Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) (10 page)

“Ah, yes, you’ll have friends and admirers aplenty, my pet. When we return to Spain
.” Papa would smile down at Chloe. His olive complexion, darkened by long hours in the tropical sun, was the most beautiful color for skin to be, in her young mind.

It wasn’t until she was a little older that she realized the significance of skin color and bloodlines, how they could mark a person for life. Papa never told her about her mother, aside from the fact that he had loved her dearly and she had died giving birth to Chloe. Papa never told her the truth: she was illegitimate. No one on the island plantation naysayed him, as he was the steward. No one spoke ill of him. Chloe rode about the island with him on occasion, as he made his rounds to the cane fields or to confer with the owner. She remembered feeling safe and protected by those bronzed arms bracketing her as Papa guided the horse beneath them to their destination.

As a child, she was blissfully ignorant of the political and social ramifications of her very existence in her father’s world. Not only was she a bastard, she also was the daughter of a mixed blood slave. Her mother had been half African, and so Chloe was considered a quadroon.

When her father died her world was turned upside down. Knowing her true parentage on her mother’s side, the plantation owner shuffled Chloe off to the slave compound to live in a crude, dirt-floor hut with her maternal grandmother. Old Suki was a frightening Negro woman who practiced dark magic and had a caustic demeanor.

It was a worse fate than "The Little Cinder Girl", who went from being a beloved daughter to an ill-used step-daughter.  Chloe's skin might be pale so she appeared white to those who didn't know the truth about her, but it didn’t matter. In the Indies, having one drop of African blood made Chloe as black as the rest of the unfortunate ones who were trapped in slavery.

At the age of nine, Chloe Ramirez discovered she was not a princess in a fairytale as she had been lead to believe by her devoted papa---she was merely someone else’s property.

Chapter Eight

The deck was bright with warmth and light from the mid-day sun.

Chloe walked beside her maid, feeling like a grand lady in her fine new clothes.

The men about her nodded respectfully or smiled at her as she passed them.

There were no hateful looks, no accusing stares. No one spat as she walked by or uttered foul words. The uneasy shadows that marked her existence on the island were banished like darkness beneath the sun. She was free, at last. Free from her past.

The count had freed her years ago, along with all the other slaves his grandfather kept on the island. His grand gesture was just that,
a gesture.
Count Rochembeau might abhor slavery, but the rest of the world still used slave labor. Back in 1794, when the count took over the plantation, it was still legal to import slaves. In order to stay free, the former slaves had to remain on the island. Some became sailors on his two merchant ships. Others worked at the count's various industries on the island, for a wage. Chloe lived hand--to--mouth as best she could. Her grandmother, Old Suki, had died by the time the count took over the plantation, so Chloe practiced the healing arts she'd learned from her grandmother. The islanders paid her for potions and love spells as they came to her hut in the jungle, but they hated her, feared her and shunned her--it was her grandmother's legacy as a Voodoo priestess.

Then, one day four years after his own arrival, the count brought home a bride. He opened the plantation house and hired servants to staff it for his darling. Lady Elizabeth was a kindred spirit. She had an Irish grandmother who was a druid priestess so she cared little for the islander's superstitions regarding Chloe.

The count had freed Chloe. His wife had extended the hand of friendship to her and gave her a home.
And you are running away from those dear people who love you just as you are.

Chloe sucked in her lower lip and whirled about, ignoring her conscience. She looked up at the sails above. The crisp sea breezes made them snap and ripple. The winds were strong, pushing them along as if on the wings of a great bird.

“Ma’am, you should wear a hat or a veil to protect your delicate skin,” Marta admonished in her girlish tone. “At least during mid-day when the sun is harsher.”

She turned to regard the girl with severity. “Did Lady Elizabeth put you up to this?”

Marta’s features scrunched up, making her more unattractive. “She did say I must watch after you, ma'am, and help you adjust to the stricter society of your father’s people in Spain.”

Chloe mouthed a curse and continued her walkabout on the main deck. She took in a great gulp of air, attempting to release the uneasiness squeezing her heart. If her dearest friend, a seer, believed she would fail in her quest . . . was it a portent of a dark ending to her journey?

If Spain fails me, where else can I go?  Not back to Ravencrest. Never that.  

Mr. Jinx, a thin fellow with sand-colored hair and a leathery countenance, approached them with a pleasant grin. He made a respectful bow to Chloe as if she were a grand Spanish lady. “Good day, Mrs. O’Donovan. You are exceptionally lovely this afternoon. I hope you find the sea breeze inviting. It does speed us on our journey.”

His praise brought her spirits back from the depths. She smiled at him and made idle chatter for a few moments. The cabin boy came rushing up behind the first mate, and he, too, stopped briefly to give her a little tug of his forelock in salute before hurrying on.

Chloe’s heart grew light again, as light and airy as those sails flapping above their heads.

Elizabeth had helped her purchase several expensive gowns so she would be presentable to her family when she arrived in Spain. Chloe couldn’t wait to wear them. Like a little girl, she had picked out one to wear for her promenade about the deck this afternoon. The effect it was having on the sailors was promising. It was a deep, sunny yellow silk gown with black embroidery on the bodice, edging the sleeves, and the hem of her skirt. She liked the vibrant color. It was warm and cheery. Chloe walked with confidence, her head held high, projecting an air of nobility. Still, doubt shadowed her at every turn.

The count had advised her in depth regarding presenting herself as a gentlewoman, a falsehood, but one she wished to embrace. His lordship had been a master of disguise for many years. His advice had been simple: behave as if you believe you are who you claim to be and people will accept you at face value unless given a strong reason to doubt your claim.

Believe in yourself. Believe that you are who you claim to be. Believe in yourself
.

Simple advice.  Powerful advice. Believing in herself was the hard part.

“Mrs. O’Donovan.” Captain Rawlings came up behind her with his steady stride.

“Good afternoon, Captain.”

“You amaze me, ma’am,” he said, giving her a reason to glance up again at his tall, muscular form as he slowed his gait to match hers. “You have never sailed, yet you are one of the rare passengers I’ve had who has not spent the first week propped over the rail, empting their insides into the sea. You must have a natural inclination for sailing.”

“I feel wonderful,” she confessed. Her maid had been the one to become ill.

“Lady Greystowe was ill during most of the voyage to Ravencrest last month,” the captain added, giving her a conspiratorial smile.

“She’s with child.”

“Oh,” he murmured and stopped in his tracks. “Lord Greystowe isn’t, now, is he? He was green about the gills for most of the voyage. I saw him heaving his insides over the rail on one occasion. Makes one believe their kind is human after all.”

Chloe held her fan up to cover her mouth and gave a delicate little laugh. At least, she hoped it sounded delicate and not abrasive. She decided it best to practice her airs on the crew before she must appear the gently bred lady for her father’s family.

Elizabeth wrote a detailed list for her to memorize,--do this or don’t do that in mixed company--it was exhaustive but necessary to master if Chloe wished to impress her uncle.

“I thought that might amuse you,” Captain Rawlings added, giving her a generous show of white teeth. “Some people just aren’t suited to sailing, others are born to it.”

“And you, sir, if I may be so bold?” Chloe asked, feeling brittle in her speech to a man she had known for over a decade, yet, she must practice her manners before she reached Spain. “Did you suffer illness when you first took to the sea, Captain Rawlings?”

“Not a day,” he responded with pride. “I took to it right off, but then, I come from a long line of seafaring men. We’ve salt water in our blood, so my father used to say.”

His stalwart presence was comforting. She wasn’t aware of her nervousness about this journey until now, as she felt Captain Rawlings' calm, steady presence flow over her.

“Mrs. O’Donovan, would you give us the pleasure of dining with my men and me in my cabin this evening? We missed you the first time I gave the invitation,” he asked in an officious manner as the conversation waned. “My officers would welcome a fairer face than mine at my table, I’m told.”

She studied him, pleased by what she saw. Her husband had been refined, a slender, polished gentleman where Captain Rawlings had a rugged appeal. He must be nearly forty, she guessed. He was tall, well turned out, with a solid figure. His tan complexion contrasted sharply with his blond hair. His face had faint lines, but they added depth to his strong features and his aura of worldly wisdom. Past thirty herself, Chloe was hardly a woman to be put off by a patina of maturity. “I would be delighted, sir.”

“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” he made a polite bow and took his leave of her.

Chloe watched him stride across the deck and jaunt up the stairs to the upper deck, which seemed to be his station. She couldn't shake the impression that he’d fled her presence.

She felt her cheeks suffuse with color. Marta watched her but said nothing. Perhaps she assumed the heat was getting to her mistress.

The man was like a hawk, watching her from his high loft on the upper deck, swooping down when she least expected it and then flying away again, as if he found being in close proximity to her distasteful.  He was an old friend of the count. Did he know her secret, or had he heard the whispers and didn’t wish to sully himself with a woman of mixed origins?

Stop this. Stop worrying yourself into a state.

Still, his invitation had been less than welcoming. He made it sound as if his crew wished for her company at dinner, but he did not.

Oh, just you wait, Captain Rawlings.  I’ll entertain your officers, then, won’t I?

Jack couldn’t get away from the woman fast enough.

He regretted his quick retreat, now that he had time to reflect upon his actions. Honestly, she was his charge, his responsibility. He was supposed to protect her from all harm and deliver her safely to her family. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about how well she filled out that tight bodice. He wasn’t supposed to become hard as an oak each time he was near her. Her maid had remained behind them, but what if his men noticed his tenting breeches?

Jack glanced at the front of his breeches, cognizant that his jacket was short, too short to conceal his reaction from anyone who might have the temerity to notice.

Donovan would have his hide if he trifled with Chloe—Ach--
Mrs. O’Donovan
! He had to remember to call her by her formal name.

“Is there a problem, Cap’n?” Jinx, his first mate, came to stand beside him with a frown.

“Why do you ask?” He spoke gruffly, hoping to avert the obvious.

The ever-alert seaman grinned at him. “Your compass is pointing north,
sir
.”

“
Mister Jenkins
,” Jack retorted, spinning about to grip the rail to present his back to the man. He fought the urge to throttle his first mate. “If I were you, I’d find something else to look at, unless you want to be whipped for insubordination.”

“As your first mate it is my duty to notice your moods. I must say, since we’ve taken on female passengers your mood seems to have darkened. I know of a nice little brothel on the wharf in London, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you might benefit from seeking some ease when we reach port.”

“Have you not noticed how beautiful she is?” Jack muttered between tight teeth.

Jinks stood at the rail with Jack, leaning sideways, with one elbow propped on the railing. He was glancing down the main deck at the woman in question, as if considering Jack’s rare confession. “We all have, sir. Exotic, those dark eyes, with the promise of fire in them to light your nights.  It was bad enough with Lady Greystowe, but this pretty bird hasn’t got a husband glaring over her shoulder. This one is . . .”

“Under Count Rochembeau’s protection,” Jack barked, irritated with the man’s prosing on about Chloe like a love sick swain. “And you do not want to anger the count, Mr. Jenkins.”

“No, sir!” The mention of their employer did the trick. Jinx stood straight and tall at the rail. “Can’t fault a sailor for admiring such an exotic bird, now can he?”

Jack wanted to laugh. It
was
amusing how Donovan’s reputation could make a man’s blood run cold and his face pale with fear. “His lordship would not fault a man for admiring a pretty woman, as long as it’s not the countess you’re gawking at.”

“Aye.” Jinx bobbed his head, like a buoy rising and falling in the waves. “She’s grown into a remarkable beauty, our little countess.”

Jack smiled as he remembered Elizabeth Beaumont’s first voyage on this same ship ten years earlier. She’d been a girl of eighteen, an uncertain adolescent bride. She was beautiful, in a sweet, vulnerable sort of way. Elizabeth had grown into a veritable goddess in the intervening years as she matured into full womanhood. It was fortunate the couple lived on an isolated island or Donovan would be fending off determined admirers of his wife left and right.