his shirt and took a step toward her. She took one back, raising the club.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
He stared at her, eyes fixed wide, pale green and unblinking above a small, odd smile. Still smiling, he took another step toward her. Then another, and the fear boiled off in a surge of rage. Her shoulders bunched and lifted, ready.
“I mean it! Stand back or I’ll kill you. I’ll know who this baby’s father is, if I die for it!”
He had raised a hand, as though to grasp the club and jerk it away from her, but at this, he stopped abruptly.
“Baby? You are with child?”
She swallowed, her breath still thick in her throat. The blood hammered in her ears, and the smooth wood was slick with sweat from her palms. She tightened her grip, trying to keep the rage alive, but it was already dying.
“Yes. I think so. I’ll know for sure in two weeks.”
His sandy eyebrows lifted.
“Hm!” With a short grunt, he stepped back, surveying her with interest. Slowly, his eyes traveled over her, appraising her one bared breast.
The sudden spurt of rage had drained away, leaving her breathless and empty-bellied. She kept hold of the marlinespike, but her wrists quivered, and she lowered it.
“Is that the way of it, then?”
He leaned forward and reached out, quite without lascivious intent now. Startled, she froze for an instant, and he weighed the breast in one hand, kneading thoughtfully, as though it were a grapefruit he meant to buy at market. She gasped and hit at him one-handed with the club, but she had lost what readiness she had, and the blow bounced off his shoulder, rocking him but having little other effect. He grunted and stepped back, rubbing at his shoulder.
“Could be. Well, then.” He frowned, and tugged at the front of his breeches, adjusting himself without the slightest embarrassment. “Lucky we’re in port, I suppose.”
She made no sense whatever of this remark, but didn’t care; apparently he had changed his mind upon hearing her revelation, and the feeling of relief made her knees go weak and her skin prickle with sweat. She sat down, quite suddenly, upon the stool, the club clanking to the floor beside her.
Bonnet had put his head out into the corridor, and was bellowing for someone named Orden. Whoever Orden was, he didn’t come into the cabin, but within a few moments, a voice mumbled interrogatively outside.
“Fetch me down a whore from the docks,” Bonnet said, in the casual tone of one ordering a fresh pint of bitter. “Clean, mind, and fairly young.”
He shut the door then, and turned to the table, scrabbling through the debris until he unearthed a pewter cup. He poured a drink, quaffed half of it, and then—seeming belatedly to realize that she was still there—offered her the bottle with a vague “Eh?” of invitation.
She shook her head, wordless. A faint hope had sprung up in the back of her mind. He did have some faint streak of gallantry, or at least decency; he had come back to rescue her from the burning warehouse, and he had left her the stone for what he assumed to be his child. Now he had abandoned his advances, upon hearing that she was with child again. Perhaps he would let her go, then, particularly if she was of no immediate use to him.
“So . . . you don’t want me?” she said, edging her feet under her, ready to leap up and run, as soon as the door opened to admit her replacement. She hoped she could run; her knees were still trembling with reaction.
Bonnet glanced at her, surprised.
“I’ve split your quim once already, sweetheart,” he said, and grinned. “I recall the red hair—a lovely sight, sure—but it wasn’t so memorable an experience otherwise that I can’t be waitin’ to repeat it. Time enough, darlin’, time enough.” He chucked her negligently under the chin, and gulped more of his drink. “For now, though, LeRoi’s needing a bit of a gallop.”
“Why am I here?” she demanded.
Distracted, he pulled once more at the crotch of his breeches, quite unself-conscious of her presence.
“Here? Why, because a gentleman paid me to take ye to London-town, darlin’. Didn’t ye know?”
She felt as though someone had hit her in the stomach, and sat down on the bed, folding her arms protectively across her midsection.
“What gentleman? And for God’s sake—why?”
He considered for a moment, but evidently concluded that there was no reason not to tell her.
“A man named Forbes,” he said, and threw back the rest of his drink. “Know him, do you?”
“I most certainly do,” she said, amazement vying with fury. “That bloody bastard!” So they were Forbes’s men, the masked bandits that had stopped her and Josh, dragged them from their horses, and shoved them both into a sealed carriage, bumping over unseen roads for days on end, until they reached the coast, and then been pulled out, disheveled and reeking, and bundled aboard the ship.
“Where’s Joshua?” she asked abruptly. “The young black man who was with me?”
“Was there?” Bonnet looked quizzical. “If they brought him aboard, I imagine they’ve put him in the hold with the other cargo. A bonus, I suppose,” he added, and laughed.
Her fury at Forbes had been tinged with relief at finding out he was the motive behind her abduction; Forbes might be a low-down, sneaking scoundrel, but he wouldn’t be intending to murder her. That laugh of Stephen Bonnet’s, though, made a cold qualm run through her, and she felt suddenly light-headed.
“What do you mean, a bonus?”
Bonnet scratched his cheek, gooseberry eyes roaming over her in approval.
“Oh, well, then. Mr. Forbes only wanted ye out of the way, he said. Whatever did ye do to the man, darlin’? But he’s paid your fare already, and I’ve the impression that he’s no great interest in where ye end up.”
“Where I end up?” Her mouth had been dry; now saliva was pouring from her membranes, and she had to swallow repeatedly.
“Well, after all, darlin’, why bother takin’ ye all the way to London, where ye’d be of no particular use to anyone? Besides, it rains quite a bit in London; I’m sure ye wouldn’t like it.”
Before she could draw breath to ask any more questions, the door opened, and a young woman slid through, closing it behind her.
She was likely in her twenties, though with a missing molar that showed when she smiled. She was plump and plain-faced, brown-haired, and clean by local standards, though the scent of her sweat and waves of freshly applied cheap cologne wafted across the cabin, making Brianna want to throw up again.
“Hallo, Stephen,” the newcomer said, standing on tiptoe to kiss Bonnet’s cheek. “Give us a drink to be starting with, eh?”
Bonnet grabbed her, gave her a deep and lingering kiss, then let her go and reached for the bottle.
Coming down onto her heels, she looked at Brianna with detached professional interest, then back at Bonnet, and scratched at her neck.
“You’ll have the two of us, Stephen, or shall it be me and her to start? It’s a quid more, either way.”
Bonnet didn’t bother answering, but thrust the bottle into her hand, whipped off the kerchief that hid the swell of her heavy breasts, and began at once to undo his flies. He dropped the breeches on the floor, and without ado, seized the woman by the hips and pressed her against the door.
Guzzling from the bottle she held in one hand, the young woman snatched up her skirts with the other, whisking skirt and petticoat out of the way with a practiced motion that bared her to the waist. Brianna caught a glimpse of sturdy thighs and a patch of dark hair, before they were obscured by Bonnet’s buttocks, blond-furred and clenched with effort.
She turned her head away, cheeks burning, but morbid fascination compelled her to glance back. The whore was standing balanced on her toes, squatting slightly to accommodate him, gazing placidly over his shoulder as he thrust and grunted. One hand still held the bottle; the other stroked Bonnet’s shoulders in a practiced way. She caught Brianna’s eye on her, and winked, still saying, “Ooh, yes . . . oh, YES! That’s good, love, so good . . .” in her client’s ear.
The cabin door quivered with each meaty thump of the whore’s backside, and Brianna could hear laughter in the corridor outside, both male and female; evidently Orden had brought back enough to supply crew as well as captain.
Bonnet heaved and grunted for a minute or two, then gave a loud groan, his movements suddenly jerky and uncoordinated. The whore put a helpful hand on his buttocks and pulled him close, then relaxed her grip as his body went limp, leaning heavily against her. She supported him for a moment, patting his back matter-of-factly, like a mother burping a baby, then pushed him off.
His face and neck were flushed dark red, and he was breathing heavily. He nodded to the whore, and stooped, fumbling for his breeches. He stood up with them and waved toward the littered desk.
“Help yourself to your pay, darlin’, but give me back the bottle, aye?”
The whore pouted slightly, but took a final deep gulp of the liquor and handed him the bottle, now no more than a quarter full. She pulled a wadded cloth from the pocket at her waist and clapped it between her thighs, then shook down her skirts and minced across to the desk, poking delicately among the litter for scattered coins, which she picked out with two fingers, dropping them one by one into the depths of her pocket.
Bonnet, clothed once more, went out without a backward glance at the two women. The air in the cabin was hot and thick with the scent of sex, and Brianna felt her stomach clench. Not with revulsion, but with panic. The strong male reek had triggered an instinctive flush of response that tingled across her breasts and gripped her inwardly; for a brief, disorienting moment, she felt Roger’s skin, slick with sweat against her own, and her breasts tingled, swollen and wanting.
She pressed both lips and legs tight together, and curled her hands into fists, breathing shallowly. The last thing she could stand right now, she thought—the very last thing—was to think of Roger and sex, while anywhere within miles of Stephen Bonnet. She resolutely pushed the thought aside, and edged closer to the whore, searching for some remark with which to open conversation.
The whore sensed the movement, and glanced at Brianna, taking in both the torn dress and its quality, but then dismissed her in favor of finding more coins. Once she had her pay, the woman would leave, going back to the docks. It was a chance to get word to Roger and her parents. Not much, perhaps, but a chance.
“You . . . um . . . know him well?” she said.
The whore glanced at her, eyebrows lifted.
“Who? Oh, Stephen? Aye, he’s a good ’un, Stephen.” She shrugged. “Don’t take more than two or three minutes, no bones about the money, never wants nothin’ but a simple swive. He’s rough now and then, but he don’t hit unless you cross him, and no one’s fool enough to do that. Not more than once, anyroad.” Her gaze lingered for a moment on Brianna’s torn dress, one brow lifting sardonically.
“I’ll remember that,” Brianna said dryly, and pulled the edge of her ripped chemise up higher. She glimpsed a glass bottle amid the rubble on the desk, filled with a clear liquid, containing a small round object. She leaned closer to look at it, frowning. It couldn’t be . . . but it was. A round, fleshy object, rather like a hard-boiled egg, a pinkish-gray in color—with a neat round hole drilled completely through it.
She crossed herself, feeling faint.
“I was that surprised,” the whore went on, eyeing Brianna with open curiosity. “He’s never had two girls together, so far as I know, and he’s not one as wants someone to watch while he’s at his pleasure.”
“I’m not—” Brianna began, but then stopped, not wanting to offend the woman.
“Not a whore?” The young woman grinned broadly, exposing the black gap of her missing tooth. “I might ha’ guessed as much, chickie. Not as it would make no never mind to Stephen. He sows as he likes, and I can see as how he might like you. Most men would.” She looked at Brianna with dispassionate assessment, nodding at her disheveled hair, flushed face, and tidy figure.
“I expect they like you, too,” Brianna said politely, with a faint feeling of surreality. “Er . . . what’s your name?”
“Hepzibah,” the woman said with an air of pride. “Or Eppie, for short, like.” There were coins still on the desk, but the whore left them alone. Bonnet might be generous, but evidently the whore didn’t want to take advantage of him—more likely a sign of fear than of friendship, Brianna thought. She took a deep breath and pressed on.
“What a lovely name. Pleased to meet you, Eppie.” She held out a hand. “My name is Brianna Fraser MacKenzie.” She gave all three names, hoping the whore would remember at least one of them.
The woman glanced at the extended hand in puzzlement, then gingerly shook it, dropping it like a dead fish. She pulled up her skirt, and began to clean herself with the rag, fastidiously wiping away all trace of the recent encounter.
Brianna leaned closer, bracing herself against the odors of the stained rag, the woman’s body, and the hot smell of liquor on her breath.
“Stephen Bonnet kidnapped me,” she said.
“Oh, aye?” said the whore, indifferent. “Well, he takes as he likes, does Stephen.”
“I want to get away,” Brianna said, keeping her voice low, with a glance at the cabin door. She could hear the sound of feet on the deck overhead, and hoped voices wouldn’t carry through the heavy planks.
Eppie wadded up the rag and dropped it on the desk. She rummaged in her pocket, coming out with a small bottle stoppered with a plug of wax. She still held her skirts up, and Brianna could see the silvery streaks of stretch marks across her plump belly.
“Well, give him what he wants, then,” the whore advised, taking out the plug and pouring a bit of the bottle’s contents—a surprisingly mild scent of rosewater—into her hand. “Chances are he’ll tire of ye in a few days and put ye ashore.” She wiped the rosewater lavishly over her pubic hair, then sniffed critically at her hand and made a face.
“No. I mean, that’s not what he kidnapped me for. I don’t think,” she added.
Eppie recorked the bottle, and dropped both it and the rag into her pocket.
“Oh, he means to ransom you?” Eppie eyed her with a little more interest. “Still, I’ve never known scruples interfere with the man’s appetite. He’d take a virgin’s maidenhead and sell her back to her father before her belly started swelling.” She pursed her lips, a belated thought coming to her.
“So how did you talk him out of havin’ you, then?”
Brianna put a hand on her stomach.
“I told him I was pregnant. That stopped him. I wouldn’t have thought—a man like that—but it did. Perhaps he’s better than you think?” she asked with a wisp of hope.
Eppie laughed at that, small eyes squeezing half-shut with hilarity at the thought.
“Stephen? God, no!” She sniffed with amusement, and smoothed down her skirts.
“No,” she went on, more matter-of-factly, “best story you could tell, though, if you don’t want him at you. He called me down to him once, then put me off when he saw I’d a cake in the oven—when I joked him about it, he said he’d once taken a whore with her belly the size of a cannonball, and right in the midst of it, she give a groan and the blood come spurting out of her fit to drench the room. Put him right off, he said, and no wonder. Left our Stephen with a horror of swiving girls what are up the spout. He’s takin’ no chances, see.”
“I see.” A trickle of sweat ran down Brianna’s cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her mouth felt dry, and she sucked the inside of her cheek for moisture. “The woman—what happened to her?”
Hepzibah looked blank for a moment.
“Oh, the whore? Why, she died, of course, poor cow. Stephen said as how he was struggling to get into his wet breeches, all soused with blood like they were, and he looked up and saw her layin’ still as stone on the floor, but with her belly still wriggling and twitching like a bag full o’ snakes. Said it come to him sudden that the babe meant to come out and take its revenge on him, and he fled the house right then in his shirt, leavin’ his breeches behind.”
She chortled at this amusing vision, then snorted and settled herself, brushing down her skirts. “But then, Stephen’s Irish,” she added tolerantly. “They take morbid fancies, the Irish, especially when they’re gone in drink.” The tip of her tongue came out and passed reminiscently over her lower lip, tasting the lingering traces of Bonnet’s liquor.
Brianna leaned closer, holding out her hand.
“Look.”
Hepzibah glanced into her hand, then looked again, riveted. The thick gold band with its big cabochon ruby winked and glowed in the lantern light.
“I’ll give it to you,” Brianna said, lowering her voice, “if you’ll do something for me.”
The whore licked her lips again, a sudden look of alertness coming into her heavy face.
“Aye? Do what?”
“Get word to my husband. He’s in Edenton, at the Reverend McMillan’s house—anyone will know where it is. Tell him where I am, and tell him—” She hesitated. What should she say? There was no telling how long the Anemone would stay here, or where Bonnet would choose to go next. The only clue she had was what she had overheard in his conversation with his mate, just before he came in.
“Tell them I think he has a hiding place on Ocracoke. He means to rendezvous with someone there at the dark of the moon. Tell him that.”
Hepzibah cast an uneasy glance at the cabin door, but it stayed shut. She looked back at the ring, longing for it warring in her face with an obvious fear of Bonnet.
“He won’t know,” Brianna urged. “He won’t find out. And my father will reward you.”
“He’s a rich man, then, your father?” Brianna saw the look of calculation in the whore’s eyes, and felt a moment’s misgiving—what if she should simply take the ring and betray her to Bonnet? Still, she hadn’t taken more money than her due; perhaps she was honest. And there was no choice, after all.
“Very rich,” she said firmly. “His name is Jamie Fraser. My aunt is rich, too. She has a plantation called River Run, just above Cross Creek in North Carolina. Ask for Mrs. Innes—Jocasta Cameron Innes. Yes, if you don’t find Ro—my husband, send word there.”
“River Run.” Hepzibah repeated it obediently, eyes still fixed on the ring.
Brianna twisted it off and dropped it into the whore’s palm before she could change her mind. The woman’s hand closed tight around it.
“My father’s name is Jamie Fraser; my husband is Roger MacKenzie,” she repeated. “At the Reverend McMillan’s house. Can you remember?”
“Fraser and MacKenzie,” Hepzibah repeated uncertainly. “Oh, aye, to be sure.” She was already moving toward the door.
“Please,” Brianna said urgently.
The whore nodded but without looking at her, then sidled through the door, shutting it behind her.
The ship creaked and swayed underfoot, and she heard the rattle of wind through the trees on the shore, over the shouts of drunken men. Her knees gave way then and she sat down on the bed, careless of the sheets.
THEY LEFT WITH the tide; she heard the anchor chain rumble and felt the ship quicken, taking life as her sails took wind. Glued to the window, she watched the dark green mass of Roanoke recede. A hundred years before, the first English colony had landed here—and disappeared without trace. The governor of the colony, returning from England with supplies, had found everyone gone, leaving no clue save the word “Croatan” carved into the trunk of a tree.
She wasn’t even leaving that much. Heartsick, she watched until the island sank into the sea.
No one came for some hours. Empty-bellied, she grew nauseated, and threw up in the chamber pot. She could not bear the thought of lying down on those revolting sheets, but instead pulled them off, remade the bed with only the quilts, and lay down.
The windows were open, and the fresh air of the sea stirred her hair and lifted the clamminess from her skin, making her feel a little better. She was unbearably conscious of her womb, a small, heavy, tender weight, and what was likely happening inside it: that orderly dance of dividing cells, a sort of peaceful violence, implacably wresting lives and wrenching hearts.
When had it happened? She tried to think back, remember. It might have been the night before Roger left for Edenton. He had been excited, almost exalted, and they had made love with lingering joy, spiced by longing, for they both knew the morrow would bring separation. She had fallen asleep in his arms, feeling loved.
But then she had waked alone, in the middle of the night, to find him sitting by the window, bathed in the light of a gibbous moon. She had been reluctant to disturb his private contemplation, but he had turned, feeling her eyes on him, and something in his look had made her get out of bed and go to him, taking his head against her bosom, holding him.
He had risen then, laid her on the floor, and had her again, wordless and urgent.
Catholic that she was, she had found it terribly erotic, the notion of seducing a priest on the eve of his ordination, stealing him—if only for a moment—from God.
She swallowed, hands clasped over her belly. Be careful what you pray for. The nuns at school had always told the children that.
The wind was growing cold, chilling her, and she pulled the edge of one quilt—the cleanest—over her. Then, concentrating fiercely, she began very carefully to pray.
103
PUT TO THE QUESTION