Читать книгу The Lost Gentleman - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Within his cabin Kit sat at his desk, the paperwork and ledgers and maps upon it forgotten for now. Gunner sat opposite him, leaning his chair back on to its hind two legs and rocking it. The afternoon sunlight was bright. Through the great stern window the ocean was clear and empty, the disabled Coyote long since left behind.

There was a silence while Gunner mulled over what Kit had just told him of Kate Medhurst’s reaction up on deck earlier that day.

‘Women are the gentler sex. Their sensibilities are more finely honed than those of most men,’ said Gunner, ‘but...’ He screwed up his face.

‘One might have expected a degree of either fear or animosity towards the boatload of ruffians that took her by force and held her against her will,’ Kit finished for him.

Gunner nodded. ‘It is possible she has an unusually meek nature.’

I hope that pistol is loaded? Kate Medhurst had looked at the weapon like a woman seriously contemplating snatching it from its holster and holding it to his head.

He thought of the essence of forbidden desire that whispered between the two of them, the barely veiled hostility in those eyes of hers and the way her body had responded so readily to his.

He thought of her plunging from Raven’s head and swimming so purposefully towards those rocks. And of their interaction in his cabin, with her skilful deflection of his questions to reveal nothing of herself.

‘I would not describe Kate Medhurst as meek.’ Intelligent, determined, formidable, capable, mysterious, courageous and passionate, most definitely passionate. But not meek. ‘Would you?’

‘No,’ Gunner admitted.

‘Mrs Medhurst was not so unwilling a guest upon Coyote.’

Gunner’s gaze met his. ‘You think she is lying about being abducted?’

‘She never told us she was abducted. We made that assumption. Mrs Medhurst did not correct it.’

‘But you saw how the pirates treated her.’

‘La Voile would have given her to us easily enough. The rest did not wish to yield her.’

‘She was afraid of them.’

‘She was afraid, but not of them...for them.’ He thought of the desperation that had driven her to grab his wrist, to plead for the lives of those men. ‘There is someone on Coyote that she cares for, very much.’

‘A lover.’

Kit thought of the way Kate Medhurst touched so often to the gold wedding band upon her finger. ‘Or a husband.’

Gunner looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘You think it was not La Voile’s body his crew were intent on retrieving. You think it was the woman.’

‘It would explain much.’

‘But not what we saw between her and La Voile on Coyote’s deck that morning.’

‘Does it not? If we remove our assumptions, what did we see, Gabriel?’ Kit asked.

‘An argument between two men over a woman,’ Gunner said slowly. ‘The other pirate...’

‘It is a possibility.’

‘The only fly in the ointment is her mourning weeds.’

‘Are they mourning weeds? A ship that flies a black sail is not in mourning.’

Gunner looked at him and said slowly, ‘A pirate’s woman might dress as a pirate.’

Kit said nothing.

‘And if she is a pirate’s woman?’ Gunner asked.

‘It makes no difference. As long as we have La Voile’s body she is not our concern. We offload her in Antigua in the morning. Let them ship her back to Louisiana. We have bigger things to think of.’ Like getting La Voile’s body back to London. Like returning to face what he had left behind. ‘Post a guard on La Voile’s body in the meantime.’

‘You think she is capable of sabotage?’

‘I think we should not underestimate Kate Medhurst. I will breathe easier when she is gone.’ And he would. Because every time he thought of her, he felt desire stir through his body. She was temptation, to a life he had long left behind, to a man he no longer was. And that was a road Kit had no intention of revisiting.

* * *

The purple-grey-green silhouette of Antigua loomed large before them. The haze of the early morning would burn off as the day progressed, but for now the sun sat behind a shroud that did not mask the brightness from the daylight. Within the rowing boat there was no sound other than the rhythmic creak and dip of the oars and their pull of the water. No one in Raven’s small party spoke.

The wind that was usually so mercifully cooling seemed unwelcome at this hour with the lack of sun, making Kate’s skin goosepimple beneath the thin black muslin. Or maybe it was just the sight of North in his place at the other end of the boat.

His eyes were sharp as the raven’s perched upon his shoulder and strayed her way too often, making her remember the lean strength in his body, and the scent of him, and the feel of his skin against hers...and the way he had stroked the hair from her cheek. Making her feel things she had never thought to feel again; things that appalled her to feel for him of all men. And she was gladder than ever that this was the end of her journey with him.

But there was a small traitorous part of her that, now she was safe, wondered what might have happened between them were it not the end. Just the thought turned her cold with shame and guilt. She pushed it away, denying its existence, as much as she denied the tension between them was not all adversarial. And turned her mind to wondering as to her crew and Coyote’s fate.

North was right, these waters were rife with Baratarian pirates and privateers; one of Jean Lafitte’s boys had probably already found and helped the stricken ship. Sunny Jim knew what he was doing and would get them all back safe to Tallaholm, and she felt better at that thought.

* * *

‘Something is not right,’ Kit said softly to Gunner as they stood before Fort Berkeley on the island not so much later. Jones the Purser and five ordinary seamen who had rowed across with them had stayed in the main town, St John’s, to procure water and the list of required victuals. Kate Medhurst stood just in front of him, surveying the yellow-washed walls of the fort that guarded the entrance to English Harbour. She was more relaxed than he had seen her, now that they were about to part company, her secrets intact. He wondered what they were. He wondered too much about her, he thought, as his eyes lingered on the way the wind whipped and fluttered the thin black muslin of her skirt against the long length of her legs. He turned his focus back to the fort and what it was that he did not like about it.

Gunner gave a nod. ‘I get that same feeling.’

‘No guard outside the gate.’ His eyes scanned, taking in every detail.

‘And apart from the lookout in the watchtower, not another soul to be seen,’ murmured Gunner.

‘Silent as a graveyard, and a gate that should be opening, demanding to know our business by now.’

Kate Medhurst glanced round at him, as if she was thinking the same.

‘Wait here with the woman, Gunner. If I am not back in fifteen minutes—’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Kate Medhurst interrupted, as if she did not trust him.

‘Maybe Mrs Medhurst has a point,’ said Gunner. ‘You should have someone at your back.’ He touched a hand lightly to his cutlass.

Eventually they were admitted through the fort’s gate by a lone marine in a coat faded pink by the sun and taken to see the admiral. The distant dry docks were empty, not a man could be seen working in the repair yards, not a man on the tumbleweed parade ground. Within the yellow-painted building every room was deserted. Not one other person did they pass along those corridors and staircases lined with paintings of maritime battles. And for all of that way there was a faint smell of rancid meat in the air.

‘It’s like a ghost town,’ Kate Medhurst whispered by his side and she was right. ‘Is this normal for a British fort?’

‘Anything but,’ replied Kit softly.

‘Something is definitely off.’ Gunner’s quiet voice held the same suspicion that Kit felt.

He shifted his coat so that his hand would have easier access to both the pistol holstered on his hip and his cutlass and saw Gunner do the same.

The marine eventually led them through a door mounted with a plaque that read Admiral Sir Ralston.

The office was large and more grandly decorated than many a ton drawing room. Ornate, gilded, carved furniture filled it, along with a massive sideboard that looked as though it might have been brought from Admiralty House. There was a large black-marble fireplace, although the hearth was empty save for a pile of scrunched balls of paper which were clearly discarded letters. The windows had roman blinds of indiscriminate colour, pulled halfway up the glass, and were framed by fringed curtains that might once have been dark blue, but were now somewhere between pale blue and grey. From the ceiling in the centre of the room hung a crystal chandelier. But despite all of this faded opulence there was an unkempt feel about the place.

The great desk was littered with a mess of paperwork and documents. A thick layer of dust covered the window sill and every visible wooden surface. It sat on the back of the winged armchair by the fireplace and turned the ringed, empty crystal decanter and silver tray that sat on the nearby drum table opaque. It hung with cobwebs from the chandelier. But the two things that concerned Kit more than any of this were the stench of rum in the room and that the man that sat on the other side of the desk was not Admiral Sir Ralston.

‘Acting Admiral John Jenkins, at your service, sir. I am afraid Admiral Sir Ralston died a sennight since.’ Jenkins was younger than Kit, no more than five and twenty at the most, with fine fair hair that stuck to a sweaty brow, red-rimmed eyes and thick determined lips.

‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. My condolences to you and your men.’

Jenkins gave a nod and gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk. ‘Take a seat. May I offer you a drink?’ He produced a bottle of rum from the drawer of his desk.

‘There is a lady present, sir,’ said Gunner.

‘Beg pardon,’ Jenkins said and sat the half-empty bottle on top of a book on the desk. ‘How are matters in London?’

‘I have no idea.’ Kit had no intention in wasting time in small talk. ‘What has happened here?’

‘We are awaiting reinforcements. They are due any day now.’

‘You have not answered my question. Why do you need reinforcements?’

‘We have lost almost all the men.’

‘How?’

There was a silence while Jenkins stared longingly at the rum.

‘What happened to the men, Jenkins?’

‘Dead,’ he said, and did not take his eyes off the bottle. He reached a hand to it and began to absently pick at the wax near the rim. ‘It will have us all in the end. Every last one of us, you know.’ He smiled softly to himself.

Cold realisation stroked down Kit’s spine. He understood now, not the detail, but the gist. Too late. He was here now, and more importantly so were Gunner and Kate Medhurst.

‘Get up,’ he snapped the order to them by his side, already on his feet. ‘We are leaving.’

‘What?’ She looked aghast. ‘But—’

‘I said we are leaving. Now.’

‘So soon?’ interrupted Jenkins. ‘You are welcome to stay and dine with Hammond and me.’ He smiled at Kate and walked round to their side of the desk. ‘It would be a delight to have the company of a lady at our table.’ He offered his hand to Kate.

Kate moved to accept, but Kit grabbed her hand in his and pulled her away from Jenkins, placing himself as a barrier between them.

‘Captain North!’ she protested and tried to break free.

‘They have a pestilence here,’ he said harshly to her. ‘A pestilence that infects both men and women.’

She ceased her struggle, shock and fear flickering in her eyes.

‘Which disease, sir?’ Gunner asked Jenkins, the scientist and physician in him coming to the fore.

‘Yellow Jack.’

‘May God have mercy upon your souls, brother,’ whispered Gunner.

‘Amen to that,’ said Jenkins.

‘What were you thinking of, admitting us?’ demanded Kit. ‘You know the drill when it comes to pestilence.’

Jenkins smiled again and this time it held a bit of a leer. ‘Hammond said you had a woman with you. A white woman. An English woman.’ His gaze travelled brazenly down Kate Medhurst’s body to rest on the small bare toes that peeped out beneath the hem of her dress.

In a prim angry gesture she twitched her skirt to cover them. ‘American,’ she corrected with a look of disgust that Kit could not tell whether it was due to Jenkins’s appetite or the fact he had mistaken her as English.

‘How many of you are left?’ Kit shot the question at him.

‘A handful.’

‘How many infected?’

Jenkins gave a shrug.

Gunner slid a look at him. They both knew there was nothing they could do, that it was too late.

‘Quarantine the place. Let no one new in and no one infected out. Burn the bodies of the dead,’ said Kit. It was the most he could offer. He pitied Jenkins. He wanted to help and were he alone he would have stayed, for all the difference it would make, but he was not. He had Gunner and a shipful of men to think of. And he had Kate Medhurst.

‘It is too late for that.’

Kit met Jenkins’s eyes and said nothing. Given his own past he could not condemn any man for a weakness of character, especially not under such circumstances.

‘I pity you, sir, but your attitude is despicable,’ said Kate Medhurst quietly.

‘I suppose that means a mercy shag is out of the question?’ Jenkins said.

Kate did not flinch. ‘As I said—despicable.’

‘And dead,’ said Kit as his hand tightened upon the handle of his cutlass. He controlled the urge to pull it from its scabbard and hold it against Jenkins’s throat.

Gunner was already on his feet, poised for action.

‘But not by our hand,’ finished Kit, then, to Kate Medhurst and Gunner, ‘Move. We have already spent too long in here.’ Not trusting Jenkins not to attempt some last, defiant, contemptuous action, Kit kept his eye on the man until they were out of the office and making their way back down the corridor. Moving quickly, they retraced their earlier steps across the deserted yard and through the gate.

The hired horse and gig still waited where they had left it. In silence Kit picked up the reins and began the drive back to St John’s.

* * *

‘So what happens now?’ Kate asked the question after ten minutes of driving during which no one had uttered a word. She was more shaken by what had happened at the fort than she wanted to admit. A whole garrison, wiped out by Yellow Jack.

One summer, when she was a child, Yellow Jack had come to Tallaholm. Some were taken, some were spared. Kate had been lucky enough to recover. She remembered little of it, but her mother still spoke of how terrible that time had been and how she had nursed Kate. I sat by your side and bathed your body with cold stream water all the nights through to cool the fever. It made her all the more anxious to get home. But she was very aware that there was no British navy ship here on which she could hitch a ride.

She saw the glance Gunner exchanged with North and a little sliver of apprehension slid into her blood.

‘You heard what he said. Your country is sending reinforcements and that will encompass not only the fort, but those frigates that patrol the waters near to Louisiana,’ she said.

‘No doubt.’ North did not look round at her, but just kept on driving, eyes forward, expression uncompromising.

‘Indeed, many of the British naval frigates in this area use English Harbour as their base. It’s just a matter of time before one comes into port.’

‘True. But that time might be weeks or even months.’

‘Unlikely,’ she countered.

‘Very likely, given that word of the pestilence will have passed through the fleet.’

‘I’ll wait,’ she said stubbornly.

‘But I will not. Raven leaves Antigua tomorrow, Mrs Medhurst.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I am not asking you to delay your journey.’ Indeed, the sooner he was gone the safer she would be.

He pulled gently at the leather reins wrapped around his hand and brought the horse to a stop. Only then did he look at her, his gaze meeting hers with that searing strength that always made her shiver inside. ‘You are a woman, with no money, no protection and no knowledge of the island. Are you seriously suggesting that you wait here alone?’

That was exactly what she was suggesting, but when he said it like that it made it sound like the most idiotic idea she had ever had in her life; when she knew that honour belonged to her decision to attack an unnamed ship with a raven circling its masts.

‘Next you will be telling me you are planning on staying at Fort Berkeley with Jenkins.’