Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 4 - Julia Justiss, Georgina Devon - Страница 22

Michel lay in the hammock, cleaning one of his pistols and listening to the doleful ballad of lost loves and thwarted dreams sung by one of the Swan’s crewmen on the deck above. Michel sighed. He could sympathize all too well with whoever had written that ballad. His own love wasn’t exactly lost—she was lying soundly asleep in the bunk not three feet away from him, her hair tousled about her face and one arm thrown back enticingly behind her head—but she wasn’t exactly his, either.

This last week together with Jerusa had been both the best and the worst of his life. She had rarely left his sight, day or night, and with so much time together, he’d come to appreciate her as a companion as well as a woman. Which was, he thought wryly, just as well, since companionship was all he and Jerusa were destined to share.

Idly he kicked his foot against the bulkhead, rocking the hammock in time with the song. The hammock was one of the precautions he’d taken against being tempted again, and, even so, he’d been sorely tried by being able to hear Jerusa’s soft little sighs as she slept in the bunk across from him. Sacristi, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, but to give in to his desires would be the worst possible thing he could do for them both.

And she knew it, too. After that first night aboard the brig, she’d been as careful as he had. There had been no more kisses, no more embraces and certainly no more of what they’d done so pleasurably that one time on the bunk. They slept in their clothes the way they had while traveling, and they made elaborate, self-conscious excuses whenever one or the other finally wished to change and needed the cabin’s privacy. The entire contrived arrangement, thought Michel with another sigh, would have been worthy of the great Molière himself.

But this wasn’t the only truce they’d uneasily, silently declared between themselves. Since that first night, neither of them had spoken of their families or fathers, or of the circumstances that had brought them together aboard the Swan.

And not once since then had she told him again that she loved him. He wasn’t surprised—what decent woman would profess to love a man who’d sworn to kill her father?—but he did feel more regret, more longing, than he’d ever admit to anyone, especially to Jerusa. No, he could not blame her. But what would she have said if he’d blurted out the truth, that he loved her, as well?

His hands stilled as he thought again of how close he’d come. He’d realized since then that when she’d cried out to stop in his mother’s name, she’d been afraid of conceiving a child, not of his mother’s madness. His conscience had been the one to hear that. But however the warning had come, he’d listened. He did love Jerusa, more than he’d ever dreamed possible. But because he loved her, he refused to risk condemning her to the same terrifying half existence that his father had done to his mother.

What would happen once they reached Martinique—especially since he expected Gabriel to have arrived first—was still to be seen, and how his mother would respond to Jerusa, he could only guess. But for now this journey was a no-man’s-land, a few brief, precious days when their lives really were as uncomplicated as those of the dull, respectable Mr. and Mrs. Geary.

Deftly Michel pulled the flannel cleaning cloth, dipped in rosin, through the pistol’s barrel. In the damp air at sea he cleaned his guns daily. Another precaution, though this one was aimed at George Hay. The mate had said nothing else about Jerusa’s identity, but Michel believed in being careful. He had to. Even when she was at Michel’s side, Hay’s gaze seldom left Jerusa, and whether the man was interested in her solely for the reward her father had offered or for her beauty, as well, Michel wasn’t taking any chances. Wherever he was on the little brig, he kept one of the pistols hidden beneath his coat, and his long knife, too, was always within easy reach at the back of his belt. If George Hay was lucky, he’d never learn precisely how far Mr. Geary would go to protect his pretty wife’s virtue.

Michel heard the shouted order to haul aback, and with an oath of disgust he stuffed the cleaning rag back into its bag and wiped his hands clean. For a vessel as fast and wellhandled as the Swan was, she was making a wretchedly slow passage because her captain was the most sociable old man Michel had ever known. Barker spoke every other ship the Swan’s lookout spotted, sometimes even changing his course to pursue a particularly interesting sail on the horizon, and at every invitation he’d drop his boat to go a-visiting like some eager spinster racing off to have tea with a new curate.

Jerusa rolled over slowly, clutching the coverlet as she yawned. “Whyever are we stopping now?” she grumbled. “It must be the middle of the night.”

“Eight bells, chérie. The sun’s high in the sky.” Even if he didn’t share her bed, Michel liked being able to see her when she woke in the morning, her face plump and flushed and her eyes heavy lidded with sleep. “If we’re truly fortunate, our dear captain will have found us yet more company for the breakfast table.”

Jerusa groaned as she pushed herself up onto one elbow. She’d never been one for early rising, and Michel could be appallingly cheerful. “Nothing could be worse than that captain from the Portuguese whaler at supper two nights ago! I’ve never met a man who talked so much or smelled so bad!”

“Oh, it could have been worse, Rusa. We could have had to dine with him on empty stomachs at breakfast.”

Jerusa groaned again and dropped back down onto the pillow. It was strange how they’d fallen back into this pattern of teasing banter with each other, the same kind of jests and nonsense she’d always shared with Josh. She enjoyed it, true, but it also put her on her guard. For all that they might be brother and sister, she knew better. Nothing with Michel was ever less than complicated, and nothing was what it seemed.

But as she watched Michel swing out of his hammock in one fluid motion, she wasn’t thinking sisterly thoughts. Far from it. He moved with the ease of a cat, his movements both purposefully spare and graceful in the narrow space. They’d sailed far enough south that the cabin was warm, especially at this hour, and he was dressed in only his breeches and shirt, the full sleeves rolled up high over his muscled arms to keep the linen clean as he worked with his guns. He crouched down to pull his sea chest from beneath the bunk to stow the cleaning rags back inside, and Jerusa raised her head and leaned forward, the better to see how his shirt pulled across his back and the way his breeches stretched taut.

He snapped the lid of the chest shut, and hurriedly she dropped back down onto the pillow before he caught her ogling him. She closed her eyes, pretending she was dozing, but the image of him remained to tantalize her. She’d been the one who’d stopped their lovemaking, not him, so why did he seem to be so much better able to cope with the intimacy of their shared quarters? She was the one who awoke in the night with her pulse racing and her heart pounding from dreams that were little more than memories of what they’d done that first night, in this very bunk, while Michel seemed to sleep as easily as he did everything else.

Perhaps it was because everything had been so new to her. She’d been kissed before, true, but Michel was so different from Tom and the others that kissing him seemed like something new, heady and breathtakingly sensual. And as for the rest, while he had seen and caressed a great deal of her, she’d been too inexperienced to explore him in return, and over and over again her thoughts struggled to try to fill in what she still didn’t know.

Didn’t know and now wouldn’t learn, at least not with Michel, and the wave of sorrow that washed over her immediately doused her desire. She still loved him. If anything, the voyage had drawn them closer, not further apart.

But she hadn’t been foolish enough to tell him again how she loved him. No matter how much she guessed at the depth of his feelings, he’d made it painfully clear that they didn’t include love, at least not for her. She thought one more time of the miniature she’d found in his saddlebag, and wondered unhappily if his heart was already promised to the black-haired Frenchwoman.

The other possible reason was one Jerusa liked even less. Because her name was Sparhawk, she remained Michel’s enemy. An enemy he’d kiss and tease and protect if it suited him to do so, but an enemy nonetheless. The way he spoke of her father proved that.

With her eyes still closed, she listened to the sounds of Michel shaving, the little drip as he dipped his wet razor into the cup of seawater, the muted scrape as the blade crossed his jaw. The only other man she’d watched shave was her father, and her fingers bunched into fists beneath the coverlet as she imagined what would happen when these two men she loved finally met.

She did not want either of them to die; she didn’t want them to fight at all. But the more she tried to find an answer, the more complicated the question became. The best idea she’d found so far was to find Michel’s mother on Martinique and beg her to intervene. Though Michel seldom spoke of her, she apparently still lived. Surely no mother would want to see her only son commit such an awful sin. Surely for the sake of the man she’d once loved, Michel’s mother would help her try to end this feud before it claimed another life.

“Will you come topside with me, ma mie, or shall you spend the day where you are?” He had braided his hair in a sailor’s queue, cooler in the hot sun, and now stood tucking the long tails of his shirt more neatly into his breeches before he shrugged into his coat. “From the cacophonie on deck I should think you’d be a little curious as to exactly what our captain has drawn to our side this time.”

Jerusa opened her eyes and frowned, not sure she liked the idea of such cacophony on the deck over her head. Whatever its source, she’d never heard such a racket of screams and squawks, and she didn’t need another of Michel’s fancy French words to tell her she’d have no more sleep this morning.

Braiding her own hair much like his and daring to leave her stockings and shoes below, Jerusa followed Michel to the deck. After the twilight of their cabin, the sun was blindingly bright as it glanced off the water, and squinting, she shaded her eyes with the back of her hand.

The tropical summer sun was as hot as it was bright. The smooth, worn planks of the deck were warm beneath her bare feet, and despite the wind that filled the brig’s sails, Jerusa felt the prickle of perspiration trickling down between her shoulder blades, under her layers of ladylike clothing. No wonder the men working in the rigging had stripped down to canvas trousers and little else besides hats to shade their faces.

“Ahoy, Mr. and Mrs. Geary! You’re just in time to settle a question for me!” Captain Barker waved to them from the larboard entryway. Behind him the single mast of a small boat was just visible, bobbing alongside the Swan.

“Look here,” Barker said as they joined him and his cook, still in his apron and a knitted wool cap. “I must decide which of this fellow’s wares to buy for our breakfast. If you were at market, Mrs. Geary, which would take your fancy, eh?”

Jerusa peered over the Swan’s side to the little fishing boat below, floating on the transparent Caribbean water as if hanging in air. Her master, a black-skinned man in white trousers and an open red waistcoat, waited patiently with the pride of his catch spread out on his deck for the Englishman to make his decision. Swinging from a bracket on the mast was a large cage of woven reeds, full of small, brightly colored birds—scarlet, yellow, emerald and turquoise—and it was their shrieks and whistles and chattering that Jerusa and Michel had heard from their cabin.

Jerusa shook her head. “I really can’t say, Captain. There’s not a fish I’d recognize from home.”

The fisherman waved his arm grandly toward the cage of birds and said something to Jerusa in a language halfway between French and Spanish.

“He says he hopes the lovely English lady will buy one of his pretty birds,” explained Michel at her side. “All ladies like them, he says. But I wouldn’t advise it, chère. Away from their companions, the little creatures fall silent and pine away. They also bite, and odds are, beneath those pretty feathers, they’re covered with pests.”

“How charming,” said Jerusa as she smiled and shook her head at the fisherman. “But I’d wager he’d still likely do a wonderful trade in the market house at home.”

Barker conferred one last time with his cook, then tossed a handful of coins to the fisherman. “Shark and cod, and a brace of those handsome langoustes,” he said with relish as the fish and lobsters were handed up in a basket. “Oh, we’ll have a fine breakfast, won’t we?”

Less than an hour later, Jerusa, Michel and Captain Barker were sitting on the quarterdeck beneath an awning rigged to shade them from the worst of the sun. The dining table brought from the captain’s cabin was graced by fillets of the fish he’d bought earlier, now cooked and sauced, as well as biscuits and a pot of incongruous, glittering beach plum jam from some distant Connecticut kitchen. For Jerusa the biscuits and tea were breakfast enough, but Michel and the captain argued happily over the different merits of the shark versus the cod as they ate more than enough to make their decisions.

Only half listening, Jerusa sat back in her chair, lazily sipping her tea. On a morning like this, with the bright blue sea and a cloudless sky all around her, it was easy to forget her troubles, or at least to put them temporarily aside. Not even the sight of Hay, glowering from the helm at the little breakfast party to which he’d not been invited, could dampen her spirits. He’d barely spoken to her once she’d assured him she wasn’t worth a grand reward. Not that she cared. She had enough on her platter without adding a disgruntled fortune hunter. Besides, after tomorrow, when Captain Barker said they’d reach Bridgetown, she’d never see Mr. Hay again, and he’d be free to go search for some other missing lady with a wealthy father.

She stifled yet another yawn and set her teacup onto the table. “I’ll leave you two to settle the state of the fishy world,” she said as she rose. “I’m going back below.”

Swiftly Michel looked at her with such concern that, without thinking, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Geary,” she said lightly. “I’m merely going back to sleep.”

He glanced down at her hand, then back at her face, and smiled so warmly she felt the day grow another ten degrees hotter. “Take care, my dear,” he said, his eyes as bright as the sea as he watched her. “I’ll come to you soon.”

Quickly she drew back her hand and fled before Captain Barker would notice how she blushed. Dear Almighty, why did it take so little from Michel to affect her so much? Yet as she drifted back to sleep, she prayed her dreams would be of him; for dreams, for now, were all she had.

She had just rebraided her hair when the door to the cabin opened behind her, and she turned eagerly. “Michel, I was just coming—”

But she broke off when she saw him, unsteadily supporting himself in the doorway. He was pale and sweating, with deep circles beneath his eyes. “Rusa, chérie,” he said, his words slurring and his smile weak. “Help me.”

The brig heeled on a new tack, and Michel pitched forward. Jerusa grabbed him beneath his arms and nearly tumbled over herself beneath his weight. Her first thought had been that after breakfast he and Captain Barker had turned to rum. But she’d yet to see Michel drink more than he could hold, certainly not to this state, and as she tried to haul him back to his feet and toward the bunk, she felt how his body was warm with fever.

“Here we are, Michel,” she said as they reached the edge of the bunk. With a groan he fell back onto the bunk and curled on his side with his eyes closed. She eased his arms free from his coat and tossed it aside, and then carefully pulled the pistol from his belt before she drew the coverlet over him.

“Th’ damned Creole’s fish,” he muttered thickly. “Should—should have known better.”

Gently she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. She remembered the fish spread out on the deck in the hot sun. If it had been fresh caught, then there should have been no danger, but in this climate, perhaps food turned faster. “Can I get you anything, Michel?”

“Should—should be better soon. Th’ fish an’ I parted company at th’ rail.” His smile was ghastly. “Très dramatique, ma mie.”

“Oh, Michel.” She knew he was right. If he’d already been sick to his stomach, then he should be well enough in a few hours. But that didn’t ease his misery right now, and she thought of what she could do to make him more comfortable. A damp cloth for his forehead, water to sip, perhaps some broth and biscuits for when he felt better. “I’m going to the galley for a few things, but I’ll be back directly.”

She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, for he looked as if he’d already fallen asleep. That was good; he needed the rest. In this heat, the worst danger would be from letting him go too long without water. She retrieved her shoes from beneath the bunk and opened the door. As she did, he turned his head slightly toward her without opening his eyes.

“Th’ gun, Rusa,” he said hoarsely. “Take th’ gun.”

She hesitated, wondering if he was insisting for a reason or if this were only some feverish whim. There’d be no way she could hide one of his long-barreled pistols beneath her clothing the way he did, and she’d feel downright foolish to appear in the Swan’s galley before the cook brandishing a gun like some sort of pirate’s lady.

“Take it, Rusa,” he rasped again, fumbling beneath the coverlet for the gun. “You must, chère.”

“Rest now, Michel, and stop worrying about me,” she said softly, but he had finally drifted off to sleep, and she quickly left before he woke.

She had been aft to the galley several times with Michel, and it was easy enough to find by the fragrances from the cooking pots. But this time the kettles were empty and the fire burned low, and the only person in the galley was the towheaded ship’s boy, Israel, at the table peeling potatoes with little interest or aptitude.

“Where’s the cook?” asked Jerusa as she went to fill a battered pewter pitcher from the water barrel. “Mr. Geary’s unwell, and I wished to bring him some broth, if the cook has any, and some dry biscuits to try to settle his stomach.”

“Cook’s taken sick, ma’am,” said the boy laconically. “Him an’ his mate both, same as th’ cap’n hisself. But I warrant you can have what you pleases.”

Jerusa looked at him sharply. “Did they all eat the same fish that Captain Barker bought this morning?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am, that they did.” He jabbed his knife into another potato. “Cook an’ his mate an’ th’ cap’n. An’ now yer man, too, I warrant.”

“Then who is in charge of the ship?”

“Why, Mr. Hay, o’ course,” answered the boy promptly.

“Of course,” echoed Jerusa uneasily. Perhaps this was the reason that Michel had wanted her to take his pistol. Swiftly she gathered the pitcher and the basket with the other food. “Please tell the cook when you see him that I shall pray for his recovery.”

She hurried back toward their cabin, the heavy pitcher balanced carefully before her. She should be thankful that Mr. Hay was aboard and well. From what she’d seen he was a competent sailor, and so near were they to their destination, he could surely see them to Bridgetown safely, and that was what mattered most.

But when she climbed down the last steps to their cabin, she was stunned to see Hay himself waiting outside the door.

“So there you are, Mrs. Geary,” he said cheerfully with a bow. “I’d wondered where you were about. I’d heard your husband had been stricken, too, and I came to see how he was faring.”

“He’s resting now, or was before I went to the galley.” She tried to squeeze past him to her door, but stubbornly he blocked her way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hay, I’ll be able to see his condition myself.”

“Asleep, you say?” he said, still not moving. “I could have wagered I heard him answer himself when I knocked on the door not five minutes past.”

“Then perhaps my husband is awake,” she said uneasily, wondering why he insisted on staying. If he was the Swan’s master, didn’t he have more important things to do than to linger here, provoking her? “He’s been quite restless. Or perhaps you woke him.”

Though he shook his head, his smile remained. “Well, now, I’d be sorry if I’d done that. But the strangest part is this, Mrs. Geary. When I knocked on your door, do you know how your husband answered?”

“Mr. Hay, my husband isn’t well, and I—”

“He asked if I were Jerusa,” declared Hay, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “Jerusa! Can you fathom that? Calling me after a woman’s name, and the name of that missing Newport lady in the bargain.”

“Oh, Mr. Hay!” she scoffed. She would bluff; she had to. “Whyever would my husband do such a thing? I’d say you’ve been reading that handbill of yours a bit too far into the dogwatch and dreaming of yourself chasing after wealthy young ladies.”

“I’m not dreaming now, am I, Mrs. Geary?” He leaned closer, his smile becoming more of a leer, and Jerusa’s thoughts fearfully jumped back to what had happened with Lovell in the alley.

“Not dreaming, no,” she said as tartly as she could. She would not let herself be afraid or he would know, and everything would be over. “But from your unseasonable actions, Mr. Hay, I can only conclude that you are ill as well as the others. Now if you would let me pass—”

“Nay, Mrs. Geary, not quite so fast. I’ve yet to tell you what else I’ve heard your husband say. He speaks in French, Mrs. Geary. Did you know that? Prattles on as if he’d learned it in the cradle.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Hay, that is because my husband’s mother is French, and mothers are generally the ones to rock cradles. Not that any of this is your affair in the least.”

“I’m the captain now, Mrs. Geary,” he said, his smile fading, “and it’s most definitely my affair if we’re harboring a Frenchman on board a decent Yankee vessel.”

He edged closer, and Jerusa decided she’d had enough of bluffing. She swung the heavy pewter pitcher as hard as she could, catching him in the jaw and drenching him with water. He swore and stumbled back, and as he did, she wrenched open the latch and threw open the door to the cabin. But she was only halfway inside before Hay grabbed her arm to pull her back.

“Let me go at once!” she cried, struggling to hang on to the door and fight her way free of his grasp. “Let me go now!”

The basket flew from her arm, scattering biscuits in the air, and when she tried to strike him again with the pitcher, he twisted it from her fingers and tossed it down the companionway with a ringing clatter. But as he turned, she was able to jerk her arm free, and swiftly she whirled into the cabin.

“Come back here, you lying little bitch!” growled Hay as he grabbed for her again, slamming his shoulder against the door to keep it open. With a yelp, Jerusa tumbled back onto the deck as the door flew open with Hay behind it. With another oath he swept down to yank her to her feet, and as he did he caught the glint of metal from the corner of his eye, realizing a fraction too late that it was the barrel of Michel’s gun.

“You lying French thief,” he said, panting, as he slowly rose to his feet. “I should throw you and your little whore over the side where you belong.”

“Foolish words from a man in your position, Hay,” said Michel. His hair and face were slick with sweat, but as he sat against the pillows his eyes were ice-cold and his hand holding the pistol didn’t waver a fraction. “Are you unharmed, chère?”

“I’m fine, Michel,” said Jerusa breathlessly as she scrambled up from the deck. “But you—”

“I warned you, ma mie. You should have taken the gun,” he said, his gaze never leaving Hay’s face. “This ship is remarkably overrun with vermin.”

“Speak for yourself, Geary,” snarled Hay. “You’re the worst of the lot, a yellow-bellied Frenchman hiding in some chit’s bedclothes. Why, I’d wager that gun isn’t even loaded, you cowardly little French bastard!”

Jerusa gasped, seeing the change in Michel’s face. Better than Hay, she knew all too well exactly what Michel was capable of doing, and loading the pistol was the least of it.

“And you, Hay, you doubtless believe yourself to be a brave man for speaking to me like that,” he said, his musing tone deceptive. “Would you care to test yourself against me, Hay? At this range a blind man could hit you, but if you truly believe that this pistol is only a prop, then come, I invite you to take it from me.”

Jerusa flattened herself against the bulkhead and squeezed her eyes shut, terrified of what she’d see.

If he killed George Hay now, would it be her fault, too? Another death, as Michel said, another man who would live still except for her? And would it be like this when he met her father, too, insults and dares and then coldhearted death?

“It’s your choice, Hay,” Michel was saying. “You leave, and you agree never to insult this lady again, or you gamble your life on whether I’m the coward. Your choice, mon ami. Your choice.”

God in heaven, she could not look….