Crimson Rapture (2 page)

It
wasn't enough for the young man. He started one of the most cunning pirating
operations the world ever had the misfortune to bear. Typically he would
smuggle munitions to the French. No sooner would the transfer of goods and
money be done when another of his ships would pirate the goods back. Then the
same munitions would be sold to England, thereby leaving Justin Phillips with twice
what was already an outrageous profit. If it only went this one way, the
situation would not have been so bad, but just as many times France ended up
owning the goods and if the results weren't so devastating for England, the
story might have been humorous.

Carrington
was using the pause in their conversation to contemplate the amount of money
lost to Justin Phillips's deviousness. "Does he really own thirteen
ships?" he asked no one in particular. "And how could he have gotten
away with it for so long? What an unscrupulous bastard. Even in his own
country, mind you! Why, there are rumors Phillips takes American ships, traitor
to his new country as well as the old."

"Only
American slavers," the captain said in defense of Phillips, explaining.
"And having personally smelled the stench of death on those ships—that is
one offense any decent man would forgive, nay even commend Phillips for."

"Hmmm."
Carrington dismissed this without consideration. "Slavers or not, the man
deserves hanging and had he not been the bastard son of the high and mighty
Lord Winston Phillips, that is exactly what he would have got."

Stroking
his neat gray beard, Captain Forester hardly listened to his first officer's
tirade, sentiments he had heard so many times before. It hardly mattered. What
mattered was that at some point the HMS
Defiant
would battle Justin
Phillips's ships. Not only would the
Defiant
lose such a battle but the
safety of the civilian passengers would be at grave risk. Passengers that
included a lord and two ladies, as well as half a dozen innocent women.

"England
should have turned Mr. Phillips over to France for French justice."
Carrington continued to muse out loud. "As much as any decent Englishmen
loathes the French, one does have to admire how quickly they sever a traitor's
head." The idea of Phillips meeting this demise pleased him, and a wry
smile lifted on his thin lips. Only to disappear when he encountered the
captain's irritated, rather displeased look.

"Colonel
Carrington, in the future you will spare me your speculations, unless by some
unprecedented happenstance, they provide something I might find useful. I'll
have the work schedule on my desk in the hour. Dismissed."

"Yes,
sir," Carrington replied icily with a reddening face as he straightened
formally and turned about-face to walk away.

Watching
him go, the captain sighed and then, ignoring the heat shimmering in waves
around him, he turned back to the sea and was soon lost in contemplation.

"Captain?"
a small voice beckoned minutes later.

"What?"
the captain nearly yelled, swinging abruptly around, unpleasant thoughts having
raised his dander.

Startled
visibly, Christina flushed and froze, and quickly lowered her eyes. She tried
to speak but no sound was forthcoming.

"Oh
lord, Miss Marks, forgive me, please," the captain quickly apologized,
"I had no idea it was you." He watched Christina struggle still and
thought again how the lovely young lady was the shyest creature he had ever had
chance to meet. She had not spoken two words the entire voyage and now, the
first time she tried to address him, he snaps at her like she was a young green
ensign, scaring her senseless no doubt. "Come now, young lady, I swear I
didn't mean to scare you like that." His voice softened. "Do forgive
me now."

It
was all Christina could do not to run away; she barely managed a nod. How could
she have thought to bother the captain over such a petty incident? He had
infinitely more important things on his mind: managing the ship and crew,
concerns over the severe weather and all...

"Did
you want something, miss?" the captain asked encouragingly.

"Yes,"
she whispered in the small voice, keeping her head lowered, her eyes fastened
to the deck. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, sir... but I—" A hand
reached to her mouth as she attempted to clear her throat, always striving for
a louder voice that was forever out of reach. "I was strolling by on deck
and the prisoner spoke to me as I passed. He made rather rude comments and...
and, thinking of other passengers, I thought you might want to know," she
finished in a whispered rush and turned quickly to leave.

"Ah,
Miss Marks." The captain stopped her retreat, hoping to pull her into a
conversation. Her struggle quite easily broke his heart. All his officers had
tried to pay her court, each man lured by a delicate beauty, large translucent
gray eyes, the promise hidden under her dark mourning clothes. Each in turn had
given up. So shy, she sometimes even lacked the courage to reply to addresses
made to her. "What was it Mr. Phillips said to you?"

Christina
waved her hand in dismissal of the remarks. "Oh... it was really
nothing."

"Well,
perhaps I ought to speak to him. You be on your guard now, walking that way.
Might even avoid that area altogether. Mr. Phillips is a notorious devil, you
know."

Christina
shifted with sudden alarm. Would the captain punish the prisoner for the slight
impertinence? She had just wanted to warn the captain, thinking only of other
passengers. Concerned, she overcame her temerity and raised her gaze.
"You're... you're not going to punish him, are you?"

"Heavens
no, lass. Mr. Phillips will receive his due, this life and the next. The young
man's headed to a prison in Queensboro to serve a life sentence for high
treason. Didn't any of you people in Kent hear of Mr. Justin Phillips?"

Relieved,
Christina shook her head. She apologized again for interrupting him, curtsied,
and left. Watching the gentle swish of her skirts, the captain wondered how
such innocence would fare in the new and untamed world. Her father, the Reverend
Marks, had recently passed on, leaving his daughter no other choice than to
journey to Australia to take up residence with her only living connections, an
uncle and his family.

An
elderly woman—apparently the Reverend Marks's housekeeper—had seen Miss Marks
off, and the old woman had confided the girl's unfortunate circumstances to
him. Miss Marks's uncle was a farmer in a relatively isolated area of Australia
and not very successful. While Chancey Marks agreed to accept his Christian
duty by taking his niece into his home, Christina would have to work as a
common field hand. The idea seemed at once absurd and cruel; she had been
raised a lady, educated and well bred. Why, her hands had probably never lifted
anything heavier than a tea pot, or toiled with anything more arduous than
embroidery! He could not imagine such a gentle creature working from sunup to
sundown, pulling potatoes from an unyielding soil.

Lord
have mercy, he shook his head.

* * * * *

One
glance down and a shocking realization clamored into Christina's mind. She had
addressed the good captain in bare feet! Had he noticed her imprudence? No, he
surely would have said something, especially considering the indiscretion came
from a young lady in her period of mourning.

She
glanced quickly around, thankfully found the deck still empty, and with a rush
of skirts, she raced back to find her boots. She stopped dead in her tracks.
They were gone!

"Looking
for something, Miss Marks?" Justin asked unseen, after having overheard
her conversation with the captain.

Christina
bit her lip in vexation, immediately perceiving the problem. He had taken her
boots. She could hardly solicit help in retrieving them, for that would mean
admitting to having taken them off in the first place.

"You
have my total sympathy, Miss Marks. You do seem to face a monumental problem.
God knows what people will think of you after learning of such wanton, careless
behavior. Imagine! A young lady removing her shoes and permitting a man—a
hardened criminal no less—a glimpse of her bare feet. And furthermore, from the
looks of these boots I'm holding, I'd wager they're your only pair, which in
turn brings me to yet another unfavorable conclusion. In addition to poor looks
and slow wits, you have little enough fortune to recommend you to the state of
matrimony—"

"Please,"
she whispered, frightened and unable to hear his cruel comments, comments she
could easily believe about herself. "Please give them over."

"Not
a chance."

"Ohhh...
Mr.... Mr.—"

"Justin."

"Whatever
could you want with my shoes?"

"Tell
me your Christian name," he demanded.

She
cast an anxious glance in both directions, then replied, "Christina."

"Well,
Christina, permit me to explain my situation and the favor I'd ask for the
return of your boots. I have never in all my twenty-eight years been so
bored..."

He
proceeded to list the ways in which he had coped with imprisonment so far;
twice daily he completed two hundred pull-ups on an overhanging beam, two
hundred push-ups, stood on his hands for over an hour, and then, being
intimately familiar with Indian religions, he meditated for hours on end,
"Though unfortunately," he added, "I rarely find the peace that
most other people practicing what is called yoga seem to do. And so I turn to
mathematics, both mundane types of figuring and difficult equations..."

The
list seemed endless and Christina listened avidly to this monologue, confused
and quite anxious, not at all understanding what this had to do with her boots.
Though his remarkable ingenuity and cleverness was noted, especially
considering his circumstances. He was obviously an uncommonly intelligent man.
Her father had read many reports from India, some on Indian mysticism and she
might have inquired about the subject had she been able to think with her heart
pounding so.

"So
you see, Christina," he finally concluded, "I'm forced to blackmail
you into doing me a favor."

"What
would you have me do?"

"Bring
me a few books. I'm dying for something to read."

"Oh,
goodness." She smiled, the first smile in long months. "You certainly
asked the right person. I've brought half a trunk full of books. It was the
only thing I permitted myself to take of my father's because... well, I'm told
that there are no books in Australia, that the sin of illiteracy abounds—"
She stopped and blushed, realizing abruptly she had quite forgotten herself.
Perhaps owing to the fact that she couldn't see him or that he couldn't see
her, she had— without a thought—overcome her shyness! She had just spoken to
him like other people speak to each other, like... like how she had always
wanted to speak...

Justin
grinned. "Well, I can hardly believe my luck finding a young lady with a
trunk of books. I had thought you'd have to beg, borrow, or steal. Do I have a
selection?"

"Oh
yes. I'm sure I might find something you like—"

"I
prefer philosophy, especially political philosophy and history."

"I'll
see what I might find." She started to rise but remembered her bare feet,
looked in both directions, and knelt again. "Might I have my boots
back," she whispered. I promise not to let you down."

Justin
reached a hand through the hole to touch a long braided rope of hair that had
fallen when she knelt, coiling neatly in front of him. He had never seen hair
like that. It seemed there was no end to it, at least two feet of thick braided
hair. The color struck him most though, a blondish red flame like gold on fire.
"Christina," he asked suddenly, "what do you look like?"

Christina
hardly heard his question. She stared at the hand stroking her hair,
bronze-colored, lean and calloused, his hand spoke at once of strength, while
the intimacy of his gesture brought a flush rising from the tips of her toes to
the very roots of her hair.

"Hmmm?"
He smiled unseen. "Might I have been mistaken about your looks?"

"I'm...
I'm afraid not," she assured him softly. "I truly don't have very
much to recommend me, as you had guessed." Being plain of face was not the
worst of it, she knew. Her social awkwardness and ineptitude, what others
thought of as shyness, was by far her worst and most debilitating fault. A
fault strangely missing with Justin Phillips.

"Every
woman has something—at least one thing— to recommend her and you,
Christina," his voice softened, "have this hair. It's beautiful. Like
silk through my fingers." He withdrew his hand reluctantly, ignorant of
the warm blush his compliment caused. "Back to your question. I'm afraid I
can't return your boots yet. These boots are worth their weight in gold. It's
my only guarantee you'll return."

"Yes,
of course, I quite understand," she replied, recovering somewhat and
standing up. She would just have to hope no one would see her. "I'll
return soon."

Christina
never saw the lift of his brow, the smile that followed, as Justin suddenly
realized he had just met a most sympathetic and sweet young lady, all plainness
aside.