One Night of Passion (34 page)

“Cognac?” Bertrand asked, peering into the hold.
“Sacré mère
! That cask is from the Marquis de Villier’s private vintage. Why, it hasn’t been made since before . . . before . . .” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Since before the Revolution.”

“Is that good?” Georgie asked, knowing full well the rarefied liquor was worth a fortune.

Captain Taft had always smuggled the best.

“It isn’t just good,
ma cherie,
it is excellent.” He stepped further into the room, clucking his tongue as he examined the various labels.

“When I discovered these casks, I thought I might present them to you and your crew as a token of my appreciation for rescuing me. It was my hope that perhaps I could offer a toast around this ship and the
Gallia.”
She smiled again.

Bertrand frowned. “Such fine cognac to be wasted on common sailors? I hardly think so.”

Georgie ground her teeth together to keep from telling the parsimonious old goat that if he shared a bit more freely with his men perhaps they wouldn’t feel inclined to steal from him.

Besides, what had happened to the revolutionary spirit of “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity”?

“Perhaps this once you could make an exception,” she suggested. “Sadly, I think a few of the casks have broken seals, and I fear their contents may have soured a little. Mayhap we could offer those to your men?”

At this, he nodded in agreement. “A perfect solution. I doubt any of them would know the difference.”

At this she laughed and patted him on the arm. “Then please order some of your men to fetch this on deck and we can start our celebration immediately.”

Bertrand nodded to one of the sailors behind him, and the man went to call for more assistance. As the word spread, it seemed every sailor wanted to help retrieve the hidden bounty.

At Georgie’s insistence, two casks were rowed over to the
Gallia.
If anything, she knew the officers would imbibe, and once they passed out, it was only a matter of time before the other cask would get passed around by the crew.

She only needed the
Gallia
short-handed, so that once she had Colin and his men free, they could easily escape the much larger warship.

Bertrand took center stage atop the quarterdeck, the French crew gathered below.

The men came around, cups in hand, and Georgie only too happily filled their glasses, careful not to spill any of the liquor on her clothes.

Once all the men had their measure, Bertrand raised his mug. “As your
capitaine,
I would like to offer a toast of appreciation for your courage and strength in helping overcome the notorious pirate Danvers. I hereby offer this cask to you, my loyal men, as a way of saying thank you.”

Georgie noticed that he’d seemed to have forgotten that she’d been the one to find the cognac and that it had been at her insistence that the crew received any of the precious vintage.

No matter,
she thought. He’d be more than happy to give her the credit and blame in the morning, when he awoke without the
Sybaris
under his control.

As the men began to drink, someone started playing a small pipe. Soon they were dancing together and the celebration was well underway.

Georgie had known that things might get out of hand, so she’d had Kit and Chloe, along with Rafe, bar themselves in their cabin. Kit had even managed to steal a pistol and shot, which Georgie had given to the young lad.

She didn’t bother to ask her sister how she’d managed her latest felonious exploit.

“Do you know how to use this?” Georgie had asked Rafe.

“Aye, ma’am,” he’d said, taking the gun and tucking it into his belt like a pirate. “I won’t let any harm come to Kit or my niece.”

So he knew about Chloe as well. Perhaps that was for the best.

Kit sighed and gazed with open longing at her beloved champion. So much so, that when it came time for Georgie to close the door on the trio, she wondered if Rafe might have to defend himself against a worse foe.

Her amorous fourteen-year-old sister.

Now she was wishing she’d had enough sense to lock herself away as well for the festivities were quickly turning into a lewd display. Some of the men, the smaller and skinnier fellows, were already starting to doze off, but the larger fellows, like Brun and, worse, Bertrand, were eyeing her as if she might suddenly turn into a willing doxy.

If they don’t have enough of the potion, it could become an ugly situation for you, Miss Escott,
Pymm had said.
It will only unhinge their inhibitions, and for men who have been at sea for some time . . .

“Madame Saint-Antoine,” Bertrand called out, waving at her by wiggling his fingers and waggling his bushy brows. He sidled up to her, his belly swaying to and fro. “This is the finest vintage I have ever had the
pleasure
of partaking in.” He took her fingers and brought them to his fleshy lips. “At least up until I met you.”

Georgie smiled, while doing her best to hold back the urge to be sick.

“I have a cabin below,” he was saying, the thick scent of cognac washing over her. “I think we would be much more comfortable down there.” The brows wiggled again, like two lap dogs competing for attention.

Pulling her hand free, she did her best to wipe the back of it nonchalantly on her skirt. “Oh, not before another round,
mon capitaine,”
she told him, ladling out another measure for him, and offering to pour another cup for those still standing.

Dear Lord, the man had already downed four mugs full,
she thought as she topped off his next one. How much more was it going to take?

One of the bolder members of the crew came strolling forward, obviously having forgotten rank and any regard for discipline. “Come and dance. You’re a hot, sweet thing and wasted on the likes of that blowhard.” He nodded toward Bertrand, who was just finishing his mug and wobbling like a ninepin.

“Go along,
ma chère
Georgiana,” he murmured. “I’m going to have one more . . .” Bertrand finished his sentence by toppling over backward.

The remaining crew roared with raucous laughter.

One of them went over and gave the captain a hearty kick to make sure that he was good and passed out. Then like a pack of dogs they all turned and cast hungry looks at Georgie.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Think, Georgie, think,
she told herself. “Wouldn’t you like some more?” she asked, holding out the ladle. Brun swiped it out of her hand and kept stalking forward. “I suppose not,” she muttered, finding herself backed up against the deck railing. “I fear the British were right. That is rather too potent for a man to imbibe too much.”

“Bah!” he spat, hurling a large wad onto the deck. “The British and their beer. What do they know of a good drink . . . or good sport?”

“Indeed,” she said. Once again, she nodded toward the cask. “So you men could finish off that cask and still offer a woman what she wants. I would
enjoy
seeing that.” It was Georgie’s turn to waggle, batting her lashes at Brun.

He nodded at her challenge and hoisted the last cask up on his shoulder. “Drink up,
mes amis.
The honor of France is at stake.” He plucked the cork out with his horse-sized teeth and spit it to one side. Then he tipped the cask over and let the amber liquor churn down his throat.

When he started to choke, he passed it to the next man, and so it went around the circle until not a drop remained.

And still they stood.

Four men with the look of the devil in their eyes and not a shard of decency amongst them.

“Come along, little pigeon,” Brun said. “We’ve done our part of the bargain.”

“Yeah, the bargain,” one of them said, before he toppled over.

His companions laughed and called him names, until one more of them pitched forward, landing on the deck like a fallen oak.

Two down, two to go, Georgie thought. But these two looked as if they had been tossing back buckets of chamomile tea, not twenty-year-old cognac.

Brun held out his open hand to his companion.
Dice.
He was going to dice for her. The other fellow nodded and swiped the pair from Brun’s palm and threw them onto the deck. He leaned over to spy what he’d thrown and fell on top of them.

All she could do was shake her head in dismay, in fear, in abject terror, and wish with all her heart that she’d put in the measure of nightshade that Pymm had advised her to use, and just outright poisoned the entire lot of them.

But her conscience hadn’t allowed her to commit wholesale murder. Not that her lofty ethics would save her now.

“What the—” Brun said, trying to pick up his leaden feet. He shook his head like a sleepy dog, while his entire frame lolled from one side to the other.

Georgie held her breath as Brun wobbled.

He glanced over at the empty cask, then back at her. A final blaze of light flared in his dull-eyed gaze. He knew. He knew what she’d done. In his murderous realization he took two faltering steps toward her. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his tongue was too thick and fuzzy to make anything other than an unearthly growl.

As the last discordant notes wrenched from his foul throat he fell to the ground in defeat.

Georgie let out a great sigh of relief. “Wretched lout,” she muttered as she walked over to him and gave him a swift kick in the ribs. “This is for beating Colin,” she told him. “And this is for what you were thinking about doing to me.”

Shuddering, she retreated to Bertrand’s slumbering form. The man snored so loudly, she feared the watch on the
Gallia
would hear it and mistake it for a warning bell.

Her nose pinched in dismay, she searched his fleshy form until she found the ring of keys that he had shown her earlier, now buried deep in his jacket. Grimacing as she pulled the chain out of his sweaty pocket, she walked across the deck as if nothing were amiss.

The last thing she wanted to do was to alert the
Gallia
crew that anything was wrong.

But once she got to the gangway, she was down the ladder in a flash. The guard was snoring away at his post, an empty wineskin beside him, so she raced past him to the doorway. Catching up the lantern, she held it to the opening in the door.

“Colin! Colin, I have the keys,” she called out.

Colin rose stiffly from the floor. Pymm was right behind him, as were Livett and the rest of the crew.

“Dammit, Georgie, I told you not to do this. From the sounds up there I thought . . . I feared . . .” He let out a sigh of relief and reached out to touch her hair, her cheek. “If you ever disobey me like that, I’ll—”

She dangled the keys just out of his reach. “Do you want out of there or not?”

Colin’s brow furrowed. “Why, you—”

“Tut, tut, tut,” she muttered, taking a step back from the cell.

He mumbled something under his breath, but when he next spoke aloud it was in a different vein. “Do you know how worried I was? Georgie, my foolish, headstrong Georgie! Did you not see the trouble you were courting? I tried to live without you once. I don’t think I could do it again. Not now,” he told her, reaching out one more time.

It was all she needed to hear. Georgie stepped into his touch and let him kiss her brow, her lips, while she fumbled with the keys to set him free.

“The crew is unconscious, but I don’t know the condition of the
Gallia’
s men. I convinced Bertrand to send over two casks. I tried to get him to send three, but the greedy fool refused.” Georgie didn’t tell Colin that that extra cask had probably saved her from Brun’s unwanted attentions.

Instead, she continued her description of what awaited them above deck. When she finished, Colin nodded.

He gave his orders rapidly. The
Sybaris’
s crew moved stealthily about the decks, gathering up their fallen enemies and loading them into three of the ship’s longboats. Quickly and quietly, they lowered the boats from the side of the ship opposite to the
Gallia,
so their work went unseen.

Then every man took his position, aloft and on the decks, awaiting the signal. And when Colin gave it, they doused every light on the ship, cloaking the frigate in darkness. They changed course and moved away from the
Gallia.

There were cries from the other ship, but obviously no one among the officers was sensible enough to give the orders to send up signal lights or to alter course.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the
Gallia,
their captain and a good portion of their crew drifted farther and farther away.

“Will they survive?” she asked.

“Aye. I told Livett to spare a compass and see them provisioned with enough water. If they start rowing in the morning they should see land in a day or two.” Colin shrugged. “If they don’t get picked up before that.”

“Captain Bertrand is going to be angry when he awakens,” Georgie said, as they watched the longboats disappear into the night.

“I would think he would be relieved,” Colin replied, pushing back from the deck and turning to take her in his arms.

“And why is that?” she asked.

“The
Gallia
is still afloat. I promised him if I got the chance I would see her burned to the waterline.”

Georgie shot him a sideways glance. “You wouldn’t have done that, would you?”

Colin looked back across the waves at the evergrowing distant lights of the
Gallia.
“No,” he said. “No, never. That would hardly have been fair.”

Somehow, Georgie didn’t quite believe him.

Chapter 15

B
y later that evening, Colin stood on the quarterdeck surveying the ongoing repairs to the
Sybaris.
Damaged as the ship was, he pushed the available sail they had, using every bit of the wind he could find, for each fathom they moved forward brought them that much closer to seeing Nelson safe. It would take days before the
Sybaris
was sailing as she was meant to, hell-bent and flying over the waves, but in the meantime, all he could do was pray that what wind he could catch was enough.