Jean Pierre sliced through Harriet’s bindings, and he led her to the ship’s rail so she could see the longboat bobbing far below. Then he motioned to the brutes guarding Tristan, and they drew him to his feet and lugged him over.
He was covered with deep cuts, with what appeared to be a gunshot wound to his arm. The stabbing injury, where he’d been pierced from back to front, oozed blood. He was unconscious, his body limp, his chin on his chest.
Jean Pierre had a pouch on his belt, and he retrieved a bottle from it, lifted the cork, and waved it under Tristan’s nose. Tristan jerked awake, his eyes flying open.
Jean Pierre stepped to him so they were toe to toe, and Harriet was amazed again by how similar they were.
“Do you know who I am?” Jean Pierre asked.
Tristan shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure? Look carefully, then tell me you don’t know.”
“Leave him be!” Harriet snapped. “Can’t you see how pale he is? You’ve nearly killed him. Don’t pester him to death with questions.”
“Ah...” Jean Pierre mused, “such a loyal wench. I envy you, brother.”
Tristan’s crew muttered and grumbled. Harriet, herself, couldn’t stifle a gasp.
“What are you saying?” she demanded. “You wicked brigand, are you claiming to be his kin?”
“Not claiming, Mademoiselle Harriet. Merely speaking the truth.”
Tristan studied him, then mumbled, “Bastard.”
Jean Pierre struck Tristan across the face, hitting him as hard as he could, and Tristan grunted and fell to his knees. Though he tried to rise and return the blow, he was too battered to fight back. Blood began pouring from his wounds, alarming her with the rate of the flow.
“That was for my mother,” Jean Pierre insisted, and he raised a fist as if he’d strike Tristan again.
“Stop it!” Harriet grabbed Jean Pierre’s arm. “He’s barely alive. There’s no need to hasten his demise.”
“No, there’s not,” Jean Pierre amiably agreed, shucking Harriet off as if she was a bothersome gnat. “I don’t want you to die, Harcourt. I want you to survive—at least for a little while.”
Tristan was lifted to his feet again, and Harriet was terrified he’d say something stupid that would get him instantly killed. But he seemed to recognize that he was too weakened to withstand more punishment. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
“What do you want of him?” Harriet queried, hoping to deflect Jean Pierre’s temper toward herself.
“I want you to die, cherie.”
“Me? Why? What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing, but it’s obvious you are Harcourt’s mistress—perhaps even his wife—and if he would let you sail with him, his love is potent indeed.”
“I am a stowaway!”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”
“He won’t care if you murder me.”
“Yes, he will, so your death will be slow and miserable, as my mother’s was slow and miserable. Tristan Harcourt will helplessly observe as you perish. He will weep and wail and pray to his deaf God, but you will die anyway.”
“You’ve been following us,” Tristan managed to spit out.
“Yes, biding my time until the moon was gone and it would be safe to attack.”
“Because of our mother? You brought us this mayhem because of a deceitful and disloyal—”
Jean Pierre hit him again, and Tristan crumpled to the deck. Jean Pierre knelt, hovering over him.
“She was my mother, mon frere, and I loved her. When she was alone in France, when she was poor and hungry and ill, I wrote to your father, begging him to assist her. He had never divorced her, so she was still his wife, still a British countess. I was just a boy, and I was frantic with worry. He answered my letter, and would you like to know what he told me?”
Tristan grimaced, and Jean Pierre smirked.
“Suffice it to say that I will spend the rest of my life ruining you and James. If it takes until my last breath, my mother will be avenged.”
He stood and nodded to his men. “Put them in the longboat.”
They picked up Tristan as if he was a sack of flour. None too gently, they worked him down the rope ladder, dropping him at the end, so he landed with a painful thud.
Jean Pierre moved to Harriet, and though she fought him, he was too strong. He hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her down himself, as she clasped at his clothes, afraid he would pitch her into the roiling sea, but he didn’t.
He set her in the boat, then he seized the blankets, provisions, and oars, handing them up to his crew members. He climbed out, and she was alone, with no supplies and a gravely injured Tristan Harcourt.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because I can.”
“But you’re his brother!”
“A minor technicality, I assure you.”
He retrieved a knife from the sheath at his waist and started slicing through the rope that tethered the small boat to the ship.
“What will become of us?” she anxiously inquired.
“You will succumb to thirst and starvation.”
“That’s so cruel.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“He doesn’t care about me!” she insisted again. “This is silly. My death won’t hurt him in the least.”
“Won’t it?” He laughed and laughed. “Trust me, cherie. He loves you, and he will pass away knowing you are doomed. It is enough. For now.”
He made a final slash with the knife, and in a thrice, the longboat was adrift.
“Au revoir, Mademoiselle. When my brother regains consciousness, give him my regards.”
“He was right: You are a bastard.”
“Yes, I am. Good luck and godspeed!”
Harriet watched him, tracking the white of his shirt as he scrambled up to the deck. She continued to watch, seeing the faint outline of the ship, the dim glow of a lamp, until soon, she could see nothing at all.
She was surrounded by black night and black water and absolute, total silence.
She reached out, searching for Tristan, and she laid her palm on the center of his chest, relieved to feel his heart beating.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she murmured. “Do you hear me, Tristan? Don’t you dare die!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James stood in front of a mirror in his bedchamber, observing carefully as he stuffed an ace up his sleeve, then drew it out again, but he kept fumbling the attempt. It was very late, and he’d had too much to drink so he couldn’t make the card do what it ought.
Usually, he was adept at the fluid exercise, the card popping out at the appropriate moment, with no one at the table being any the wiser as to how it had arrived. A bungled effort could destroy a man’s reputation, could get him beaten to a bloody pulp, or shot in a duel, so he only used it in the most dire circumstances—such as when he’d bet an enormous amount, but wasn’t holding the winning hand.
Dexterity was vital, as was a cool demeanor, so he practiced regularly, feeling free to utilize any means necessary to retrieve what had been stolen from his father. Yet because he was constantly thinking about Helen, he couldn’t concentrate.
What had Helen learned on her visit to her sister? Was her sister all right? Was Helen still distressed over Nigel Stewart? Had she calmed?
The questions swirled through his head, and it was embarrassing to be so preoccupied, especially when there was no reason to be distracted.
His obsession was completely out of control, and he had to rein it in. Yes, she was pretty and interesting, and he was physically attracted to her as he’d never been to another. But she was a servant—nothing more and nothing less—and when he couldn’t focus on anything but her, it was time to make some changes.
Again, he tried to pull the card from his sleeve, and when it wouldn’t glide out, he yanked it out, tore it in half, and threw it on the floor.
“Damn her,” he muttered.
He walked over and poured himself another brandy—just what he didn’t need—when he happened to glance toward the door. Like an apparition, Helen was there in the threshold, staring at him.
To his amazement, she was dressed for a tryst, her hair down and brushed out, and she was wearing a thin robe and naught else. The fabric was a silky green that hugged every curve of her lush torso and set off the color of her eyes, making them appear larger and more luminous.
At the notion that she’d come to him with dalliance in mind, his cock sprang to attention. Like a hawk honing in on a rabbit, he studied her, delighted to know that an end was in sight to his lengthy wait.
He had no idea how long she’d been watching him, but it was clear that she’d seen plenty. She gaped at him, at the card on the floor, at him again. A charged silence ensued as she processed what she’d witnessed.
Finally, she stated the obvious. “You cheat when you gamble.”
Since she’d caught him red-handed, he couldn’t deny his behavior.
“If I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I refuse to lose to the men with whom I play.” Another electric interval passed, and he said, “You’ve discovered my deepest, darkest secret. Will you betray me? Will you tattle to others and ruin me?”
She gazed at him, her confusion evident, and ultimately, she shook her head.