Authors: Brenda Novak
Evidently, the battle had been brutal on both sides.
“It was close, no?” As the French lieutenant addressed Cunnington, his words echoed Jeannette’s thoughts. “Only a fraction of our men are left.” He nodded toward several of his crew who stood close by, pistols drawn. “Unfortunately, our Breton navigator has been killed. Has your navigator, by chance, survived?”
“No.” Treynor answered for Cunnington; Cunnington didn’t seem to know.
“Then we shall keep to the open sea to the north of us until after this storm has passed.” Favre squinted at the hazy sky. “I have no desire to end up shipwrecked along our own rocky coast.”
“Meanwhile, may we have some blankets to keep the wounded among us warm?” Treynor asked. “And the lady?”
Jeannette crossed her arms in front of her in an effort to hide her near-nudity as Favre turned his attention her way.
“Ah, yes. The lady. I was coming to her.” He strode across the five or six feet between them to stop in front of her. “Who are you? A stowaway? A whore? The captain’s daughter or mistress?”
Jeannette bit her lip. Her accent would give her away as soon as she opened her mouth.
“She is the wife of a powerful English baron who will pay handsomely for her safe return.” Treynor answered for her.
Favre raised his dark eyebrows. “Indeed! Then I should like to hear the lady tell me who he is.”
When Jeannette hesitated, Treynor once again filled the silence. “She is married to the Baron St. Ives of Cornwall. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
The French lieutenant kept his eyes on Jeannette, but raised his pistol at Treynor. “I said I would like to hear from the lady.”
Jeannette did her best to eradicate the accent from her speech, but she knew the moment she heard her own voice that she had failed. “Lieutenant Treynor speaks the truth. My husband is the Baron St. Ives.”
“Aha, a Frenchwoman, no?”
Jeannette didn’t respond.
“I suspect there is more to this.” He looked to Treynor. “Who is she really?”
“I just told you.”
Favre’s jaw tightened. “So you did,
monsieur
. But I want to know how this woman came to be where she is.”
“By abandoning ship and swimming for all she was worth, like the rest of us.” Treynor’s sarcasm did little to endear him to Favre. The French lieutenant’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“You will not make a fool of me. Answer my question!”
Treynor glared up at him without response.
Afraid Favre would shoot him, Jeannette opened her mouth to tell the truth, but the report of his pistol deafened her before she could speak. She screamed and lurched toward Treynor, but Cunnington beat her to it. With a groan of anguish, the first lieutenant took the ball in the chest.
“Cunnington!” Treynor cried as Cunnington’s body sagged on top of him, eyes wide as he gasped for air.
Treynor eased him to the deck. Bright red blood spread over the first lieutenant’s shirt to mingle with the crimson of his earlier injury.
“Cunnington, can you hear me?” Treynor asked.
Cunnington licked his lips. “Had to do something—” he swallowed “—to make it worth...your effort in saving me, Treynor.”
“You should not have done it,” Treynor said.
“No? Ah, well”—a gasp and a groan—“I am the son of...a viscount, remember? I must live up...to my station.”
“Indeed.” When Cunnington’s eyelids closed, Treynor gently shook him. “Hold on, man. This isn’t over yet. We will make it, you and I.”
The first lieutenant’s eyelids fluttered open again. “No. It is better that I...die. You are so—” he coughed “—so much better at living.” He tried to laugh, but groaned instead.
Treynor stripped off his shirt and wadded it up to plug the hole in Cunnington’s chest, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. “Concentrate on catching your breath.”
“I am dying...an honorable death, am I not?” he asked, his voice wobbling as his chest started to jerk.
“Yes.” Jeannette took his hand. “We are witnesses to that.”
At her words, his face lit up with the most genuine smile she had ever seen him wear. “Tell my father,” he whispered and with one final gasp, he was gone.
Jeannette’s throat constricted and her eyes stung as she stared at Cunnington’s face. “Thank you,” she told him.
Releasing the first lieutenant’s hand, she stood and faced Favre, who watched dispassionately. It was beginning to rain, which only made their situation more untenable. “I am Lady Jeannette Boucher, daughter of Jacques Boucher, Comte de Lumfere,” she said proudly. “I shall appreciate your taking any further revenge on me and not these injured men.”
The French officer saluted her, his dark eyes shining like pieces of obsidian. “So it is as I thought! We have managed to reclaim one of our own.”
“It matters not who she used to be,” Treynor said. “She is now the wife of an English baron. He would happily line your pockets with gold to get her back.”
The Frenchman reached out to finger a lock of Jeannette’s cropped hair.
When she pulled away, he dropped his hand, but his eyes warmed as they took in the generous amount of flesh revealed by her gauzy shift.
“Hmmm...the only thing I hate worse than an Englishman is a former member of our own aristocracy,” he mused. “But I must say, she is a rare beauty, even for a Frenchwoman.”
“Do you not hear, man?” Treynor argued. “St. Ives—”
“I have heard enough about this baron,” Favre snapped. “What is he to me? Would you have me sacrifice my principles for a few francs?”
“But you have nothing to gain by taking her back to France!”
“This woman has missed her rendezvous with the guillotine,
monsieur
. Justice must be served. But how would you know? You English still labor under the control of the rich and powerful, while we...we are free.” He lifted his chin and paced in front of them. “And then there is the pleasure of her company on the voyage home,” he added with a lewd smile. “The English baron would certainly hold me accountable for any liberties I might take. The guillotine will not.”
Treynor shoved himself to his feet. “She would be worth much more—”
“I have been at sea a long time,
monsieur
. Nothing could be worth more than what I plan to enjoy at her expense. And the fact that she is a highborn lady will make our time together all the more...stimulating. Perhaps it will teach her how a real man takes a woman. We all know the English make love only to their money!”
Some of the French sailors sniggered.
Lieutenant Favre seemed to enjoy their mirth, but he didn’t laugh with them. Instead, his teeth gleamed beneath his mustache as he smiled, his eyes wandering back to Jeannette. “I will provide you with what clothing I can find,” he told her. “You will bathe and dress, then join me and the other officers at supper.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
Favre’s eyes sliced to Treynor. “Then I will kill this man here.”
A muscle twitched in Treynor’s cheek. “My life means nothing to her.”
The Frenchman cocked one eyebrow. “What I have observed tells me differently,” he told Treynor. “And I can assure you your life means even less to
me
.” He nodded to one of his men who moved forward and put a newly primed pistol to Treynor’s head.
His body tense, his eyes mere slits of hatred, Treynor glared at Favre.
“No!” Jeannette’s pulse raced, making her blood rush in her ears until she could hear nothing else. The soldier with the gun grinned, but before he could pull the trigger, she sank to her knees. “Please. I will do anything. Just spare him.”
Treynor’s injured arm began to throb as soon as he grew warm enough to feel it. Propping himself against a cannon on the badly battered gun deck, where three of the French crew guarded him and the other prisoners with pistols, he proceeded to extract the splinters, gasping from the pain with every jerk.
Blessed darkness hovered at the corners of his mind as he worked, but the thought of Jeannette, frightened and alone in Lieutenant Favre’s quarters, kept him from succumbing to oblivion.
Laying his head back and breathing deeply as the rain fell on his face, he let himself rest when his grasp on consciousness became too tenuous. Then he started again.
The French had given them blankets, but brought no food or drink. Treynor longed for a bit of rum or brandy to steady his hand and ease the pain. Or some nourishment to rebuild his strength. His only respite from the gruesome, bloody business with his arm turned out to be Smedley, who moaned next to him, gut-shot.
“Smedley.” He gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Hey!”
The tattoo artist peered up at him. “Sir?”
Still trying to avoid the light-headedness that plagued him, Treynor breathed through his nose. “We have to do something.”
“Aye, sir.” Smedley’s exhale was accompanied by a rattle in his chest. “You don't fancy the thought of prison, eh?”
“I have too much to do in England.” Treynor was thinking of his mother at that moment. For the first time in his life, he regretted having been so hard on her. She had caused him a great deal of pain, but somehow what had happened before didn’t matter so much anymore. He was a man now, and lucky to be alive. The time had come to make peace with his past.
Smedley pulled him from his thoughts. “What do you suggest?”
Treynor focused again on the urgency of their situation. The three French guards, huddled together against the rain and the penetrating cold, were talking and laughing. From the smell of it, they were drinking, too. They ignored their prisoners.
Treynor doubted they spoke English, but he lowered his voice, just in case. “I would guess there are fifty or sixty of the French. Maybe more below. There are almost forty of us, though many are injured.”
“Don’t look good, eh?” Smedley grimaced as he licked dry, cracked lips.
“No. But you feel the rain. A storm’s coming on, and I am not so sure the
Superbe
won’t suffer the same fate as the
Tempest
. Did you hear Favre say they have lost their Breton navigator?”
Smedley’s nod was almost imperceptible, but Treynor continued. “He thinks we have open sea to the north of us, which means we are probably somewhere off the approaches to Brest, west of the peninsula, maybe beyond the Passage du Raz and the Pointe de Saints. Only I think we are closer to the coast than he expects. The wind carried us due east throughout the battle.”
With a curse, Treynor shifted to relieve the throb in his arm, but to no avail. “With the sky so overcast, there is no way to know for sure.”
It was several moments before Smedley could respond. “I’m sorry we couldn’t take ’em, sir,” he said. “We should’ve blasted ’em out of the water—”
“What is lost is lost,” Treynor broke in as he glanced toward the French sailors. They were still talking and laughing. He could hear snatches of their conversation on the wind, but he was too tired to translate their words into English. “Favre seems more interested in savoring his sudden command and the spoils of war than in keeping a sharp lookout. He thinks he need only wait out the storm, then dock at Brest, probably tomorrow, when he can use daylight to his advantage.”
“Meanwhile, he’s planning to entertain the baron’s wife—at your expense, eh?” Smedley said.
When Treynor scowled, Smedley chuckled.
“You don’t have to admit it, sir. I saw it in your face back there.” Clutching his stomach, he fell silent.