The Bastard (19 page)

He didn’t stop until she lay without moving, focusing all her willpower on enduring the ordeal without succumbing to tears or breaking down and begging him to stop. She couldn’t escape; trying only made the spanking last longer.

When he finally set her from him, she moved as far away as the narrow room would allow and glared her hatred. To think she had actually admired this man! “You had better take more care with your pistol in future, Lieutenant,” she said, fighting to keep her lip from trembling. “Because if I ever come by it, I will not use the wrong end of it again.”

He stared at her for a moment, but he seemed almost crestfallen, more disgusted by his own behavior than triumphant. “I am no better than Cayle.”

“Who is Cayle?”

“Never mind.” With a rattled sigh, he jammed a hand through his hair. “I consider myself forewarned. Now conceal your breasts and put on those clothes.”

“Why must I be Jean Vicard again?” Jeannette grumbled once she was completely dressed.

Treynor adjusted the hat on her head to hang lower over her brow and wiped a smudge from her cheek. “Because, after yesterday’s flogging, the new boy who caused such an uproar will be missed if he doesn’t appear.”

“So? They won’t be able to find him. What can they do?”

“Plenty, if they decide on it. In any case, I can’t leave you to run about the ship and try to hide on your own. Anything could happen to you. And I will not risk leaving you in my cabin for Cunnington or one of the other lieutenants, or even Cruikshank, to discover. If Jean Vicard doesn’t mysteriously disappear, the next few days will pass without footnote—”

“Next few days! But it cannot take so long to reach London.”

“We are not going to London.”

Jeannette felt her knees wobble. “What? What do you mean?”

“We have received new orders. We are joining the blockade. We could be at sea for months.”

“Tell me it isn’t true! You are teasing me, getting back at me for the flogging—”

“No.” Treynor studied her closely. “But it’s not too late. You can go back, if you want. But you must tell me now.”

“Go back? To St. Ives?”

He nodded.

She felt behind her for the chair. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Forgetting the sting of her spanking along with her bruised pride, Jeannette sank down and buried her face in her hands. What to do? She was aboard a frigate that was part of the war effort against the revolutionaries of France, and she could be here indefinitely.

Peeking out from behind her hands, she whispered, “I cannot be Jean Vicard for long. The bindings hurt too badly, and with the lack of privacy aboard ship, sooner or later I will be found out.”

“Eventually, but I plan to give you away. Once the captain knows of your presence, he will look after you until we reach the next port.”

What had seemed like a brilliant plan only a day or so earlier—to escape to London on a frigate—now seemed like utter foolishness. What had she done? Her family would think something terrible had happened to her. “What might the next port be and when will we reach it?”

“That depends. I cannot say with certainty.”

“And the Hawkers? Will they go along with this?”

“They will keep our secret, yes.”

“So I will be your servant—”

“Until I pretend to find out something that tells me you are female, at which time I will go to the captain.”

“And he won’t turn back?”

“Not if we are well underway.”

Jeannette regarded the lieutenant warily. “Where will I sleep until then?”

He grinned as he eyed his hammock. “I am not completely heartless. You can sleep with me if you wish.”

Jeannette groaned. “It seems as though you have thought of everything, Lieutenant.”

He bowed. “Ever glad to help a lady in distress.”

“Except for one thing. I am not your doxy and never will be. I shall sleep on the floor.”

Treynor laughed and motioned her through the door. “Suit yourself.”

Jeannette followed Treynor past a line of doors to various cabins—those of the other lieutenants, she guessed—to the companionway and out onto the main deck. Now that he knew her true identity, she felt doubly conspicuous and worried that others would recognize her for the woman she was, if not the baroness who had escaped from Hawthorne House. But the men continued with their work, seemingly oblivious to her presence, and she let go of her fear long enough to enjoy the sea-tossed roll of the deck.

Huge, rectangular sails billowed out above her head, cracking loudly in the same strong breeze that sent an icy spray up over the bow and made Jeannette’s face tingle.

Treynor turned. She guessed her excitement showed on her face when he gave her a genuine smile instead of one of his taunting grins. “There is nothing like it, is there?”

“Nothing,” she agreed. The horizon seemed endless. In every direction, water. That their lives depended upon so little amidst the immensity that surrounded them was frightening.

A strong voice rose on the air behind her. “Steady as she goes.”

Others shouted the same words in a relay toward the bow. That everyone worked in such a cooperative manner awed Jeannette. It resulted in a smoothly running frigate despite the complexities and difficulties involved.

She studied the plethora of ropes that crisscrossed above her head. At first they appeared to be little more than a mass of tangles, but a closer look revealed how carefully they were organized. The lines that controlled the position of the sails were tied around belaying pins, which passed through holes in the rail behind the mainmast. Pulling out the pin would instantly release the entire line, enabling the frigate to change the position of her sails quickly and easily.

A man in a spotless blue coat, like Treynor’s, made his way toward them. Jeannette didn’t recognize the officer, but she had no desire to draw attention to herself by hanging about Treynor’s coattails. No doubt he had work to do—and she had a small problem herself.

“Jean, please gather eggs for the cook and take them down to the galley.” Treynor’s eyes rested on the man coming toward them as he spoke. Jeannette knew he wanted her gone, but she had no idea where to find the chickens, the eggs, or the galley.

“Where?” she whispered.

He nodded toward two boats tied to the deck just ahead, covered with canvas to keep out the rain.

As Jeannette drew close to them, she could hear the clucking of chickens. She looked for something to put the eggs in and found a wicker basket hung to one side. Pulling the handle over her arm, she peeled back the canvas cover to reach tentatively into the warm straw, nervous despite the simplicity of her task. This was servant’s work. She had no idea how anyone gathered eggs.

Her efforts met with a squawk and a fluster that caused her to withdraw her hand several times, but she persevered until she realized she was wasting her time. The nests were empty.

She pretended to be busy until the man conversing with Treynor left. Then she said a silent prayer of thanks as she could wait no longer to find a privy.

Approaching the lieutenant from behind, she said, “Lieutenant Treynor, I need to...I need to...you know...”

Treynor twisted around, a familiar, wry grin on his lips. “You need to what?”

“To use the necessary,” she whispered angrily. “Where do I go?”

“Most of the men use a bucket and pitch it over the side.” He laughed at her horrified expression; she would be discovered if she had to rely on such a practice.

“There are private lavatories for the officers farther aft,” he continued. “But stay out of those. Use the heads in the bows, one deck below. The roundhouse offers the privacy you desire, but be careful even there. It is for junior officers.”

She nodded, hoping she would know a roundhouse when she saw it, or the heads, for that matter, and set off.

The eyes of those she passed slipped to her occasionally. Were they wondering if Treynor had exacted any retribution from her for his flogging? Or were they thinking that she looked more like a girl?

Except for the officer’s lavatories Treynor had mentioned, there were only six heads for the entire crew, assuming what she saw was all they had. The walls of this part of the ship were ornately painted in blue and gold with cornices and other decorative woodwork, and a female figurehead thrust proudly out over the water at the bow. Unfortunately, the heads were located out in the open where a gale or wave could carry their users overboard.

No wonder most men used a bucket.

Jeannette came to an abrupt halt as a sailor on the far end, whom she hadn't noticed before, stood and pulled up his breeches.

So that’s what it looks like
.
She tried not to appear as startled as she felt. Somehow she’d imagined the male anatomy to be more...she wasn’t sure exactly. More threatening than droopy, perhaps.

Quickly averting her gaze, she tried not to show her embarrassment. But it was difficult to reconcile the shriveled, rather unattractive bit of flesh with what she remembered about Treynor.

The stranger belched and adjusted his privates as Jeannette began to recognize some of the smells she’d noticed while in the hold and so close to the bilge. The slatted floor on which she stood allowed whatever went into the raised wooden seats to drain into the bottom of the ship.

She shuddered and glanced around, searching for the roundhouse. Treynor had said it would offer her a modicum of privacy. She wanted to finish her business and be away before being treated to another view of a man’s penis.

With a nod, the sailor left. She shook her head to rid her mind of what she had just seen, then spotted a round cubicle. Evidently the roundhouse was aptly named. What else could it be?

As she knocked gingerly on the door, Jeannette prayed she’d find it empty. Treynor had said the roundhouse served junior officers; she would be upbraided for using it.

When no sound issued from within, she tried the knob and swung the door open to find two seats inside. Both, to Jeannette’s profound relief, were currently vacant, but the door had no lock. She stood inside, listening for approaching footsteps, too afraid to make her move until necessity forced her to act.

As soon as Jeannette fastened her breeches again, the door flew open and a young, stocky man with raven hair and a pockmarked face blinked at her.

“What’s this? Our little froggy?” he cried. “Get the hell out of here before you get the lashes you deserved yesterday.”

Jeannette ducked her head, hoping to appear as cowed as possible.
“Oui, m’sieu.”

“French pig,” he muttered, cuffing her as she passed.

He delivered the blow out of irritation, not true anger, but it clipped Jeannette on the chin just hard enough to upset her balance. She knocked into the door, then staggered back, falling into him.

Snarling a curse, he kicked her leg.

Tears sprang to Jeannette’s eyes as pain exploded just below her knee.
“Excusez moi.”
She groaned the words, trying to forestall his fist, which drew back to strike her while she was down.

“Next time you’ll know your place, by God,” he swore, and Jeannette cringed as his fist hit her square in the stomach.

The blow made her nauseous. She rolled into a ball and didn’t move or speak again. Her accent provoked him more than finding her in the roundhouse, where she didn’t belong. Vaguely, she wondered how many times he’d hit her before exhausting his desire to hurt.