The Captive Heart (3 page)

“I’m not stayin’ a day more, I’ll tell ye that.” Behind her, Biz’s voice filtered through the stench. “I’m leavin’ with the next buyer what comes down those stairs, and I don’t care a figgity nigglet if it’s a one-legged snake charmer a-wearin’ an eyepatch.”

With a last inhale, Eleanor turned. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the darkness and focus on Biz, though the woman stood hardly ten paces away. Lanterns hung from the bulkhead, stretching the length of the narrow compartment. None were lit, their candle stubs long since melted into memories of light.

Eleanor tugged her bodice, lifting the damp fabric from her skin. “Are you really going to be able to still your tongue long enough to keep from frightening off another prospect?”

Biz raised her chin. “Aye.”

“No matter what?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I said aye, din’t I?”

A worthy try, but Eleanor would not be put off. “I believe I have heard that before.”

“Well, this time I mean it. Let ’em look at my teeth, my hair, my feet.” She flashed a defiant smile. “Why, I’ve half a mind to lift my skirt if it’ll do any good.”

“Biz!”

Her smile vanished. “And don’t pretend you won’t, too. Yer as close to crackin’ as the rest of us, standing below that grate from sunup to evenin’, staring like a blind woman after a lover long gone.”

Eleanor frowned. Biz was more right than anyone knew. Desperation courted her with all the determination of a relentless suitor. If Mr. Taggerton didn’t come for her soon, well … Despite the heat, she shuddered. With the exception of harlotry, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t consider.

Biz paced three steps forward, three back—as far as her ball and chain allowed. “It ain’t right, cooping us up like animals. No light. No air. Food ain’t fit fer Newgate bait, and I know that for a fact.” Curses sprinkled her tirade like a steady rainfall. “Even my worst days on the streets, I could catch a whiff o’ breeze or snatch a bucket o’ water to wash in.”

Two pallets over, straddling the border where light gave up its ghost and darkness began, Molly moaned—then twisted and emptied her stomach off the side of the cot.

Biz took a step nearer to Eleanor and lowered her voice. “How’s she doin’?”

Eleanor bit her lip. Would that Molly’s body might not be counted among those carried out in a sailcloth. “She needs to get out of here.”

Bootsteps pounded overhead, followed by a rattle of keys—the sweet, sweet sound of freedom.

Biz’s eyes shot to Eleanor’s. “What if it’s not yer Mr. Taggerton this time?”

The question circled like a vulture over a carcass, each pass one more peck at her faith. Why did God not answer? Why did the man not come? She was nearly the last left aboard, other than Biz and a few others who were sicker than Molly. Surely Lady Brougham had sent the missive directly. Surely those were Mr. Taggerton’s footsteps above. She forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “I shall hope you are wrong.”

“For what it’s worth”—Biz angled her face—“I hope so, too.”

“Thank you, Biz. I believe your heart is bigger than you let on.”

The woman’s blue eyes widened, then she turned and dragged her shackles to the hull, leaving behind a trail of profanities that could drop a sailor to his knees.

Eleanor fanned herself, hiding a grin. At first she’d suspected Biz of stealing her money while she slept, but the more she got to know the woman, the less plausible she thought the idea. Biz’s rough exterior was as thick as the layer of grime that coated them all, but her heart was pure through and through.

“Miss?” Molly wobbled where she sat on the edge of the pallet, her face thinner than a beggar’s. “Could I trouble you for water?”

“No trouble, Molly.” In truth, it would give her something to think about rather than wondering what was taking Captain Fraser so long. Retrieving the dipper from a bucket hanging on a beam, she filled it and carried it to Molly. The woman drank without spilling a drop—and still the captain hadn’t appeared.

“Come on, Moll.” Eleanor set the dipper on the pallet and offered the woman her arm. “Might do you some good to walk around a bit.”

Her lips stretched, and then she gave up, as if even smiling were too much effort. “I think I’ll just sit here, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I do not mind.” With a sweep of her fingers, Eleanor brushed back the hair tumbling over Molly’s brow. Cool skin met her touch, thanks to God. “Your fever is gone. You feeling better?”

“Aye, a little.”

“Good. Perhaps today, you shall—”

Door hinges creaked, and boots thudded down the ladder. Eleanor straightened and whirled, words of encouragement dying on her lips.

Captain Fraser carried a lantern, and for a moment, Eleanor recanted her wish for light. Lifeless eyes—more than she’d accounted for—glinted back a glassy sheen from the pallets around her.

“Swales! The smell! What kind o’ ship you runnin’?” The words did not belong to a family member of a duchess.

Nor did the fellow look like a family member. Traipsing beside the captain, a short man with a crooked back scowled. One eye was slanted shut, not quite puckery, but indented nonetheless. So … Biz hadn’t been too far off in her eyepatch prediction. The man’s nose was a doorknocker, large, long, and thick enough to grab hold of. Atop his head, a patch of white hair stuck out as sparse and prickly as that on his jawline. Deep lines creased his brow, matching those etched into his chin. Eleanor got the distinct impression that should the fellow flip upside down, his face would look exactly the same. Handsprings wouldn’t be likely, though. He had a good fifty—possibly sixty—years’ worth of cares bowing his shoulders.

As though the man hadn’t spoken, the captain stalked across the hold. “These are the three I recommend, Mr. Beebright, though yer welcome to take a looksee at the others if you like.” He swept the lantern in an arc.

After a glance into the hold’s recesses, leastwise as far as the light dared to venture, Beebright huddled closer to the captain. He lifted a finger and pointed at Molly. “That one don’t look too good.” His finger and his gaze swung over to Biz, his eyes hardening as he stared at her shackles. “And that one will be a pack o’ trouble from the get-go.”

Biz glowered, but for once her lips pressed into a thin line instead of spouting contempt.

“But this one,” Beebright’s finger came full circle, aiming right at Eleanor. “I’m lookin’ for a house maid, a nursemaid, and some kind of uppity lady’s companion—whole lot of nonsense, if you ask me. You qualified for any of those?”

Better prospects than remaining with the dead and dying, but still … this might be
—Oh God, please let it be
—the day Mr. Taggerton came calling. She straightened her shoulders and tried not to look at Mr. Beebright’s slant-eye. “I do have experience with children, sir, but I am sorry. I already have an employer.”

Beebright squinted up at the captain. “I thought you said—”

“Miss Morgan,” Captain Fraser cut him off. “We’ve been moored for nigh a week and a half. If your Mr. Taggerton were coming, he’d have arrived by now. I know of a brothel on the north side of town that’ll pay me a percentage of your earnings until your passage is paid in full, but if that’s not to your liking, then Mr. Beebright here is the best option”—his gaze slid to Molly and Biz—“for each of you.”

Beebright hitched his thumb toward Biz. “I won’t be taking that one.”

Biz shoved off from where she leaned against the hull, chains rattling.

Eleanor cleared her throat, several times over, until Biz took the hint and halted.

“Suit yourself, man,”—the captain shrugged—“but you’ve seen what I’ve got. You should’ve been here days ago if shopping the market was what you were about.”

“Weren’t for lack of trying. Newcastle’s not just a spit and a holler down the road, you know.”

“Take ’em or leave ’em, but the next load of servants isn’t due for another fortnight.” Fraser cocked his head. “Can your patrons wait that long?”

Beebright rubbed a hand over his prickly head, again and again. Was it really that much effort to think? “Patrons. Mighty fine name for those what paid me hardly enough to cover my travel.” His jaw worked, and a sour look developed before he finally answered. “All right, Captain, I’ll take ’em, but can we do the paperwork up where’s we can breathe?”

“Landlubbers. All the same.” Fraser sneered. “Makes no nevermind to me. Come along. All of you.” The captain turned on his heel. Beebright followed like a large moth hovering after the lantern.

“What about these chains?” Biz hollered after them.

“Lug ’em up the ladder one more time, missy,” the captain called over his shoulder. “Soon as you make your mark and I’ve the coin in my pocket, I’ll take ’em off.”

Curses rolled off Biz’s tongue, but the men’s boots already pounded up the ladder.

Molly tugged on Eleanor’s skirt. “I’m not sure if I can do this, miss.”

“Neither am I, Molly.” She glanced down at the woman, the last of her hope plummeting with the movement. Frightened eyes stared up at her, and she forced a pleasantness to her voice she didn’t feel. “But I am convinced God shall be with us, even in Newcastle.”

Wherever that was.

O
ne false move. A careless breath. Samuel Heath would shut down even his heartbeat if it meant he’d remain undetected. He stood still as a corpse, a move he’d perfected. Life lived in the shadows was not without its benefits.

Five paces to his left, half-hidden in a stand of young sugar maples, his blood brother drew his bowstring taut, the weapon as much a part of him as his soul. The slightest movement of his finger would mean an arrow through the lungs.

Forest sounds contracted into a cacophony of birdsong and insects. Air whooshed into Samuel’s nostrils and he held it, savoring the tightness in his chest. The thin space between life and death never failed to exhilarate.

Ahead, a white-tailed buck lifted its head in their direction, shying to the right. His friend’s focus shifted, as did one of his feet.

Snap!

The break of a twig beneath the man’s moccasin prodded the deer into flight.

Samuel sighed. There went supper, and breakfast, and dinner for a good many days. Though scoping out a new trapping route was his primary objective, bagging a deer along the way would’ve been a blessing.

His brother lowered his bow and returned the arrow to the quiver strapped across his back. He did not make eye contact.

Shaking his head, Samuel snorted. “Blasted dry spell. It’s not right, sticks cracking like the bones of late autumn though it be barely June.”

Inoli lifted a dark gaze. “The error was mine, Brother, and well you know it.”

“Still, we need rain.” He tipped his head toward the flattened trail left by the deer and set off that direction.

Inoli joined his side. “
Adewehi
sees dark clouds. None heavy with water.”

Samuel cut him a sideways glance. “Sounds ominous.”

“Such is the spirit of a tempest.”

He paused, studying a disturbed bed of trillium. The buck doubled back here, putting them at the forefront of the faint breeze. Wily animal. Gazing upward, he calculated the sun’s cast against the wilt-leafed canopy. Might as well press on and—by luck or providence—hopefully find the does, sure to be nearby. He turned toward the west, taking care that his own moccasins would not misstep.

“The elders have spoken to me.” Inoli’s words traveled quiet and low, matching the cadence of their pace.

“That sounds ominous too, my friend.”

Inoli kept his face forward, making it hard for Samuel to read. As much as he respected this man, sometimes the urge to chokehold him was irresistible.

“They say it is time for you to take a woman.”

He bit back a laugh. “Let me guess. They have one picked out for me. Or more like Running Doe has convinced them she’s the one.”

Mockingbirds answered. Inoli did not. His long legs covered much ground before he spoke. “Running Doe is a strong woman. Hard worker. Good teeth.” He angled his head, his dark eyes shining. “Her wide hips are fertile as freshly turned earth.”

“Oh, no.” Samuel shook his head, suppressing the growl in his throat that would surely scare away any chance of finding a deer. “No more babes for me. I can barely manage the one.”

“Exactly. As the elders have said, you need a woman.”

“True, which is why I’ve got one on order.”

“On order?” Inoli’s lips flattened, the closest he ever came to frowning. He stopped and faced him. “I do not understand you, Ya’nu.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand myself.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. How to explain? “Grace means the world to me, and I love her more than my life, but she needs a mother. So … I bought one.”

“But Running Doe—”

Samuel shot up his hand. “I appreciate the offer. Tell the elders as much. You, above all men, know your peoples’ hearts beat with mine. But if Grace is to have the best that this land offers, she must be raised with white manners.”

A fine line creased Inoli’s brow. “And the
un’ega
will not frown upon your purchase of a woman?”

Half a smile slid across his mouth. “You make it sound as if I’ve bought a harlot.”

Black eyes bore into his. His smile faded. Inoli was right. That’s exactly what people would think. Grace would be shunned in proper company. Samuel sighed. “As always, you give me much to think about.”

Inoli tilted his chin. A superior angle, one most often seen when he’d scored a point at stickball—and one that opened the door wide for opportunity.

Guilt and shame nipped at Samuel’s conscience. He was no preacher—but a rogue urge compelled him to try. Again. “And you, Brother? Have you thought much on our last conversation?”

The tilt didn’t go away, but Inoli’s eyes glittered cold. A nerve had been struck. Good.

“You know I do not listen when you speak of the White Christ. Why do you waste your breath?”

Samuel chuckled.

Inoli grunted. “You laugh? At me?”

“Peace, man.” He shook his head. “I laugh because you remind me of someone.”

The glitter softened. “Yourself,” Inoli breathed out.