A Brother's Honor (2 page)

“He is my father! Why shouldn't I be anxious for him?”

“An interesting question, albeit one we do not have time to pursue now. Your father and his officers were transferred to my ship. Because this ship is slower, I expect they will reach landfall in Calais nearly a week before us.”

“You are taking us all the way to France?”

Puzzlement drew lines in his forehead. “Of course. Once we are there, you can be returned to your
père
's loving arms. However, that will happen only if you wish to share his jail cell.”

“And then what?”

“And then I shall be rewarded for capturing this ship.” He glanced around. “I shall get a good price for it, although it does not have the speed of my
La Chanson.
”

“But what will happen to Father and me?”

He clasped his hands around one knee as he put his foot on the chair. “In war, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, there are victors and there are the vanquished. I fear you are the latter.”

“Not for long!”

“Be that as it may, for now, you are my guest.”

“Guest? Do you imprison your guests?”

His icy eyes cut through her like the prow slicing the waves. Standing, he said, “After what I interrupted here, I thought you understood keeping you here was for your protection. Or mayhap you didn't want me to halt Boleyn?” He seized her shoulders and tugged her to his hard chest. “Is this how American women enjoy being wooed?”

She struck his cheek. Horror strangled her as his eyes narrowed. What a fool she was! He could kill her for less.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald,” he murmured, releasing her. “I should not have said such a thing.”

Stunned that he would apologize, she hesitated. Could it be that he was not simply a rapacious pirate like that beast who had followed his commands?

“You must be upset,” he continued. “I trust you were wise enough to remain here during the battle.”

She nodded.

“But you heard it.”

“All of it,” she whispered. “My grandfather spoke of fighting the English in the War of Independence, but …” She shuddered. “I had no idea how men could scream.”

“If it makes you feel better, only two men died.”

She almost laughed, although not with amusement. “That does not make me feel better. I cannot understand why you had to attack us.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. A smile returned to his lips. “I regret you had to be a witness to yesterday's fighting. You have my assurance that our journey from here will be peaceful.”

“I doubt that. I am your prisoner.”

“Yes, you are, but I have no intentions of confining you to the brig.”

“Not confining me?” She was being bold, but she had so little to lose now. “Captain St. Clair, may I leave my room?”

“When we are finished.”

“Finished?” Cold sifted across her face. Moments ago, he had been speaking about her safety. Now …

“You should sit before you swoon,” said Captain St. Clair.

“I'm not going to swoon!”

He smiled while he sat her in the chair and put his hand on its back so she could not rise. “I suspect I know what is wrong. My grasp of your language is not perfect. What I intended to say was that, if I have satisfied your curiosity, I have a few questions.”

Embarrassment sent fire through her. When Captain St. Clair chuckled, she knew her cheeks were scarlet. “I doubt if I have answers for you,” she replied.

“Let me judge that. First, tell me where your father kept his log.”

“I don't know.”

“No?” His eyes became ebony slits again. “Where is this ship bound?”

“I don't know exactly.”

“You don't know exactly? Pardon me if I find that hard to believe, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.”

“But it is the truth. Our destination is …” She swallowed the fear clinging to her throat. “Our destination was somewhere in the Caribbean. That is all Father told me.”

“The Caribbean?” He stared at her, shaking his head as a smile tipped his lips. “I had thought you would be honest with me about your destination if nothing else.”

“I am.”

“How can you ask me to swallow such a ludicrous tale?”

“'Tis the truth!”

“Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, you must think me a complete fool to believe that you do not know that you are only a few hundred miles from England.”

“England?” She groped for the edge of the table, sure the whole ship was spinning. “No, that cannot be true! You are lying to me.”

“I am being honest with you.”

“But Father told me—”

“A lie.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I am telling you the truth, while your father plied you with falsehoods.” Leaning forward so his nose was only inches from hers, he demanded, “And you don't find that odd?”

“No.” This must have been Father's way of protecting her in case something like this happened. But if Captain St. Clair was being honest with her, what was the
Republic
doing so close to England? Father had told her how he wanted to introduce her to the best of society. How she had anticipated the chance to take part in balls and masquerades and rides along the sandy beaches! She had planned that the half-finished dress in her cupboard would be ready in time for their arrival at the first island. But now …

Her terse answer seemed to have startled him. He drew back, then pulled a pistol from behind him. Her mind screamed for her to run. She could not, for she was frozen as if she stood in the midst of a New England blizzard.

“I bid you good day, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.” His smile again belonged to a rakish pirate. “You have answered my questions, but others have not. I ask that you stay here until I have finished those interrogations.”

“But you said I could leave my room.”

“I changed my mind.”

She looked away from his smile that dared her to protest. What a beast he was!

He opened the door and tapped the other side. “I shall have a bolt put on here.”

“For my protection?” she fired back. He was insolent and insulting.

“You are a lovely woman, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, and my men have been at sea many months. Neither I nor Jourdan, who is serving as my first mate aboard this ship, will be able to keep an eye on the crew every minute of the day.”

“But you are putting the bolt on the
outside!
That will not protect me from anyone.”

He chuckled and, taking her hand, lifted it to his lips. A flurry of fire flew up her arm and caught in her throat. His thumb teased her palm as he raised her hand again to his mouth. A soft breath drifted from her parted lips when the warm moistness of his kiss oozed through her skin, adding to the flame. His gaze held her, but, for the first time, she did not want to look away. The unexpected warmth in his eyes urged her to delve further into the secrets glowing there.

He whispered lowly, so lowly she had to strain to hear him. “You need worry about no one … but me.”

Abigail drew back as he laughed. He was playing her for a fool, and she was letting him do it. As the door closed, she shuddered. She would have to deal with Captain St. Clair until they reached … wherever, and she must find a way to best him. If only she had some idea how.

Chapter Two

Abigail paced her tiny room, three steps each way. How long before she wore through the boards? Another day with no answers. Another day of sailing toward the mock justice which could leave her father dead before she had a chance to know him.

Her door swung open. Seeing Captain St. Clair's smile, she tightened her hands into fists. No, she would not say it. She would not remind him that a gentleman knocked and asked permission before entering a lady's room. He was sure to find that amusing.

“I suspect this is yours.” He dropped the calico cat on her bed.

“Yes, Captain.” She turned away and patted Dandy's head. She did not want Captain St. Clair to see her tears of relief. Dear Dandy! She was so glad he had not been hurt or killed in the battle. She should have known better than to worry. The cat hunted through the lower decks every night and would have known where to hide.

Her eyes widened when Captain St. Clair reached past her and stroked the cat. Betrayal scorched her when Dandy began to purr. How could her cat welcome this French pirate who wanted to see Father dead?

“Why don't we let your cat sleep while you join me for dinner, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald?”

She stared at Captain St. Clair, noting for the first time his black velvet coat and white breeches. The style was better suited to a fine drawing room than the
Republic
. With his hair brushed behind the collar that reached his cleanly shaven jaw, the twinkle of his earring matched his gold waistcoat.

“Mademoiselle Fitzgerald?” he repeated.

“Yes … I mean, if you wish me to.” She was flustered by his metamorphosis from pirate to gentleman.

“I would not have asked otherwise.” Captain St. Clair led her into the saloon. Seating her graciously on one bench by the table, he poured a glass of white wine. “Compliments of
La Chanson de la Mer.
” He smiled. “Your father's taste in wine is as poor as his judgment in sailing into my waters.”

Abigail took a sip so she could avoid answering. When he sat on the bench facing her and the door to the deck, she wondered if he feared being attacked. With her father's crew aboard, he was wise to be cautious.

He spooned a generous portion from each dish onto a plate and set it in front of her. “Not hungry?” he asked as he folded his arms on the table.

“Not particularly.” When she saw that his food was as untouched as hers, she asked, “And you, Captain?”

He picked up her fork. Dipping it in the fish stew, he ordered, “Eat.”

“Captain, I am quite capable of deciding when or if—”

“Eat!” His laugh was cold. “
I
am hungry, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.”

Instantly she understood. Captain St. Clair had invited her to join him so Cookie would not poison the food. She thought about defying him, but she must pick her battles with care. Although she almost choked, she swallowed.

“You appear to be enjoying good health still,” he said, dropping her fork and picking up his own.

“Mayhap your enemies chose a slow-acting poison.”

He smiled. “They know better than to give me a chance to cut out their cowardly hearts before I die.”

“Then have you given thought to the idea that I might consider it worth my life to rid the world of you?”

Taking a piece of bread, he offered it to her. She ignored it. With a shrug, he took a bite. “No, for how could you satisfy your desire for vengeance if you are dead?”

Abigail stared at him. She must never allow herself to forget, not even for a moment, his power over all of them.

When she did not answer, Captain St. Clair said, “You will like France. I suspect Paris is like nothing you have ever seen.” His hand covered hers, pinning it to the table. As she stared at him, unsure if she should believe his smile, he lifted his glass with his other hand. Taking a sip, he said, “If you wish, I can give you a tour while we await the disposition of your father's case and while this cargo is sold for a great profit.”

She drew her hand away, but did not lower her eyes. “Profit? You have halted the wrong ship if you wished to get a chest of gold for your troubles.”

“I expect to sell the weapons at a tremendous profit.”

“Weapons?” She laughed icily. “Captain St. Clair, you are sadly mistaken. We carry foodstuffs.”

“Who eats gunpowder?”

“No one, but I saw what was going in the holds.”

“Did you?” Laughing, he stood. “You are a charming innocent. Come with me.”

“Captain, I—”

All gentleness vanished from his voice. “I said, come with me.”

“And I wish to know why.”

“Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, after you have refused to answer my questions, why do you expect me to answer yours?”

Despising his reasonableness, she said nothing as he took down the lamp and opened the door to the deck. He offered his arm. In disbelief, she looked from it to his face. So many emotions flashed through his eyes. She did not know if she was in more danger when he taunted her or when he eyed her boldly.

Her fingers rose to his velvet sleeve. His firm muscles warned that his strength was no illusion. As he drew her closer, she pulled away. With a smile, he recaptured her hand and held it on his arm.

“I do not bite, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald,” he murmured. “Unless you request me to.”

Heat seared her face, and he chuckled. If only her face did not betray every thought …

Abigail was aware of the men watching as she crossed the deck at Captain St. Clair's side. Grumbles of rage came from her father's crew. They should realize that she was not a traitor for consorting with the enemy. She had no choice. She was Captain St. Clair's prisoner.

The captain led her to the bowels of the ship, which her father had forbidden her to enter. Father had warned of dampness and rats and darkness. The stench twisted in her stomach.

Captain St. Clair paused and withdrew a ring of keys from his pocket. “From your father.”

“Father
gave
you the keys?”

“He knew it was the only way to keep my crew from battering down every door. On the small chance he might regain his ship, he did not want her damaged. 'Tis a shame he did not worry as much about his daughter.”

Abigail tried to hide her flinch. She must not let him poison her mind with his lies.
But why did Father leave me here with these pirates?
She could not silence the perfidious thought. “My father knows he can depend on me to take care of myself. I am not a child.”

“That I have noticed.” His grin was as frigid as a Massachusetts winter. “I simply find it odd that a man—” The lock clicked open. “This should help you understand our interest in this ship.”