Beloved Castaway (4 page)

Indeed, Emilie Gayarre, who had sought Isabelle out a year ago, would be the one person she would miss desperately upon her departure from New Orleans. Perhaps, when sufficient time had passed, Isabelle would post a letter to her. Or perhaps Isabelle would merely disappear as planned.

Braving the shaking in her limbs to glide a step closer, Isabelle mustered up some semblance of a smile. “You expected to transport a man. On this, I have deceived you, and this grieves me.”

“So you’re grieved, are you?” The captain heaved a sigh and scratched his clean-shaven chin. “Indeed you are not what the booking agent led me to believe.”

“The fault lies with me, sir.” Isabelle tried in vain to read the expression on his shadowy features. “I intend, however, to fulfill the terms of my agreement. I assure you there will be little seen of me during the voyage.”

His inelegant snort nearly ended the ruse. The laughter that followed only added fuel to the fire.

Stepping into the circle of light, Captain Carter regarded her with more than the appropriate amount of interest. Isabelle took note of his sneer, saw the flash in his steel gray eyes, and wondered if he would answer her with words or action. She prayed for the former while expecting the latter, all the while watching the weapon in his hand.
 

How much of the father’s temperament had been passed on to the son? She’d heard Mama Dell whisper tales of this man’s father,
tales that if believed would bring the elder man to her doorstep on
the morrow.

“There is already much to be seen of you,” he said in a drawl surely acquired in his native Virginia. “I daresay you’ve placed your health in danger with that ridiculous costume.”

Anger pure and strong pulsed in her veins, and she longed to answer his rudeness with a bit of her own sharp tongue. Only her faith in God and the knowledge that this man would indeed bring about her release from the bonds of servitude kept her from picking up her expensive skirts and running away.

“I vow I shall not be any trouble to you, monsieur.” She gathered the velvet of her cloak tight around her neck and lifted her chin in defiance. “Barely any notice will be taken of me.”
 

He continued to weigh the knife in his hand as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “
Mais non
,” he said evenly, “I rather doubt you would go unnoticed anywhere.”
 

He spoke the challenge all in French, and his easy use of the language startled her. She’d been led to believe Mr. Carter’s education left something to be desired. Heart racing, she watched the blade rather than the man.
 

There seemed to be serious gaps in the information she’d over-heard. Her gaze traveled from the weapon to the face of the man who held it. Dark hair, silver eyes, and a handsome face. All these things she had anticipated, but his quick wit and ability to converse in a language other than his own were things she hadn’t expected.
 

What else had she missed?
 

The captain quirked a dark brow in what seemed to be amusement. “Something wrong, Mademoiselle Gayarre?”
 

She shrugged and, in the motion, accidentally let loose of the fabric she’d been clutching. Her cloak fell off her shoulder and pooled once more in the crook of her arm.

To her surprise, Josiah Carter sheathed his knife and reached to slide the velvet fabric back into place, brushing the skin of her arm with his fingers in the process.
 

A chill slithered up Isabelle’s spine and lodged in her furiously beating heart. She looked past Captain Carter to focus her eyes to the murky darkness beyond.

“Look at me, mademoiselle.”
 

He stood too close, this reputed infidel, and on his face he wore a mask of scorn. Isabelle bit her lip to stop it from quivering, then quickly recovered. “You doubt me, sir?”
 

“Perhaps.” His expression turned neutral, and then the captain inclined his head toward her. “Perhaps we have friends in common.”

What to say? “Perhaps we do. I’m sure a man of your quality has found many friends here. Likely we would find at least one we share.”

“Perhaps what we share,” he said slowly, “is enemies, not friends.”

Oh dear.
“I was merely making polite conversation, Captain Carter,” she said, the words emerging from a place of unknown strength. “I have found that a man generally delights in speaking of himself.” She paused to lower her gaze for effect. “Obviously, I’ve misjudged you. Forgive my impertinence.”

Captain Carter inched closer and took hold of her wrist. Isabelle sucked in a deep breath and steeled herself for what she feared would come next, namely, the man’s fist—or worse, his knife.

The man’s lips moved close to her ear, and his grip tightened. Isabelle watched his hand graze the ivory handle of the knife sheathed at his waist. Without removing his gaze from her face, the captain grasped the weapon.

For an eternity, they stood in silence. Only the rhythmic pounding of blood in her ears gave her pause to realize time continued to move forward. While she prayed, Isabelle shifted her attention from the Virginian to the knife now in his hand.

“I prefer to hear you converse about yourself,” Captain Carter finally said, again speaking the harsh words in fluent French, “for I’m sure you’ve quite the story to tell.”

Much truth lay in those words.
 

Unfortunately, the son of the man who’d placed the highest bid on her virtue was the last one in whom Isabelle could confide.

Chapter 4

The captain lifted his hand, and Isabelle forced herself not to cringe when the knife loomed closer. Instead, she stared as she’d learned to do, offering a blank and impassive face to the hands that meant her harm. She’d seen the transitory nature of the ire of men, and prayed this one’s temperament would be the same.
 

He felt anger at her duplicity; this she understood. She also knew she’d be answering to the Lord on the matter of her manipulation of the truth. As soon as the ship sailed, Isabelle intended to set that situation to rights.

If he wishes your virtue rather than your gold; what then, Izzy?

Unprepared for the thought, she pressed away the answer. To trade one sin for another would not serve the Lord. Simply, she would rely on God, and He would bring her home. Captain Carter would merely provide the means.

Captain Carter.

Isabelle watched the glittering edge of the knife move closer. With the care of a surgeon, the captain barely touched the tender skin beneath her chin with the point of the blade.
 

“Are you afraid, Mademoiselle Gayarre?” he asked in a rush of breath.
 

Fear does not come from the Lord, for our God has bested the enemy.
“You may do me harm, sir,” she whispered, unable to muster a more forceful response, “but my Lord will protect me.”

Josiah Carter’s face darkened, and he loosened his grip on her arm. Expressions of shock, distrust, and anger drifted across his features as quickly as fog dancing on the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
 

“Your
lord
, is it?”
 

The point of the knife pressed a notch closer to her skin, threatening and yet not deep enough to spill blood. Only by the strongest of wills did she remain upright and still, silent even in the face of abject fear.

“So you hold favor with someone of importance.” He shifted to hold her closer against him. “Someone you serve and are either fleeing from or running to, I’d wager.”

“Yes, ’tis true.”
 

As soon as the words were uttered, Isabelle imagined she would feel the sting of the blade slipping a hair’s breadth into her skin. Pride caused her to bite her lip and hold her silence, while prayer kept her from falling into the gaping chasm of panic.

His grip tightened once more. “Name this lord of yours, and be swift with the truth of your hasty departure.”

“It is the Lord Jesus Christ I serve, Captain Carter.” She enunciated each word with care, keeping her chin still as she stared at the man who held her at his mercy. “And it is He to whom I run.”
 

“So you’ve bought passage to England to find the Lord God Almighty.” He shook his head. “Do you take me for daft, woman?”

Isabelle dared the Virginian’s wrath to lift her head in defiance. “I’ve bought passage to England to serve the Lord’s purpose.”
 

The man’s eyes narrowed. Then he laughed. Of all the reactions Isabelle had considered, this evil chuckle had not been one of them.

“You serve the Christ by securing passage on the
Jude
?” He sheathed his knife and pushed her an arm’s length away, still retaining a grip on her while he burned a slow stare down the length of her body. “Do you take me for a fool?”

She squared her shoulders. How could she explain what she did not completely understand? The Lord meant for her to board this man’s ship and flee to a country more apt to turn a blind eye to a woman of dubious background; His purpose, she need not know.

“I take you for an intelligent man, Monsieur Carter,” she said. “I only wish I had the words to explain why the Lord asks this journey of me.”

“You’re serious?”
 

She managed a nod. All the while, her prayers were being lifted toward heaven.
Father, Thy will be done.
 

Carter grew more agitated, as if he had heard her petition for help. “You’re no cowering nun, and I’d hardly call this”—he released his grip to brush a finger along the lace of her sleeve—“the garment of a cleric.”

The distant clatter of horses’ hooves broke the silence. Captain Carter whirled Isabelle around and gathered her tight to his side. His angry glare turned to a watchful, blank stare as he cast a long glance down the empty alley. For a moment, he barely seemed to breathe. Slowly, he reached to his waist and palmed the knife.
 

“If I’ve been sent to my doom, Mademoiselle Gayarre, I shall take you with me,” he ground out through clenched jaw as he slid the blade of the knife up his sleeve and cupped its ivory handle in his fist. “Now smile, ma chère, and perhaps you and I shall live to see another day.”

“Smile?” Isabelle shook her head as the rhythmic
clop-clop
and the creak of wheels in need of attention moved closer. “I don’t understand. Why would I want to—”

“Silence, woman.”

Captain Carter ducked into the shadows and pressed his back against a crumbling brick wall. Beneath a weathered sign advertising the Dumont and Sons Warehouse, he pulled her to face him. Brazenly, he pressed her against him and rested his clean-shaven cheek against hers. With one hand pressed against her spine, he tangled the other in the curls at the back of her neck.

To the world, they looked like a happy pair out on an evening’s tryst. To Isabelle, the view was much more ominous. Somehow in the hour’s time since she’d stowed her trunk and walked the remaining distance to the docks, she’d managed to come full circle. She’d left the expectation of landing in a stranger’s arms to the reality of doing exactly that.

Clop-clop. Rattle. Clop-clop. Rattle.
The sound rolled closer.

Isabelle took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing away the nausea welling deep inside her. Closing the door to her lovely yellow and white home on Burgundy Street, she’d made a vow to God to keep only unto Him and never compromise herself.

Clop-clop. Rattle. Clop-clop. Rattle.

What sort of woman broke a promise to the Lord so soon after making it? The fact that she’d had no part in initiating this embrace held little comfort. Nevertheless, she stood in the shadows with a man, hiding from the world with the son as she would have been forced
to hide with his father on the morrow.

Surely the Lord had left her to her wits now.
 

Breathe, Izzy. God is still here, and He understands your plight. Breathe and wait for Him to act.

At the end of the alley, a horse and cart appeared. A dark figure held the reins, and another rode at his side. The captain’s hand released her hair and shifted to turn the handle of the knife around. Cold against her skin, the knife’s blade scraped gently across the back of her neck.
 

“Beauty in the shadows,” Captain Carter whispered, “yet you’ll not live to charm again unless you convince these gentlemen you’re overcome by my presence.”

She braved a glance into eyes covered in shadow and darkened by anger. “What would you have me do?” she asked, again saying words she’d vowed never to repeat.

His lips curved into a wry smile. “Put your arms around me.” Woodenly, she obeyed.

“Tighter.” He pressed her head against his shoulder, holding the knife flat against the back of her head and covering it with her curls. “I mean you no harm,” he whispered. “Nor do I wish to be found out by those who approach.”
 

Isabelle forced her breathing to settle into a slow inhale and exhale pattern, a gesture both automatic and difficult. As she did, she hid her face in the folds of the stranger’s cloak. He smelled of soap and something else, a fragrance not entirely pleasant and, in a blinding flash just short of recognition, unreasonably frightening.
 

She knew this scent and hated it yet couldn’t put its meaning to words. What was it, and why did it frighten her to the depths of her soul?

As she pondered the question, Isabelle lifted her head slightly and watched the intruders draw near. The scent continued to assault her, scraping against her mind just as the cold blade scraped against her scalp.

---

The cart rolled nearer, and with each roll of the wheels, Josiah felt the coil in his gut twist tighter. He gave brief thought to bargaining with either God or the devil to bring him victory but could not decide to which he should turn.

Not that the Lord would have him. And the devil would only be jealous once he’d heard of all the infamous Josiah Carter had done since his break with the religion of his youth.