Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(39)
“Madame!” The thin black mustache twitched upward as he grinned, and his black eyes flashed with warm lights. “I cannot refuse. I shall zee to eet immediatement.”
“Sir!” The sharp bark from Ralston halted him. “I warn you! They are my charges, and I will give the orders—”
Captain Duprey held up a hand to stop him as he gazed again into those soft, pleading blue-green eyes. “Madame Beauchamp iz right!” he defended gallantly. “No man should be bound in iron chains. With ze salt, zey rot ze skin and it takes weeks to heal.”
Seizing Shanna’s small hand impulsively, the Frenchman pressed a kiss to it fervently. “I go at your bidding, madame,” he murmured and dashed away like one on a dire errand.
Ralston snorted his disgust but knew he had lost. He spun on his heels and stalked away.
Content with her victory, Shanna watched him go, a self-satisfied smile curving her lovely lips. But realizing she now stood alone on the dock, she lifted her skirts and began to hurry toward the ship. Heavy footsteps followed her and, pausing with pounding heart, she found Pitney close behind her. There was, after all, no cause to fear, but it was the slow, amused grin spreading across the man’s lips as he stared after Ralston that gave her cause to puzzle.
Well before dawn Shanna was awakened by the chant of voices from the main deck. Still drowsy with slumber, she raised her head from the pillow but could see no light of morning through the thick, small windows in the cabin. More shouts from above told her the ship was being winched out on her anchor chain into the main stream of the Thames. With a slight rocking motion, the vessel rode free and then steadied as she sails were spread to catch the early offshore breezes. With the gentle swaying of the ship, Shanna was soon snuggled deep within the downy folds of sleep.
The first night underway Madam Beauchamp was formally invited to share the captain’s table with several of his officers and Ralston. Through the following weeks it became the routine and most often the high spot of the day. It broke the monotony of the voyage whenever the group gathered to partake of the evening’s repast, share a glass of wine or two from the fine and varied stock, and engage in light repartee. The French cook was a man of considerable talent, and the meals were provided with a pleasant note of decorum, for a young cabin boy, garbed in spotless white, served the table. Having been acquainted with the captain and his officers for several years, Shanna enjoyed the hour and displayed her most gay and charming wit beneath their chivalrous attentions. Ralston, however, was inclined to join these affairs with reluctance. He might not have at all, but his only other options were to dine with the crew or alone on the deck. Sourly he grumbled at the richness of the fare and had the brashness to comment after a full seven courses had been served of especially delectable cuisine, and just when they were enjoying the “issue de la table” of crystallized fruit and sugared almonds, that he would have much preferred a good Welsh kidney stew. His remark was met with carefully blank stares from table mates.
It was the evening of the third Sunday out, after a fine sunny day. The brig heeled slightly alee, a steady breeze filling her sails, and showed a fine beam to the windward. Shanna was light of heart as she made her way to the captain’s cabin for the customary evening dinner. With the little vessel pressing ever closer to her home, she tasted a growing anticipation. The sun was gone but had been replaced by a bright new moon as December was well upon them. The night air was balmy and warm, for they were near the southern climes.
From somewhere below deck a voice could be heard singing in a rich baritone. The tune was timed to mark the slow, gentle roll of the Marguerite as she skimmed along, treading the miles beneath her keel. The breezes would have snatched the words away, scattering them to the sea, but the haunting strains eluded the airy rushes of wind and drifted stirringly across the deck to Shanna. Wistfully she gazed toward the starlit sky as the melody invaded her mood, and she could almost imagine her own heart’s love, faceless and nameless, calling to her as he came over the waters. Some strange quality in the voice held her enthralled with its magic, and she was bound in its spell as the words were crooned:
Vair me o‘ rovan o
Vair me o’ rovan ee
Vair me a-ruo-ho
Sad am I without thee.
When I’m lonely, dear white heart
Black the night or wild the sea
By love’s light my foot finds
The old pathway to thee.
Warm phantom arms crept about her, and Shanna closed her eyes with the ecstasy of it. A hoarse whisper flitted through her mind, “Yield to me. Yield to me,” and her senses reeled in giddy delight. The vision stirred and broadened and became piercing amber eyes and a snarling sneer upon a handsome face. “Damn you deceiving little bitch!”