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A ragtag group of sailors that Fulton had picked up in various ports across Europe, all the men under his employ had one thing in common, they’d needed a chance at a new life and he’d given it to them. It was what he did.
And in return, they minded their own business and stayed out of his. He’d spent his life keeping up with four older brothers. He didn’t take shit from anyone, ever. Especially not on his own ship.
And he didn’t share feelings. They were a weakness that was never to be acknowledged. Ever.
Jack snorted. “Fine. I’ll get the fish. Northville is acquiring the swine and beef.” Jack had been enhancing his vocabulary through a series of dime novels that Fulton heard the man reading at night. Acquiring was a new word the man had…er…acquired.
In accordance with their code, however, Fulton hadn’t asked why and Jack hadn’t volunteered information on his newfound interest in words. It was none of Fulton’s concern, provided the man continued to perform his duties.
“Norton is picking out produce,” Fulton nodded.
Jack shook his head. “And likely having a great deal of fun. That man doesn’t have a sad bone in his Roly Poly body.”
It was the truth and Fulton cracked a smile, the rolling of his own stomach easing.
“And you?”
Fulton wagged his eyebrows. “I’ll get the wine.”
“The wine!” Jack slapped him on the back then. “Why didn’t you say so? Go. I’ll take care of this.”
With a parting salute, he swiped a hand through his tossled hair, left Jack, and started around the outskirts of the French seaside village where they’d stopped to restock his boat, Second Chance.
He and his crew, along with a family friend, Viscount Northville, had been on the hunt. Leaving England in the dead of night on the first tide that would carry them out, they’d been chasing a man named Lord Gyla.
A rival club owner, he’d terrorized Fulton’s family for months. The King had gotten involved and, with the help of soldiers, they had chased the criminal from England. And Fulton had been hot in pursuit.
But three days ago, they’d lost the man. With supplies running dangerously low, they’d found a large village just south of Bordeaux, France, to stop and resupply.
And for Fulton to lick his wounds. The stench of failure had followed him of late. Much like the smell of that fish market, the wreaking scent had pervaded his life.
First, his winery was failing and now this…
Not that he’d given up hope on either endeavor. They’d restock, head back out to sea, and try and find Gyla. There were only a few options. The man had either gone north, south, or inland.
But they’d checked several ports and there was no sign of the schooner Gyla had left on. He doubted they’d gone north, the region still in the midst of a fierce winter. That would mean rough seas which left south.
He could be wrong. It was entirely possible. And if he was, he’d use the southern journey to stop at his own winery and see how much damage he could repair there. But two poor seasons and the constant running back and forth between London and Italy had left the winery in disarray.
He could sell, and he likely would, but then he’d lose money and Fulton hated to lose.
He ran another hand through his overlong locks as he slowed his pace. Up ahead was the local vineyard that a fisherman had mentioned. A stone chateau sat atop a small hill, the grapevines spilling down the landscape in neat rows of lush green.
It was the picture of what is winery ought to look like.
Picking up the pace, he made his way to the center front door. His French was lacking, but he’d find a way to negotiate. He always did.
Knocking on the door, he waited for several minutes before an older woman finally came to answer. She frowned at him as she asked, “Puis-je vous aider?” Can I help you?
“Oiu,” he started, giving her his most charming grin. “Je veux…” he paused, attempting to remember the French word for wine. He should know this… He stopped in France often enough and he was a sucker for a good grape. But the hangover had muddled his thoughts.
Giving up, he lifted his hand to his mouth and mimicking the movement of drinking, he tried to mime what he wished for, but the woman just scowled more fiercely. “Wine,” he finally said, still pretending to drink. “Si vous plait.” Please.
She tossed up her hands and turned away from the door. “Sophie,” she called inside and then let out a voluminous amount of rapid and angry sounding French. Was she talking to him? To this Sophie? Whoever she spoke to, she didn’t like.
She finally left the doorway, though the door was still open and he ceased miming long enough to scratch his head. Was he supposed to come in? Leave?
Could he purchase any wine?
