Merline Lovelace (18 page)

“This will put some color back in your cheeks.” Setting the tray on a gateleg table, she lifted the lid on a china tureen and sniffed appreciatively. “It’s my own recipe. Lieutenant, shall I ladle you out a bowl, as well? Cook said you never got a chance to finish your breakfast.”

“No. Thank you.”

Without another word to Barbara, Zach strode out of the room. Mrs. Camden noted his stiff-shouldered exit with raised eyebrows and busied herself with the ladle.

When Zach returned late in the afternoon, Barbara was fully dressed and sitting in an armchair. Two bowls of hearty chicken stew, some dry biscuits and a long, if troubled, nap had restored her strength and a good measure of her spirit.

She’d make Zach understand. She hadn’t deliberately set out to hurt him. Nor had she intended to fall in love with him. He
must
see she’d done all she had out of sheer desperation.

He didn’t give her the chance to make him understand anything. Politely dismissing Mrs. Camden, he turned a look on Barbara as hard as slate.

“I rode down to the docks at Alexandria and hired a sloop.”

The unexpectedness of it took her breath away. He’d hired a boat to take her to Bermuda. Despite all, he’d done that for her.

“I suspect it’s a rumrunner,” he warned. “You’ll find the accommodations something less than elegant.”

“That doesn’t matter. If you’ll just take me to get my bags…”

“Hattie packed them. I sent them on to the sloop just before I put her in a coach.”

“A coach?”

“She’s on her way back to Indian Country. I would have sent her to her home in Georgia, but she
said she had no one there. In any case, I won’t have her involved with bribery and prison escape.”

Barbara chewed on the inside of her lip. Of course he couldn’t allow Hattie to take such risks. Nor could he take them himself. Fighting the weight of the stone pressing against her heart, she tried to thank him.

“I don’t want your thanks,” he said coldly. “I want only one thing from you, and I’ll claim that after we return from Bermuda.”

“We?” she echoed, stunned.

“We. I’m sailing with you.”

“You…? You would do this for me?”

“I gave my word I would aid you,” he ground out, “but there’s a price attached to my services.”

“I understand. I’m to destroy the bishop’s affidavit.”

“I don’t give a damn about that scrap of paper. You have as much chance of making it stand in the courts as you do convincing me you would destroy it.”

She flinched at that. “What price do you want me to pay, then?”

“If you
are
carrying a child—and if I can bring myself to believe it’s mine—you’ll return with me to Indian Country and remain there until you birth the babe.”

Her chin lifted. She guessed the answer he would give, but had to ask the question.

“And after the babe is born?”

“The child stays at Morgan’s Falls. You…”

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug that cut almost as deep as his words.

“You can take yourself to hell for all I care.”

Palm Cove, Bermuda
December 1832

G
od was punishing her for her sins.

Barbara was sure of it.

He was also seeing she paid mightily for them.

Cold, shaking and miserable, she huddled under a scratchy blanket in her bunk aboard the
Chesapeake
and fought the bile that kept rising in her throat. The sloop had dropped anchor in this secluded cove hours ago, but the accursed waves continued to slap against the hull.

Moaning, she rolled over and buried her face in a lumpy pillow smelling strongly of old sweat, saltwater and mildew. How could her stomach continue to torment her? She’d put nothing in it for close on to
two weeks except brackish water and dry ship’s biscuits.

There was no question in her mind now. She was pregnant. Miserably, wretchedly pregnant.

As if the nausea that struck her at unexpected times both day and night wasn’t torture enough, the voyage from Washington to Bermuda had turned into a howling, horrific hell. Winter storms had churned up the Atlantic and tossed the
Chesapeake
about like a child’s toy. Barbara had spent almost the entire voyage with her arms wrapped around a wooden slop bucket.

Little enough penance for her sins.

Or so Zach had suggested the first time he’d found her, green-faced and miserable. Cursing, he’d shoved the slop bucket at her, told her they were in for some weather and slammed out again.

He’d returned later. As he had throughout this hellish voyage, he’d forced Barbara to down fresh water and dry biscuits. He’d emptied the slop bucket. He’d even roped her to her bunk when the seas grew particularly vicious.

Not because he cared whether she wallowed in her own mess, she knew. Because of the babe.

Another wave knocked against the hull. The bunk tilted. Her stomach tilted with it.

“Ohhh, God!”

Where was Zach? Why hadn’t he returned from reconnoitering the Royal Dockyards, where the con
vict hulks were moored? When would he deem it safe for them to show their faces in St. George’s or Hamilton Township?

She understood the need for caution. She truly did. They intended to engineer a felon’s escape, after all. She hadn’t needed Zach’s curt reminder they could both end up in the hulks beside Harry if they made a single misstep. She’d keep her head about her. She would! If only she could get off this damn boat.

To her infinite relief, she heard the thump of boots hitting the boards above her a short time later. The heavy tread had to belong to Zach. The motley crew of the
Chesapeake
wore rope-soled shoes to keep their footing on the slippery decks.

Throwing off the damp blankets, Barbara swung off the bunk onto shaky legs. She straightened her coat and dragged her fingers through her hair to put it in some sort of order. She could only imagine the rat’s nest it must resemble. She didn’t have a mirror—or a maid, for that matter—to set the tangled mass to rights.

A moment later, Zach shoved open the door to the cubbyhole that passed for her cabin and cut right to the heart of things.

“I’ve word of your brother.”

“He’s…? He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

Her knees went weak. She dropped onto the unmade bunk, fighting a rush of hot tears.

All these months Barbara had clung stubbornly to the belief Harry would survive the filth and pestilence and exhaustion that claimed one of every three prisoners sentenced to the hulks. Only now did she realize how thin and tenuous her belief had been.

“Did you speak with him?” she asked around the lump in her throat.

“No. He’s out on a work gang. But I’ve arranged a meeting with the prison superintendent. The intelligence I’ve gathered suggests he may well be our most likely candidate for a bribe. We’ll see if he’ll accept one from Lady Barbara Chamberlain’s lawyer.”

That was their plan, such as it was. Zach had stashed away his uniform and donned civilian clothes. He would play the role of the barrister Barbara had hired to help her plead her brother’s case. He would also provide the necessary funds for a bribe.

Given the rampant corruption, thievery and brutality in the British penal system, it was only a matter of finding a guard or warden willing to accept the bribe. Zach certainly hadn’t wasted any time doing so.

“We’re to be at the superintendent’s office in an hour,” he informed her.

“An hour! However did you arrange a meeting so soon?”

“I sent my card tucked inside a twenty-pound
note.” His mouth took a sardonic twist. “An appropriate entrée for a lawyer, don’t you think?”

“Quite appropriate.”

“I’ve hired a carriage. It’s waiting for us ashore. Wear your blue silk gown.”

She blinked at the abrupt command. “The blue silk is evening dress. A smart wool walking dress and warm coat would be more appropriate.”

“Wear the blue silk, and pull the neckline low.” He raked a mocking glance over her bedraggled face and figure. “I’m counting on the seductive Miss Chamberlain to distract the superintendent during our negotiations.”

Her chin came up. “I won’t mistake that for a compliment.”

“Very wise of you.”

Zach left her standing stiff with anger. Good, he thought. At least she was on her feet. God knew she’d spent most of this damnable voyage on her knees.

He, on the other hand, had spent most of it topside, with the rain and salt spray lashing his face. The wild winter storms had suited his mood exactly. They’d also whipped away most of his anger and disgust at himself for thinking he could win Barbara’s trust.

Or her love. That she reserved for this brother of hers, and only for him. Zach knew now she’d let nothing stand in the way of winning Harry’s freedom.

Well, she’d pay the price for that freedom. He’d see she held to her promise to return to Indian Country until she birthed the babe. After that, she could go wherever the winds took her.

Ducking his head to avoid the low crossbeams, he entered the dark, dank area that served as galley, crew quarters and main cabin. The one-eyed seadog who went by the name of Captain Jiggs Throckmorton greeted him with an offer to share the contents of the rum keg lashed to the masthead.

“Something to warm your insides, Morgan?”

Nodding, Zach shrugged out of his wet greatcoat.

“I’ll have a tot, too,” the first mate put in.

The two were a scurvy pair and not above using their fists on the four other crewmen to keep them in line. Zach wouldn’t trust any of them farther than he could spit, but they were just the sort of rogues he needed for this venture.

Straddling a bench, he tossed back the tot Throckmorton passed him. The potent rum went down with a fiery warmth. Welcoming its heat, Zach studied the navigational chart rolled out on the greasy planks of the mess table. The focus of his attention was Ireland Island, a narrow finger of rock at the westernmost tip of the island chain that constituted the Crown Colony of Bermuda. Ireland Island lay directly across the Great Sound from Hamilton Township. More to the point, the island housed the Royal Naval Base and Dockyards.

The base served as the headquarters for the British Atlantic Fleet—the same fleet that had sailed up the Chesapeake and sacked Washington during the War of 1812. Zach had been little more than a boy at the time, just old enough to remember the final Battle of New Orleans and share his father’s fierce dislike of lobsterbacks.

He might dislike them, but he didn’t underestimate their military skills or their firepower. His brief foray into town had yielded the information that civilian guards administered the convict hulks and assigned the prisoners to work gangs. Royal marines guarded the gangs when they labored at the naval base. If bribes didn’t work, Zach might well have to snatch a convict out from under the noses of those well-trained sharpshooters.

“While Lady Barbara and I are gone, I want you to move the
Chesapeake
and anchor her here.”

He thumped a finger on Mangrove Bay, close to the small drawbridge connecting Ireland Island to neighboring Somerset Island.

“That’s on the Atlantic side,” Throckmorton protested. “If we anchor there, we’ll take a battering from wind and waves for sure.”

“I scouted the bay. It’s riddled with small coves and ringed by thick stands of mangrove. They’ll protect you from the wind and waves. How long will it take you to make the anchorage?”

The puckered skin covering Throckmorton’s right
eye socket squeezed into tight lines. His left eye studied the chart. “The tide’s running and the wind’s from the east. I’d say we’ll drop anchor easy by nightfall.”

“Good enough. Wait for us there.”

“How long?”

“Until noon tomorrow. If all goes as planned, we’ll come aboard before then.”

“With this extra cargo you said we’d be haulin’ back with us?”

“That’s my intent.”

Letting the chart roll up with a snap, Zach shoved it aside and dug into his greatcoat pocket for his pistol. The Damascus-etched steel barrel gleamed in the light that filtered through the open hatch.

While the two interested seamen looked on, he extracted the ebony ramrod and used the iron worm at its tip to clean the barrel. That done, he rammed home a shot and added powder to the pan. The pistol went back into his coat pocket, along with a leather cartridge case containing extra powder and shot.

Throckmorton rubbed a finger alongside his nose. “Lookin’ to have a bit of sport tonight, Morgan?”

His mate answered before Zach could. Whistling through the rotten stumps of his teeth, he dug an elbow into the captain’s ribs and jerked his chin toward the narrow passageway.

“More than a bit, I’d say.”

Zach followed the two men’s glances and took a roundhouse punch to the chest.

Barbara was making her way down the passageway. Sick and wretched, she still put every other female he knew in the shade. Combed, corseted and gowned in shimmering blue silk, the blasted woman knocked the breath back down his throat.

The silk clung to her lush curves. She’d pulled the sleeves so far down her bare shoulders, her breasts almost spilled from the bodice. She’d also rouged her cheeks and lips. The bright spots of color stood out in stark relief against skin still wan from the tortuous crossing.

She saw Zach’s eyes on her. “You wanted a tart,” she said icily. “You have one.”

“So I do.”

A half hour later, the carriage Zach had hired in town drew up at the gates of the naval base. An iron portcullis hung suspended above the narrow entry. Royal marines manned the sentry box. Zach noted both while he waited for the marine guard to verify his credentials and his appointment with the prison superintendent.

Once cleared, they were directed to a squat building apart from the naval offices and warehouses. Zach climbed out into the blustery winter afternoon and snatched at his top hat before the wind took it. Hanging on to the beaver with one
hand, he reached with the other to assist Barbara from the carriage.

She put one foot on the step and froze. Her gloved hand fisted in his. “Dear God,” she whispered raggedly. “They’re worse than I remembered.”

He followed her stricken glance to the hulks moored alongside a long stone quay. The
Dromedary
lay there, along with two other ships whose names he couldn’t make out.

The great, gray behemoths bore little resemblance to the proud warships they’d once been. Their masts were gone, and pitched roofs covered their decks. They reminded Zach so vividly of the engraving of Noah’s ark in his mother’s Bible, he half expected a pair of giraffes to poke their heads through the roof vent.

Unlike Noah’s ark, however, these converted hulks weren’t intended to save or rescue. They were floating charnel houses, filled to overflowing with the refuse tossed out by the British courts. Men, women, mere children, all transported for their crimes.

The lawyer in Zach understood the expediency of using vessels no longer fit for sea duty to relieve overcrowding in prisons. The landowner in him also understood the necessity in previous years of using convict labor. America’s early economy had depended on that labor. For decades tobacco planters desperate for hands to work their fields had begged
the Crown to transport all able-bodied prisoners to the colonies.

The British government had responded by emptying its prisons of old, young and in-between. Zach’s study of law cases had included records of a nine-year-old chimney sweep transported for pinching a bit of bacon. A twelve-year-old clog-maker sentenced to ten years for stealing her mistress’s linen apron. An eighty-four-year-old widow shipped across an ocean for taking an ax handle to her feeble-minded son. The widow had hanged herself the day before the ship transporting her docked in Annapolis.

Not all those sentenced to the hulks were petty criminals, Zach reminded himself grimly. Their numbers also included dissidents who spoke out against the government, agitators and rebels.

Particularly rebels. More than ten thousand Americans captured during the war for independence had been confined to hulks anchored off New York, Charleston and Savannah. Twenty years after the war, workers constructing the Brooklyn Naval Yard discovered mass graves filled with the scattered bones of prisoners off the notorious hulk
Jersey
. Captain John Jackson, proprietor of the neighboring property, had arranged for the bones to be reinterred at his own expense. Later, public ceremonies were conducted over their common grave.

Looking now at the
Dromedary,
Zach understood
part of his reason for agreeing to help Barbara in her desperate attempt to free her brother. No man or woman should endure such filth and degradation. Not even a man such as Sir Harry Chamberlain, who’d set his sister to thievery to save his own neck.

Grasping Barbara’s elbow, he turned her away from the hulks and steered her to the building housing the offices of the superintendent of prisons. A potbellied stove glowed in the corner of the outer office. A guard in a uniform with shiny buttons bearing the insignia of the prison police showed them into Superintendent Davenport’s office.