The Bastard (41 page)

When they arrived at the captain’s cabin, Favre waved her inside. “After you, madame.”

Jeannette walked through the portal, her mind focused on the blade pressed to her ankle—and a fervent prayer that her nerve wouldn’t fail her.

The wind made short work of the
Superbe
’s sails. Already shot through and nearly in tatters, their poor condition hindered the steersman who struggled to keep the damaged frigate under control. The loss of her mizzenmast only compounded the problem.

Silent and pensive, Treynor listened to the howl of the wind, wanting to lend his own voice to its keening wail—to sound a battle cry as ancient as any on earth. The sight of Jeannette with Favre had nearly driven him to desperate measures. He longed to kill the Frenchman and free her, but he had no chance of getting more than ten paces from the spot on which he sat. That his opportunity might arrive too late, if it arrived at all, only caused his rage to mount.

Finally Mrs. Hawker placed a hand on his arm. “Ye’ll be no good ter ’er if ye don’t use yer ’ead, Lieutenant,” she cautioned.

“Good advice,” he responded. But it didn’t erase the vision of Favre forcing himself on Jeannette.

“What means more to ye, ’er life, or ’er virtue?” she asked.

Her life. That meant everything to him—but still he couldn’t bear the thought of her being hurt, especially in that way.

“She’s strong,” the bosun’s wife continued. “’Ave no fear of that.”

Far past the point of calm reason, he said, “I will kill him.” He could see only red, feel nothing but the desire to wring the breath from the French lieutenant’s body. “Just give me one chance,” he said, “and Favre is a dead man.”

“Now you know what it feels like to be kissed by a real man, a Frenchman.” Lieutenant Favre pulled back from pressing his lips to Jeannette’s to look in her eyes as they stood next to the bed.

She cringed at the sour smell of his breath, wishing she could wipe away the moist imprint of his mouth. One of his hands clutched her breast through her shirt while the other cupped her buttocks and pressed her against him.

He released her long enough to remove his shirt, and she stumbled back, nearly falling onto the bed.

I can do it. I won’t look at him. It’s not real.
She stared at the design on the carpet as the lieutenant’s outer garments hit the floor with a soft
poof
, and almost pulled her knife from its hiding place right then.

But it was too soon. Favre would only wrestle it from her. Difficult though it was, she had to be patient.

The sight of the lieutenant’s bare chest, pale beneath the thick black hair that covered it as well as his shoulders and arms, increased her terror by a staggering degree. Only the vision of Treynor held hostage by surly guards not far away made her control the impulse to protect herself or flee. Treynor needed her to have his kind of courage. They all did.

She gave Lieutenant Favre a shaky smile before he could remove his breeches. “Are you not going to help me first?”

The lieutenant’s eyes gleamed with lust and anticipation. “You are far more eager than I had hoped,
ma petite
. I am glad to see you are a woman of your word.” He closed the gap between them in a single stride and pulled her into his arms for another revolting kiss, gagging her with his tongue. Then he fumbled with her buttons.

Jeannette steeled herself beneath his groping fingers. She had to wait until they were both on the bed and she could use her weight to bear down on him with the knife. But when his hand delved beneath her clothing, she pulled away.

“What?” His eyes narrowed at the loathing and disgust that she struggled to hide. “Is something wrong?”

The lies Jeannette planned to utter froze in her throat. She couldn’t pretend; it was beyond her. “You are worse than a pig,” she spat. “My skin crawls beneath your touch.”

Jeannette hadn’t expected her words to be well-received, but the immediate violence of the blow he struck caught her by surprise. She blinked as bells and whistles seemed to explode in her head, then stared at him, dazed, as he advanced upon her.

“I am not doing this for
you
.” Gripping her by the hand, he yanked her forward and tossed her onto the bed, where he grabbed a handful of her shirt and tried to rip it away. But by then Jeannette had regained enough of her senses to fight.

“No!” She struggled to free herself, but he claimed her wrists and pinned them above her head. His overlong nails grazed her skin from collarbone to breast as he tore open her shirt. Jeannette could see the crest of her own nipple, bouncing as her chest heaved beneath his weight.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, letting go of her hands in his eagerness to feel her flesh.

Jeannette groaned, not caring whether he’d interpret the sound as pleasure or pain and reached for the knife. It was time. Time to claim her weapon. If only she could reach it...

The tips of Jeannette’s fingers brushed the hilt several times before she managed to pull it from her shoe. By then the lieutenant had shifted to fumble with his belt and unknowingly knocked the knife from her shaking hand onto the bed along with them.

Oh God, help me
. Frantically patting the bedclothes, Jeannette searched for the cool steel of the blade.

Finished undoing his pants, the lieutenant turned his attention to stripping off the rest of her clothes.

“Treynor,” she whimpered. “Treynor...” And then her fingers found the knife.

“Breakers dead ahead! The rocks!” The lookout’s cry caused the entire ship to take notice. “Heave to! Heave to!”

Some of the French sailors scrambled up the wet rigging. Others raised the ship’s blue lights and fired the warning rockets. The three men guarding Treynor and the other English prisoners peered questioningly at each other. They’d been given strict orders not to leave their posts, but the emergency of the situation clearly confused them.

“All hands to stations!” someone else shouted.
“Vite! Vite!”

Treynor felt Smedley slump against him and glanced down. The man had drawn his last breath without Treynor knowing it. Another loss—but there was nothing Treynor could do. And, with any luck, Smedley could still be of help.

“This man is about to die! We need a surgeon! Have pity!” he cried above the roar of the wind and waves.

His yells destroyed the last vestiges of the guards’ resolve to remain. Injured and dying English prisoners were of no importance when the ship would wreck if they did not act in time.

The rocks along the coast seemed to rise from the foaming breakers a quarter-mile away, growing larger by the second.

Lowering their pistols, the guards ran off, some slipping across the deck in their efforts to help with the sails and keep the
Superbe
from certain doom.

Treynor blinked against the rain. “Let’s go!” he called and sprang into action. “Now is our chance!”

Had another man led the charge, perhaps the
Tempest
’s battered crew would not have followed, but they were used to his voice. Some grabbed slabs of wood as a weapon. Many went at the French with nothing more than their fists and sheer fury.

Favre had to have heard the alarm. But he was nowhere in sight. And Treynor couldn’t look for him. Despite the wind buffeting every move they made and the rain slashing into their faces, they had to subdue the French and gain control of the ship or they would all die.

The rocks rose higher on their leeward side, backed by the humped shadow of land. From the ship, the jagged coast looked like the teeth of some great serpent slithering through the water to devour them.

After knocking away the Frenchman who tried to stop him, he rushed the steersman with single-minded determination and slugged him until he let go of the wheel.

Without someone at the helm, the
Superbe
swayed even more dramatically. Treynor planned to take control, but the steersman wasn’t about to let him. They grappled for several seconds, fighting on the slippery deck, before Treynor managed to get enough space to knock him out.

Pushing the limp man aside, he rose unsteadily to his feet, wincing. Many of the wounds on his arm had reopened in the struggle. Fresh blood soaked through the makeshift bandages, but he ignored it along with the damp, windy weather and the pain.

Jeannette...

He had to reach her. But at that moment he could do nothing other than steer the ship out of danger. Wiping the water from his eyes, he grasped the wheel and turned it with unthinking skill, hoping to save them all.

The others, still locked in battle, were fighting with equal parts rage and desperation. But it wasn’t long before they sent up the cry of “Long live the King!” The French had been taken by surprise by both the rocks and their English prisoners. Without someone to lead them, they soon gave up, begging to surrender.

But Treynor intended to take no prisoners. He couldn’t risk an uprising later, would need all hands from the
Tempest
just to sail the ship. He shouted an order for any Frenchman yet alive to be thrown overboard, and soon the
Superbe
’s crew jumped ship and swam for the very rocks Treynor worked so hard to avoid. Then his men, shouting to each other and to him, swarmed the rigging and regained control despite the rain.

But the switch had cost them time, too much time. The ship began to swing the wrong way again....

Treynor cast a glance over his shoulder toward the captain’s cabin where he’d seen Favre take Jeannette. Its portal was still closed. To rescue her he would have to let go of the wheel. But they were not out of danger. He couldn’t risk drifting any closer to the rocks. Already, it appeared too late to avoid such a calamity.

Despite the fact that he was using all his skill, the frigate yawed one way and then the other. The wind seemed determined to dash them against the French coast, but then...it shifted. With a shudder, the
Superbe
settled, rocking in swells that would take them away from the rocky coast.

Marveling at the miracle that had just saved them, Treynor called Bosun Hawker to the wheel the second they were clear.

“Take this,” he shouted above the storm. “And hold her steady.”

Hawker used his wet sleeve to wipe the water from his face. “I don’t think anyone can. Not in ’er condition,” he cried. But he complied.

As soon as the older man’s hands closed about the wheel, Treynor made a dash for the captain’s cabin. Slowing as he reached the door, he pressed his ear to the wooden panel, hoping to get some indication of what went on inside. His strength was fading—he needed the advantage of surprise.

The sound of the rain hitting the deck, the shouting of his men, the rigging whistling above, and the water churning about them echoed in Treynor’s ears, but he could hear nothing from inside.

He tried the knob.

Locked.

Damnation. He stepped back and used his shoulder as a battering ram. But the door held fast. He was just getting ready to slam into it again when it opened and Jeannette’s pale face appeared.

“Treynor?” Tears swelled in her eyes and splashed over her thick lashes to run down her cheeks as she blinked up at him.

“Are you all right?” She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on when she’d gone away with Favre. Her shirt was torn, revealing several scratches on one lovely breast, but it was the abundance of blood farther down that made Treynor’s fists clench.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Shaking visibly now, Jeannette stood back and swung the door wide.

Water dripped off him as Treynor entered and searched the room with his eyes until he found Lieutenant Favre lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, a knife plunged deep in his bare chest.