Beloved Captive (14 page)

“I’ve used one before,” she said. “And I’ll not be afraid to use one again.”

Caleb nodded and reached behind him for the door latch. “Should anyone come through this door tonight with the intention of harming you, shoot him.”

She weighed the gun in her hand, then shook her head. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” he said, “but do not think this means you’re being given free rein to wander the
Cormorant
. I’ll be sleeping with my back to this door. Should you open it, you will have to go past me to escape. I’ll not have you jumping overboard and ruining my best pistol.”

The woman lifted the cord and slipped it around her neck. “Fair enough,” she said.

“Likely the weather will be quite foul,” he said. “I recommend lash-
ing yourself to the bunk lest you find yourself sleeping on the floor come daylight.”

His captive continued to stare at the weapon. “Yes, thank you,” she said in an almost stunned tone.

With nothing left to say, Caleb took his leave. “Then I bid you good night, miss. Perhaps after tomorrow we shall part and likely never see one another again.”

“I welcome the thought,” she muttered as she backed up three paces and bumped her legs on the chair. “Now, please assume your post outside so I might assume mine.”

Back in the passageway, Caleb sunk to the floor and tried to make himself comfortable. Before long, his legs had gone numb. Splinters from the door dug into his back. The floor pitched and rolled as the storm built outside. To make matters worse, the afternoon’s battle had his muscles aching and his eyes heavy.

For a moment, he wished for his soft bed back in Washington, but exhaustion rendered him unable to sustain the thought. Finally, he curled onto his side and found brief if fitful rest.
 

* * *

May 28, 1836

When the first bells of the day called him from his sleep, Caleb rose on stiff legs and hobbled up to the deck feeling twice his age. Finding Fletcher at the quarterdeck, he made his way toward him.

Rather than comment, Fletcher lifted a gray brow.

“Not a word,” Caleb said. “Suffice it to say, chivalry can be painful.”

“So I see.”

Caleb leaned heavily on the rail and took in the beauty that was Langham Island. Once a hideaway for a less than stellar group of runaways from the law, the island had been hit hard by last year’s hurricane. In its wake, the storm left nothing of the crude huts and cruder men once populating its hideaways.

Swept clean, the white sand gleamed so bright Caleb had to avert his eyes, while the lush green foliage offered cool shade and a rainbow of birds and fresh fruits. It was, in short, as near to a tropical paradise as Caleb had seen, and it stood completely empty.

He turned to look at the splintered mast being patched together by a veritable army of men, then turned back to Fletcher. “What say you to a trip out to Langham Island while repairs are underway?”

From the map, he knew the island was shaped like the waning moon, a thin crescent of green outlined in pure white and named for a man whose sole claim to fame was becoming the scourge of the Spanish Armada. The
Cormorant
bobbed at anchor in the dead center of the lagoon, where green water faded to crystal clear as it gently teased the shoreline. The cloudless sky overhead and the slight breeze added to the image of a perfect place.

Or as near to one as could be found this side of heaven.

Fletcher shook his head. “I’m too old for it,” he said. “I’d much rather spend the afternoon in the shade with my copy of Mr. Defoe’s book.”

Caleb laughed. “So you’d rather read about a castaway than pretend to be one for an afternoon?”

“Exactly,” Fletcher said. “Though I hardly call my refusal to accompany you good reason for you to stay.” He pointed to the island. “Go and enjoy yourself. I warrant we’ll not sail until the Benning returns.”

Caleb looked at Fletcher, then out across the emerald expanse to the sandy shore. Soon he would be back in Washington, where his only respite from the heat of the day would be a tiny office with one window and a view of the Capitol.

Clasping a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder, Caleb grinned. “I wonder if Cook might accommodate me with a bite of breakfast to take along with me.”

“Shall I ask?”

Caleb laughed. “Yes, and have him provide something for lunch as well as a Bible if one can be had without disturbing our guest.”

When the things Caleb requested had been collected, he deposited them in the same dinghy he’d used last night to pluck the spitfire from the grasp of Thomas Hawkins and pointed the bow toward Langham Island.
 

Caleb smiled as he thought of the brown-eyed beauty. Perhaps under other circumstances. . .

No.

He pressed on, propelling the craft closer to the beach with every stroke of the oars. Thoughts of the mysterious woman would profit nothing, for unless the Lord generously intervened to rearrange his life, she could never be his.

She knew too much.

Chapter 14

Emilie awoke to a knock at the door. She rolled onto her side, feeling the odd pull of something around her middle. Sunlight streamed across her face, blinding her to her surroundings.

Salt air and something akin to frying meat assaulted her senses. Cook must be making breakfast. A pity she wouldn’t be going down to partake. Perhaps later she would have someone bring up a tray.

Stretching, she rolled again, this time feeling a tug not only at her middle but also at her neck. Her fingers felt for the cause and found someone had tied a ribbon around her neck.

Likely her gown had lost some of its ornamentation. Something else for the staff to handle later.

But not now. Not while she was so terribly, terribly sleepy.

Another knock.

She ignored it. Surely the staff had not become so lax in her ab
sence that they’d lost the good manners to leave a sleeping woman
be.

“I’ve your breakfast, miss.”

A man’s voice. One she did not recognize.

Emilie sat bolt upright, or at least she tried. Something restrained her about the middle, holding her in place. She grappled with the bindings as well as her surroundings. By degrees, she recalled the where and why of her situation.

And then she felt the cord at her neck. It was a ribbon, and at the end of it dangled a pistol.

Lying back, Emilie slid the ribbon over her head and carefully laid the weapon aside. She then went to work on the crudely tied rope that kept her imprisoned on the bunk. At least she knew these bindings were self-imposed due to last night’s storm. From the light streaming in, it was apparent they’d all survived the weather to find safe harbor and sunshine.

“I’ve brought yer breakfast,” another male voice called. “You’re hungry, ain’t you, miss?”

Her stomach complained as if in response, and she swung her legs over to touch her toes on the floor. “Yes,” she said, “thank you. I’ll just be a minute.”

Horrified at the crumpled mess she’d made of her one good frock, Emilie spent a moment in the futile attempt to finger press the wrinkles away. Failing that, she padded to the door and slid it open a notch.

A man she did not recognize held a plate filled with something unidentifiable yet definitely edible, if scent was any indicator. She looked him over and noted he was nearly indistinguishable from the others aboard this vessel. From the hair that begged for a barber to the clothing that likely was purloined from another, the fellow was unique only in the fact that his brilliant blue eyes had a distinct golden ring around their centers.

The scent of food made her throw open the door heedless of her appearance. “Just put it on the desk,” she said as she took two steps back to allow the man entrance.

While he positioned the food, Emilie leaned out to peer into the corridor. To the left was a wall while to the right she could see there was some sort of light just around the corner.

Escape teased at her thoughts, but where would she go?
 

Emilie stepped back inside only to collide with something. A hand snaked around her midsection. Another hand reached beyond her to slam the door.

A fetid smell overpowered the scent of breakfast and caused her stomach to lurch as a cloth covered her face. She opened her mouth to scream and gagged on a handful of the greasy fabric.

He slammed her against the door, then released her. Woozy from the collision, Emilie nonetheless found the door latch with her hand while maintaining eye contact with the horrible man.
 

Holding tight to the latch lest her dizziness cause her to fall, Emilie leaned against the door for leverage. In a swift move, she landed a strong kick to the man’s ample belly. As he fell, she ran.

Following the pale glow of what appeared to be sunlight, Emilie raced away from the heavy footfalls she could hear as well as feel behind her. Colliding into walls and nearly stumbling more than once, she emerged into the fresh air. Blinded by the light, she ran forward knowing what was ahead could not be worse than that which was behind her.

The ocean beckoned, and she aimed for it. Let the sharks have their way with her. It could be no worse than the vile man who pursued her.

Toward the sounds of shouting she ran. Then, almost as if time had slowed, the ship was behind her, nothing but air beneath her.
 

Water filled her mouth and stung her eyes while her skirt tangled around her ankles. She kicked toward the blur of green that, she prayed, would indicate land. Soon she found the tide propelling her forward so that she merely had to help it along and keep her head above water.

As she neared the beach, the water became crystal clear, an ocean of glass that gave away the secrets of its depths. Something shone in the sunlight, and she dove down to retrieve a coin of what appeared to be solid gold.

Something for the school, she decided as she clutched it in her fist. Her toes touched something solid. Though some distance remained to reach the shore, she’d reached a place where she no longer had to swim.

Her lungs burned, but her vision had begun to clear. She looked back at the ship, now quite a distance away, and realized no one had followed. At least not yet.

She swiped her hair from her face and surged forward, each wave moving her closer to the beach. Finally, the sand beneath her toes began to rise until she walked out of the water and onto dry land.

Once again, Emilie turned back to see if she’d been followed and found nothing but sparkling water between her and the
Cormorant
. Perhaps they’d been too busy with the repairs the Benning fellow told her about to bother noticing their captive had escaped. The best scenario would be for them to reach whatever home port they haunted before realizing her absence. In the interim, perhaps she could coax some friendly fisherman to take her as far as the next port where she could finally find her way back to Fairweather Key.

“I can hope, anyway,” she said as she hurried into the cover of the tropical shade to slip the coin in her pocket and shake the sand off her skirt. As she looked around to decide what to do next, she smoothed her tangles into some semblance of a braid.

Her back to the beach, Emilie peered through the thicket. From where she stood, she could see all the way to the other side of the thin sliver of an island and the ocean beyond.
 

The size of the island dashed her hopes for finding someone who might help her, though she determined the only way to know for sure was to begin hiking until she’d covered every inch of this tropical paradise.

Above her, sunlight filtered through swaying palm fronds and lit a path that seemed to be clear of any sort of creepy crawling creature, much to her relief. One last glance behind her, and Emilie began making her way carefully through the foliage until she reached the other side of the island.

At no point did she see any signs of life other than the brilliantly hued birds that roosted in the topmost canopy of trees. Then she spied something on the beach.

It appeared to be a boat. She moved closer. Indeed, someone had hauled the small wooden craft onto the beach and turned it over on its side as if to fashion a shelter.

Emilie smiled. “Thank You, Lord,” even as she wondered how in the world the little vessel would get her all the way to Fairweather Key.

On this side of the island, the beach was deeper and the sand softer. Emilie sank to her ankles in places as she made her way toward the little boat. A few paces away, she heard a strange sound.

Not quite an animal, possibly human. She paused and turned her ear away from the wind. There it was again.

It sounded like snoring.

Emilie crept forward until she saw a pair of boots and an oar leaning against the craft. A few more steps, and she saw feet. Large, male feet.

They moved, and she jumped back. Now what? Dared she assume that the owner of these feet was friend, or could he be foe?

She paused to think and then decided if none of the men had followed from the
Cormorant
, it was likely this one could be labeled a friend. Thus, Emilie squared her shoulders and marched over to the little boat, then knocked sharply on the wooden hull.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said in her most friendly but firm voice, “but I require a favor from you. I assure you I can make this worth your while.”

Emilie looked over the edge of the boat in time to see a familiar face staring back at her. “You,” she said to the pirate Benning.

“You,” the Benning echoed. “Are you real, or have I been in the sun too long?”

She felt the air go out of her. Her only chance, and it turned out to be no chance at all. Emilie flopped unceremoniously on the sand and stared out at the surf.
 

“Were I not raised a gentleman, I’d take offense to that greeting,” he said as he rose and dusted powder-white sand off trousers that had been rolled to the knee.

Emilie ignored him. All was lost, and no amount of levity on his part would relieve the strong need to cry. Only her pride kept the tears at bay. For how long, she did not know.