Flint heard the whooping and catcalling and shot to his feet. Whatever she had done, he couldn’t sit by and allow the crew to abuse her like that. He was still riddled with misplaced guilt for reminding her she would be hanged. There had been genuine terror in her lovely eyes then and that fear, and the knowledge he had put it there, did not make him feel like much of a man. His fingers reached the door handle the same moment the noises beyond changed from bawdy to shocked, as the laughter quickly turned to what sounded like blind panic.
He strode on deck into chaos. The entire crew seemed to have simultaneously run starboard. All along the rail, men clamoured to peer over the edge. Those that couldn’t find a spot ran left and right like startled deer. ‘What the blazes is going on?’ He caught the arm of an officer.
‘The prisoner has escaped!’
As they were in the middle of the English Channel it didn’t take a genius to work out where the minx had escaped to. Even so, Flint pushed his way to the rail and was rewarded with the sight of Lady Jessamine speeding through the waves. The blasted woman swam like a fish.
Next to him, he could hear the Captain issuing rapid orders. A couple of sailors were in the midst of lowering a rowing boat. Another was untangling the ladder to toss over the side. Someone else was hunting down rope. She had caught them on the hop and now the lot of them were behaving like headless chickens without a single working brain between them. Meanwhile, she was putting some serious distance between herself and the frigate.
On a withering sigh, Flint shrugged out of his coat and tugged off his boots. Catching her was the first priority. He’d worry about getting her back on the boat afterwards. As soon as the last button was undone on his waistcoat he dragged himself to sit atop the rail to stare in disgust at the briny water below. Lord, how he loathed sea bathing. The lauded benefits of salt water never outweighed the awfulness of the experience. It stung the eyes and tasted foul. Almost as foul as the knowledge that she was in the sea in the first place because he had been soft. Damned woman. That would teach him to feel mercy towards the vixen. She was every inch the duplicitous, self-serving, self-centred, untrustworthy traitor he knew her to be. Another harsh lesson learned.
The icy water came as a shock, robbing him of the ability to breathe for long moments until he acclimatised. Then he set off after the veritable mermaid in the distance, his anger at both of them propelling him more effectively than the inept sailors in the wobbling dinghy could row. She was fast, but thanks to his strong arms and longer legs he was faster. Despite that, it took him a good ten minutes to come within twenty feet of her.
Sensing someone close by, she turned and then panicked, breaking her stroke to cough up the wave she had accidentally swallowed. Flint used it to try to talk some sense into her.
‘This is pointless. Land is a good five miles away!’
Undeterred, she set off again, her bare feet splashing wildly as she kicked for all she was worth. Twice he came within a hair’s breadth of one and twice she evaded his grasping fingers. On the third attempt, he caught her ankle and earned a kick in the stomach that winded him and made him swallow a mouthful of seawater as well. It was then that his anger turned into outright rage and he lunged once more, plunging them both underwater, but this time he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and held her firmly against his body.
‘Salaud! Let go of me!’
She wriggled like a hooked salmon and was twice as slippery. Her flailing knee came within inches of his groin before he twisted her out of the way. Backwards she was marginally less dangerous, but only marginally. She lashed out, using her nails like claws, scraping them hard whenever they encountered him. Her black hair, floating on the surface like seaweed, felt like a whip as it lashed repeatedly against his face. ‘Hold still, damn it!’ The hand he was using to help keep them both afloat joined the other around her body, pinning her arms against her ribs. Still she fought him.
‘English pig! Imbécile! Tout ça ne sert à rien!’
‘We are both going to drown!’
‘At least I will take you with me!’
Flint managed to move his hand a split second before her teeth clamped around it and tilted his weight so that she was lying on her back down the length of his body. Then, with the last strength he possessed, he kicked towards the rowboat.
It took the three of them to get her into the thing as it rocked dangerously from side to side. Once they did, he happily allowed one of the sailors to tie her hands behind her back while the other restrained her. There was no telling what damage the wench could do in such a confined space otherwise. Tethered and impotent, that riotous mane of hair plastered all over her face and shoulders, she began snarling and insulting them, alternating seamlessly between French and English as they rowed back to the ship. He got the gist. He was an idiot and he would die.
‘We’ll winch her up.’ It struck him as a simpler solution than coaxing her up the rope ladder. The fact that it served to send her into an outraged rant after she had made a fool of him was a bonus that went some way to making Flint feel better. If she had been a man, he would have punched her back there in the water and dragged her sorry, unconscious carcass back. Because she was a woman, and he couldn’t seem to get over that inconvenient yet ultimately minor detail no matter how hard he tried, he had suffered every blow—and there had been rather a lot of them. The saltwater was stinging the numerous scratches her nails had gouged in his hands and arms, his throat was raw, his eyes rawer and his ribs hurt like the devil. He would add feral to the growing list of adjectives he already had to describe her, alongside traitorous, beautiful and infuriating.
Flint sat back in the rocking boat to steady it and happily allowed the others to wrestle the rope around her middle, then saluted her as she was lifted kicking and screaming out of the boat.
She was going to be a handful.
Typical, really. He spent his life trying to avoid feminine histrionics and manipulations, yet fate kept throwing them at him regardless. At least he would be shot of this one within the week. He was stuck with his exasperating family for life.
The cheer from the deck signalled her safe arrival and was closely followed by another tirade of insults, this time all in French. Despite the fruity tone, Flint preferred the French. Her voice was seductive. Breathy and earthy. If he let it, the sultry sound made the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms stand to attention in a wholly pleasant way. Something he was determined to quash indignantly. He didn’t deal well with difficult and emotional females. Aside from the obvious obstacle of her impending date with the hangman, he preferred his women sedate and calm. Like a mill pond. If he were to compare her to water, Lady Jessamine Fane was akin to the crashing waves on the rocky Cornish coastline near his home in winter. Unpredictable, noisy and very, very dangerous.
The men were now jeering above him. The whistles and inappropriate comments were getting out of hand. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Until he was shot of her, she was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her abused—verbally or otherwise. With a weary sigh he climbed the ladder. The crew had circled around her, baying like wolves tempted with the scent of fresh blood. The rope they had hoisted her with was still wrapped around her body and held firmly by the belligerent toothless sailor who had been appointed her guard. The malicious glint in the fellow’s eye sickened Flint. To be a bully was bad enough. To bully a helpless woman was deplorable.
‘Stop.’
He didn’t shout or snarl. The icy stare he had perfected in his youth when his womenfolk had pushed him too far always served him well. He shoved himself past the wall of men to stand in the circle. ‘Does this make you all feel better? Does humiliating a shackled woman make you feel proud?’
Flint allowed his gaze to slowly meet every pair of eyes. Most dipped in shame. He turned and purposely glared at the Captain who had been lounging against the rail with his arms crossed, a laughing spectator who should know better. ‘Deal with your crew. They are a disgrace, Captain.’ He let his expression convey the fact that he also lumped the officers in with that criticism.
Couldn’t they see that beneath all the shouting she was terrified and cold? Her slim body was quaking with the force of her shivers. ‘Might I remind you all that we serve the Crown and we do so with honour. A crown that prides itself on its adherence to the doctrine of habeas corpus. The prisoner is presumed innocent until she stands trial and all the evidence has been heard. Until such a time as that happens, she will be afforded the same respect as any other human being on board this ship. It is not your place to be judge and jury, nor is it ever appropriate to treat a woman like an animal.’
He snatched the line of rope from the toothless sailor’s hand and untied it, then gently led her by the elbow through the parting line of subdued men as the embarrassed Captain began issuing a litany of orders. For once, she came quietly and waited patiently for him to open the cabin door before quickly rushing through it to sanctuary.
‘Thank you...for that.’
So, there were manners beneath all that pithy hostility? Oddly, he would have preferred there weren’t. Manners made her likeable and likeable was dangerous. He nodded curtly and made a show of locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Only then did he go to the bonds still on her wrists and untie them. It wasn’t an easy task. In the struggle, the men had caught the over-long sleeves of the linen shirt she wore in with the rope and both materials were now hopelessly knotted together. As soon as they were free she instinctively lifted her arms to rub the area. One of the sleeves dropped to her elbow, revealing a band of scarred red skin encircling her wrist. It had been irritated by the rope, but not caused by it. She saw him stare at it and hastily covered it before standing proudly to meet his eye.
‘You are not the first man to imprison me, Monsieur Flint, but you will be the last.’
Probably true. Once Flint delivered her to Newgate she wouldn’t have long left. The charges were drawn. They had witnesses, albeit dubious ones. Conclusive evidence. The trial, at this stage, only a formality. Still, he hated seeing the signs of mistreatment on her body. A body that was still shivering violently. ‘If it is any consolation, my lady, I am as reluctant to be your gaoler as you are to be my prisoner. Let’s try to make the best of it.’
‘By that, you mean you want me to comply and not try to escape again? I can’t promise that.’
‘Nor would I in your position. Unfortunately, as I am in charge, I have no intention of allowing you to do so.’
‘C’est la vie. Then I suspect the next few days will be interesting—non?’ As she spoke she unconsciously reached up to gather her sopping hair to one side, wringing it out like wet washing matter of factly. The thin wet linen stretched taut over her body, almost transparent and leaving little to his imagination. Dark pebbled nipples shifted slightly as she moved. His instant physical reaction angered him. That she had done it on purpose angered him more.
‘I won’t be seduced as easily as those sailors.’ But damn him, he was. Just as with that prisoner all those years ago, her blatant femininity affected him. She was like a siren. That voice. That body. That fiery spirit.
‘Seduced?’ She appeared genuinely baffled until he gestured to her full breasts with his eyes. Like the consummate actress she was, Lady Jessamine did an excellent job of being mortified and instantly clamped her arms tightly over her chest.
More shaken by his reaction than he cared to admit, Flint stalked to the washstand and grabbed a towel. He tossed it to her unceremoniously and then rummaged in his own bag for dry clothes. He’d scarce packed enough for his own use, but figured the more he covered that delectable, ripe body with the better. Breeches, another shirt and a waistcoat were a good start. A large sack and a thick eiderdown might be better, although he already knew the image of those dusky nipples would be seared on his brain for ever. An image a man who had to put duty before all else, who knew only too well the dire consequences, had to ignore. ‘Put these on!’
For good measure, he took himself to the other side of the cabin and, because he had no idea how to behave without appearing riddled with unfathomable need, stood with his hands planted on his hips, hoping he looked unimpressed and in control rather than suddenly consumed with unwanted lust.
‘Do you intend to watch me?’ Her eyes were wide and that sultry, accented voice a little high-pitched. When he didn’t move, those dark eyes became darker and convincingly sad to purposely manipulate him. ‘Ah. I see. Everything you said out there was a lie. I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Once again she stood proudly. Five feet of shivering, strangely noble femininity that did weird things to his emotions. He wanted to protect her. Why? ‘These wet clothes will do well enough, I think.’
The unspoken insinuation stung. ‘Unlike you, I don’t lie, Lady Jessamine. I meant every word I said to those men. While in my charge, I will respect your right to dignity and no harm will come to you. Not of my making anyway. But I am not your friend. Nor will I be manipulated like those fools out there, or succumb to your wiles and you would do well to remember that, too. Do not confuse basic decency with stupidity. The best you can expect from me is indifference.’ He fished in his pocket for the key and turned to the door. ‘Get changed. We dock within the hour.’
Slamming it behind him made Flint feel marginally better. He locked it and marched away in search of dry clothes. He’d been so flummoxed by the sight of her, so ashamed that she had basically accused him of being a hypocritical voyeur, he hadn’t had the wherewithal to collect any for himself. It took him less than ten minutes to dry and dress, and by the time he strode back across the deck the ship was once again back on course and riding effortlessly across the waves, the Devon coastline looming large on the horizon.
The Captain beckoned to him, clearly intent on making amends for the gross dereliction of his duty and supremely aware that Flint worked for Lord Fennimore—a man with not only the ear of the First Lord of the Admiralty, but the King as well.
‘Despite our little detour, we should still reach Plymouth before the afternoon tide turns, Lord Flint.’
Little detour! The captain had allowed his men to abuse the vixen while he had stood by and watched the entertainment. If the shocking innuendo and insulting whistling Flint had only just witnessed coming from the crew were anything to go by, Lady Jessamine had been violated twice this hour alone. It was hardly a surprise she had flung herself over the side. How much more had she endured in the five days before he’d arrived? The woman was a walking advertisement for gross mistreatment. Those bruises on her arms were fresh. The marks on her wrists were old...
‘Still—no harm done, eh? We’ve been at sea months. Seemed cruel to deny the men a bit of sport.’
‘Do you have a wife, Captain? A mother? Sisters?’ Flint’s tone was bland and measured. Those that knew him well, knew that was always when his temper was closest to the surface.
‘All three, Lord Flint—but we’re not comparing like with like, now, are we? She’s naught but a traitor and deserves all that’s coming to her.’
‘If she’s found guilty!’ Despite all the evidence to the contrary, a little nagging voice in his head wanted to believe she wasn’t guilty. In all likelihood it stemmed from his own disgust at finding himself overwhelmingly attracted to a criminal once again and attempting to justify the attraction by attributing noble qualities to her that she did not truly possess. Even so, there was still something in her eyes and the proud set of her shoulders. Something that called to his heart and his head. Either that, or at her contrived behest the contents of his breeches had taken over all rational thought—which made him little better than the entire ship’s crew. Unpalatable food for thought. ‘Until such time as that happens, she will be treated with the respect and consideration due her. Keeping her in the dark, in that festering brig, allowing your men to be rough with her and talk to her like a harlot is not what I, and no doubt the rest of our illustrious superiors, expect from the Royal Navy!’ He turned on his heel and left the Captain standing with his mouth hanging slack at his furious tone.
The toothless guard snapped to attention as he approached his cabin.
‘What’s your name, sailor?’
‘Foyle, sir... I mean your lordship.’
‘You are dismissed, Foyle.’
‘But I’ve been assigned to keep watch over the traitor till we make port. You’ve seen for yourself how wily she is. There’s no telling what she’ll do without a constant watch on her. Them’s the Captain’s orders...’
‘As I outrank the Captain on this voyage, take it from me you are not only dismissed, but you will confine yourself below deck until Lady Jessamine is safely off this ship. Until then, I will be her only guard.’ Because it went without saying, Flint was the only man within a mile he trusted with the task. He might well be overwhelmed with unwanted attraction, but at least he knew exactly what she was about and would never fall for it.
‘But, sir...’
‘Thanks to your negligence, she escaped. I could have you court-martialled for that alone. Get below deck and spare me the sight of you else I change my mind!’
The sailor didn’t need to be told twice and practically ran away. Flint took a moment to compose himself, then politely tapped on the door. ‘Lady Jessamine, are you decent?’
No reply.
He knocked again, louder this time, and when he heard not so much as a movement in the cabin beyond began to feel uneasy. She wouldn’t? Couldn’t, surely? His fingers fumbled with the key and Flint flung open the door. The spacious cabin was silent save the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. One of the tiny windows was wide open, a knotted rope of sheets, blankets and Flint’s own spare breeches dangled from the ledge where they had been secured and flapped in the sea breeze.