followed his finger. "It is a warning, Governess. A
caution to all healthy men."
The huge gray eyes reverted to his face.
"Saint Martin is the home of the French leper
colony," he said pointedly. "It is, consequently, the only French
territory for hundreds of miles in any direction that the British have not
troubled themselves to fight over. The soldiers stationed here are the dregs of
society, the commandant usually banished here for some stupid crime against the
French government. They are usually bitter men, too, having been caught and
sentenced to a death-watch. They would have no qualms whatsoever in holding you
until your flesh rotted and you no longer were capable of giving them any
pleasure."
Summer's chin trembled, and her cheeks lost a degree
of their high color.
"On the other hand," he remarked casually,
glancing over the side, "if you prefer to take your chances with them, by
all means jump ship. Do it before we cross the point though, for the currents
beyond the peninsula are strong and treacherous."
He insolently touched a forelock and walked back
across the main deck to the ladderway leading up to the bridge. Summer felt her
stomach tightening into knots, and she wished feverishly she'd had the
foresight to tuck the straight razor into one of her pockets. One slash. One
ribbon of blood across that arrogant face would go a long way toward evening
the score.
The Chimera rounded the point and reared her head into the stiff
trades. The order was given to crowd on sail, and Summer left the deck to the
sounds of all three masts being fully rigged. She passed Thorny in the
companionway but did not acknowledge his mutterings or pause long enough to
allow him to manipulate the heavy buckets of cold bathwater safely past a
protruding cable. She heard the splat and crash of one bucket against the
bulwark, followed by a series of curses and a reference to the dubious origins
of all women.
Her response was to slam the door. She stood with her
back pressed against the wood, fighting hard to suppress the urge to scream.
The fire in the stove had gone out. Thorny's efforts
to tidy up had included removing the tray of cold chicken and biscuits, folding
the quilt across the bed and removing the scraps of shirt and trouser she had
merely flung on the floor. Remembering the razor, Summer hurried to the closet
and searched through the toiletries. It was gone. She searched the floor in
case it had fallen unnoticed, but there was no sign of it. Thorny must have
been considering his captain's welfare when he saw the remnants of his
clothing.
"Cowards," she spat, and snatched up the
hairbrush. She stood in front of the gallery windows, watching Saint Martin
fall out of sight. The sound of rushing water and the sight of sunlight
glinting off the Chimera's wake helped to cool some of the heat in her cheeks.
She removed the red ribbon and made use of the drafts to dry her hair and brush
it into a glossy golden cascade of curls. When she turned around to reach for
the ribbon again, she saw that she had thrown it on top of a chart on Wade's
desk. She traced a finger around the scribbled notations until she found the
irregular mass of land marked Saint Martin.
The chart itself was a disgrace; water-spotted and
wrinkled, with lines crossing every which way over minute pinholes, bold X's
and compass readings that were jotted on the parchment. It was apparently
Wade's working copy, for there was a second chart beneath it, identical in
every detail save that there were no markings of any kind on it.
Summer sighed and stroked the brush absently through a
handful of hair. Since the copy had been used several times already, there was
no way of distinguishing which set of penciled lines and navigational plottings
he was following this voyage. She had no way of determining where he had been
or where he was bound—even if she'd known how to read one of the wretched
things.
Her gaze strayed to the desk itself, to the double row
of drawers
caution to all healthy men."
The huge gray eyes reverted to his face.
"Saint Martin is the home of the French leper
colony," he said pointedly. "It is, consequently, the only French
territory for hundreds of miles in any direction that the British have not
troubled themselves to fight over. The soldiers stationed here are the dregs of
society, the commandant usually banished here for some stupid crime against the
French government. They are usually bitter men, too, having been caught and
sentenced to a death-watch. They would have no qualms whatsoever in holding you
until your flesh rotted and you no longer were capable of giving them any
pleasure."
Summer's chin trembled, and her cheeks lost a degree
of their high color.
"On the other hand," he remarked casually,
glancing over the side, "if you prefer to take your chances with them, by
all means jump ship. Do it before we cross the point though, for the currents
beyond the peninsula are strong and treacherous."
He insolently touched a forelock and walked back
across the main deck to the ladderway leading up to the bridge. Summer felt her
stomach tightening into knots, and she wished feverishly she'd had the
foresight to tuck the straight razor into one of her pockets. One slash. One
ribbon of blood across that arrogant face would go a long way toward evening
the score.
The Chimera rounded the point and reared her head into the stiff
trades. The order was given to crowd on sail, and Summer left the deck to the
sounds of all three masts being fully rigged. She passed Thorny in the
companionway but did not acknowledge his mutterings or pause long enough to
allow him to manipulate the heavy buckets of cold bathwater safely past a
protruding cable. She heard the splat and crash of one bucket against the
bulwark, followed by a series of curses and a reference to the dubious origins
of all women.
Her response was to slam the door. She stood with her
back pressed against the wood, fighting hard to suppress the urge to scream.
The fire in the stove had gone out. Thorny's efforts
to tidy up had included removing the tray of cold chicken and biscuits, folding
the quilt across the bed and removing the scraps of shirt and trouser she had
merely flung on the floor. Remembering the razor, Summer hurried to the closet
and searched through the toiletries. It was gone. She searched the floor in
case it had fallen unnoticed, but there was no sign of it. Thorny must have
been considering his captain's welfare when he saw the remnants of his
clothing.
"Cowards," she spat, and snatched up the
hairbrush. She stood in front of the gallery windows, watching Saint Martin
fall out of sight. The sound of rushing water and the sight of sunlight
glinting off the Chimera's wake helped to cool some of the heat in her cheeks.
She removed the red ribbon and made use of the drafts to dry her hair and brush
it into a glossy golden cascade of curls. When she turned around to reach for
the ribbon again, she saw that she had thrown it on top of a chart on Wade's
desk. She traced a finger around the scribbled notations until she found the
irregular mass of land marked Saint Martin.
The chart itself was a disgrace; water-spotted and
wrinkled, with lines crossing every which way over minute pinholes, bold X's
and compass readings that were jotted on the parchment. It was apparently
Wade's working copy, for there was a second chart beneath it, identical in
every detail save that there were no markings of any kind on it.
Summer sighed and stroked the brush absently through a
handful of hair. Since the copy had been used several times already, there was
no way of distinguishing which set of penciled lines and navigational plottings
he was following this voyage. She had no way of determining where he had been
or where he was bound—even if she'd known how to read one of the wretched
things.
Her gaze strayed to the desk itself, to the double row
of drawers
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