Love's Vengeance (22 page)

Hearing voices below, they entered the front room and her uncle came to his feet, admiring his niece with a slow smile he exclaimed, “I swear child, you look lovely. Colette you remind me to keep my eye on this gem. We will have every young buck in Portsmouth ogling her today.”

“Uncle you always were a flatterer.” Desiree quipped with a shake of her head.

“Shall we be off?” Colette asked, taking her husband’s arm.

“
Oui
I can hardly stand to wait a moment more!” Desiree exclaimed, turning for the door.

***

As they strolled down the walk, the sound of fiddles from the riverfront playing a festive tune quickened Desiree’s steps. The streets were clogged with exuberant colonials; children raced along, shouting and laughing. It was a break in the everyday toils and most welcomed by all. The crops were healthy—harvest was just around the corner and Portsmouth had time on its hands to spare.

They walked into the grassy clearing, canopied by tall trees, next to the Piscataque River and the music enveloped the scene from a quartet of fiddlers located under a stand of dogwood trees near the water’s edge. Large wooden tables, laden with a wide variety of the fall bounty of fruits and vegetables and other foods, were displayed beneath a canvas canopy and they stopped there briefly as Colette took a basket from Maurice’s hand, adding her offerings to the fare.

They wandered about then, pausing here and there when a greeting was called out. There were possibly a hundred townsfolk here and half again as many children racing about. Everywhere was noise and laughter, movement and color. Desiree lost count at a score in her introductions, barely catching one name before Colette or Maurice added another. She would never be able to remember a one; she knew—totally overwhelmed.

Activities began to get underway and the crowds dispersed, moving along the edges of the clearing and stopping at contests, which interested them. Desiree and Bridgett followed along behind Maurice, stopping with him at a wide circle of onlookers crowded about wooden tables. Five men each were seated at four tables and each with a basket before him.

“What is this?” Desiree quietly asked Colette.

“It’s a corn husk dear. What they will do is strip the green leaves and silks off each cob, exposing the corn. The first to finish his bushel wins the competition. I believe a ribbon with be the prize, bragging rights and of course we shall be feasting thanks to their labors at our noonday meal.”

The crowd quieted as a man explained the rules to the contestants and then with a shout, the contest was underway. The onlookers roared with laughter, shouting encouragement as green leaves and silk began flying in all directions.

Within a few short minutes, from the chaotic shower of greenery, emerged a winner. A young man leapt to his feet, raising a corncob in the air and the judge rushed over, verifying his win. The onlookers applauded wildly as the young man stood upon a bench accepted his blue ribbon and took a deep bow.

The next group of competitors readied for their go, while Desiree and Bridgett followed Maurice and Colette across the clearing to a small inlet of calm water off the main bank of the river where they waited to witness log rolling. The long barren log was held in the chest deep water by a lad, on either end, while two men stood atop readying for battle. With a shout from a neutral party, the contest began and Desiree watched, fascinated as the men began to turn the log. Sprays of water beaded up beneath their feet as they turned the log, first forward and then backward, trying to topple their opponent. Shortly one lost his balance and fell with a splash into the river.

The winner was a middle-aged man in buckskins who moved nimbly upon the turning log as another man prepared to mount up and after doing so, the contest began again.

“His name is Bart Miller. He wins every year.” Colette commented as another fell beneath his onslaught, landing with a whoop and a spray of water in the cool river as a roar of cheers went up among the onlookers.

Next it was on to a display of patchwork quilts and Colette pointed with pride to the quilt she had been involved in. It was a scene of colony life. Each of the brightly colored squares depicting a different aspect of life in Portsmouth while other projects were graced with flower patterns or unusual designs.

“This is one of my favorite pastimes in the winter months. It is a chance to get together with other women and chat while doing something constructive.” Colette explained, admiring the other works, “Perhaps we will have to get you involved this winter.”

Desiree frowned slightly, “I have never taken to needlework I am afraid. It was never my strong suit.”

“To be sure.” Bridgett laughed.

Desiree laughed along with her nurse remembering times in the past when Bridgett would be literally chasing her about the parlor, sampler in hand, trying to force her to participate. Bridgett could never understand why she didn’t enjoy the art of sewing but Desiree had always considered it tedious and she could never sit still long enough to complete any project.

***

At noon, lunch was served and they filled their plates, taking seats at tables, situated near the canvas canopy. Sharing a table with an assortment of colonials, both Desiree and Bridgett sat quietly for the most part, enjoying the casual atmosphere and listening to bits and pieces of conversations. Being foreigners, they had little of interest to add.

After their repast, there were mule pulls to witness, a shooting gallery and a number of logging related matches such as a tree climbing, hatchet throwing, block chopping, and crosscut competitions.

There was also a spelling bee for the children and this is where Desiree found herself pausing; standing with a tense cluster of mothers, watching their youngsters’ strain to spell unfamiliar words with their little faces twisted up in concentration and doubt. Desiree tensed with each letter slowly pronounced and all breathed a sigh of relief as each child spelled their word, advancing to the next stage of the competition.

Desiree lost track of how long she remained there but when she looked around, she noticed she was alone. Bridgett and the others had disappeared. She scanned the crowds but saw no one she recognized. Unperturbed, she walked about the clearing, searching half-heartedly for her companions.

She stood for a time near the musicians, listening to the unusual squeaky strains of the fiddles. She was accustomed to the symphony and the gentle flow of violins and decided this type of music might take some time to acquire a taste for. She applauded politely as the men finished a piece, receiving appreciative nods from the foursome, then she strolled along the riverbank until the music and noise of the festival became muffled, with the distance between her and the activities.

She leaned against an ancient tree, looking out across the river dotted with islands toward the ocean. A ship was moving across the outer bay and her mind turned to thoughts of Stephen Colter and where
he
might be now. Her gaze wandered to the dense foliage along the opposite bank, which was becoming faded and tawny in the first of autumns glory and as she enjoyed the quiet moment, she had a strange feeling come upon her, as if she were being watched. She glanced about, seeing no one and turned back to the river but the feeling persisted and a sense of fear began to gnaw at her without a clue as to why she should be feeling afraid.

She turned from the river starting back toward the activities—no longer feeling serene in her solitude and as she started past a tree, a man stepped out from behind and stood before her.

“Might ye be Miss Chandelle?” he asked pleasantly with a smile.

He had bright red hair,
flaming red
and a heavy Scottish accent. She looked past him and could see the clearing was a good distance away and her fear mounted.

“What business do you have with me
Monsieur
?” she managed to ask as her eyes darted about looking for an avenue of escape.

“Easy Lass.” He said gently, sensing she was about to flee.

Before she had time to react, he had her about the waist and his hand clamped over her mouth as he dragged her to the riverbank. Standing behind a tree to shield himself from the view of anyone in the clearing, he whistled softly, and a sloop drifted below the bank with two more men aboard.

“That be the Lassie?” One of the men asked in an Irish brogue.

“Aye.” The Scotsman chuckled, with his mouth near her ear.

Desiree began squirming, doing her best to try and kick him in the shins as he held her firmly with her back to his chest. He only laughed the harder.

“O’Malley grab hold! This little hellcat be almost too much to handle.”

Desiree was lowered over the high bank and the man called O’Malley grabbed her kicking legs while the other took her by the waist and replaced the Scotsman’s hand across her mouth with his own. This was quickly replaced by a strip of white linen, worked between her clenched teeth, and tied tightly behind her head.

As the Scotsman hopped down into the sloop, Desiree’s hands were bound behind her back as a burlap bag was lowered over her head and secured about her hips.

“Now get down Lass and don’t make a move.” O’Malley warned, pushing her gently to the bottom of the sloop near their feet.

“Let’s be off lest ye want to be caught at it.” The Scotsman ordered and they went about the task, using long poles to push the craft out into the river toward the bay.

“Don’t move Lass.” He said under his breath.

Desiree could guess that they were moving close to shore, where the festival was taking place and then they were well out into the river and she heard the men chuckle and sigh in relief.

The minutes ticked slowly by and in spite of her terror, Desiree was painfully aware of her own discomfort. The bag was stifling and her shoulder ached where it rested against the rough-hewn floor of the boat. It seemed an eternity had passed and she felt as though she might lose consciousness from lack of air at any moment, when finally the boat slowed and she could feel and hear a dull thud and scraping. Then strong arms had her about the waist again and were heaving her up into the air, where more hands grabbed hold of her.

“Well ye got her did ye?” A man chuckled close by.

She could feel the familiar rolling of a ship beneath her feet, as she was set lightly upon the deck. The burlap sack was removed from her head, the bindings from her wrists and the kerchief from her mouth and she found herself standing amid a crew of men and two of those present kept her in check with firm handholds upon her wrists.

As she surveyed the group of men, watching her with obvious curiosity, she had no doubt whatsoever that these men were surely pirates. She had never seen one, had never heard a description of what a pirate looked like or a detail about what sort of man a pirate might be but she was in the midst of den of them, she was sure.

Her first impression was that these men looked dangerous. Bearded—dressed in brightly colored tunics or leather vests, some wore earrings and soiled bandanas over long shaggy hair. There was no shortage of swords, for most had their piece hanging from their waistbands.

She looked across the ship toward land and saw that they were well out in the harbor, close to open sea. No other vessels were even within calling or swimming distance and she knew she could never swim the distance to shore. Her line of vision was interrupted by the red haired Scotsman hauling himself slowly over the side of the ship and coming to stand before her.

“What a beauty!” he announced breathlessly with a grin and turned to the helm. “Let’s be underway!” he yelled and the men went into a flurry of activity.

Desiree looked up to the masts, seeing a shower of white canvas drop down as they prepared to set full sail. “No!” she screamed, as she was led across the deck, heading below. She fought with all her might, trying to break free and run for the rail but the Scotsman and the one called O’Malley, stepped up to assist their mates and between the four, they drug her, kicking and screaming, down the stairs.

She was forced into a captain’s quarters and obviously the Scotsman held that title, for he walked around the desk and fell back into his chair with a
humph
, exhausted by the effort of restraining her. She was ushered to a chair and sat weeping, just on its edge, as she glared across at the man.

His beard matched, exactly, the fiery red of his hair. His skin was freckled and weathered. His body stocky and well muscled, with beefy arms and a middle aged paunch that shook as his boisterous laugher filled the cabin while he observed her.

“Here now, me sweet Lassie, ye need na’ weep. Macintosh means ye no harm. Ye be na’ but a wee slip of a girl, are ye? Tell Mac what ye did to have such a large price paid fer yer disappearance.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Paid to take me? By whom? And to where?” she asked in total confusion.

“Aye Lass, that I were. A goodly sum it were too. I know na’ the bloke, ‘twas done through—ye might say—channels but I were told to make sure ye did na’ come back. Will ye tell me what ye have done to make such an enemy, that ye need be spirited away?”

“I have done nothing. I have no idea what this is about. I’ve just arrived here from France.”

“Aye—I know all that. Ye be stayin’ in a house near the sea. We been watchin’ ye for some time now—waitin’ for just the right moment.” He nodded.

“Where are you taking me? What is to become of me now, am I to be killed?” Desiree surprised herself by her ability not only to speak but to have her voice sound strong—much braver than she felt.

“Killed! Na’ Lassie. I may be a lot of things but no murderer. Ye will be taken with me to me Cap—Captain Greaves. Ye will be our guest at Nevis.”

“Nevis!” she shrieked incredulously.

“Aye, it be a lovely island off the coast of Venezuela…”

“I know where it is
Monsieur
!” she interrupted angrily. She knew her geography quite well and was also well aware of the reputation of that part of the world as the most dreaded and vermin ridden den of outlaws known to civilized man.