A Brother's Honor Read online

  A Brother’s Honor

  A Novel

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  For Sunni,

  Thanks for your sense of humor and all your hard work … and, most importantly, your friendship

  Chapter One

  Republic, 1813

  “I will see you hang, you French pirate!”

  A hint of a smile curled along Dominic St. Clair’s lips. Such threats had been shot at him before, and he still lived. He watched as manacles lashed together the American captain and his officers. “I think I shall, instead, have the pleasure of watching you hang, Captain Fitzgerald.”

  “You will be stopped!” Fitzgerald raised his hand, then cursed as the chains rattled.

  “But not by you and not today.” He chuckled. “Mayhap, on your next voyage, Captain Fitzgerald, if you have another, you will be wise to command a ship that moves through the water like a bird instead of a sea cow.”

  He ignored the American captain’s curses and turned to his first mate. Speaking in French, which he suspected none of the Americans understood, he ordered, “Ogier, keep them shackled during the voyage. Put them in one of the crew’s bunkrooms.”

  “Not the brig?” Ogier’s eyes widened, even as he wiped blood from a cut on his arm.

  “They are officers, and manacles are enough.”

  “Oui, mon capitaine.” His grin twisted with devilment. “I would that I could gag them as well.”

  Dominic laughed again. “The reward we will receive for bringing this crew to France will be worth having your ears battered. Think of how your share will buy you the time of a pretty miss who will tease your ears much more delightfully.”

  As Ogier and the rest of his men aboard the American ship Republic chuckled, Dominic turned back to his enemy. What a fool Fitzgerald was to ply these waters with such a cargo! Fitzgerald’s men had been barbaric in battle, and they would be dangerous in defeat. By separating the captain from his men, Dominic hoped to bring both ships intact to France.

  “Captain Fitzgerald,” he said, switching back to English, “you and your officers will be transferred to La Chanson de la Mer. If there is anything aboard the Republic you need to have conveyed to my ship for your journey to France, ask now.”

  “You will grant me what I ask?” Fitzgerald spat on the deck. “That is what I think of your benevolence, pirate.”

  “I have been benevolent enough to grant you and your officers safe passage on La Chanson de la Mer.”

  “As prisoners.”

  “True, but my other choice would be to hang you and your officers in front of your men as an example of how we treat those who aid the emperor’s enemies.”

  The men surrounding Fitzgerald grew pale, but Dominic simply spoke the facts. No quarter could be given to those who tried to slip past Napoleon’s blockade.

  “Captain Fitzgerald, I ask you again. Are you satisfied with the arrangements I have offered you?”

  “Cap’n!”

  Dominic looked over his shoulder, shocked that one of Fitzgerald’s men dared to interrupt. He frowned at the scrawny man who, he recalled, was the ship’s cook.

  The cook took a step forward, but halted when one of Dominic’s men held up a bare sword. Gulping so loudly Dominic could hear him, he called, “Cap’n, you can’t go without—”

  “Silence!” roared Fitzgerald, his eyes burning with fury and frustration. “There is nothing I wish to take, for nothing remaining here shall have any value to me by the time we reach land.”

  “Cap’n,” the cook began again.

  “Silence!” Fitzgerald motioned toward the sleek ship rocking to starboard. “I vow to you, St. Clair, that I shall see your neck stretched for boarding my ship.”

  Dominic scowled as he saw fear on the cook’s face. The man was so terrified that he could do no more than choke as Fitzgerald and his officers crossed the plank between the two ships. Did the cook fear Dominic planned to hang the crew? No, they were needed to sail this ship to Calais. It must be something else, but what?

  “I do not like this, mon capitaine,” Ogier mumbled. “Fitzgerald cannot be trusted.”

  “Make best speed, so you can be swiftly rid of him.” He clapped his mate on the shoulder. “Guard my ship well.”

  Watching as his officers shouted orders on both ships, Dominic strode toward the captain’s quarters at the stern of the ship. Fitzgerald had refused to reveal the Republic’s destination. Mayhap the American captain had not had time to destroy the logs. They should explain why this ship was here months after the United States had declared war on England.

  He threw open the door and smiled. This ship had no speed, but she did have luxury. The captain’s saloon was big enough to hold a table that would seat six or more men for a conference or to share a bottle of Jamaica rum. Overhead a lamp hooked to a rafter rocked. A porthole let in light to splash on a cabinet that was topped with bottles.

  Two doors were on the opposite side of the room. One was open and led to the captain’s quarters. The other? Something stroked his ankle. With a curse, he jumped back. He pulled his pistol, then laughed as he saw a calico cat reappearing from beneath the table.

  “Take care, puss,” he said as the cat tilted its head beneath his outstretched fingers. “You may find yourself short more of your lives than you can afford to lose. If—”

  A scream froze him. The cat skittered away.

  He tightened his grip on his pistol and opened the door. A pair of shapely legs kicked at the man leaning over the bed built against the stern.

  Without raising his voice, Dominic snapped, “Enough!”

  The man jumped away from the bed.

  Dominic ignored him as he looked at the young woman scrambling to sit on the bed. Her hair was the red-gold of a sunrise sky, and her eyes the bluish gray of the sea after sunset. Fear glistened in them, but she held her head high as she tried to pull a blanket over her tattered dress.

  “You need not stare,” she said with a decidedly American accent.

  What in God’s name was a woman doing here?

  Dominic intended to get an answer. But first … He pulled a gold wrapper from a hook by the door and flung it to the woman. As she drew it around her, he said, “Boleyn, report to me on deck at sundown.”

  Boleyn’s face blanched, but he nodded. He edged toward the door.

  “No!” cried the woman. She stood and winced. “Do not let him go! He tried—”

  “Be silent.” His next command sent Boleyn scurrying out of the cabin.

  Dominic stepped inside and surveyed the room. The bed was built beneath a bank of windows. Drawers under the platform holding the mattress were the only storage. A table and a single chair took most of the floor. Overhead, an unlit lamp matching the one in the saloon swayed with the motion of the sluggish ship.

  “Who are you?” Fear heightened the woman’s voice.

  “I would ask the same of you.”

  “Abigail Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald?” The cook’s horror burst from Dominic’s memory. Was this woman what the cook had wanted his captain to take with him? Yet Fitzgerald had left her behind. Why? “Impossible! What is your real name?”

  “I told you. My name is Abigail Fitzgerald.”

  “The captain’s wife?”

  Abigail shook her head, then winced again. How dare these pirates abuse her like this! Even if she had not seen how that brute obeyed this man, she would have known that he must be an officer on the ship that had attacked them. His midnight eyes, in a face as sharply carved as the beams framing the ship, drilled her. He was barefoot and wore no stockings beneath his torn breeches, which were stained with gunpowder. A loose shirt opened to reveal the muscles across his chest. Sunlight glinted off his raven hair that d
rifted to his broad shoulders, and she saw the flash of a small gold ring in his left ear.

  “No, I’m not the captain’s wife,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. Unlike that other disgusting brute, there was only curiosity in his eyes.

  “His mistress?”

  “No!” she gasped, shocked at his vulgar question.

  “Then who are you?”

  She whispered, “Captain Fitzgerald is my father.”

  “You are Fitzgerald’s daughter?”

  “If you doubt me, ask my father,” she retorted. “I demand that you take me to him immediately.”

  “You demand?” He closed the distance between them. When she did not move away, surprise appeared and vanished from his eyes. “You will demand nothing, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald. You will listen to my orders and follow them. Or …”

  His threat remained unspoken as he spun on his heel. The door slammed behind him. She ran to it, but heard the table from the saloon being shoved across it.

  This was worse than she had feared, and this might be only the beginning of the hell she faced as the prisoner of a French pirate.

  Morning dawned with no relief from the terror. No one came near Abigail’s door. Hunger stalked her, and she wondered if anyone remembered that she had not eaten yesterday.

  This was not how her first voyage with Father was supposed to be. Aunt Velma had not wanted Abigail to sail on the Republic, but Abigail had thrown aside caution. She barely knew her father, for Arthur Fitzgerald had been only an occasional visitor. Raised by her beloved aunt and uncle in Massachusetts after her mother died shortly after Abigail’s birth, she had waited anxiously for each visit from her father.

  When Father had offered her a chance to sail with him, she could not have imagined refusing. For once, she ignored Aunt Velma’s words of caution and hurried to pack the few things she could bring. She had been warned of the danger awaiting any ship that left an American port. Both the English and the French preyed on American ships, stealing their cargoes and impressing their crews … or worse. Her breath caught. Her grief had not lessened in the two months since the arrival of the news that her uncle’s ship, the Arcot, had been sunk with every officer and crewman.

  Was her father the latest victim of the war? The Frenchman had refused to tell her anything yesterday, not even the courtesy of his name.

  Hearing voices, she rushed to the door. It opened only far enough for Cookie to hold out a covered dish and a cup. Thank God! Cookie was alive!

  “Cookie, what—?”

  He shook his head. “Cap’n’s compliments, Abigail.”

  “Captain? Father?” she asked, although she knew her hopes were foolish.

  “No, the other one. The Frenchie one. He—”

  The door was shoved closed. She jumped back, spilling soup on her wrapper. With a grimace, she set the dish on the table and opened a drawer under her bed. She drew on her other dress, arranging the limp, green muslin sleeves and gold ribbons at the high bodice.

  She would make the French pirates pay for this. She would find her father, and together they would—

  The table on the other side of the door was pushed aside again. As the door opened, she held her breath.

  She stared at the tall man who had rescued her yesterday. His gaze swept along her, his eyes burning holes into her with their dusky fires. A restrained smile tilted his lips.

  “Good day, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald,” he said as if he were a welcome caller. He closed the door and sat on a corner of the small table. “Now is your opportunity to ask me the questions you wanted to last night.”

  “And you shall answer me? Very amusing.”

  “I am being, as always, honest, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.”

  She tried to edge away, but he took her hand, and the thick, gold ring on his left hand cut into her.

  Again his gaze captured hers. All her retorts vanished as she fought her fear. If she let him control her, she was lost. She straightened her shoulders. “I assume you are the captain of these pirates.”

  He smiled. “You assume correctly about my rank, but we are not pirates. We sail at the pleasure of Napoleon.”

  She walked toward the door. When he did not halt her, she hid her surprise. Then the truth fell on her shoulders as heavily as a mast crashing to the deck. She had no way to escape unless she jumped over the side. Locking her fingers together, she said, “I do not know your name.”

  “Dominic St. Clair, captain of La Chanson de la Mer.”

  “A French pirate ship!”

  “Privateer is the word your countrymen prefer.”

  “Whatever you call it, you have attacked our ship without provocation. The United States has not declared war on your country, nor yours on ours.”

  “Officially, no.”

  His serenity irritated like a burr in her stocking. “What have you done with my father?” Her voice broke. “He is still alive, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” A strange expression stole across his face, leaving it vulnerable. Just as swiftly, his lips grew tight again. “Your affection for Captain Fitzgerald is exemplary.”

  “He is my father! Why shouldn’t I be anxious for him?”

  “An interesting question, albeit one we do not have time to pursue now. Your father and his officers were transferred to my ship. Because this ship is slower, I expect they will reach landfall in Calais nearly a week before us.”

  “You are taking us all the way to France?”

  Puzzlement drew lines in his forehead. “Of course. Once we are there, you can be returned to your père’s loving arms. However, that will happen only if you wish to share his jail cell.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I shall be rewarded for capturing this ship.” He glanced around. “I shall get a good price for it, although it does not have the speed of my La Chanson.”

  “But what will happen to Father and me?”

  He clasped his hands around one knee as he put his foot on the chair. “In war, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, there are victors and there are the vanquished. I fear you are the latter.”

  “Not for long!”

  “Be that as it may, for now, you are my guest.”

  “Guest? Do you imprison your guests?”

  His icy eyes cut through her like the prow slicing the waves. Standing, he said, “After what I interrupted here, I thought you understood keeping you here was for your protection. Or mayhap you didn’t want me to halt Boleyn?” He seized her shoulders and tugged her to his hard chest. “Is this how American women enjoy being wooed?”

  She struck his cheek. Horror strangled her as his eyes narrowed. What a fool she was! He could kill her for less.

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald,” he murmured, releasing her. “I should not have said such a thing.”

  Stunned that he would apologize, she hesitated. Could it be that he was not simply a rapacious pirate like that beast who had followed his commands?

  “You must be upset,” he continued. “I trust you were wise enough to remain here during the battle.”

  She nodded.

  “But you heard it.”

  “All of it,” she whispered. “My grandfather spoke of fighting the English in the War of Independence, but …” She shuddered. “I had no idea how men could scream.”

  “If it makes you feel better, only two men died.”

  She almost laughed, although not with amusement. “That does not make me feel better. I cannot understand why you had to attack us.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. A smile returned to his lips. “I regret you had to be a witness to yesterday’s fighting. You have my assurance that our journey from here will be peaceful.”

  “I doubt that. I am your prisoner.”

  “Yes, you are, but I have no intentions of confining you to the brig.”

  “Not confining me?” She was being bold, but she had so little to lose now. “Captain St. Clair, may I leave my room?”

  “When we are
finished.”

  “Finished?” Cold sifted across her face. Moments ago, he had been speaking about her safety. Now …

  “You should sit before you swoon,” said Captain St. Clair.

  “I’m not going to swoon!”

  He smiled while he sat her in the chair and put his hand on its back so she could not rise. “I suspect I know what is wrong. My grasp of your language is not perfect. What I intended to say was that, if I have satisfied your curiosity, I have a few questions.”

  Embarrassment sent fire through her. When Captain St. Clair chuckled, she knew her cheeks were scarlet. “I doubt if I have answers for you,” she replied.

  “Let me judge that. First, tell me where your father kept his log.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No?” His eyes became ebony slits again. “Where is this ship bound?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “You don’t know exactly? Pardon me if I find that hard to believe, Mademoiselle Fitzgerald.”

  “But it is the truth. Our destination is …” She swallowed the fear clinging to her throat. “Our destination was somewhere in the Caribbean. That is all Father told me.”

  “The Caribbean?” He stared at her, shaking his head as a smile tipped his lips. “I had thought you would be honest with me about your destination if nothing else.”

  “I am.”

  “How can you ask me to swallow such a ludicrous tale?”

  “’Tis the truth!”

  “Mademoiselle Fitzgerald, you must think me a complete fool to believe that you do not know that you are only a few hundred miles from England.”

  “England?” She groped for the edge of the table, sure the whole ship was spinning. “No, that cannot be true! You are lying to me.”

  “I am being honest with you.”

  “But Father told me—”

  “A lie.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I am telling you the truth, while your father plied you with falsehoods.” Leaning forward so his nose was only inches from hers, he demanded, “And you don’t find that odd?”

  “No.” This must have been Father’s way of protecting her in case something like this happened. But if Captain St. Clair was being honest with her, what was the Republic doing so close to England? Father had told her how he wanted to introduce her to the best of society. How she had anticipated the chance to take part in balls and masquerades and rides along the sandy beaches! She had planned that the half-finished dress in her cupboard would be ready in time for their arrival at the first island. But now …