Page 99 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 12

“Wherein the past appears and mocks the living.”

Lars watched Miss Morton as he strolled with her around the deck. His men greeted them with a mixture of good-natured ribaldry and lewd comments, and he noted her reaction to each.

“Was the Captain’s bed warm enough for ye?” Jay shouted at her across the deck, his sly, rat-like eyes glinting in the bright sunshine. “For if it ain’t, I’m at yer service, Miss, should you want a lithesome bed warmer tonight?” he’d added with a leer and a grotesque movement of his thin hips.

Lars smiled as Henri held the man’s gaze, unblinking, and then looked him up and down, slowly and with contempt. She looked all the world as though she was assessing a horse and had found it to be a broken-down nag instead of the pure blood as advertised.

“I’d rather the cold embrace of the ocean than suffer your attentions, sir, and I will thank you to keep your disgusting comments to yourself.”

There was little or no expression in her voice. She sounded bored and totally unimpressed, and the men had roared with laughter, leaving Jay looking rather unsettled.

Lars had been struck with ... what he wondered? Pride, he realised with a start. She was alone, friendless and in the hands of men she would no doubt expect the very worst from, but she didn’t cower and slink away to hide. She came out with those sharp claws and her tawny eyes flashing with fire and held her ground. The disquieting realisation that he admired her settled in his chest, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. He didn’t want to admire anything but her beauty and the way she would look naked in his bed. Though if they didn’t get to warmer waters soon he’d have to settle for feeling his way under a mound of blankets. A pity but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He drew her away from the men and urged her forward until they were standing on the quarter deck.

“What’s that?” she asked, breaking him out of the pleasant images that he’d begun to consider, as to what exactly she did look like under all those layers. In an effort to stop his thoughts turning in more disquieting circles, he looked to where she was pointing and saw to his annoyance that the sloop was making good time.

“Mousy!” he yelled and held his hand out for the spy glass as the big man joined him.

He held the glass to his eye and focused it and felt a wave of cold flow over him so intense he knew they must have seen him shiver.

“What?” Mousy demanded. “What is it?”

He couldn’t respond. There was ice in his gut and his mind ran in circles. Mousy snatched the glass from his hand and looked to see what the problem was but just frowned.

“The Revenge?” he said, a question in his voice. “That ain’t no Navy ship and it ain’t the Water Guard. That’s a merchant vessel.”

Lars nodded. Yes, it was.

It belonged to a vastly prosperous merchant company, and he knew who owned it. A ship made for speed, to move things fast, not in bulk and to his knowledge the company had never actively hunted down pirates. He doubted that had changed. So why? Why would a merchant vessel be on his tail? Why this vessel?

He felt like his mind was wading through treacle as he tried to make sense of it and failed. He turned to see Henri studying him. Those tawny eyes were watching him, frank and open, and curious. He ran a hand through his hair, aware that Mousy was looking at him with concern but ... he just couldn’t ... think.

“Take evasive action,” he said, watching the ship’s progression through the water as though he was watching a sand clock, watching the grains slide away his remaining time. He looked away and turned to Mousy. “And whatever you do, do not engage.”

Mousy looked at him in shock, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“But ... but Cap’n ...”

“But nothing!” he shouted, suddenly furious. “You have your orders.”

Lars turned on his heel and walked away, back to his cabin, slamming the door behind him. He paced, trying to clear his head but nothing made any sense. Snatching up a bottle he pulled the cork with his teeth and drank deeply before sitting at his desk. He placed the bottle between his feet and stared down at it, his head in his hands. Was this how he would end? Were the fates so cruel that they would do this to him to satisfy their love of irony?

He looked up as the door opened, fully intending to yell at whoever it was to get the hell out, but his gaze fell upon the anxious figure of Miss Morton. She closed the door and hurried towards him, and to his surprise sank to her knees beside his chair.

“What is it?” she asked.

He frowned, looking at her and feeling even more that the fates were toying with him. Why would she care? Why were her words so soft, and why the devil was she looking at him with such concern?

“Don’t worry, Miss Morton,” he said, wondering why his voice sounded so dead, he lived yet surely? “I won’t let any harm come to you, this is likely an answer to your prayers.”

He jolted as a soft, warm hand covered his. “But not yours I think?”

He laughed and pulled his hand away though he wanted nothing more than to grasp it in his and take her to the bed. It would likely be the last thing he did after all.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.