Enchanted by Your Kisses (21 page)

Wess
tensed, waiting for the pain to pierce his flesh again, that momentary instant of agony as acute as the sting of a jellyfish.

And then it hit. Through sheer force of will, he didn't cry out. He'd never give these British the pleasure of hearing him cry out. They'd kidnapped him from the deck of his ship, forced him to serve in their damnable navy, taken him from his family, his home, his homeland. They would not hear him scream. Still, a small moan escaped.

The crowd murmured at the sound, though some of the men remained quiet. Those he'd made tentative peace with in the past months. Those he could count on as friends, despite his forced tenure aboard the HMS
Destiny.

The lash fell again.

Once again he couldn't stop the gasp that escaped, though God, how he tried. Heat seared its way down the back of his bare legs. Someone cheered, instantly silenced by one of the officers standing to his left.

Again the lash fell.

Twenty more to go.

Then fifteen.

By now he was crying out in pain, tears escaping from his eyes. Then suddenly he found himself cut down, his body falling to the deck.

"Run him the gauntlet," intoned a well-modulated voice.

The crowd broke out into murmurs.
Wess
well knew why. Running the gauntlet was a punishment usually reserved for thieves; so was flogging. But he wasn't a thief, he was a deserter, and by the Articles of War should be subject to a court-martial, not a flogging at the hands of the crew. But apparently Captain Pike cared not for maritime law.

If he doubted his death before, he knew it now. Ten, perhaps fifteen days hence he would succumb to an infection. Or perhaps malnutrition when they sent him to the hold to "contemplate his crimes."

Two men came forward, lifted him, causing another unwanted cry to escape his lips. They strapped him to a wheeled seat, then dragged him toward the crew.
Wess
knew what came next. He watched as the
bosun
handed the
cato
'-nine-tails to the nearest crew member. It was a brutish seaman
Wess
knew well. The man had never liked him. None of them did, with the exception of his five fellow countrymen.

"Bloody patriot," the brute muttered, raising the lash.

It fell with more force than any of the
bosun's
blows. The pain never went away. He never entered that plane some men talked about, that state where no pain existed. He felt each blow, felt each piece of leather lick at his flesh, tear into it, only to crack through the air to land again. He tried, dear God he tried, to let his spirit float free. Tried to think of things familiar and dear. His father. His brother.

Nathan. I hope they didn't kill you, too.

"Bastard," cried another man. "Your friends killed me
da
'." The cords fell.

"I lost half me family to one of
yur
troops." It fell again.

And on and on it went.
Wess
lost track of how many men he passed. The strands were raised, brought down, then lifted again.

Suddenly it stopped. Pray God it was over.

"I can't," said a familiar old voice.

Wess
lifted his head. A wizened face stared down at him, two front teeth missing. Samuel.

"Don't make me do it," begged the man who'd taught him how to tie his first knot.

"You must,"
Wess
rasped.

"I can't, Captain," he near sobbed. "Lord, when I looks at what they done to you—"

"Do it," snapped the man holding his chair.

Do it,
echoed
Wess's
eyes. For if he didn't, they both knew what would happen. Samuel would suffer a similar fate, only worse, for the British crew members didn't take kindly to men holding back.

Samuel raised the tails. The nine ends shook in his grasp. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, tears gathering in his eyes.

The whip came down. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough.
Wess
gasped, his body beyond him now, his reactions automatic.

He lapsed into unconsciousness.

Water brought him back, salt water that trickled down his back and brought fresh waves of agony. He waited for more blows to fall, but apparently the captain was through with him. Through blurry eyes,
Wess
saw the bastard raise his hand and turn toward the crew.

"Let this be a lesson to those of you not anxious to serve aboard my ship." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I will brook no deserters aboard this ship. The next man who tries to leave will suffer the same punishment." He let his words sink in, then turned to
Wess
. "Take him below."

Ariel decided the next morning that sleeping on a dusty floor wrapped up like a sausage did not, as a rule, put a person in a good mood. It didn't help that she'd only managed to doze as she'd fought to get comfortable. It also didn't help that Mr.
Trevain
had awoken looking as refreshed and as relaxed as a man with eight hours of sleep. It irked her no end, the only thought to console her that she would take pleasure in seeing him bound and gagged one day. Soon. Thank goodness he'd untied her limbs. They still buzzed as if asleep, but she had some sensation in them. Jolly wonderful.

She studied him. He'd donned his coat again, not black, she suddenly realized, but dark, dark gray. It hung to just above his knees. His dusty-from-the-floor fawn breeches pouring into black boots. And yet despite the rather plain look of his attire, there was a brief instant, half a heartbeat, really, when she thought him quite handsome, but then he turned to her. His eyes glared. He turned ugly again. Or so she told herself.

"How long are we going to stay here?" she asked.

"We're not."

She felt her brows lift. "We're not."

He shook his head.

"Well, then, where are we going?"

"To
Bettenshire
."

"
Bettenshire
! Why, that's the town where I live."

"I know," he answered, pinning her with a stare.

Understanding dawned. "You want to search the house there, too."

"I do."

"I'm surprised you haven't already. You are, after all, a master spy."

"And how do you know that?"

"I asked someone at the Admiralty."

"How thorough of you."

She nodded.

"Then it may interest you to know that I already have searched the house, though not as thoroughly as I would have liked. It was difficult with your staff in residence. Now, however, I have you. You will dismiss the staff then aid me in my search."

"I will not," she huffed.

He took a step toward her. His face and the scar, something she'd hardly noticed this morning, suddenly looked ominous. "You will aid me, my lady, for if you do not, I shall send word to have your cousin taken from her home and disposed of."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Simple," he snapped. "I arranged for someone to do exactly that, should I send word."

Her mouth dropped open again.

"One of the benefits of having been in battle, my lady. Think of every possibility. I reasoned last eve that you might be less than cooperative, therefore before we left, I arranged a bit of insurance. ‘
Twas
simple enough, for there are any number of miscreants willing to do a job, should there be enough blunt at stake."

He wouldn't dare.

But mightn't he?

He hadn't thought twice about using her. Or kidnapping her. The realization left her reeling, but she raised her chin nonetheless, determined to endure her time with him with dignity.

"Very well, sir. I shall do as you order."

They engaged in a staring war. Ariel was pleased to note she was not the first to look away. He turned, bending down to pick up his bag of supplies.

"When do we leave?" she asked.

"As soon as you're ready."

"I'm ready."

"We'll eat first."

"I'm not hungry."

His patience looked to have snapped. He strode forward. Ariel tensed. When he stood be-fore her, the long, tall length of him looming over her, she swallowed.

"You will eat when I tell you to eat."

Yes, she rather thought she would. "As you wish," she croaked. "But what is for breakfast?"

"This," he answered, holding out dried sticks.

"Bark?" she asked.

"No. Dried beef. Here." He held a stick out to her.

Ariel tried to hold out her hand, she truly did, but the bloody thing wouldn't do as she commanded.

"Open you hand," he ordered impatiently.

"I'm trying," Ariel shouted back, her temper snapping. "If you hadn't tied my wrists so tightly, I might be able to use them."

"Use what?"

"My hands, sir. They are numb. You tied them too tight last eve."

Instantly guilt rose in his eyes. Ariel thought she imagined it.

"Let me see," he said, shoving the beef back in his pocket. Ariel decided then and there she wasn't eating the stuff. His pocket, indeed. Goodness knows what'd been in it. Then she gasped as he grabbed her wrists.

"They're bruised," he observed.

"Very observant of you, sir."

His touch was surprisingly gentle. Then again, a club could have been pounding on her hands and she doubted she'd have felt it.

"Why did you not say something?"

"Because I didn't notice it until you untied them."

He nodded, and Ariel became transfixed by the look on his face. His whole expression had gentled, his face relaxed on both sides, a look of genuine concern came into his eyes.
Hmph
. He began to rub her hands with his fingers. Ariel almost groaned, not because she enjoyed it—heavens, no—because her bloody wrists hurt.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, watching as he knelt before her.

"I'm checking your ankles."

"Oh." Her ankles. She almost jumped back as he lifted her chemise, but then the touch of his fingers sent a jolt through her. Heavens, she'd never had a man touch her ankles before. She stared down at his bent head, telling herself now was the perfect opportunity to escape. He was on his knees before her, a position every man should aspire to, or so Phoebe told her. If she could find a piece of furniture—She turned her head, searching.

Almost as if reading her mind, he looked up.

She looked back. It felt as if she'd been caught with an uplifted club in her hands.

"I wouldn't advise it, my lady."

"Advise what?" she asked, feigning innocence. Goodness, how had he read her mind so easily?

"Whatever it is you're planning."