The Diamond King (18 page)

He should stop making judgments.

Against anyone but a Campbell.

He saw a slash of red carried by the wind and his gaze searched the deck, settling on the slim figure standing next to the forecastle. Hair with the sheen of gold flew around a lightly tanned face.

Strange he had not noticed that before. His first impression had been of mousy brown hair under a bonnet, but now as the sun’s rays touched and caressed it, it looked bewitching. She did not look mousy, either, though there was an uncertainty in her eyes, even in the way she stood. And yet there was spirit in the way she braced herself against the wind, the color in her cheeks.

He recognized her own pleasure in the day, even in the ship. It seemed to echo his own.

She had been told not to leave his cabin.

For some reason he could not find it within him to order her back. Not after she had spent the night caring for Meg in a way that went beyond what he had expected.

He turned to the helmsman behind him. “Take the wheel.”

“Aye, sir.”

He approached the Campbell. He saw her flinch as he neared but she did not give ground. She had courage, at least. He’d noted that last night. She hadn’t screamed or pleaded or surrendered in fear to the storm. Instead, she’d held steady.

“I wanted some fresh air,” she said defiantly.

“It’s a fine morning after a poor night,” he said mildly. He saw surprise flicker in her eyes.

“Aye,” she said carefully.

“How is your maid?”

“My friend and companion,” she corrected.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You probably do not know much about friends,” she said. “I suppose a cutthroat rarely does.”

“I have lost enough of them to know their worth,” he replied. He did not have to say more. The thrust had hit its mark.

She turned away and looked back at the sea.

“You appear to like the sea,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Aye.”

The short answer dismissed him effectively. The prisoner dismissing her captor. He thought he should be offended, but strangely enough he was not. He’d always liked heart, even in a Campbell.

“You can come and go as you like,” he said, then turned and left, as startled by his surrender as she was.

Having permission to remain made the top deck just a little less attractive, Jenna admitted to herself. Especially since, in the past few seconds, she thought the storm winds were approaching again.

The air had become dense, thick, electric.

She would almost swear lightning had leapt from the captain to her.

She did not want to think that he was the cause of such sudden heat. ‘Twas the sun’s rays and her imagination. Instead, she tried to tell herself that she had won one small battle, one of the few she’d won in her life.

But it was dimmed by the overwhelming presence of the man, a presence that lingered just like clouds often lingered after a blow. She realized her arms crossed each other, fingers clasped around her arms in a self-protective pose. When had she done that?

Had he seen it?

She did not want him to think she feared him, or had any other emotions concerning him. But her legs were shaky. How could a man—particularly this one—affect her so?

Maybe she was far more tired than she thought.

She tried not to look toward the wheel. He had returned there, she knew. She did not want to see that quiet power, the authority with which he mastered the helm. She did not want her eyes to meet his dark blue gaze again. Nor did she want to feel the heat rushing through her blood.

She hesitated. He could
not
know he affected her in such a way. In any way.

She remained, trying to regain the brief pleasure she’d felt earlier. She did not want the new uncertainty, nor the sudden instability of her legs. How could she—for a moment—believe the pirate was appealing in any way?

He’d been unshaven, his lips pulled up in that mocking half smile. But there had been something in those dark blue eyes that had caught her off guard, a small, self-deprecating apology that had inexplicably warmed her through and through.

Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time in her life, she had felt the warm rush of lust. She hadn’t known what it was until now, and she was sure her face went red when her analytical mind finally identified it.

Abruptly, she turned and headed toward the sick bay, trying to keep her legs steady enough so she wouldn’t fall to the bottom of the stairs.

Perhaps Meg would like a story. Or a song. Anything to take away the awareness that had taken over her mind. Her body. Her very soul.

The door was open. Rob was sitting in a chair, reading the medical manual. He looked up when he saw her, then went back to the book. Meg’s eyes were closed. No help there. She took the chair where Hamish sat when he was present and looked at the children.

“
Les enfants
,” the first mate had called them. But they weren’t. They were short adults who had no one but a pirate to care for them. It was still difficult to understand, or even envision.

She wanted to look at the wound, but did not want to wake Meg. Rest was by far the best thing for her. Jenna’s eyes started to close, then flew back open. Every time she closed them, she saw the infernal pirate. How long before she could leave the ship?

And Meg?

As if the child heard her thoughts, she moved, then cried out in pain.

Jenna flew to her. “Meg?”

“It hurts.”

It was the first complaint she’d heard from Meg. She felt the child’s forehead again. It was still warm, but she did not think it as hot as earlier. Then she checked the wound. The poultice needed replacement again. The wound had been torn last night, and evidently Hamish had not had time to sew it closed.

It needed to be done. She thought about calling Hamish, then hesitated. He was busy, and she had sewn wounds in both people and animal.

“Will you allow me to fix it?” she asked softly.

Meg looked at her with big eyes full of pain and uncertainty. She had given up some of her dislike and hostility yesterday, but Jenna saw lingering distrust. “Aye,” the girl finally said in a low voice. “I do not want to bother Hamish.”

“I do not believe you bother anyone,” Jenna said. “Everyone, including the captain, is very concerned about you.”

“He will leave me,” Meg said despondently.

“He will make sure you are safe,” Jenna said in a soft voice.

“I do not want to be safe. I want to be with Will.”

Will again.

She wanted to ask the lass whether she knew Will’s real last name, but that would be taking advantage of a sick child and she was not ready to do that.

She knew where Hamish kept the needle and thread. But first she wanted to give the lass something to relieve the pain. More laudanum? How much had she had?

“Have you had a draft of anything this morning?” she asked.

“Nay,” Meg said. “And I don’t need anything.” But her lips quivered. Bravery apparently went only so far.

Rob woke up then, blinking his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand, looking his age for the first time. “Meg?”

“I should sew up her wound,” Jenna said. “Can you convince her to take a draft of laudanum?”

“Rather have rum,” Meg said.

Jenna tried to suppress her surprise. She wasn’t sure whether Meg was saying it for effect or was serious. And if she was? A lass?

A glass of sherry or wine at supper was permissible for a young lady. But a child? And rum?

She hesitated.

“It’s all right,” Rob said. “We sneaked some when we stowed away.”

At least the captain hadn’t given it to him. Still she hesitated. She had no idea where the rum was.

“I’ll get it.” Robin said, and was out the door before she could say nay.

She sat down next to Meg. She was not the child’s mother or guardian. Not even a friend. Not yet, though she hoped to be. She had no right to correct or criticize. Still, she would love to find a proper dress for Meg, and see her hair grow. She could be quite lovely, Jenna thought. Her hair, now darkened by dirt, looked as if it might be light brown. Her eyes were large and expressive, though expressively suspicious at the moment.

Jenna knew her observations would not be welcomed, might even destroy what little headway she had made.

A bit of rum to take the pain from the stitches would not be a sin.

She started humming a song, and Meg’s eyes were rapt on her. “Sing it,” Meg demanded.

Jenna knew she should not. It was a song she’d heard a servant sing and soon after, that servant had been dismissed. But she loved the melody, and she loved the optimism, and it was a song she’d secretly harbored in her soul.

“The Gypsy rover come over the hill.

Bound through the valley so shady.

He whistled and he sang till the green woods rang,

and

He won the heart of a lady
...“

Meg listened intently until she finished.

“I know a song, too.” she said. “I learned it in Paris.”

“Sing it,” Jenna said, hoping it would take her mind off the pain.

“Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling. ..

Charlie is my darling, the young chevalier
...“

Jenna knew immediately the song was meant to provoke her. Charlie was obviously the prince now in France, the man most despised by the English and the Campbells.

But not Jenna. She had always been fascinated by the man. He was said to have great charisma. Unfortunately his military ability, according to her father, had not been as impressive.

“You have a good voice,” Jenna said mildly. And she did. Weak and thin now, but it had a purity that was God’s gift.

Meg looked disappointed. She seemed to alternate between wanting to start a fight and wanting comfort. A small war waged in a heart badly damaged. Everything was a small test. Jenna was not sure whether she had won this one or not.

Then Rob was back with a mug of foul-smelling rum.

Meg downed it as well as any sailor.

Jenna got a needle and thread from a chest she’d seen Hamish use, and started sewing.

* * *

“Land ho!”

Alex looked west, where the island of Martinique should be, then relinquished the wheel to Claude, who had returned looking far better than when he’d left the quarterdeck. He’d even shaved.

Alex had made no comment. Instead, he peered through the spyglass, looking for both land and enemy ships. Or, for that matter, friendly ones. He wanted to hear the latest news on the possible treaty between England and France.

Blazes
. He should never have let that British merchantman tempt him. He would be halfway to Brazil. That damned flag always had a way of making him do foolish things.

Now he not only had passengers he did not want, but he had a wounded child.

He dared not linger in Martinique. The moment a peace treaty was signed, British ships would be hunting any privateers, and the
Ami
would not have the protection of letters of marque.

The lone bird had been joined by others circling overhead. Alex squinted against the sun and saw the land in the distance, a dark green jewel resting on a background of sapphire and emerald. Nothing, he thought, was as beautiful as these waters and these islands.

But they would be as dangerous for him as Scotland once a peace treaty was signed. They were small, and word traveled among them. He would be a marked man.

His only hope for a future lay in the interior of America, a vast land where a man could lose himself and his past.

He searched the seas around the
Ami
, and wondered about the
Charlotte
and those aboard her. Had they made it through the storm? Had the British seen her? Hopefully, they were already in Fort Royal.

He put down the spyglass. He would tell the Campbell woman she would soon be safe. It was the least he could do. He frowned, startled by the jump in his heart at the thought, and the sense of loss where relief should be.

* * *

Alex stopped at the door of the sick bay. He heard female voices singing.

Two female voices.

He pushed the door open. Meg’s gaze was on the face of the woman above her. He saw that much. Her voice followed the Campbell’s melody. One mature and strong and lovely, the other weak and sweet.

Meg was singing! Hell, he hadn’t known she could sing.

That realization hurt, though he couldn’t quite understand why. He hadn’t wanted to get close to the children. He’d known he could not keep them, not with the future he’d planned, nor the price on his head if anyone discovered Alex Leslie was still alive. His bad leg and the scar on his face marked him forever. His options were limited. There was no place for children with him. No safe place.

He swallowed hard as he listened to the two voices. The one sounded so weak. Should Meg be expending her energy that way?

And the other voice lowered her own as not to overshadow it. Or so it sounded.

Although he was already half inside the door, he knocked, and the singing stopped. He felt an inexplicable sense of loss. He stepped inside. There was no time for personal indulgences.

Meg and the Campbell lass turned to face him.

“We’ve reached Martinique,” he said. “I’ll talk to the royal governor and make arrangements for your passage to Barbados.”

“What about Meg?” the Campbell asked.

“I’ll find a doctor for her. She is no longer your concern.”

“Will you leave her there?”

He truly did not know what he was going to do. He went over to the bed. “How are you, Meggy?”

“She throwed my arm,” she said, slurring her words. As he leaned down, a decided odor of rum met him.

“Rum?” he asked.

Robin had been sitting, watching. “Meg did not want laudanum,” he said. “She asked for some rum.” He hesitated, looked at the Campbell lass. “I fetched it. She didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Now Rob was defending the damn woman. It did not make him feel better that he too had had raised his opinion of the lass. Reluctantly. “It’s all right,” he finally said. “Go get some rest. It will be several hours before we anchor.”