Beloved Castaway (9 page)

The money she’d just promised was meant to give her food to eat and to provide her with a start on a new life. Now that she had acquired additional traveling companions, the funds would be stretched even further. Still, offering them up in payment for passage seemed preferable to any other solution.
 

“Promises of payment will do me no good,” he said slowly, obvious contempt moderating a voice much deeper in timbre than Isabelle had previously noticed.
 

“But I assure you—”

Captain Carter swept away her answer with a wave of his hand. “Before dawn, I’ve a debt to pay, and your pledge will not satisfy it.” He paused and seemed to take note of the thunder’s roar. “Nor, I fear, will it ransom my skin when the holder of that lien seeks restitution.”

Fear not. . .

Strangely, she did not hold this emotion. Resignation took hold, tempered with the strength of her beliefs, and she rose to stand before him.

The Lord thy God, it is He that doth go with thee. . . .

Isabelle squared her shoulders and stilled her quaking knees, busying her hands with the removal of a particularly troublesome wrinkle in her cloak rather than show them unable to remain still. Words bounded forth and demanded she speak them while her heart fluttered and threatened to forsake her.

He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.
 

Indeed. With God there would be a solution; He set her on this path, and He would not let her fail. Surely He had a plan, for she did not.

“Captain Carter,” she said slowly, testing the sound of her voice against the battering of the rain outside, “you and I are at odds, yet I fear we must work as allies.”

He gave her a sideways look. “Aye,” he finally said, “sadly, it seems this is true.”

“Then perhaps there is a solution.”

---

A solution.

Josiah stifled a laugh. How in the name of all creation could this slip of a girl find a solution to a predicament that seemed to have none?

The situation lay before them plain and simple. Payment for the
Jude
would be required on the morrow, and this woman held nothing with which she could satisfy the note. Even if he could manage to buy extra time from the Spaniard, say in the form of a deed to an English house in one of the more pious sections of the countryside, the delay could well cost him his refuge.

For all Josiah knew, Hezekiah Carter’s minions were nipping at his heels, as well. A day. That’s all he’d been granted by his advance scouts. More than that and he risked being caught and returned to Virginia, a fate worse than death.

A fate not even worth considering.
 

Worse, he would not be hauled back to Virginia alone. For the boy and for himself, he could not let this happen.

Isabelle Gayarre made a discreet coughing sound, drawing his attention. Josiah looked her up and down. A fancy sort, this one, most likely with a home and servants and. . .

A solution most simple yet ingenious dawned bright. Someone somewhere would be looking for her—a father, a mother, maybe even a husband—and that someone most certainly would possess the means to secure her return.

No more than the mortgage on the
Jude
would be required. Of criminals and extortionists, Josiah had no tolerance. After all, he’d been born of the lineage and carried the pedigree.
 

Business transactions, however, were another matter entirely.

He gave the fair-haired Isabelle a quick look of consideration. Given less-taxing time constraints, perhaps the two of them could have been more than erstwhile business partners—he the receiver of the funds and she the means of procurement—but alas, this was not to be.

Another crack of lightning split the darkness beyond the windowpane and crashed dangerously close. A roar much louder than conventional thunder shook the walls and rattled the pier glass. Above decks, he heard the rush of footsteps and the shouts of men on watch, obviously shirking their duties to seek a drier haven.

“Ill-tempered weather, contrary women, and lazy fools will be the death of me,” Josiah muttered under his breath, mentally adding a few choice curses to mirror his mood.
 

“Captain Carter?”
 

The woman reminded him of her presence less by the calling of his name than by the shifting of her position. She drew near, her face the mask of naïveté. Her proximity crowded out the broken trunks, the howling torrent, and even the thoughts of the world beyond the doorway.
 

“I would like very much to pray about this.” Her lashes lowered, brushing cheekbones etched of the most glorious color and form. “Would you pray with me?”

Josiah froze. Seconds passed, and the walls quickly fell away as the Gayarre woman began to speak in a soft whisper as if conversing with a friend. Nothing existed but he and she. She had asked a question, made a statement that required a response, but his tongue turned to cotton, and his voice fled like his crew in the storm.

She required his help, or was it his cooperation? Perhaps his lot was to merely listen and agree. He’d known when she spoke, yet his mind had suddenly gone to mush. Bits and pieces of words stuck in his head as he stared, more watching her speak than listening.

A sea siren, this one, yet he could no more turn away than complain. Instead, he leaned into her voice and tried to concentrate.

Cooperation, yes, that’s a word he recognized, and liaison also rang true. Perhaps a liaison, however brief and tempestuous, could make a glorious moment out of a grand mess. Perhaps this beauty from the shadows would indeed bring a bit of light to his darkness. Despite appearances, he was not a man given to the temptation of the flesh, but just this once, he might set aside his principles and his vow to be an acceptable example to his younger brother, William.

“And so, God, we ask Your help in this matter. . . .”

The reality of the situation intruded. Bedazzled, that’s what she’d done to him.
 

She called aloud for aid, reminding Josiah of her assertion of belief in the powers of the Christ. He’d known too many who wore the mantle of believer only to cast it aside when the crown began to pinch—and he included himself in this number. Only fools kept to this sort of superstition, and while Isabelle professed to be an innocent, she looked to be no fool.
 

He, on the other hand, had studied at the university of the cold, cruel world. His professors were each of the men who’d attempted to rule him or worse, and his diploma lay not printed on sheepskin, but written in the scars on his back and burned into the hidden places of his mind. Nothing short of a miracle would erase either of these.

The last thing Josiah Carter would ever believe in was a miracle. Even God didn’t have that much power.

Out of some long ingrained habit, or perhaps it was fear brought by the education of his youth, he hastened to apologize to the Deity in question. Perhaps He had the power, but He certainly hadn’t chosen to exert it.

She spoke again, phrasing Josiah’s name as a question and giving him cause to stare unabashedly. Perhaps behind the lace-covered image of a girl untainted was the reality of a woman trained to create this illusion. Indeed, in all his years, he’d not met a single woman without some measure of guile. Each wanted something from him, be it a night’s pleasure, a day’s entertainment, or his last name along with a babe or two for good measure.

Surely this one was no different; this far better fit his hypothesis.

“Do you so charm all the men in this way?” he asked, pretending to ignore the surprise on her face and the soft gasp that escaped from her lips before she continued with her prayer.
 

Her response shook him, even as the deck above shook with the footsteps of his crew. Had his calculations been off? Being wrong was something he refused to consider; behind the facade of religion lay a seductress lying in wait, seeking his very soul.
 

Little did she know that on more than one occasion he’d come close to selling his scarred and battered spirit to the devil. Only the sore condition of the thing and the fact he’d not tie himself to either man or deity gave rise to the explanation that his soul still lay somewhere in his possession.
 

Still, something about the woman made him want to lay bare the core of his being, spit polished and newly clean, for her inspection. Disgusted, he spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve while she continued her prayer.
 

Rubbish!

Yet he felt such a strong tug. Dare he consider the implications? Dare he hope a lost cause had found asylum? That a modern-day Jude might possibly become something worthy of the Lord’s attention?

He waved away the possibility with a sweep of his hand, ending the woman’s monologue before she could utter an amen and seal the deal with her Creator. Overhead, he heard more scurrying about followed by an increase in the commotion. He sighed.
 

Had he more time, he might replace the whole lot of them with a more suitable crew. Time, unfortunately, lay in short supply, as did his patience. Still, Josiah attempted a more gentle tone as he spoke.

“Please be seated, Mademoiselle Gayarre,” he said, “and we shall make our plans.”
 

The woman complied, lowering herself onto the last remaining un-
broken chair in the cabin with the ease of a princess ascending her
throne. When she’d settled her lace and finery around her and threaded her fingers together in her lap, she offered him a weak smile.
 

“I should like to ask you about your relationship with the Lord, Captain Carter.”

Her statement stunned him. “I daresay He is as irritated with me as my earthly father,” he said when he found his voice. “I’ve spoken to neither in years.” Josiah gestured to the basket of apples. “Perhaps you’d like something more substantial before we discuss this solution of yours?”

The watch bell rang thrice, and Josiah checked the time. Strange, the ship’s clock read barely past nine. He made a note to speak to Harrigan upon conclusion of his conversation with the mademoiselle. The crew, it seemed, was woefully remiss in its training.
 

“Actually,” she said softly, capturing Josiah’s attention once more, “I’d much prefer you see to the needs of my traveling companions than concern yourself with me.”

Suppressing a frown, he gave her an even look. Obviously more posturing to take advantage of his sensibilities and arouse his compassion. If only she knew that what little compassion he possessed had left him so long ago he barely had memory of it.

He shook his head. “I warrant your friends are comfortable enough.” While he’d not taken any steps to secure their comfort, he had not used all in his power to arrange their discomfort, either.

Josiah caught the scent of a peculiar odor, no doubt the wind blowing some of New Orleans’s worst his direction. And yet it smelled strangely of. . .

Smoke. A sea captain’s worse nightmare.

Someone pounded at the door. “Beggin’ the cap’n’s pardon,”
Harrigan called, “but there’s been a bit of trouble and—”

An explosion followed by a shuddering movement knocked Josiah to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and chased the words down the dark staircase, leaving his guest to fend for herself.

Chapter 9

Had the captain really left her alone? Isabelle shook off her surprise and raced for the small porthole, only to find that layers of grime prevented her from seeing through to the outside world.
 

Strange, though, how the window glowed with an eerie golden color that rippled and changed as raindrops trailed across the surface. Pressing her finger to the glass, Isabelle rubbed away a small circle, then a larger one until a most unexpected picture emerged through the streaks of rain.

Fire!
 

The golden glow formed and fashioned itself into an angry inferno already spiraling up the main mast of the brig
My Lady Mathilde
.
Her bulwarks were ablaze, and her bowsprit lay in the path of the flames. Here and there, men jumped into the water, some coming so near to the
Jude
that it seemed they might land inside the cabin. The smell of smoke filtered uninvited into the small space, lifting and curling through the fresh air to dance a jig in Isabelle’s lungs. She coughed and covered her nose with the fabric of her sleeve, offering but a small measure of comfort against the noxious haze.

A mighty creaking sound rolled through the room, and Isabelle watched in horror as the quarterdeck of the
Mathilde
collapsed and disappeared into the inferno, taking the mizzenmast with it. The flames increased, feeding on the seasoned timbers and sending showers of sparks into the air to dust the window like blackened snow.
 

Silhouetted against the furnace, a lone sailor held tight to the mainmast, his feet dangling inches above the inferno. While Isabelle watched in horror, the fire engulfed him, traveling past the sailor to steal away more of the mast until it had all but disappeared.

Isabelle blinked, hoping to erase the image, yet it remained firmly lodged behind her eyelids. While rain continued to beat against the vessel, the brilliance of the nearby furnace had swallowed up the lightning display.
 

Already the glass had grown warm beneath her palm. Anchored barely an arm’s length away, the
Jude
would certainly be the next to feel the flames.

Isabelle backed away from the porthole and cast a quick glance around the room. Another glow, this one not quite as bright, caught her eye.

The captain had left the door unlatched, and it now stood open at the base of the stairs. Stopping only long enough to retrieve the deed to her new home from the pile of rubble, she tucked the document into her bodice and raced out of the already-warm cabin.