The lawyer drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, breathing through his teeth, evidently reviewing what he knew of Jamie Fraser’s character and reputation.
“All right,” he said suddenly. “All right!”
Roger felt the tension running through him snap like a cut wire. He’d been strung like a puppet since Jamie had come to fetch him last night.
“Where?” he said, feeling breathless. “Where is she?”
“She’s safe,” Forbes said hoarsely. “I wouldn’t have her harmed.” He looked up, wild-eyed. “For God’s sake, I wouldn’t harm her!”
“Where?” Roger clamped the brooch tight, not caring that its edges cut into his hand. “Where is she?”
The lawyer sagged like a half-filled bag of meal.
“Aboard a ship called Anemone, Captain Bonnet.” He swallowed hard, unable to keep his eyes away from the brooch. “She—I told—they are bound for England. But she is safe, I tell you!”
Shock tightened Roger’s grip, and he felt the sudden slick of blood on his fingers. He flung the brooch onto the floor, wiping his hand on his breeches, struggling for words. The shock had tightened his throat, as well; he felt as though he were strangling.
Seeing his trouble, Ian stood abruptly and pressed his knife against the lawyer’s throat.
“When did they sail?”
“I—I—” The lawyer’s mouth opened and closed at random, and he looked helplessly from Ian to Roger, eyes bulging.
“Where?” Roger forced the word past the blockage in his throat, and Forbes flinched at the sound.
“She—she was put aboard here. In Edenton. Two—two days ago.”
Roger nodded abruptly. Safe, he said. In Bonnet’s hands. Two days, in Bonnet’s hands. But he had sailed with Bonnet, he thought, trying to steady himself, keep a grip on his rationality. He knew how the man worked. Bonnet was a smuggler; he would not sail for England without a full cargo. He might—might—be going down the coast, picking up small shipments before turning to the open sea and the long voyage for England.
And if not—he might still be caught, with a fast ship.
No time to be lost; people on the docks might know where the Anemone was headed next. He turned and took a step toward the door. Then a red wave washed through him and he whirled back, smashing his fist into Forbes’s face with the full weight of his body behind it.
The lawyer gave a high-pitched scream, and clutched both hands to his nose. All noises in the inn and in the street seemed to stop; the world hung suspended. Roger took a short, deep breath, rubbing his knuckles, and nodded once more.
“Come on,” he said to Ian.
“Oh, aye.”
Roger was halfway to the door when he realized that Ian was not with him. He looked back, and was just in time to see his cousin-by-marriage take Forbes gently by one ear and cut it off.
104
SLEEPING WITH A SHARK
STEPHEN BONNET was as good as his word—if that’s how one would describe it. He made no sexual advances toward her, but did insist that she share his bed.
“I like a warm body in the night,” he said. “And I think ye might prefer my bed to the cargo hold, sweetheart.”
She would most emphatically have preferred the cargo hold, though her explorations—once free of land, she was allowed out of the cabin—had revealed the hold as a dark and comfortless hole, in which several hapless slaves were chained among a collection of boxes and barrels, in constant danger of being crushed should the cargo shift.
“Where are we going, miss? And what will happen when we get there?” Josh spoke in Gaelic, his handsome face small and frightened in the shadows of the hold.
“I think we’re going to Ocracoke,” she said in the same language. “Beyond that—I don’t know. Do you still have your rosary?”
“Oh, yes, miss.” He touched his chest, where the crucifix hung. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from despair.”
“Good. Keep praying.” She glanced at the other slaves: two women, two men, all with slender bodies and delicate, fine-boned faces. She had brought food for Josh from her own supper, but had nothing to offer them, and was troubled.
“Do they feed you down here?”
“Yes, miss. Fairly well,” he assured her.
“Do they”—she moved her chin a little, delicately indicating the other slaves—“know anything? About where we’re going?”
“I don’t know, miss. I can’t talk to them. They’re African—Fulani, I can see that from the way they look, but that’s all I know.”
“I see. Well . . .” She hesitated, eager to be out of the dark, clammy hold, but reluctant to leave the young groom there.
“You go along, miss,” he said quietly in English, seeing her doubt. “I be fine. We all be fine.” He touched his rosary, and did his best to give her a smile, though it wavered round the edges. “Holy Mother see us safe.”
Having no words of comfort to impart, she nodded, and climbed the ladder into the sunlight, feeling five sets of eyes upon her.
Bonnet, thank God, spent most of his time on deck during the day. She could see him now, coming down the rigging like a nimble ape.
She stood very still, no movement save the brush of windblown hair, of skirts against her frozen limbs. He was as sensitive to the movements of her body as was Roger—but in his own way. The way of a shark, signaled to and drawn by the flappings of its prey.
She had spent one night in his bed so far, sleepless. He had pulled her casually against himself, said, “Good night, darlin’,” and fallen instantly asleep. Whenever she had tried to move, to extricate herself from his grip, though, he had shifted, moving with her, to keep her firmly by him.
She was obliged to an unwelcome intimacy with his body, an acquaintance that awoke memories she had with great difficulty put away—the feel of his knee pushing her thighs apart, the rough joviality of his touch between her legs, the sun-bleached blond hairs that curled crisply on his thighs and forearms, the unwashed, musky male smell of him. The mocking presence of LeRoi, rising at intervals during the night, pressed in firm and mindless hunger against her bu**ocks.
She had a moment of intense thankfulness, both for her present pregnancy—for she was in no doubt of it now—and for her certain knowledge that Stephen Bonnet had not fathered Jemmy.
He dropped from the rigging with a thud, saw her, and smiled. He said nothing, but squeezed her bottom familiarly as he passed, making her clench her teeth and cling to the rail.
Ocracoke, at the dark of the moon. She looked up into the brilliant sky, wheeling with clouds of terns and gulls; they could not be far offshore. How long, for God’s sake, ’til the dark of the moon?
105
THE PRODIGAL
THEY HAD NO TROUBLE IN FINDING persons familiar with Anemone and her captain. Stephen Bonnet was well-known on the Edenton docks, though his reputation varied, depending on his associations. An honest captain was the usual opinion, but hard in his dealings. A blockade runner, a smuggler, said others—and whether that was good or bad depended on the politics of the person saying it. He’d get you anything, they said—for a price.
Pirate, said a few. But those few spoke in low tones, looking frequently over their shoulders, and strongly desired not to be quoted.
The Anemone had left quite openly, with a homely cargo of rice and fifty barrels of smoked fish. Roger had found one man who recalled seeing the young woman go aboard with one of Bonnet’s hands: “Great huge doxy, with flaming hair a-loose, flowing down to her arse,” the man had said, smacking his lips. “Mr. Bonnet’s a good-size man himself, though; expect he can handle her.”
Only Ian’s hand on his arm had stopped him hitting the man.
What they had not yet found was anyone who knew for sure where Anemone was headed.
“London, I think,” said the harbormaster, dubious. “But not directly; he’s not yet got a full cargo. Likely he’ll be going down the coast, trading here and there—perhaps sail for Europe from Charlestown. But then again,” the man added, rubbing his chin, “could be he’s bound for New England. Terrible risky business, getting anything into Boston these days—but well worth it if you do. Rice and smoked fish like to be worth their weight in gold up there, if you can get it ashore without the navy’s warships blowing you out of the water.”
Jamie, looking a little pale, thanked the man. Roger, unable to speak for the knot in his throat, merely nodded, and followed his father-in-law out of the harbormaster’s office, back into the sun of the docks.
“Now what?” Ian asked, stifling a belch. He had been trawling through the dockside taverns, buying beer for casual laborers who might have helped load Anemone, or who might have spoken with her hands regarding her destination.
“The best I can think of is maybe for you and Roger Mac to take ship down the coast,” Jamie said, frowning at the masts of the sloops and packet boats rocking at anchor. “Claire and I could go up, toward Boston.”
Roger nodded, still unable to speak. It was far from being a good plan, particularly in light of the disruption the undeclared war was having on shipping—but the need of doing something was acute. He felt as though the marrow of his bones was burning; only movement would quench it.
To hire a small ship—even a fishing smack—or take passage on a packet boat, though, was expensive business.
“Aye, well.” Jamie curled his hand in his pocket, where the black diamond still lay. “I’ll go and see Judge Iredell; he can maybe put me in touch with an honest banker who’ll advance me money against the sale of the stone. Let’s go and tell Claire what’s to do, first.”
As they turned off the docks, though, a voice hailed Roger.
“Mr. MacKenzie!”
He turned, to find the Reverend Doctor McCorkle, his secretary, and the Reverend McMillan, carrying bags, all staring at him.
There was a brief scuffle of introduction—they had of course met Jamie when he came to fetch Roger, but not Ian—and then a slightly awkward pause.
“You—” Roger cleared his throat, addressing the elder. “You are leaving, then, sir? For the Indies?”
McCorkle nodded, his large, kindly face set in concern.
“I am, sir. I regret so much that I must go—and that you were not able to—well.” Both McCorkle and the Reverend McMillan had tried to persuade him to return to them the day before, to take his place at the service of ordination. But he could not. Could not spare hours to such a thing, could not possibly engage himself to undertake the commitment with anything less than a single mind—and while his mind was in fact single just now, it was not toward God. There was room in his heart just now for only one thing—Brianna.
“Well, doubtless it is God’s will,” McCorkle said with a sigh. “Your wife, Mr. MacKenzie? There is no word of her?”
He shook his head, and muttered acknowledgment of their concern, their promises to pray for him and for the safe return of his wife.He was too much worried to find this much solace, yet still, he was touched by their kindness, and parted from them with many good wishes in both directions.