Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(130)

“Well now, laddie,” the Englishman drawled. “We ain‘ got no reason to see ye uncomfortable, but I ain’ got no reason to trust ye, neither.” He squinted one eye down at Ruark. “Why, I don’t know ye none at all.”

“ ‘Tis a simple enough problem to cure,” Ruark returned. “Ruark’s the name. John Ruark, of late a trusted bondsman to his majesty Lord Trahern.” It was inspiration alone that let a trace of a sneer creep into his voice. “I’m aware that you received a goodly sum to take me aboard, and I would think as a paid passenger I could at least have freedom of the ship.” He gave a nod of his head toward the unbroken horizon. “As you might have guessed, I have no plans to travel from the deck.”

“I sees no ‘arm in that.” The man spat downwind, clearing the rail easily. Taking out a knife, he tested its edge with his thumb. “ ’Arripen’s the name. Captain of me own ship when I’m aboard ‘er. An’ ‘Arry to me friends.” He leaned forward and with quick movements slashed the ropes that bound Ruark to the mast.

“My gratitude, Captain Harripen.” Ruark chose the more respectful title as he rubbed his wrists vigorously to restore circulation. “I am forever in your debt.”

“ ‘At’s good,” his benefactor grunted. “ ’Cause I don’t owe no man nothing.” Again Ruark was fixed with that squinted one-eyed stare. “Ye talks mighty fancy fer a bondsman.” Though a statement, it was also a question.

Ruark chuckled. “A temporary state I assure you, captain, and in truth I do not know yet whether to condemn those who turned against me or thank them.” He jerked his head toward the forecastle. “If you’ll excuse me, captain, I have needs that have gone long awanting. I would be further indebted if you might arrange for me to speak to the captain of this vessel later.”

“Ye can be sure o‘ that, laddie.” The man spat again and with the back of his hand wiped brown spittle from his stubbled chin.

Ruark eased his condition and then found food and a mug of ale. The latter seemed the most plentiful commodity aboard the ship. His breakfast taken, he sought out a coil of rope in a spot of shade and lay down, quickly regaining the slumber he had lost during the night.

It was near dusk when he was roused and taken to the captain’s cabin and there subjected to a long, silent scrutiny from those men who sat around the trestle table. Ruark had never seen a scurvier bunch. A mulatto sat forward in his chair, leaning heavy arms upon the tabletop, and fixed Ruark with a dark glare.

“A blondslave, ya say? How come ya to be one?”

Ruark debated the question a brief moment, staring at the scarred and brooding faces across from him. If these were the gentry of any society, he was a wee, innocent babe.

“Murder it was.” His eyes swept them all, and no flicker of surprise brightened those black stares. “They bought me from the gaol and made me work to pay the debt.”

“ ‘Oo got ye off the island?” Harripen inquired, picking his teeth with his fingernails.

Ruark lazily scratched his chest and smiled ruefully. “A lady who didn’t like the little filly who was waiting for me in the hayloft.”

The Englishman roared his mirth. “Now that, laddie, I can believe. Must o‘ been a rich one, the coins she paid to see ye gone.”

Ruark shrugged, noncommittal.

“What does the squire keep in his warehouses?” The scar-faced captain of the schooner sat forward. “Riches? Silks? Spices?”

Ruark met the man’s eyes with a lazy grin and rubbed his belly. “Been a long time atwixt meals, mate.” He jerked a thumb at the platters that still filled one end of the table. “Might I have a bite?”

A half-eaten leg of some smallish animal was pushed toward him along with a mug of warm ale. Ruark found himself a chair and settled to dine.

“ ‘Bout those warehouses?” the swarthy, scarred man reminded him.

“Pass the bread will you, mate?” Ruark wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and washed the meat down with a draught of ale. Tearing a chunk from the loaf tossed to him, he mopped at the gravy on the platter then seized a shirt that hung on the back of his chair and cleaned his hands on it.

“Ya’ve had yer fill now,” the mulatto growled. “What’s in them sheds?”

“Everything.” Ruark shrugged and laughed jeeringly. “But ‘tis of no value to you.” He grinned back as the men stared at him with heavy frowns. “You’ll never get into the harbor.” He dipped his finger in the ale and drew a partial circle on the table, leaving the ends unjoined. His finger widened the bottom of the circle into a puddle as he commented, “This is the town—where the warehouses are,” he added for the mulatto’s benefit. “Here”—he drew an “X” on one end of the arc—“and here”—he drew another “X” across from the first—“are batteries of cannons. To enter the harbor, you sail right between them.” He traced a line through the opening.