Moonlight Rebel (5 page)

Jason's brother, Aaron, was on the side of the British —ever so quietly. But he did not loudly oppose their father in anything, lest he be cut off when it came time to divide the land someday. Aaron felt that security was to be gotten from siding with the British. Wasn't landed gentry the aristocracy in America? And the British were sworn to protect that aristocracy.

If anything, Aaron's philosophy would have made Jason side with his father, but the old man's total righteousness caused Jason to move in the opposite direction. Not that he didn't love his father. He did, but it was a case of their being too much alike to get along for more than a short period of time.

Savannah, Jason thought as he reached his horse and mechanically checked to see if the inventory reports on the ship's cargo were still in the saddlebags, was far luckier. She did not have to take sides, even though she did. His younger sister sided with the British and was outspoken about it. Her fiance, Winthrop Rutherford, had relations in Parliament and nurtured hopes of someday being appointed governor of Virginia. Savannah saw herself at the center of London society and had hopes of going to Court someday. It was she and not Aaron who had loud arguments with their father about the pending rebellion. The heated discussions were not grounded in politics but in human comforts. She did not care about laws that affected the lives of the local citizens. She felt that her forthcoming marriage to Winthrop put her above such people and, in effect, above the law. Any action on the Americans' part might jeopardize the security of her future.

With all this turmoil going on around him, Jason just wanted to be left alone. Let the conflict go on. He'd make the best of it, whatever the results. He was a survivor. At birth, he had been so small the doctor had given him only hours to live. But he had confounded them all. He, God, and Marwilda, his mother's body servant, who had refused to give up on him no matter what the doctor said. Jason had grown to manhood healthy and strong. Goaded on by his weaknesses as a child, refusing to accept limitations, he had worked alongside men in his father's employ until he had built himself up to the point where his physical appearance caused a stir in the county among the female population. Both young and old.

Yes, he told himself as he swung into the saddle, I am a survivor, and I will weather this conflict whatever the outcome.

A scream pierced the air, and he turned his head toward the tavern. When another scream shattered the night, he realized that the sound was not coming from the tavern but from behind it. It was not the playful, teasing shriek of one of the girls. This was a cry of outrage. And fear.

Jumping off his horse, Jason ran for the alley behind the tavern and toward the origin of the scream. And there he saw them.

Peter had ripped the front of Krystyna's blouse, tearing the fine linen and the delicate camisole she wore beneath it. Her hidden sampler had fallen to the ground, and there was nothing to shield her breasts from the man's hungry, lusting gaze.

Fargo sucked in his breath, his blood surging with need at the sight of something so tempting, so ripe, but he knew his place. He could only have the woman after Peter was done with her. He hated the arrangement, but he was afraid of the cold-blooded man he had thrown in his lot with. He kept his peace in order to stay alive.

Peter grabbed Krystyna and sent her sprawling on the ground. Leaping on top of her, he pinned her with his weight, his hips cradled against hers.

His eyes glittered like a serpent's. Krystyna thrashed about madly, trying to throw him off but failing. And, to her horror, her movements only seemed to arouse him further. She could feel him pressing down, hard. Her blood ran cold. If he was going to rape her, she'd make him pay for it. She wasn't about to play the crying, whimpering, deflowered maiden. By God, she'd give him scars to carry with him for the rest of his life.

She jerked a hand free and raked his face with her nails, screaming curses at him in Polish. She damned his soul to hell and swore to have his heart cut out and flung to the dogs to devour.

Her spirit enraged him. He swore at her as he twisted her hair in his hand, nearly snapping her neck.

Suddenly, there was a soft sound behind them. Soft, but deadly. The sound of a musket being cocked.

"What are you doing here?" Jason's tone was calm, but forbidding. He slid his left hand along the smooth barrel of his musket.

Peter jumped to his feet with a start, his eyes on the musket barrel. Krystyna sprang up quickly, holding her torn blouse to her. She glanced with triumph at Peter's bloodied face. When she turned to Jason, she wondered if this was someone who would help her or just another member of this party waiting for his turn at her. With all her heart, she wished she had a knife in her possession.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Peter spat out angrily. He looked grudgingly at the musket pointed straight at his chest. "I'm taking my pleasure with this wench."

"It doesn't appear that the young lady shares your definition of pleasure," Jason observed quietly, his eyes straying toward Krystyna.

She tried to inch her way out of the alley, but her path was blocked by Fargo's squat form. She turned away from his leer and looked back at Jason. Upon seeing where he was staring, she suddenly turned crimson. With effort, she pulled the shreds of her blouse up over her breasts and bent down quickly to retrieve her mother's sampler. She needed something from the past to cling to, an anchor in this sea of madness.

She was utterly beautiful, even in the wan light and with her clothes disheveled and torn. If he lived to be a thousand, Jason knew he'd never see such a lovely creature again.

"It doesn't matter what she wants," Peter snarled. "She's my property."

"That is a lie!" Krystyna cried. "I belong to no one! He killed my father." She looked toward Jason, a mute appeal in her eyes. She had nowhere else to turn. If only he would rid her of these men, then she would be free to try to arrange her
passage back home. Oh God, if only Thaddeus were here, none of
this would have happened. Tears threatened to spill out, and she
squeezed her eyes shut momentarily to hold them back.

Her accent intrigued him. Where was she from? "There seems to be a little difference of opinion here." Jason looked from Krystyna's face to Peter's bloodied cheek. And he had a pretty good guess whose side he was going to take.

"She's my bond servant," Peter said coolly. "I brought her over on that ship in the harbor, helped smuggle her aboard dressed as a boy, and now she's trying to get out of the deal. Don't let her turn your head with her lies, mister. I own her fair and square for seven years, according to the agreement. Isn't that right, Fargo?" He looked behind him.

The man nodded, then, as if on cue and to Krystyna's confused horror, Fargo dug into his pocket and took out a soiled piece of paper which he shoved toward Jason.

Still holding his musket warily on Peter, Jason took the proffered paper in his free hand and glanced over it quickly. "It seems to be in order."

"That cannot be!" Krystyna cried. "I signed nothing. I do not know where they got that paper, but my signature is not on it."

"There is no signature on it, only an X," Jason told her.

She couldn't begin to explain why that was the breaking point for her. But it was. "I can sign my own name!" she informed him angrily.

In preparing the document, Peter hadn't been told of Krystyna's education. Most women he knew weren't able to read or write. He himself could barely sign his name. The document had been prepared by a friend, for a fee.

"This man was on the ship," Krystyna told Jason, "but he was the first mate. And I never saw this other one until half an hour ago." She spoke rapidly, trying to convince him. He had to help her. He had to. "They were to take us to my uncle —"

"The bitch is lying! She'll do anything not to live up to her end of the bargain now that my part's met. Weren't that cold when I promised to bring you along, were you, honey?" Peter drew closer to Krystyna again. As he reached for her, she spat in his face. He slapped her across the face and lifted his hand to strike her again.

Jason raised the musket sight. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Peter's hand dropped. He hadn't managed to stay alive for so long by senselessly challenging unknown opponents. He could bide his time. But the stranger would pay.

"You don't look like the type to be able to arrange anyone's passage," Jason observed. The man was vermin. Jason knew his type.

"I made a deal with the captain, and it's no business of yours. I have the paper."

"And I have the musket," Jason said softly.

It was a standoff. Peter's mind raced, searching for a way to end this situation to his advantage. He wouldn't risk getting killed, and he couldn't afford to be found out, not yet. The plan had been to claim that the Countess was a bond servant until he could deliver her to the man who had paid him in the first place. There had been no mention that she was to be returned intact. As a matter of fact, the man had as much as said that Peter could use her for his own pleasure. If someone else did so for the time being, that was the way it would have to be. By "selling" her to this stranger, he would make an end to the matter for now, and he could follow them, recapturing the Countess later.

"You want to buy her contract?" Peter asked.

Jason didn't believe a word of the man's story. But buying the contract would be a good way of settling the matter without bloodshed. He didn't believe in killing as a solution, but recognized that others were not so chary of it. These men were not to be put off by words, not when there was money to be had.

"All right," Jason agreed. "I'll buy her from you."

"What!" Krystyna's deep blue eyes blazed as she looked at the tall stranger. She had expected to be freed, championed as befitted her station in life, not bought like a slave. What kind of people were these Americans, to buy and sell women this way? Humiliation flamed her cheeks as her wrath spread to the stranger.

Peter's face broke into a grin that slashed the center of his face as if it were a pumpkin on All Hallow's Eve. "I knew you were a fine, upstanding man when I first laid eyes on you."

Beneath the smile, his anger churned. Logically, he could retrieve the woman along the trail. But his lust was not satisfied, and he knew deep frustration due to its urgent, unsatisfied call.

"She'll cost you twenty pounds."

A lazy smile lit Jason's tanned face. There was bartering to be done. "No woman is worth twenty pounds." Jason didn't see the smoldering anger in Krystyna's eyes, but he could feel it. "I'll give you five and you can count yourself lucky."

"Five?" Peter croaked. "Damn you, for that I can keep her myself. Eighteen," he countered after a beat.

Jason shifted the weight of the musket slightly, bringing attention back to the loaded weapon. "Seven."

The game, Peter knew, had to continue. "Are you daft, mister? Look at that body. Think of the nights she'll keep you warm." His own blood roared, hot and demanding, as he spoke. "Let your blouse go, girl. Show him your wares in case he missed them."

Krystyna cursed Peter roundly in a language Jason couldn't recognize. He noted with curiosity that despite the man's crude way of speaking, the sailor seemed to understand her.

Peter became aware that Jason was looking at him curiously. "Testy little bitch," he commented. "All right, I'll take seventeen."

"I'll give you eight."

Krystyna closed her eyes, forcing back the tears that were gathering. Here she was, the daughter of a count, born to royalty, being bid and bargained for like some gutter snipe. She had to escape, she had to! But first, her father had to receive a proper burial. She couldn't just leave him like this, even if her life depended on it. She owed him that. And so much more that she could never repay.

She turned her head away from the men and tried to see her father's lifeless body on the ground. To come all this way only to die. The thought choked her. They could have stayed home. They should have stayed home.

The haggling had progressed only a little further. Peter was not really interested in a price, not the way Fargo was. He just wanted it to appear that he was. He didn't want to draw undue attention to his true purpose or give any credence to the Countess's accusations.

"I'll give you ten and a half pounds and not a ha'penny more."

Peter could see there was no arguing with that tone. The man meant to have what he wanted.

"Ten and a half?" Fargo cried angrily. He reached for Krystyna. She could raise ten times that much somewhere else. He had experience in trafficking in white slavery, and this woman with her slender form, her small, rounded hips, and breasts made to fit a man's hands, was worth her weight in gold. He hadn't thought that Peter was actually going to sell her to this man, but if he was, then they had to get a much higher price.

"Why, that would be giving her away. We'll just take her—" He snatched Krystyna's wrist and tried to jerk her toward the wagon. He didn't understand the warning look in Peter's eyes.

"Ten and a half," Jason repeated smoothly, casually pointing the barrel of his musket at Fargo's waist. There was no way he could miss at that distance. If the weapon discharged, it would cut the man in half.

Fargo's hand dropped to his side. "Peter?" The word fairly trembled in the air. His companion only shot him a look of pure disgust.

The imbecile. Peter had only taken Fargo in on his dealings when he'd come to the Virginia port. The heavyset man was never quite clear as to what was going on. But he knew that if he followed orders and performed well, Peter would come through with money from unknown sources. Enough money to last Fargo until the next time Peter came into port.

Peter needed Fargo's brawn, his unquestioning obedience, and the cover that Fargo's presence lent him. With Fargo around, Peter didn't appear to be anything other than a larcenous sailor out to better his lot by fair means or foul.

But there were times, like now, when the dim-witted man's fumbling got in the way.