you ain’t interested in readin’ these,” Ryan responded in kind.

So … Benito thought, you and I speak the same language. “Blackmail,” he finally answered, “only blackmail.”

Satisfied, Ryan shoved the letters toward the priest. Giovanni quickly ripped into them, then smiled broadly. They had plenty of time. John and Frederic were still searching for Blackford in New York, working on the assumption he had changed his name. It could be months before they returned.

By the next day, Giovanni decided he had no choice but to include John Ryan in his escape. In fact, Ryan might prove useful along the way, and in the end, he’d rid himself of the degenerate. Benito smiled with the thought. Once they were on the open sea, that wouldn’t be difficult at all.

During the second week of John Ryan’s incarceration, he learned how to dig a tunnel with a spoon. By the end of his third week, they had broken through. In four months, Benito’s only apprehensive moment was Buck Mathers’s simple declaration, “Either I’m getting taller or this ceilin’s getting lower.”

As December came to a close, their plan came together. Buck informed them Paul had left in search of Frederic and John. The time was ripe. An hour after sunset on the twenty-seventh of December, Giovanni and Ryan crawled out of the meetinghouse cellar and escaped into the night.

Luck was with them. The brilliance of the nearly full moon muted the star-spangled sky and cast eerie gray shadows on either side of them. They trudged the seven miles to Benito’s cabin, reaching it just before midnight. They had planned carefully in jail, so there was no need to speak, Giovanni demanding silence, alert to any unusual sound.

Taking a lantern from the cabin, John Ryan went into the pine forest behind the outhouse and searched until he found the skiff tucked in a dugout and covered with brush. Turning it over, he placed the oars, spar, and sail inside and dragged it along a path Giovanni had told him would take him to the shoreline. Dusting off his hands, he headed back toward the small abode. He’d let the priest set the sail.

Giovanni prayed that the four items he’d secreted away months ago were where he’d left them. He wasn’t surprised to find his home ransacked. He shook his head. Did they really think he was stupid enough to hide his booty here? Or were they the stupid ones? They hadn’t even uncovered the pistol hidden beneath a loose floorboard under his bed. He dropped a bullet into the chamber and pocketed the extra ammunition. He retrieved his compass hidden in a cup in the cupboard, and took a length of rope from the laundry spilled all over the floor. Lastly, he lifted a silver key off a hook concealed behind a painting of the Savior. It unlocked the gates to the Duvoisin compound. He possessed another key, one that had been hidden on his person since the morning of his arrest. It unlocked his future.

Ryan returned just as the priest stepped outside. They nodded to each other and Ryan fell in step behind Giovanni. Their next stop: the Duvoisin mansion.

Wade Remmen sat at the kitchen table, running his hands through his hair. Rebecca had been missing for two days now. He knew his sister had been unhappy. She’d complained often enough of her boredom in the tiny bungalow, but he had ignored her, and now, he was beside himself with worry. When he awoke the day after Christmas and found the house empty, he hadn’t been too concerned. He didn’t like her going off on her own, but, lately, she’d grown exceedingly headstrong. Real anxiety took hold yesterday when he’d returned home from work and she was still missing. Where had she gone?

Felicia Flemmings hadn’t been any help. She seemed to think Rebecca’s disappearance revolved around her “love” of Paul Duvoisin. Wade was cognizant of his sister’s infatuation, but Paul was a mature gentleman and Rebecca an uneducated girl with silly romantic ideas. When Wade left Felicia, he was no closer to knowing where his sister might be. Paul had departed the island on the Tempest; Rebecca knew that. Had she gone off to moon over Paul until he returned? No, Wade reasoned, she’s probably annoyed with me.

Tonight, he knew he was deceiving himself. Something terrible could have happened to her. He hadn’t been able to look for her during the day; however, he wasn’t needed at the mill until morning. That gave him hours to search Charmantes. He stepped out into the night, a bright gibbous moon lighting his way. Why he headed toward the Duvoisin estate, he didn’t know, other than it was Paul’s home. Perhaps Rebecca was drawn there, even if he was away.

Jeannette couldn’t sleep. It had been a long time since her French doors opened all by themselves. Ever since Pierre’s death, the “ghost” had become a distant memory. Not so tonight. Tonight she heard the door unlatch and blow open, even though there wasn’t a breeze in the air. Unlike before, she wasn’t afraid, though she would have felt a lot safer if her father, Johnny, or Paul were home. She woke her sister.

“What’s the matter?” Yvette asked, rubbing sleepy eyes.

“The doors,” Jeannette whispered, “they opened by themselves again.”

Unperturbed, Yvette jumped up and pulled them closed, slipping the latch in place. “Let’s see what happens now,” she said.

“Can I sleep with you?” Jeannette queried, not at all pleased her bed was closest to the glass panels.

Her sister smiled. “Sure.”

They snuggled under the covers, staving off the chilly December air. Minutes later, the doors blew open again. The girls looked at each other. Yvette rose and approached them guardedly this time. Then, on impulse, she stepped outside, determined to confront the elusive specter. There was nothing there.

She turned back into her room when a noise from below drew her around. She peered over the balcony in time to see the outer door to the chapel close, a reverberating “thump” assuring her she wasn’t imagining things; the manor had indeed been breached. She frowned. Who would be going into the chapel at this time of night?

Giovanni and Ryan walked purposefully up the short aisle of the sanctuary. Their escape had gone without incident. Before long, they’d be far out to sea, watching the sunrise. While Ryan held the lantern, Giovanni stepped up to the altar. The chalice and ciborium had been restored to the sacrificial table, but not returned to the tabernacle. A good sign—only he possessed the key. Idiots, the lot of them, not to question me about it! He inserted the key and opened the small ark. The coins and precious jewels he’d extorted from Agatha Duvoisin were still cached there. Weighing the heavy treasure in his hand, he tied the bag around his middle with the rope, then carefully concealed it under his shirt.

“Is that all?” John Ryan whispered, his eyes narrowed in displeasure.

“It’s enough,” the priest assured.

“Enough for you,” Ryan muttered, scanning the stone enclosure until his gaze returned to the vestibule by which they had entered. He began to formulate his own, very different plan. “This is some grand house. There’s got to be a lot more in there,” he said, throwing a thumb toward the side portal that opened into the manor. “We got plenty of time before the sun comes up. Let’s see what else we can find.”

“No!” Giovanni ordered. “We’ve been over this before. It’s too dangerous!”

“You’ve been over it before,” Ryan growled. “Now it’s my turn to make some of them decisions.”

“Go in there, and I leave you to your own devices,” the priest threatened. “There will be no boat when you reach the shore!”

“And what if I just rouse the family,” John Ryan rejoined. “You wouldn’t want me to do that, would ya?”

Giovanni hesitated. Ryan was shrewd. He should have shot the slovenly albatross back at his cabin where the report of the pistol would have been swallowed up by the forest. Now, he had no choice but to give in.

Gloating, John Ryan attempted to placate the priest. “With all the men gone, it should be easy to get some more loot. You know this place like the back of your hand. Where should we look first?”

Yes, Giovanni mused, why not pillage the house? Ryan is anxious to carry any additional treasure to the boat, and I’ ll be that much richer when I shoot him later on. “The master and mistress’s chambers,” he breathed, allowing the old man his momentary victory.

“Lead the way.”

Yvette shrank into the shadows of the ballroom just in time. She hadn’t expected the chapel door to suddenly swing open, and she gulped back a startled scream. Her eyes widened farther as Father Benito stepped through the doorway. She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out who was with him. Charmaine would be very upset to know her father roamed the manor.

Wade stood outside the Duvoisin compound. The imposing mansion was bathed in moonlight, but every window in the house was dark. He leaned into the gates, surprised when they gave way. The stable hands usually secured them by ten o’clock each night, unlocking them at dawn. Strange—they weren’t locked tonight. He pushed them open and walked up the drive.

Jeannette began to fret when her sister did not return. She went out on the balcony again and peered over the balustrade to the chapel doors below. They were still shut, and all was quiet, but as she straightened up, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the figure of a man approaching the house. She quickly ducked back into her room. It was time to go and wake up Charmaine.

Yvette followed the two intruders, keeping a safe distance behind them. They slunk across the banquet hall and passed through the ballroom kitchens before entering the rear service stairwell. They were headed for her parents’ chambers. For a moment, Yvette debated taking the main staircase back up, but she discounted that idea, deciding it was safer to keep the two men directly in front of her. She waited until she heard the upstairs door close before racing up the steps herself, clutching the railing in the blackness. Reaching the second floor, she put an ear to each door and listened. All was quiet. Not knowing which door they used, she chose her mother’s, slowly pulling it open and peeking around it. Moonlight spilled into the room through the French doors. No one was there. She tiptoed forward, past her mother’s bed to the sitting room door. She listened at the door again. Nothing. She waited unending minutes, her breathing thundering in her ears, fearful of where the two men might be— perhaps in her father’s chambers. Biting her bottom lip, she turned the doorknob gingerly, cracking the door, her eye pressed to the small opening. No one was there either, and she sighed in relief. She would head for her father’s quarters next.

She pushed through the door and stepped into the room. Without warning, she was grabbed from behind and lifted clear off the floor. A filthy hand clamped over her mouth, muffling a scream. A man growled near her ear as she resorted to kicking and punching. “You better stop your goddamn thrashin’ if you know what’s good for ya, girl!” She did not desist until Father Benito stepped out of the shadows, brandishing a pistol.

“You’ve spied once too often, Yvette,” he whispered.

When she struggled anew, he cocked the trigger, and she immediately stopped. “I believe you lost a riding crop behind my outhouse a year ago.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “To think your dear stepmother thought it was the wind that spilled those crates to the ground.”

Her brow tipped upward, and the priest chuckled menacingly. “Yes, I thought so. And now you’ll learn what happens to meddlesome children.” He looked at his compatriot. “I do believe we have a hostage, Mr. Ryan.”

Ryan’s lips curled into a greedy grin, his covetous eyes upon the girl he held. Giovanni smiled as well. “Tell us, Yvette,” he said, stepping over to the table and relighting his lantern, “where did your mother keep her most valuable jewels? In a whisper, please. I’d hate for something to happen to your sister or your governess’s new baby.”

Charmaine was sitting in the armchair nursing Marie when Jeannette came in. “What’s the matter?” she asked, reading fear in the girl’s eyes.

Jeannette quickly explained, but Charmaine was not alarmed. After all, the mysterious ghost had never materialized. This was just another of Yvette’s escapades. As for the apparition on the front lawns, it was probably a stable hand stepping out of the carriage-house apartments to relieve himself. Still, she couldn’t permit Yvette to wander about the mansion at two in the morning.

Handing the squirming Marie to Jeannette, Charmaine stood and tightened her robe about her waist. “Come,” she said, taking the baby back from the girl. “We’d best find your sister.”

Wade circled the entire house, but finding nothing out of the ordinary, he decided to head home. Why had he come here in the first place? Now he feared he would not find his sister until she decided to return home, if she were able.

Rounding the corner nearest the stables, he heard voices. It was one of the twins and John’s wife. “I don’t know where she could be,” the girl was saying as the two peered out the chapel door. “She said she was coming down here.”

She sounded worried, as worried as he, and Wade was compelled to step forward, his presence eliciting a shriek from the pair of them. “Sorry—I’m sorry!” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s me—Wade Remmen.”

Jeannette was happy, but Charmaine frowned deeply, annoyed her horrified reaction had frightened Marie, who let out one fitful cry that instantly turned into a rhythmic wail. “What are you doing here—creeping up on us like that?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Wade averred, “and I wasn’t creeping. I was looking for my sister, Rebecca. She’s been missing since yesterday morning.”

“What would your sister be doing here, Mr. Remmen?” Charmaine probed suspiciously, not at all pacified by his excuse, shifting Marie to her shoulder and patting her back until she quieted.

“Don’t be angry with him, Mademoiselle,” Jeannette implored. “At least now we know who was walking up to the house.” Her adoring eyes rested on Wade. “You haven’t seen my sister, have you?”

“No, Jeannette, I haven’t.”

Yvette knew she’d get herself out of this scrape somehow, but she was terribly frightened for her sister and little Marie. Therefore, she did exactly as she was told. She showed the priest her mother’s hand-carved jewelry chest, vexed to find it nearly empty. “All of Mama’s best pieces are missing!” she objected loudly, her eyes leveled on Benito.

“Quiet!” he ordered, wagging the pistol at her. Evidently, Agatha had purloined Colette’s valuables first. “There must be money—a safe in these chambers,” he growled. “Where is it?”

Yvette took them into her father’s rooms. She went to his desk and pointed out the dummy drawer that not only concealed important documents, but also a moneybag filled with gold coins and, surprisingly enough, her own gambling purse. She didn’t mention the safe in the wall. Apparently, it was enough; there was an avaricious gleam in Benito’s eyes as he set the lantern down and emptied one into the other, then weighed the bulging sack in his hand. “Any more than this and we wouldn’t be able to carry it,” he commented wryly. “You and I should be set for life, Mr. Ryan.”

John Ryan was pleased as well, snatching the satchel from the priest and strapping it around his waist with his belt.

“Now will you let me go?” Yvette asked defiantly.

“All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”

“But my sister will be worried if I don’t return soon.”

The priest chuckled. “If she’s as stupid as you and comes looking for trouble, we’ll give her some.”

Yvette smarted with the insult, then realized it bolstered her indomitable spirit. She wasn’t defeated yet, and if she kept a level head, she’d get through this calamity with no greater harm done than the loss of her father’s money, money that could easily be replaced.

They marched her back down the stairwell, Benito lighting the way, John Ryan wrenching her arm behind her so she couldn’t escape him. They scurried across the ballroom, coming up sharply when the chapel door swung open.

Charmaine jumped and stifled a scream when Father Benito pointed the pistol at her, but her horror climaxed as her eyes flew to Yvette and the man who restrained her. Then, she did scream, for here she was, face to face with her nightmare: John Ryan!

“What are you doing here?” she cried, recovering enough to speak, oblivious to her daughter’s renewed wailing that echoed loudly off the walls of the empty banquet hall.

“Well, Haley Charmaine,” her father snarled, “word got out that you came into a bit of money, and just like before, you’ve been leavin’ your pappy out. I reckon it’s high time you shared the wealth.”

“But how—how did you get here?”

“I ask the questions,” Benito declared, turning to his young hostage. “Your sister did come looking for you, Yvette. A shame she didn’t have the good sense to stay in her room.” He waved the gun at Charmaine, demanding she calm Marie.

“She’s upset!” Charmaine objected. “There’s nothing I can do!”

“She’s gonna wake up the whole goddamn house!” John Ryan barked.

Giovanni grew more agitated and quickly discarded the lantern. “Come here!” he ordered, leveling the weapon on Jeannette. “Now!” he shouted, grabbing hold of her arm and viciously yanking her to his side.

Charmaine gasped as he pressed the muzzle to the girl’s temple. “No—please!” she begged. “Please let her go!”

“Now,” Benito instructed coolly, “you go quietly up to your bedroom and you nurse that baby back to sleep. Then get down on your knees and pray I am merciful enough to release the girls when I’ve finished with them. However, if you alert even one person in this house as to what is happening, I guarantee you will never— never—see Yvette or Jeannette alive again.”

Jeannette whimpered.

“Please!” Charmaine implored. “Please release them now, and I promise we won’t say a word to anyone!”

The priest coughed sardonically. “I think not.”

Charmaine turned beseeching eyes on her father. “You’re my father! Don’t do this! Just let the girls go!”

“Your father?” the man sneered. “You ain’t my goddamn flesh and blood! Your mother was a whore from the day I met her ’til the day she died!”

Charmaine choked back a sob, her grip on Marie tightening with the perverted assertion.

Benito cocked the firearm. “We are wasting precious time here. On the count of ten, Madame. Must I count?”

“Dear God!” Charmaine moaned and, by dint of will alone, fled the ballroom as the countdown began.

Wade had reached the gates when he heard a scream inside the chapel, but he concluded Charmaine and Jeannette had come upon a surprised Yvette. He started home, heading south toward the beach. He’d walk back to his cottage along the coastline, hoping to uncover something along the way.

St. Giovanni and Ryan prodded the twins forward, Benito with a shove to Jeannette’s back, and Ryan with a boot to Yvette’s backside. The girl turned on him recalcitrantly. “No wonder Mademoiselle Charmaine hates you so much!”

“Silence!” the priest snarled. “No more talking—walk!”

“Where are we going?” she demanded, unintimidated.

“Silence or I’ll blow a hole through your sister’s head!” Benito threatened.

Yvette did not speak again, her mind feverishly working.

Charmaine was at George’s bedchamber door in all of two minutes, banging on it frantically until it opened.

“What is it?” he asked, panic-stricken.

“Father Benito—my father,” she gasped, shaking violently. “They were here! They’ve taken Yvette and Jeannette!”

“Where? When?”

“Just now! But I don’t know where! They warned me not to tell anyone. Benito has a pistol! Oh God, George—what if he kills them?”

George dashed back into the room and swiftly pulled on his boots. “Show me where they were headed,” he urged, grabbing his shirt.

Marie was still crying and Mercedes coaxed her from Charmaine’s arms.

George took Charmaine by the arm and they ran down the hallway. “Mercedes,” he called over his shoulder, “wake up Travis and Joshua!”

The front lawns were deserted. George swore under his breath. “Damn it! I’ll kill John for this!”

Charmaine looked up at him in surprise. “John? What do you mean?”

“It was his idea to send your father here.”

Belatedly, he realized he should have kept his mouth shut. He lengthened his stride toward the paddock.

“What do you mean his idea?” she pressed, rushing after him.

“I’ll explain later!”

Though she badgered him, he refused to say more. “Right now, we have to find the girls.”

The horses were swiftly saddled and rifles pulled from the stable. They would search the harbor and Benito’s cabin first.

“You must be careful,” Charmaine enjoined. “If they see you coming, they may very well shoot the girls. They warned me not to tell anyone!”

“We can’t just sit here and wait, Charmaine,” he stated.

He swung into the saddle and spurred his horse forward, taking the main road toward town. Gerald and three stable hands whipped their own mounts into motion and fell in after him. Minutes later, Joshua, Travis, and Joseph Thornfield reached the lawns and headed north on foot.

Charmaine paced, unable to quell the urge to do something herself. She ordered Bud, the only man who had remained behind, to saddle up Dapple.

“But, Madame,” he implored, “you can’t go out on your own.” Then, realizing he could not dissuade her, Bud did as he was told.

She was soon guiding her horse toward the southern shoreline, the only direction not taken by the search party. Moments later, she heard the clopping of hooves behind her and Bud reached her astride Champion. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you, ma’am,” he said when their eyes locked.

The unlikely foursome trudged through the underbrush toward the white beaches about three miles away. The strenuous walk became more exerting once their feet hit the sand, and Giovanni and Ryan were panting, laboring under the burden of their plunder. More than once John Ryan wanted to stop, but the priest, tired though he was, pressed on. Jeannette was glad they’d slowed down, hoping someone from the manor was in hot pursuit, but Yvette kept her strides brisk, determined to wear the men out. When Jeannette regarded her, Yvette said not a word, but yanked one braid. Jeannette nodded slightly, acknowledging the signal, then thought of Wade. He was out here somewhere. Perhaps he would come to their rescue before her sister did something rash.

Wade frowned down at the skiff, thinking it curious that any boat was sitting on this particular part of the beach miles from town. No one came this far north to fish, especially with the bondsmen’s quarters so close. He walked around the dinghy, noting the footprints and a furrow in the sand that suggested it had recently been dragged from the edge of the forest. Scratching his head, he followed the tracks and discovered a path at the edge of the woods. He continued along, coming upon Father Benito’s dormant cabin. Again he scratched his head, wondering if his sister had come here.

By the time Benito and Ryan reached the rowboat, they were perspiring profusely. John Ryan plopped down in the sand, winded. Benito remained vigilant, his pistol drawn, but he released Jeannette to check for his maps.

Coming away from the skiff satisfied, he faced the twins, who stood side-by-side, complacent and maddeningly identical in the moonlight. “Jeannette, come here,” he commanded.

Both girls stepped forward, though one eyed the other with a tilt of the head, her baffled expression visible even in the dim light.

Benito chuckled sagaciously. “Do you take me for a fool?” he asked pointedly of the girl staring straight ahead. “Now, I’ll ask one more time. Jeannette, come here.”

There was a moment of indecisiveness, and finally his suspicions were confirmed. The “confused” twin took another step forward. “I’m Jeannette,” she whimpered. “Sorry, Yvette,” she added, looking back at her frowning sister.

The priest’s smile turned wicked. “Get in,” he growled, motioning toward the craft with the gun.

“But I’m afraid of the ocean!” she objected fiercely. “Especially at night!”

“Get in or I’ll shoot your sister!”

She hurriedly complied. John Ryan jumped in, too.

“Not you!” Giovanni barked. “Help me get her into the water. We’ll set the sail once we’re beyond the breakers.”

Grumbling, Ryan climbed out, and together, they pushed the skiff into the foaming surf.

“What about me?” Yvette queried anxiously from the shore.

“You’ll behave better on the sand!” Benito shot over his shoulder, struggling for a firmer grip on the rowboat as they confronted the first white-capped wave. “Stay put if you want your sister to live!”

Yvette nodded, her worried eyes riveted on Jeannette.

“Sit down!” he ordered Jeannette. “Not there—in the center!”

Jeannette obeyed, eyeing the pistol, watching the priest fumble with the rim of the boat, the gun becoming a hindrance. As the water got deeper and the breakers exceedingly rougher, Benito deposited the firearm onto the first bench, shoving the vessel forward unimpeded now. “Push harder!” he snarled at John Ryan. “One more—” he heaved “—and we’re home free!”

As the next wave broke, Jeannette shot to her feet. “Run, Jeannette! Run!” she screamed.

Predictably, Benito and Ryan looked back at the beach, confounded. The girl in the boat instantly snatched the pistol and leveled it on Benito. Though startled, the priest laughed. “So—we didn’t take Jeannette, after all. You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Yvette? But now what are you going to do? Shoot me?”

Yvette’s frown was met by the next wave, and the two men had all they could do to hold onto the boat. “There’s only one bullet in the chamber,” Benito growled. “Shoot me and Mr. Ryan will strangle you! Shoot him and I’ll strangle you! Now put the pistol down, like a good little girl.”

The firearm was heavy. Yvette used both hands to raise it over her head and pull the trigger. The recoil sent her tumbling backward. Swearing viciously, Giovanni pulled himself up and into the vessel. Too late! Yvette flung the gun with all her might out to sea. Seething, he grabbed her by her hair and slapped her hard across the face. Unshaken, she kicked out, catching him in the crotch. He doubled over in agony, a high-pitched yelp rending the air. She smiled triumphantly, grateful for all the refined things she had learned from Joseph.

“Forget about the girl!” Ryan shouted. “Let’s get this goddamn boat beyond the breakers! Everyone on the island musta heard that shot!”

Catching his breath, Benito took heed and jumped from the dinghy. With a final heave, they thrust past the surf and climbed in. Giovanni tossed an oar to Ryan, then grabbed one for himself. “Sit!” he commanded Yvette when she made a move to stand, threatening her with his raised paddle.

Pretending contrition and fear, she hunched over and cast hooded eyes to the shore. Jeannette was standing there with her hands to her face, oblivious to the fact that someone was running full speed toward her from the woods, or that two figures on horseback were bearing down on her from the west. As Benito Giovanni and John Ryan sank their oars into the ocean, they saw them, too.

Wade had torn off his boots and stockings. He charged the water at breakneck speed, ripping off his shirt and diving headlong into the breakers.

The priest swore, pumping the oar harder. “Pull, damn it, pull!” he yelled to John Ryan, letting out a pent-up sigh when they reached deeper water.

Suddenly, Yvette stood up and began stripping down to her undergarments.

“Damn it girl!” Giovanni scolded. “Are you daft? Sit!”

“Why don’t we throw her overboard?” Ryan demanded, aware the swimmer was closing in on them. “We’re havin’ to pull her weight, too.”

“No—don’t!” she cried, trembling. “I don’t know how to swim!”

The two men exchanged smiles. Needing no further encouragement, John Ryan jumped up and reached for her. But the skiff dipped sharply to the left, and he quickly forgot her, his attention drawn to his feet, planting them far apart, alarmed when the craft continued to rock.

“Sit down, man!” Giovanni shouted, dropping his oar and splaying his arms wide, then clutching the sides of the careening boat. “Do you want us to end up in the water?”

“He’s too stupid to figure that out!” Yvette baited.

Furious, Ryan advanced again. “No little girl’s gonna sass me like that!”

This time, the boat lurched steeply to the right, its rim plunging under the water’s surface for one paralyzing moment, taking on water as it righted itself.

Petrified, the priest screamed, “You’ll kill us both! Sit down before we capsize!”

Seizing the moment, Yvette began to bounce from foot to foot, giggling hysterically. The skiff oscillated back and forth, the water within sloshing from side-to- side, the waxing momentum growing more and more precarious.

Benito held on for dear life. “Throw her overboard!” he finally bellowed.

She was ready for John Ryan. When he dove at her, Yvette threw all her weight in the same direction, and the small vessel rolled with them, spilling them into the sea.

Cold water engulfed her, and she held her breath for untold seconds. Finally, she surfaced, gulping in precious air, treading water to stay afloat. Then, she was yanked back under, her foot ensnared. She thrashed violently, but could not loosen the human manacle that dragged her deeper. She bent over, using her hands to pry back the fingers that dug into her flesh, certain her lungs were going to burst.

Suddenly, she was free! Cupping great handfuls of water, she kicked up and out of the tenebrous depths, sputtering and coughing as she surfaced again, her chest on fire. Another second longer, and she’d not have survived.

Wade was there, encouraging her to swim back to shore. She marshaled every aching muscle and swam as hard as John had taught her. But when she reached the breakers, she was too tired to propel herself any farther. The waves curled over her and carried her the rest of the way in, depositing her in ankle-deep water, battered and shivering. Bud and Charmaine rushed forward and helped her to dry ground, where they wrapped her tightly in Charmaine’s robe. Wade was not far behind, crawling out on hands and knees.

Within minutes, George and the stable hands reached the shore, searching the sea for the fugitives. The capsized boat bobbed beyond the breakers, but there was no sign of Benito Giovanni or John Ryan.

“They stole gold and jewelry from the house,” Yvette said through chattering teeth. “John Ryan tied a sack of coins around his waist. It must have weighed him down. And I don’t think Father Benito knew how to swim. He was terrified out there!”

“I don’t think my father did, either,” Charmaine added, turning away from the horrific scene. “Let’s get you home,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe.

Jeannette was kneeling beside Wade, who had donned his dry shirt and now sat, heaving on the sand. “Thank you for saving my sister’s life!”

The man smiled at her. “Any time.”

“I thank you, too,” Charmaine added. “If you hadn’t been here tonight, I don’t know what would have happened to Yvette.”

“You should be thanking Johnny!” Yvette exclaimed. “He’s the one who taught me how to swim.”

“You weren’t swimming anywhere with Benito’s hands around your ankle,” Wade responded.

Yvette cocked her head to one side, suddenly realizing it was Wade who had freed her from the ocean depths. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

By dawn, they were all sitting around the dining room table reliving the incredible events of that night. George explained John Ryan’s arrival on Charmantes and his incarceration with Benito Giovanni. When all was told, Charmaine could not remain angry with her husband, remembering his words the day he had left in search of Blackford: If you could find your father and make him pay for what he did to your mother, what would you do? John had known her innermost fears, had understood her desperate desire for justice, and had cared enough to do something about it. Unlike the authorities, he had pursued John Ryan, had sent him to Charmantes to face retribution for his crime, jailing him in secret to spare her any alarm. Neither he nor Paul could have guessed what would happen in their absence.

The sun was rising when the company disbanded. Charmaine invited Wade to stay and wash up at the house, but he refused. He needed to go home in case his sister returned. George offered to help search the island for her, telling Wade to take the day off work. “I’ll see to it,” George reiterated as Wade departed atop Champion. “By tomorrow, I promise no stone will be left unturned.”

According to Mercedes and Loretta, Marie had screamed herself to sleep. Charmaine took the slumbering infant from Loretta’s comforting arms and retired. In her peaceful chambers, she knelt down and thanked God nobody in her family had been harmed.

Sunday, December 30, 1838

Rebecca refused to speak to Paul. When he ventured into the cabin, she would turn away. She didn’t eat the food he brought her, either, and at night, he lay on the bunk alone, wondering in the morning where she had slept, or if she had slept at all. He decided if she wanted to sulk, that was fine by him. After all, he hadn’t pursued her—she had pursued him. And he had given her ample opportunity to leave his cabin that night. Even so, he was angry he dwelled on her predicament—that she was ever in his thoughts.

On the last night of their voyage, he found her asleep when he entered the cubicle, concluding she slept during the day when he wasn’t there. He put the tray of food he carried down on the table. Tonight, he would force-feed her if necessary. She hadn’t touched a morsel in four days. If this continued, she would make herself ill.

“Rebecca,” he called, nudging her awake.

She rubbed her eyes, befuddled at first as to where she was.

“I’ve brought you dinner,” he said gently. “You need to eat.”

She sat up, watching him warily. She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, his shirt and her men’s trousers still in place.

Paul made light conversation, hoping the sleep had improved her mood. “It’s quite good, actually. About the best meal I’ve tasted aboard this ship.” He’d been stirring some soup, which he now carried over to the bed.

When she realized he meant to feed her, she turned her head aside.

“Rebecca,” he said sharply, “you must eat something! You can’t go on like this.” Her clenched jaw began to quiver. “Please try it,” he insisted, no longer cross.

She jumped from the cot and retreated to a corner of the room, taking her misery with her. When he approached, her back stiffened. “Leave me alone!” she moaned. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

At his wit’s end, he brusquely deposited the bowl on the table, the soup sloshing over the edges. “Suit yourself,” he stated irascibly. “Starve and see if I care.”

“I know you won’t,” she said, but he had already stormed from the cabin.

Hours later, the food remained as he’d left it. He shook his head. She was stubborn, he had to give her that, and determined to make him feel guilty.

Monday, December 31, 1838

New York City came into view with the dawning of the sixth day. The Tempest made port in four hours’ time, the delay caused by an icy Hudson River and the tremendous snowstorm suffered by a vast stretch of the Atlantic seaboard three weeks earlier.

As she docked, Paul returned to the cabin one last time. He threw on his cape, for the air was frigid, much colder than it had been two years ago. He caught Rebecca’s intense eyes upon him, but she swiftly looked away. He hesitated. Her manner hadn’t changed, yet something about her disturbed him this morning, something he couldn’t quite place.

“I’ll return by dark,” he said. “I don’t want you leaving the cabin. Do you hear me?” Unlike the past five days, she acknowledged him with a slight nod. Suddenly, he knew.

He left the cubicle and closed the door behind him, retrieving the key hanging above the doorframe. He locked the portal, the “click” sounding within the cell. Rebecca flew to the door, yanking on the knob. She banged on it with both fists, her escape plan neatly foiled. “Let me out!” she screamed.

For the first time in nearly a week, Paul felt satisfied. “You stay put!” he shouted back. With a smug smile, he disembarked, his destination John’s row house on Sixth Avenue, the address George had given him.

As he left the wharf, he marveled once again at the throngs of people, the endless buildings, the noise, the very magnitude of this booming city. In the two years since he’d commissioned the building of his ships, the city had grown. Tonight, it was blanketed in white, a light snow falling atop the mountainous heaps already obstructing the roadway.

He hailed a cab, calling the address up to the driver who sat shivering beneath a thin overcoat and frayed lap-blanket, collar drawn up and cap pulled down low, breathing heavily into the hands he occasionally rubbed together to keep warm. Paul, a mite more protected from the elements, settled back in the seat of the enclosed carriage, taking in the sights, the smells, and the sounds. Still, his mind was far away, wondering what he would find.

John’s house was locked tight. It was New Year’s Eve, and Paul found some Greenwich Village residents at home. However, all of John’s immediate neighbors had little information to offer. They hardly knew John except to say a passing “good day” when he was in town. One woman told him about the unprecedented event in early December when the New York City police had breached and then searched John’s residence, questioning neighbors for the next two days, tight-lipped the entire time, offering not one reason why they were there.

Although relieved, Paul was confused; most of their inquiries had involved John’s possible whereabouts and any family he had residing in the city. He began to wonder if his brother and father were on the run.

When he left Sixth Avenue, he headed for the shipping offices at the busy seaport. He was back at the New York harbor by mid-afternoon. The warehouse ledgers carried the names of other prominent New York shippers, and he combed over them, hoping to find the name of someone who might have offered John a place to stay. The clerks were brusque and lent little aid. By late afternoon, he decided to call it a day. Perhaps he’d have better luck tomorrow and locate somebody who could help him.

He hailed another cab and asked to be taken to a fashionable shopping district. For Rebecca, he picked out a lovely dress in pale green—it would match her captivating eyes—as well as undergarments, a nightgown, and plush robe. For himself, he bought a heavy redingote, a hat, and gloves. He’d been freezing all day in the bone-chilling cold. At least he’d be warm when he began his hunt tomorrow.

Darkness had already fallen by the time he boarded the Tempest. Though his day had proven unsuccessful, his evening did not. He found Captain Conklin talking to one Roger Dewint, John’s New York shipping agent. Roger hadn’t recognized the Tempest, but he had noticed the Duvoisin standard flying high on her mast and stopped by to introduce himself. Dewint had no news about John or Frederic; he did have a list of men who worked for John when his ships laid anchor in New York. Most were freed slaves. He agreed to meet Paul on the merchantman early the next morning, and together, they would make the rounds, locating as many of these men as possible. Finally, Paul was getting somewhere.

It was quiet when he unlocked the cabin door. For a moment, he held his breath, wondering if Rebecca had figured another way to escape. But she was there, sitting in the dark on the bunk, wrapped in a blanket. He closed the door, pocketing the key. He deposited his bundle on the stool and lit the lantern.

There was a knock on the door, and he stepped in front of Rebecca as the porter dragged in a large tub. “I’ll be back with the water, sir,” he said.

After he’d left, Paul turned the lamp down low, obscuring Rebecca in the shadows. She eyed him suspiciously, but held silent.

The porter returned numerous times, and slowly, the tub was filled with steaming water. He left soap, a cloth, and a towel before retreating altogether.

Paul faced her with arms crossed over his chest. “You’re taking a bath. Now, you can either bathe yourself, or I will do it for you. You have a half hour to decide.” She didn’t move. “Very well,” he said as he grabbed hold of the door, “but remember, when I return, the water will be cold. The clothes I promised you are in that package—” he indicated the bundle “—if you change your mind.”

Certain he’d carry out his threat, Rebecca undressed and settled into the tub as soon as he left. The cubicle had been mercilessly cold all day, and she relished the piping-hot water, closing her eyes and resting her neck against the tub’s rim. After a while, she washed clean all the reminders of the days gone by. When tears welled in her eyes, she dunked her head under and washed her hair.

In less than a half hour, she left the tub, shivering, wrapping the towel quickly around her. She fingered the package on the stool, and against her own will, opened it. Inside, she found a gorgeous dress, accompanied by various undergarments and stockings. There was also a nightgown and robe, which she chose to wear now.

When Paul returned, he found her garbed in the thick robe. She looked lovely, her damp hair framing her beautiful, yet drawn, face.

He carried a tray of food. “Will you eat something now?” he asked, surprised when she meekly nodded.

There was a knock on the door, and she melted into the shadows. Paul told the porter he wasn’t finished with the tub yet and would keep it until the morning. “I’d like to bathe, too,” he explained when the door closed.

They sat at the table and ate quietly. Although she consumed only a small portion of the fare, at least it was something. Setting his knife and fork down, Paul studied her. “Why did you intend to run away today?”

She stopped chewing and stared down at her plate.

“Don’t you realize how cruel a big city such as New York can be? Am I so horrible you won’t let me take you back to Charmantes?”

She could scarcely swallow for the burning lump in her throat. When she looked at him, her green eyes sparkled. “I don’t want to shame my brother,” she whispered. “He will know what has happened when I return. Better he doesn’t know. Better if I just disappear.”

She blinked back tears, and Paul experienced her pain. Embarrassed, she left the table and turned her back to him. “I’ve grown up these past few days,” she rasped, “and I don’t think I like being a woman.”

Paul fought the consuming desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, to carry her to the bunk and make tender love to her, to prove her wrong. But his mind screamed: Charmaine— remember your pledge to Charmaine.

He drew a deep breath to calm himself. “Rebecca, no one need ever know what happened between us,” he said evenly. “If all goes well tomorrow, I may have my father and brother with me when I return. If so, this cabin will be yours alone. I will tell everyone I found you in the hold, that you wanted to see the New York City sights, but now I’m bringing you home to your brother. I’ll spend the remainder of the trip in the common quarters with the crew, and no one will question me.”

It was not what she longed to hear. He seemed certain he was going to find his brother alive. Charmaine would have her husband back, and he would no longer be bound by his promise. Still, he made no pledge to her, not a single word of encouragement. She meant nothing more to him than a tawdry encounter that had claimed her virginity. She was like Felicia: out of sight, out of mind. In fact, she meant less to him than Felicia, for Felicia had shared his bed many times, and she, only once. He showed no desire to make love to her again. He did think she was a little girl. She’d best accept that or her heart would break, and she would not allow him that final triumph.

He waited for her to face him again, surprised and relieved to see she was smiling. She appeared pleased with his plan, and he breathed a bit easier. Perhaps everything would work out for the best.

Later, while he bathed, Rebecca studied him surreptitiously from the shadows. Even though he’d rejected her, she yearned for him still and battled the urge to offer herself to him. She remembered his rough hands, his impassioned kisses, and her eyes stung with tears. She had all she could do to hold tight to her spot on the bunk. When he rose from the tub, she turned away. He was lost to her. She was a little girl—a foolish little girl, with big, foolish dreams.

New Year’s Day, 1839

Early the next morning, Paul left the ship, telling Philip Conklin he’d been down in the hold and discovered a stowaway, a young girl charmed by the notion of living in the big city. “Her brother will be distressed,” he explained, “so I’ve locked her in my cabin until we leave port.”

The captain raised a dubious brow, but said not a word. The hold had been unloaded the day before, and none of his crew had spotted her.

Paul found Roger Dewint waiting for him on the quay. Together, they walked along the many piers in the harbor, stopping from time to time to engage somebody in conversation.

By noon, Paul got lucky. Samuel Waters worked for John, had in fact, arrived in New York aboard a Duvoisin vessel. He was a runaway slave. It took quite a bit of coaxing, but Samuel capitulated, telling Paul he knew a Rose Forrester, whose sister was a good friend of John’s. He gave Paul their address.