A Brother's Honor (6 page)

“So you call for that Frenchie from your bed?” growled a voice she did not recognize.

But she recognized the man's face, even though blood ran from several cuts on his forehead. Woolcott! The leader of this mutiny!

Trying to tug away, she cried, “Let me go!”

“So you can run back to your Frenchie lover?”

“He is not my lover!”

“You can explain that to him and the devil while you burn in hell!” He raised his sword.

It was knocked aside with a crash of steel. Abigail struck the bed as Woolcott whirled to face Dominic. She recoiled as the swords came together again. She could not keep from staring at the blood on Dominic's shirt. Was it his or someone else's? Had everyone on this ship gone crazy?

Woolcott screeched as Dominic's sword found its mark. Abigail closed her eyes and fought not to be sick as Dominic pulled his sword back out of the sailor. She heard a thump and saw Woolcott's corpse on the floor beside her. With a moan, she scrambled away. Her stomach heaved as the deck had in the storm.

Dominic smoothed her hair back from her face while she gave in to her sickness. As soon as she could breathe without retching, he put his hand on her arm and whispered, “You must come with me, Abigail.”

Sitting back on her heels, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She could not go anywhere. Her knees would not hold her now. “Where? Where can we go?”

“Somewhere where you can be safe. I was a fool not to think that your father's men would aim their vengeance at you.”

“Are you saying you made a mistake, Captain St. Clair?” she asked softly.

“It happens on occasion.” He pulled her to her feet. “Now to make sure it is not the last one you shall ever see …”

“Where are we going?” Abigail asked as she tried to keep up with him as he led her through the saloon toward the door to the open deck.

Another explosion from deep within the ship slammed them into the sideboard. Dominic groaned an oath as his sword fell to the floor. He grasped his right arm and cursed again. His fingers were numb, but pain raced up to his shoulder.

“Get my sword, Abigail,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

Her face was gray as she picked up the sword. She balanced it in her hand, then grasped the hilt with both hands. Slowly her gaze rose to his. He did not need to hear her speak. Her thoughts were as clear as if her freckles spelled out the words across her cheeks. She now had the means to slay him.

When she shoved the sword into his left hand, he heard, through the rumble of agony, footsteps running toward the saloon door. He pushed himself away from the sideboard and balanced the sword awkwardly in his left hand.

“Back into your room, Abigail,” he shouted as the door burst open.

He had no time to see if she obeyed. Two men came at him. He parried their thrusts, but he was too off balance to take advantage of any openings. Backing toward the cabins, he tried to lead the men away from Abigail's door.

One man rushed forward. Dominic groaned as he jumped back and hit his right arm against the wall. Hearing laughter, he cursed all the mutinous Americans to the deep. He fought to make his eyes focus through the haze of pain. Had more men joined the battle against him, or were his eyes betraying him?

A shriek brought a curse from one of his attackers. In disbelief, Dominic saw Abigail rush out of her room. She was carrying a chair. She dashed it against the head of one of the men. He collapsed, bumping into his comrade as if they were a stack of cards. Before the American could regain his balance, Dominic drove his blade into the man.

The motion undid Dominic. He fell to his knees on the deck. Abigail grasped his left arm and helped him to his feet.

“
Merci
,” he muttered as he reached for his sword. It skittered away when the ship lurched with another discharge of the gunpowder stored below.

“Forget it!” she cried. She tugged him toward her bedchamber.

“Abigail, we must go.”

“We are.” She put her arm around his waist and steered him through the door. “The only way we can.” She faltered. “Can you swim?”

“Swim?” He frowned. “I am not leaving this ship while it is still afloat. I have won—”

More men rushed into the saloon with triumphant shouts. Dominic swore viciously as he picked up his sword and raised it. He had to give Abigail time to flee. He was not sure how much longer he could protect her from her father's insane crew.

“Go!” he shouted. “Get off this ship any way you can.”

Abigail did not hesitate as she climbed onto the sill. The ship lurched as something rumbled through it. She teetered on the edge. Her arms windmilled. She screamed as her feet slipped from the sill.

Falling, falling, falling, she shrieked again. The wooden stern became a blur. She tucked her feet beneath her at the last second. When she crashed into the water, its salty maw swallowed her.

Down, down, farther down she went. She tried to fight her way to the surface, but she could not halt the momentum carrying her toward the bottom. Her chest burned. Her soaked clothes pulled her downward. She pulled off her shoes. As they fell away into the murky mist, she struggled upward. She had to breathe.

As her head came above water, Abigail heard gunfire and more explosions. Debris crashed around her. They
were
going to destroy the
Republic!
She did not look back as she struck out for shore with a clumsy stroke.

Where was Dominic? Had he followed her, or was he staying to fight? She did not believe that he would relinquish the ship, but he could be killed easily when his right arm was useless. She choked back a gasp of horror. If he had jumped, he might not be able to swim.

Scanning the water, she saw nothing but the ship and the endless rise and fall of the waves. She could search the night away and never find Dominic.

Abigail took a steadying breath and started for the shore. Again and again, she raised her head to look toward land. It never appeared any closer. Her heart pounded against her chest, and she gasped for breath as her arms and legs grew exhausted. The gentle waves broke in her face, choking her.

Rolling over onto her back, she stared at the
Republic
. Her eyes widened. A small flicker of scarlet erupted from a porthole on the lower decks. Fire!

She swam furiously. The pull of the waves toward the shore helped. As the water became shallow, she waded, fighting to escape the water. Her fingers clenched the small pebbles on the beach as she dropped, panting, to the ground.

An explosion ripped the air. Abigail jumped to her feet as a fireball climbed from where the
Republic
had been. She raced for the trees at the edge of the beach as sparks soared toward her. Another crash rang through her head.

Clutching a tree, she watched as the fire seemed to feed directly off the water. The cloud of smoke took the shape of the ship, with fingers of fire outlining the masts. The center one dissolved into the flames. Another explosion crashed over her seconds after she saw a flash on the starboard side of the ship.

Wood splashed into the sea. Each piece was alight with fire, burning as ferociously as her horror. She stared at the blaze. As flames crackled wildly against the smoke-filled sky, she knew she had never been so scared. The crew was mad.

Or following orders
, whispered a soft voice inside her head. Father! Father could have ordered this, and the crew would have followed his orders, but surely her father had hoped to save his ship and crew … and her. Yet now he would be free. The French could not hold him and the rest of the crew without the evidence destroyed with the
Republic
.

“But why did you leave me to die, too?” she whispered as she slid down to sit beneath the tree. She feared that was a question she would never get an answer to.

Chapter Five

Abigail scrambled over a mound of the rocks that cut through the strand, dividing one cove from the next. Behind her she heard excited voices. Englishmen! She could not let them find her here.

Spies died on the gallows, and she doubted that anyone would heed her tale of being a prisoner on the ship. Then these people would ask the same questions Dominic had—that she had. What had the
Republic
been doing so close to England with a load of weapons? Her very lack of an answer could condemn her to hang.

She scurried like a child from one huge stone to the next, watching carefully because the moon was slipping beneath the bank of clouds rising out of the sea. When she reached the top, she clung close to the boulders and looked back toward where she had come ashore. Several forms were coming out of the trees, not more than a stone's throw from where she had paused to catch her breath. If she had remained there, they might have seen her.

Staying low and thankful for the concealing darkness, she slipped down the other side of the rocks. She winced when she scraped her hand on a sharp stone, but did not slow until she reached the sand piled up on this side of the break.

Abigail crouched in the shadow of the boulders. She wondered why the Englishmen had not come to this beach first. It was already littered with charred boards from the ship. In horror, she realized those were not boards. They were bodies. No wonder the English were not coming here. They were more interested in the ship's cargo than in corpses. Those they could rob later.

She swallowed her desperate yearning to flee from the carnage that had washed up onto the shore. Mayhap someone was still alive. She refused to admit that she was the only survivor. If someone else had washed ashore, she would have an ally against the English.

Inching toward the bodies, she submerged the disgust swelling into her throat when she discovered the corpses were burned beyond recognition. There was nothing left to suggest they had been alive. She saw knife blades that were twisted out of shape, their hafts gone. The stench rising from them was worse than belowdecks.

Her toe hit something half-buried in the sand. She bent and picked up a pistol. A loaded pistol, she saw when she tilted it Carefully, she slid it through the sash of her wrapper. She did not want it to misfire, but she might need it.

A mournful yowl resonated along the strand, and Abigail whirled. She laughed weakly when she saw her cat nosing around a corpse. Dandy gave a low cry.

“It is horrid, isn't it?” Abigail whispered.

The cat prowled back and forth before settling to clean his whiskers in a very self-satisfied manner. He had survived, so that was all he cared about. She sighed. Dandy would take care of himself. She did not doubt he soon would be feasting on the birds that lived among the trees lining the strand. She must become as ruthless.

She froze as she heard a strange sound. Were the English coming here to steal from the corpses? Looking back over her shoulder, she saw no one. No one alive. She gasped as she heard the sound again. Was it from a corpse?

Dandy inched past her, but that did not ease her superstitious fear. Aunt Velma often said cats could hear and see unearthly things. The cat nosed the sand by one of the corpses and wandered away, disinterested.

The soft sound came once more. It sounded like a man moaning.

Abigail gasped again. That sound did not come from a ghost, but from another survivor off the
Republic
. If the English heard the groan, they would surely come to investigate. She had to help the man before the English could find him and her.

She ran to a pair of bodies farther along the beach. She started to touch the first, but pulled back in horror when she saw that his face had been ripped away by one of the explosions. Her stomach threatened to betray her, but there was nothing in it. She knelt next to the other body on the sand.

“Dominic!” she breathed in shock.

His shirt was shredded and his breeches torn to reveal scorched skin on his legs. Other burns were an angry red on his chest and arms. With his eyes closed, she was spared his powerful glare.

Her fingers trembled. He had been her captor. Looking past him, she saw a stone that would fit perfectly in her hand. If she crashed it against his head, he would never awaken. He was a French pirate. He deserved no mercy. At his command, his men had murdered her father's crew. Because of him, the
Republic
was gone.

Her fingers closed on the rock, but, instead, she thought of how he had rescued her in the middle of the storm. Closing her eyes, she recalled the haven of his arms. No, it had not been safe. There had been nothing safe about the passions he aroused in her.

When another sigh of pain oozed from his lips, Abigail knew she must help him, for he had saved her life more than once. She suspected the French were even more hated than Americans here in England. She must hide him.

Straining, she rolled him over on his back, taking care not to touch his right arm. She brushed sand from his face. The stickiness of blood caught her fingers, and he groaned. She pushed aside his matted hair and found blood, but no wound. She tore a long strip from his ripped shirt, then cringed as the sound was like a scream in the darkness.

She held her breath, but no one climbed over the rocks. As more shouts came from the other beach, she guessed the scavengers were finding whatever had washed ashore from the ship. She hoped it would keep them busy until she could get Dominic off the beach.

Rinsing sand from the material she had torn off his shirt, she carefully wrapped it around his head. As she tied it in place, she saw that some of his hair had been singed away. His dark eyebrows were as full as ever. The wound was over his left ear, she found. That surprised her, because she had guessed he always would confront danger face to face. She wondered how many of her father's crew he had fought alone in the moment before the ship exploded.

A flush darkened her cheeks as she ran her hands along his body. To be embarrassed to touch an unconscious man was ridiculous, but the heat on her face burned hotter as she cautiously touched his ribs, seeking to discover if any were fractured. As she moved her fingers across his chest, she could not keep from remembering how it had been so strong against her as he held her. She glanced at his face, but the only expression he wore was of pain. Suddenly she wished for the irreverent smile she had detested.