Pleasures of a Tempted Lady (33 page)

Meg clenched her teeth so she wouldn’t whimper. Her head throbbed with every motion that her body made.

Taking shorter, shallower breaths, she straightened her spine. No matter what happened, Caversham would not see her cringe away or cower in fear. She’d been completely justified in taking his son away from him. He was an evil, despicable man. She would face him for the last time, and she’d be strong.

The man yanked her into the captain’s quarters, where Caversham was sitting at a small, rather shabby and grease-stained table, his scowl deep, the parallel lines
on his forehead and crevices bracketing his mouth more severe than usual. The state of the table would irk him, surely, she thought with a sinking heart. And right now, Caversham in a heightened state of annoyance would not help her predicament.

And then she saw Jake. He was seated in a chair behind Caversham, a gag tied around his mouth. His brown hair stuck up at all angles, tearstains streaked his face, and terror made his eyes wild.

“Jake!” She stumbled toward him only to be yanked back by the brute. His fingers tightened so hard over her bruised arm, she bit back a gasp of pain.

Jake’s blue gaze locked on her. He made choking sounds through the gag as he struggled, and she realized that he’d been bound to the chair.

She turned hate-filled, accusing eyes on Caversham, trying with all her might to keep from hissing and spitting at him. “What have you done?”

He merely shrugged. “He was being inappropriately noisy, so I had him gagged. His arms were flailing about wildly and he scratched me like a wildcat.” He gestured to a long, shallow cut on his arm and continued. “So I ordered his hands tied. And then he was running about like a lunatic, so I tied him to his chair, where he will learn to sit calmly and quietly, like a proper boy.”

She gawked at Caversham for a moment, and then she couldn’t hold her tongue. “You’re a damned fool, Jacob Caversham,” she grated out. “Release him. Immediately.”

Caversham raised one thin, dark eyebrow. “Cursing now, Miss Donovan? And in front of an innocent child.
Tsk tsk.
And I blame you for his outlandish behavior. Clearly, you’ve allowed him to run amok.”

“Let him go!” she shouted, trying to get to Jake again. The steely grip on her arms held her back.

“Please hush. I should not like to have to gag and tie you, too. Rest assured, I will release the boy in due time.”

She went still, unscrambling the violent thoughts pouring through her mind. Was this what it was like to be a mother? To feel such a deep connection to a child that you’d do anything,
anything
, to keep him safe?

Yes, she thought. Jake was her son now, and she’d fight for him.

But right now, violence would not work. She could not overcome these men by force. There had to be another way.

“Sit down, Miss Donovan.” It was a polite command but a command nonetheless, and even though her instincts told her to snatch Jake up and run away, she forced her feet forward and took the chair facing Caversham at the table.

“It’s still going to be a few minutes before we reach the drop location, so I thought we’d have a little chat.”

“The… drop location?”

“Indeed. Where you shall walk the plank.”

Panic surged through her as she realized that he intended to play the part of the pirate to its fullest. She was a good swimmer, but this wasn’t the Caribbean. How long could she swim in the icy cold waters of the Irish Sea?

Did it matter, though? She certainly wouldn’t be able to swim to the coast, and it was ridiculous to hope that someone might happen by and save her yet again.

She let loose a slow breath, releasing those dismal thoughts along with the air. She would not think this way. She would somehow survive, and she’d save Jake while she was at it.

Caversham was staring at her, his cloudy blue eyes narrowed. “Did you really think you could get away with kidnapping my son?”

God, his pretense of caring for Jake didn’t make sense. He’d never loved Jake like a real father. All through the boy’s short life, he’d been attempting to form him into a small version of himself. He’d failed so far, and it had angered him to the point of beating Jake, tossing him overboard… and still he hadn’t given up.

“I only want him to have a good life.”

Caversham’s eyes were slits. “And you do not believe I will offer him that?”

“I believe you could, but I fear you won’t give it to him. He’s himself, and you can’t turn him into someone else, no matter how hard you try.”

Caversham gave a low, humorless chuckle. “He’s
my
son, and he’ll be who I wish him to be.”

She shook her head, despair gurgling through her like a thick black pudding.

“You truly are stupid.” Caversham shook his head. “At least you could have had a laudable goal—such as kidnapping him with the intent to ransom him to my brother. But, no. You took him with some misplaced notion to save him from me. From his own father. How pathetic.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t care what he thought about her. She’d call
him
pathetic if she didn’t know how useless the returned insult would be. Instead she glanced at Jake, silently encouraging him to be strong.

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” Caversham said.

A sailor—a man Meg had never seen before—entered. “We’ve reached the dead center of the channel, sir.”

That meant they were almost fifty miles away from the nearest landfall. There was no way anyone could swim so far.

“Excellent.” Caversham rose from his chair. “After we deal with her, have Ingerson set a southwesterly course. I wish to stay well clear of the Welsh shore before turning east to Bristol. Not too far clear, you understand. My presence is required in Oxfordshire by the end of the month.”

“Aye, sir.”

Caversham and the sailor moved toward the door, but at the threshold, Caversham paused, turning to the brute who’d lingered in the shadows. “Remove her dress and stays, if you please. I don’t want her drowning too quickly.” Looking over his shoulder, he gave her a polite nod. “I’ll await you just outside, Miss Donovan.”

He closed the door, and the brute came forward. He took her by the shoulders and roughly turned her so that her back faced him. She heard Jake’s whimper as the dagger cut through her dress, her petticoat, and the ties of her stays. The man pulled them off her body and arms, slicing fabric wherever he could to make the task easier, refusing to meet her eyes until the job was finished and she stood dressed only in her chemise, stockings, shoes, and drawers.

“Come along, then,” he said gruffly. And in his voice, she heard it. A tiny glimmer of compassion.

Jake was sobbing now, and she turned to glance at him, then looked back at the brute. “Please let me say good-bye.”

He considered for a moment, glanced back at the door, then shrugged. “Hurry up.”

She hurried over to Jake. Kneeling, she took him—and
the chair he was tied to—into her arms. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered. She started to promise she’d come back for him, that she’d get him out of here, but she couldn’t make a promise she might not be able to keep.

He was squirming, groping for her with hands that could hardly move. She covered them with her own, trying to calm him, and he pressed something into her hand.

He mumbled something that sounded like “bosun” through the gag.

She took it without question, closing her palm around it and feeling its shape—a long, uneven cylinder. If she had to guess… she’d say it was a boatswain’s whistle.

“Oh, Jake,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
You smart, smart boy.
“I love you so much.”

He’d put it into the hand that the man behind her couldn’t see, and she slid the whistle under her chemise and slipped it into the top of her knee stocking.

Jake couldn’t speak due to the gag, but he laid his head against her shoulder.

She just held him until the brute pulled her away and pushed her toward the door. “Good-bye, Jake,” she said one last time, watching him as she stumbled away. Finally, someone closed the door behind her and she could no longer see his wide blue eyes.

Once on deck, they turned toward the stern. Summer had arrived at last, and the morning sun shone brightly, sparkling off the small ocean waves and warming Meg through the linen of her chemise.

Meg’s gaze scanned the wide curve of the horizon. There was no other ship in sight. No one to rescue her. Nowhere to run.

She was impotent to help herself or to help Jake.

Good Lord. She would drown. It seemed impossible, unreal. But it was happening.

They reached an opening in the deck wall, where a flat beam had been lashed so it protruded from the deck, lying parallel to the water.
The plank.

The men around her hesitated, looking to Caversham for instructions.

He gave her a thin smile. “No need for long, drawn-out good-byes, I should think.” Then he nodded at the three men who’d surrounded her. “Do it.”

Before she could fight—before she could blink—they’d lifted her, and with one great heave, they pushed her onto the plank. She stumbled forward, fighting for balance, fighting to stay on the narrow beam. The ship swayed with a wave, and she wheeled her arms wildly, trying to stay upright.

But it was no use. She stumbled, then fell off. She was flying through the air, the skirt of her chemise billowing, then down, down… and with a great, painful splash, she hit the water, a sharp slap of cold covering every inch of her skin.

She sank instantly. Fighting the pain shooting through her head, she toed off her shoes and kicked to the surface.

As she broke through, gasping, she felt the weight against her leg and belatedly remembered the large shard of the glass mirror in the pocket of her chemise.

She hadn’t thought of it in time. How could she have been so stupid? It had all gone so fast, she hadn’t had time to think of using a weapon, hadn’t had time to fight back.

She wiped seawater out of her eyes, opening them to see Caversham’s ship already a great distance away.

And he had Jake.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” she whispered. “So, so sorry.”

Left alone, in the middle of a cold sea, half-naked, in pain, and losing hope rapidly, Meg could do nothing but tread water… and wait for death.

Chapter Twenty

T
he
Freedom
entered Mount’s Bay and anchored in Penzance Harbour in the afternoon of a hot day in late May.

Jessica insisted she was ill, and the only thing that could cure her was dry land. David narrowed his eyes at her, clearly knowing exactly why she wanted to come with them and that it had nothing to do with her being sick, but he said nothing and gallantly handed her down into the jolly boat.

Once ashore, the men led Jessica to the outskirts of the town, along the coast to a string of poor fishing cottages. As they hesitated at one of them, David murmured, “This was the only person I could find who’d give me any information on Caversham. I’m hoping I can get something more out of the old man today.”

She nodded, deeming it prudent to stay quiet. For now.

They knocked, and the door opened to a man probably in his midthirties. Not much older than David.

He looked them over, his face blank, not saying a word.

“Afternoon, sir,” David said. “I’m looking for Mr. Retallack.”

“That’d be me,” the man said gruffly.

David shook his head. “No, ah… the elder Mr. Retallack. Your… father?”

“Dead,” the man said shortly.

“What?”

“Aye, dead, I said.”

“He was your father?”

“Aye.”

“I’m very sorry.”

The man shrugged.

“What happened?” David asked, leaning forward slightly. “I saw him a little more than a month ago, and he appeared in the prime of health.”

The man’s face darkened. “Well, not anymore. They called it an accident. Got himself caught up in the ropes, they said. But my da’s been fishing his whole life. Half a century, that was. He wouldn’t have got caught up in no ropes.”

David frowned. “What do you believe happened?”

The man sneered at him. “Who’d you say you was?”

“I’m David Briggs. This is MacInerny and Jasper. And this”—he gestured toward Jessica—“is Miss Jessica Donovan.”

Jessica gave an awkward curtsy, and the man raised his brows in surprise—as if no young lady had ever curtsied to him before.

“We’re looking for information about a man named Jacob Caversham.”

The man’s face darkened further. “I don’t know
nothing about anyone by that name.” He began to close the door in their faces, but David held out his palm, forcing it to stay open a crack.

David leaned forward. “Is he the one who killed your da?”

“Do you think I’d tell you if he were?” the man shot back in a harsh whisper.

David glanced around and behind him. “It’s too open here. Let us inside, and we’ll talk.”

“You here to kill me, too?”

“No!” Jessica gasped. She ignored David’s dark warning look. “We’re here to help you. And to help my sister.”

“What’s this got to do with anybody’s sister?” the man asked.

“Please, sir,” Jessica said. “Please help us. He wants to kill my sister, like he probably killed your father and many others before—”

David cut her off. “Will you let us in before this foolish girl gets us all killed?”

With a bemused expression on his face, the man opened the door wider and stepped back.

They entered the tiny hovel, which contained only one spindly chair and a rough-hewn table by the hearth. A cot stood in the corner, and there was one window on the opposite wall that let in a very weak light. That was the extent of the place.

Goodness, Jessica had thought they’d been poverty stricken when she’d been growing up, but though they had neither the slaves nor the servants nor the livestock the other plantations had, at least they had a bright, airy, large, and clean house. This place was covered with soot, from the packed dirt floor to the rough low beams overhead.