The Bastard (7 page)

Just a few more minutes.
She nearly said the words aloud as the fingers of his other hand delved into her hair and his mouth began to travel down the sensitive skin of her throat.

If only she could pretend, for a moment, that this handsome stranger was her husband. Her arms ached to hold him, to caress his vibrant flesh until he fulfilled the strange new craving that clutched at her belly.

Tentatively putting her arms around his neck, she tested her power by pulling him back to her mouth.

“Nice,” he said against her lips and his hand closed over her breast, teasing the tip, fanning the longing he’d already sparked. She was being carried away on a tide of desire by a man she didn’t know, a man she couldn’t give herself to for a million reasons.

“I must have been crazy to turn you away,” he whispered.

Don’t listen
. The warning seemed to echo in her head, somehow reminding her of her duty. Placing her palms on the broad expanse of his chest, she pushed in hopes of rolling him off. She had to escape the lieutenant’s tongue and hands before it was too late. But her movements succeeded only in confusing him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, raising his head.

“Let me go.”

Had he heard the French in her voice?

“Do you want your coin in advance?” he asked. “You’ll get it. You have my word.”

Thank God, he seemed oblivious to her accent. Or maybe her gruff whisper had masked it well enough. Regardless, she dared not speak again. He was drunk or he might’ve realized she wasn’t Molly, wasn’t even English. And if St. Ives’s men came searching for a French girl before dawn...

Get out! Now!
She shoved at him again, but he resisted. Panicked, she resorted to the only thing she could do: She brought her knee up between his legs.

When he gasped, then doubled over, she flung herself out of the bed and dashed to the door, scooping up Dade’s shirt and shoes as she went.

With the lieutenant writhing behind her, she slipped through the door, but she didn’t get away before she heard his furious oath. “You teasing little bitch! I’ll kill you for this!”

Treynor lay awake in the dark hours of early morning, the blankets thrown off his naked torso despite the chill air. His head still ached, but at least his testicles hadn’t fallen off.

What a night, he thought wryly, cursing himself for trusting a woman, any woman. First he’d suffered through the encounter with his mother. Then the woman who’d appeared in his room nearly claimed his manhood.

A strange doxy, that one. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Molly. Now that he’d finally sobered up, he realized that much. The body he’d held was too slim, too firm, too small. He had begun to realize that dimly, as her physical features became known to him in the dark room through touch alone. But by then, he hadn’t cared. She’d come to him and awakened a raging desire, promised him a desperately-needed release.

Bliss.

Until his groin had exploded in pain.

Once he could both breathe and move, he’d nearly torn the inn apart looking for her. He’d barged in on the real Molly, with Dade, had roused the other servants to question them, and had awakened most of the inn’s sleeping patrons—until the owner had insisted he stop or be thrown out.

Only then had he returned to his own bed, wondering what he would have done with his mystery woman even if he’d found her. She was the focus of his fury, but she was the least of his problems. The greater injury had been caused earlier, by his mother. But whether his mother was telling the truth or simply twisting the knife she’d buried in his back long ago, he could not let the knowledge of his father cause him to lose sight of his goal. He’d come too far, worked too hard. He would one day captain his own frigate, and he’d do it without benefit of money or connection. He’d beat the odds stacked against him in favor of men like Lieutenant Cunnington, whose titled father had exerted great influence on behalf of his son, and climb the ladder on his own.

Ability would be enough. It had to be.

But he’d still like to throttle the woman who’d kneed him in the goods.

Something cold and wet awakened Jeannette just before dawn. She huddled deeper into what she imagined to be her bed until the smell of urine, rising from the gutter at her feet, reminded her that she was far from home. Then movement and a high-pitched whine made her gasp.

She sat up. A small black dog with curly hair nosed about the refuse surrounding her, apparently hoping for something to eat more appetizing than rotting vegetable peels and animal droppings. But Jeannette doubted he’d find much for breakfast here, at least anything that didn’t stink.

“Hungry, are you?” she asked with a yawn. Her own stomach growled at the thought of food, but the filthy alley behind the Stag made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.

At her words, the dog cowered away, then ventured closer, sniffing at the oversized boots on her feet.

“I won’t hurt you,” she coaxed. “Come here.” Reaching out to pet his shaggy coat, Jeannette wondered about the time. After her unnerving episode with Lieutenant Treynor, she had dressed and hidden in the alley, in case he came searching for her. But no one had disturbed the miserable hours that followed.

Jeannette grimaced. Dade’s clothes were stiff with seawater and old sweat. And she was so cold! In the panic of her escape, she hadn’t thought to steal a more substantial coat than Dade’s threadbare jacket, though she knew several better ones hung, temptingly close, on the rack inside the inn.

The dog wagged his tail as Jeannette ran her hand slowly down its back. “Poor thing, you’re nothing but bones.”

She stood on cramped legs and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill. She had to do something about her hair. It hardly looked boyish hanging down her back almost to her waist.

The kitchen of the Stag backed up to the alley, but it had been closed and locked by the time Jeannette sought refuge among the weeds and garbage that thrived in the narrow, muddy roadway. Now the door stood open, teasing her and the hungry dog with the smell of frying bacon.

Mouth watering, Jeannette crept closer. That the black dog watched with his tail between his legs and didn't venture to follow gave her no confidence, but she had to do
something
.

Hugging the inn’s outer wall, she peered in the opening. A short man with a thick neck was cracking eggs into a skillet, humming to himself as he worked. Next to him, on a long deal table covered with flour, stood a butcher’s block of wood from which protruded the handles of several knives.

Scissors would have been preferable, but Jeannette dared not take the time to search for something she wasn’t likely to find, at least very close at hand. Stealing a knife out from under the nose of the Stag’s cook would be challenging enough.

Selecting a stone from the muddy ooze created by numerous feet tramping in and out the back door, Jeannette threw the pebble inside, down the hall leading to the front of the tavern.

“Damn dog, I’ll kill ye one day,” the inn’s chef muttered, and thundered after the noise as though he meant it.

Jeannette darted inside, grabbed a knife, and hurried back to hide behind the pile of refuse where she’d spent the night. She felt as if the whole world could hear her heart beating at its frantic pace. Footsteps sounded from within, then the cook stomped into the alley, still cursing the dog, which wisely kept himself at a safe distance.

“One of these days, ye’ll go in me soup!” he promised, stooping to seize a rock and throw it. The dog whined and skittered away and the man returned to the food cooking in the kitchen.

When he was gone, Jeannette took a deep breath and eyed the knife she’d managed to steal. Eyes shut, she grabbed a tuft of hair in one hand and began to whack at it with the other. Unfortunately, she had no time to take special care. She’d stayed close to the Stag so she could follow the sailors when they left. Now she feared she'd miss them if she didn’t hurry.

Trying not to think about the shiny black hair that fell about her, Jeannette kept at her task.
It will grow back
, she chanted, over and over. But those words hardly consoled her when she stopped to run a hand over the short, jagged locks that remained.

Ignoring the remorse that suddenly engulfed her, she finished the job and stuck the knife into the mud at her side. Then she covered her shorn head with Dade’s cap, wondering what kind of a sailor she made. She knew she must look like a ragamuffin at best. But could she pass for an unkempt boy of thirteen or fourteen?

The sailor's baggy clothes hung on her thin frame. Once she’d strapped her bosom down with strips of cloth torn from her ragged skirt, she felt more confident. Especially after she rubbed dirt on her face to hide the softness of her cheeks and on Dade’s clothes to make them less recognizable. Unfortunately, nothing could be done to disguise her eyes. Their unusual violet color and the thick black lashes that framed them were anything but masculine.

She could only hope that no one would look too closely. And why would they? England was at war. With press gangs snatching any seaworthy man they could find, and the government emptying its jails into its ships, the navy would have little reason to question who or what she was. Nor would they want to. She had a pulse, and she was willing to go to sea and serve His Majesty, the king.

Voices rose, coming from the street. The dog, now ambling about the garbage at her feet, froze and cocked its head to listen. Jeannette did the same. The tars...

Fog swirled in from the sea, concealing the street that ran along the harbor. She moved toward it, anyway, squinting through the mist, but as she rounded the corner, she stopped in her tracks. Seven or eight men were clustered outside the entrance to the Stag, and they were, as she’d guessed, definitely sailors.

The unmistakable voice of Lieutenant Treynor floated on the air as Jeannette listened. “Where’s Dade?”

“Still in Molly’s arms. The idiot claims he wants to marry her,” someone said with a chuckle.

“I’ll have his hide,” Treynor snapped. “If I have to drag him from his bed, he’ll wish he’d never met the wench.”

Jeannette winced at the guilty memory of her final moment with Treynor. She didn’t wonder at the lieutenant’s sour mood.

“Forgiveness is a great virtue, sir. We need every able-bodied sailor we have,” the same man pointed out.

The dog that had followed her barked and ran into the street, causing the sailors to glance up. They saw her, but the fog and darkness kept her from full view.

Now or never. Summoning her courage, she stepped forward. “I would like to sign on,
s’il vous plait
.” She considered the dog. With such an unfriendly cook at the Stag, she didn’t see how the little stray could last much longer. “Me and my dog.”

A cross expression settled on Treynor’s face as he left the group to stride toward her. “You look young.”

“I am thirteen.”

“But you are French, and French is not an easy thing to be in His Majesty’s navy at the moment.”

“I am a royalist,
m’sieu,
and I will make as good a tar as any of you.”

Treynor looked over his shoulder to the others, who watched them curiously, and lowered his voice. “You are eager, I will give you that. But have you ever even been to sea?”

He took her silence for a reply.

“Go back to your family, lad, until you’re older and stronger. By my own blood, you look as though a good gale would blow you into the sea.”

Jeannette lifted her chin. Everyone knew His Majesty’s navy was hard-pressed around the globe. What with Vice-Admiral Sir John Jervis trying to capture the French colonies in the West Indies, Admiral Lord Hood and his squadron in the Mediterranean hoping to seize Toulon, and the French blockade intercepting ships carrying grain to the revolutionaries, frigate captains could hardly keep a crew. Her father spoke of it often. In the face of such need, she hadn’t expected Lieutenant Treynor to have a conscience about using a boy to do a man’s work. The possibility of refusal frightened her.