The Diamond King (13 page)

“This way, my lady,” he said.

She hesitated, still uncertain about the prospect of the captain’s cabin. But the boy was already halfway down the hall. In any case, she
was
totally at the mercy of Malfour in any location of the ship. From what she’d seen and heard, she doubted whether any man aboard would challenge him.

She leaned down and touched Meg gently, then followed young Robin out of the room.

The lullaby haunted Alex. So did the echo of the woman’s voice even after she left the room.

Damn her.

He did not want to be reminded of gentler years. Of family and home. Of a mother and father long gone. Of his own promising life.

He had once been an honorable man.

Now honor had no place in his life. ‘Twas best to remember that.

He needed funds. He needed a great deal. He needed it for the children, to settle them safely. Then he needed enough to create a new life for himself, one in which he could bedevil the British. That had been the only thing that had kept him alive through those agonizing months of recovery.

If he had to ransom the woman to get where he wanted to be, then he would do that.

He just didn’t want to see those accusing eyes, or hear a voice that brought back too many memories and made him realize she was a person like any other. He had to regard her only as a Campbell. A thing to be despised.

Not a person with sorrows of her own.

But she had them. He’d heard them in her voice as she sang so longingly of children and ponies and gifts and safety and peace.

Why couldn’t she be haughty and arrogant and demanding and uncaring of Jacobite children?

Unwanted guilt niggled at him. She looked tired. Her eyes were red rimmed, and she must be hungry. Yet she hadn’t complained. That made him bloody angry.

He hoped she would stay in his cabin. He could sleep anywhere. In one of the hammocks if necessary. God knew he’d had far less comfortable resting places. And the bed he’d once enjoyed now seemed more a bed of thorns. He just damn well couldn’t sleep in it.

He went up on deck. Dawn was breaking. It was always his favorite time of day. The slow rising of the sun made all things seem possible. But it was a lie.

Family, children, honor, home, peace. No longer possible ... for him.

Did the Campbell woman believe those things were no longer possible for her, either?

Hell, why did the
Charlotte
have to carry passengers?

Alex knew now he’d been lucky in the first captures. No women. Just sailors. Some of them not entirely displeased to leave an unhappy ship.

Why had he not followed his first instinct and left it alone? Meg would not be wounded and suffering. They would be on their way to Brazil, avoiding British shipping lanes. Now they might well encounter a British warship. He knew his guns would be no match for theirs. His guns were designed to intimidate unarmed merchantmen, not ships of the line.

Claude was at the wheel. “
Bonjour
, Captain. Our luck holds. No sign of sail.”

“Did you get some sleep?”

“Aye. Enough. You do not look as if you had any.”

Alex shrugged. “I like the dawn.”

“How is
la petite
?”

“Not well.”

“I am sorry to hear that. She is very brave.”

“Senseless is more like it,” Alex said.

“You do not fool me, Captain,” Claude said with a twinkle in his eyes. “You care more than you want anyone to know.”

Alex sighed. “She trusts me. That is a dangerous thing to do.”

“
Non
, I do not think so.”

“Then you are as senseless as she. I should have never taken that ship.”

“It had a rich cargo.”

“And more trouble than we need.”

“Not a man aboard would agree with that.”

“Go get some rest, Claude. I’ll spell you and use your quarters tonight.”

“You are the captain.”

“I gave my quarters to the woman caring for Meg.”

Claude raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “You’re the captain,” he repeated. But something like amusement played in his eyes.

Alex gave him his most formidable frown.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to faze his second in command at all. He heard a chuckle as Claude ducked through the hatchway.

Jenna awakened as the afternoon sun touched her, and she rolled over in the comfortable bed before realization struck.

She was sleeping in a pirate’s bed.

His presence was everywhere in the cabin. It was in his scent—sea and soap and something tangy—and in his clothes—the white linen shirts with full sleeves and breeches that she knew molded his legs well—hanging on pegs or neatly folded.

There were maps and books. The latter surprised her.

He was a freebooter. She had not expected a literary side of him, and yet he had books in both English and French. Had they belonged to an earlier owner or captain? Were they merely stolen like so many other things?

A restless energy filled in the cabin. She felt it. Despite the neatness of his belongings, something vital and indomitable still lingered in the space.

What had brought that word to her mind?

Malfour. Will. Neither name fit him. They were tame. English.

He was a wild Scot, through and through.

She looked out the wide window. When she had gone to sleep, the sky had been black with clouds. Now the sun rippled the waves.

How close were they to Barbados, where her betrothed was waiting?

How far from Martinique, where the pirate said he would release them?

But then she thought of young Meg. Could she leave the child while she was still so ill?

Unable to find an answer, she looked down at her person. She’d slept in all her clothes, finding comfort in the added protection they provided. Now she felt foolish. It was obvious Will Malfour, or whatever his name was, had no interest in her.

She turned toward a pitcher filled with water and quickly used it to wash herself. Then she saw her trunk in a corner. Sometime while she was asleep, it had been brought into the cabin. She shivered for a moment, then decided anger would do no good. She’d obviously been untouched. Instead, she leaned down and opened the trunk.

Someone had gone through it but, to her surprise, what jewelry she’d left there was untouched. Her dresses, packed so carefully, were not as carefully replaced. She chose a light green muslin, not because it favored her but because it was cooler than any of her other garments. She put on a fresh shift, ignoring her corset, the one garment she had discarded last night.

The shift settled easily over her shoulders and fell in light folds to the floor. The bodice tied in front, so she needed no help.

She brushed her hair, then twisted it into the tight knot she usually wore. She knew it was unbecoming, but it never had seemed to matter before. No one ever looked at
her
. They just looked at the wine-colored birthmark that some said made her the devil’s own.

Strange, but she’d never felt like the devil’s own.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the years of rejection wash over her. She’d never wanted sympathy. She hated self-pity. The only thing she’d ever wanted was someone to care about her, and people for her to care about. Children.

Meg.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was heavy, and she hated the tight knot. In a moment of defiance, she allowed it to fall down her back, then plaited it in a long braid. She tied the end in a knot. It certainly wasn’t fashionable, but it was comfortable.

She hesitated at the door. Should she leave the worn dress with jewelry sewn inside? But now it should be safe enough, and Meg needed her. The beat of her heart quickened as she thought of the small lass and the way she relaxed at the sound of her voice.

Summoning her courage, she opened the door. Seeing no one, she stepped outside and walked to the sick bay.

Robin sat next to Meg. Hamish was in a chair, studying a book in front of him. He looked up and smiled. “My lady. I’m glad ye are here. I am not good at reading.” Then his eyes clouded. “Can you read?”

“Aye,” she said, eyeing the book.

“Nothing is working,” he said. “The infection is getting worse.”

She picked up the book.

“We took it from the
Charlotte
.” He had the grace to look embarrassed.

She looked down at the cover. It carried the name of the ship she’d been sailing. It was a medical manual describing ailments and cures.

She leafed through the book. Under “inflammation,” it said to bleed the patient. That sounded rather senseless to her since Meg was pale and already weakened by loss of blood. She read on. Cool a fever. She knew that.

She wanted to throw the book against the wall.

She gave Hamish her bravest smile. Or was it merely bravado? “I do not think bleeding will do any good.”

“Nor me, my lady.”

“We should keep her as cool as possible and drain the wound.” She hesitated, then added, “And pray.”

“Does God answer the prayers of a Campbell?” The deep, now familiar rumble of the privateer captain came from the door.

She turned around. “Do you have a better idea, my lord?”

“
My lord
?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you deny you have a title?”

“I do not have to deny anything to you,” he said curtly. He walked over to Meg and knelt beside the bed, his fingers touching her cheek. Meg’s eyes opened. “Will,” she said.

The easy use of his name startled Jenna. She’d always heard the children refer to him as “the captain” before. He did not seem to notice, though. “Aye, it’s me, lass.”

“Don’t leave us.”

Something like anguish, naked and raw, passed over the man’s face. Jenna looked away. It had not been for anyone to see.
So he does care
.

Malfour brushed back Meg’s short, ragged hair, his hand lingering on her forehead. “Ah, Meg,” he said. “I have need of your sharp eyes.”

Meg smiled wanly. “I have the best sight of all,” she said.

“Aye, you do,” he assured her. “I’ve never seen better, especially to spy a red coat.” He moved his hand. “But next time you will do as I say.”

“Aye, sir,” she said.

“I doubt it,” he said, but there was a gentle wink connected to it, and for the first time Jenna saw what others must see in the captain: a subdued charm, a self-deprecation that emerged from under the dark, sardonic, and often harsh exterior.

He looked up at her, and the moment of whimsy fled from his face.

Meg’s gaze also turned to her. There was not the hostility that had been there before. Jenna did not like the listlessness in her eyes, though.

Her gaze met Hamish’s and she saw her concern reflected there.

Still, she thought a lie would do. “You look better.”

Meg looked dubious.

Jenna searched her mind frantically for something she could do to help. “Perhaps a bit of soup ... ?”

“I am not hungry,” Meg said.

“Soup would be just the thing,” Hamish said. “But I dinna think the cook is much good at it.”

“I am,” Jenna said, grateful to be of help and sure that a small lie in a good cause would be forgiven by God. She had watched Cook make soup back in Scotland, but she had never actually turned her hand to it.

The captain shrugged. “Rob will go with you.”

So she still wasn’t trusted, not even enough to go to the galley alone.

Rob was already at the door. “Meg and I have been helping the cook,” he said. It was more than he’d said at any other time. Apparently some of his hostility was fading, too.

She so much wanted someone to value her for what she was rather than for who she was. Or how she looked.

Robin led the way into space hotter than the rest of the ship. A large pot sat on a stove, and the smells coming from it did not tempt the appetite. She’d noticed that what food she’d received consisted mostly of tasteless beans, boiled potatoes, and hard biscuits.

The man bustling around the area was small with lively eyes and a mouth that lacked some teeth. She wondered whether it was the result of his biscuits.

“Meg needs soup,” Robin said.

“Whatever the lass needs,” the cook said, then turned to Jenna. “Hamish said you ha‘ been helpin’ with Meg.” It was obvious he approved.

She shrugged away her approval. “I thought some hot broth might help.”

He looked dubious. “We have no fresh meat.”

“Potatoes?”

“Aye.”

“Any herbs?”

He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“Some salt pork?”

“Aye.”

With his help she added some water to chunks of salt pork, along with potatoes and a poor onion she found. She longed for spices to make it more palatable but at least it would be nourishing. As it slowly boiled, she wanted to ask Rob more about him and Meg. Why had they not stayed in Paris and instead chased after a pirate?

What was it about the man that commanded that kind of loyalty and affection? And trust? Or was it just an adventure that ended badly?

While she stirred her poor concoction, Robin perched on a stool and began peeling and cutting potatoes. Still, his eyes always seemed to be on her. Watching. Judging. Weighing.

She wanted to know more about him, but she feared asking. It seemed everyone on the ship had some terrible story to tell, and blamed it all on her family.

Did her family deserve that blame?

Even in the hot galley, a shiver ran down her back. How could she answer charges she knew little about?

Why should she feel the necessity to do so?

She had been an innocent sailing on an English ship. Captain Malfour was in the wrong, not her. He was the one who had taken two children on a dangerous voyage. He was the one who had shot first.

Yet she felt terribly guilty.

It amazed her how important Meg had become to her. Despite her outward rebellion there was a vulnerability in her eyes that went straight to Jenna’s heart. She knew that vulnerability, knew about steeling herself so no one could see her fears or reach inside her heart and hurt her.

“She will be all right, won’t she?” Robin’s question was like a thrust into her stomach.