Perhaps he’d stay foxed for a month.
“Katherine is first and foremost a captain,” Jaxbury went on, “and until we reach London you’d best not forget it.”
“Not sure how I could.” He imagined a voyage spent in chains and briefly considered revealing his identity to Captain Kinloch just to exercise its leverage. But his identity was the only weapon he had, and it would be a shame to play that card too soon.
“And make no mistake—she’s a damned fine one. Taught her everything I know, but some things cannot be taught, as you well know. She’s got a sixth sense for the sea, and it carries her on its bosom like a babe on a teat.”
The image was entirely unhelpful. “Then I shall consider myself in the most competent of hands.”
Jaxbury leaned back, smiling once more. “Precisely.”
* * *
HOURS LATER, JAMES opened his eyes to a pitch-black cabin and realized two things: the ship was being tossed by a squall, and someone was crying. Crying and squeezing his hand.
“Who’s there?” he rasped into the darkness.
There was a sob and a sniffle. “It’s Anne,” came a tiny, muffled voice from a small figure hunched against the side of the bed. Wood creaked and groaned with the ship’s heave and fall. The cabin echoed with the crash of waves against the hull. “I c-can’t find Mr. B-Bogles!” she sobbed. “The big waves came, and I was s-scared, so I went into William’s cabin, and I thought he c-came with me, but then...but then...” Despair wracked her little body and stole her words. The ship heaved. Crashed.
This had to be the child whose birth had raised Lady Katherine to saintly heights in William’s eyes. And it was a good guess this Mr. Bogles walked on four legs, not two.
“Where is your mother?”
“On deck with the others,” Anne said in a trembling voice. “Usually somebody stays with me when the big waves come, but Mama said they need all hands going through the strait!”
The strait—in a squall, at night? Bloody hell, he’d survived one wreck only to perish in another. The ship crashed harder than the last time, and Captain Kinloch’s daughter pressed her face into the bed.
“I don’t like it when the big waves come,” she said into the linens. Her hand tightened around his and he felt it in his chest. He reached for her with his other hand, but the yank of the chain stopped him. “Please help me find him,” came her tiny voice.
“Can’t, little one. The chains.” And even if he were free, it was doubtful he could walk.
“I will unlock them!” she cried. “And then you will find my kitty!”
Unlock— Good God. “Anne, your mother—” Would likely cut off his balls.
“Please,” she begged pitifully. “Please, I know you aren’t well, but if I unlock them, will you please find him?” Heave. Crash. A wet face pressed into the back of his hand.
His balls for a cat. An excellent exchange. “I shall try,” he breathed, holding out hope that she didn’t know where the keys were kept. But her shadowy figure moved away. The ship heaved and she stumbled, crossing to the other side of the cabin. In the faint light from the windows he saw her feeling her way along the dressing table. Wood slid against wood—a drawer. And then the heavenly clang of keys.
Never had freedom rung with such impending doom.
She returned, still sniffling. Her hands felt for his arm, slid up to his wrist. Her fingers circled the shackle, feeling for the keyhole, then let him go. He heard her sorting through the keys. Sniffling. She was so small the bed only came up to her belly.
Heave. Crash. She grabbed for him, nearly losing her balance. Fumbled with the keys. Tested them with a small child’s clumsiness. And then—
Click. The shackle popped open. “I did it!” she cried. “Please hurry!”
He loosed the key and unlocked the other shackle. The moment both arms were free he struggled to sit up, and blood rushed from his head. He leaned forward with his head in his hands. He felt her touching him, patting his arm and shoulder.
“Oh, no—you’re not well at all, are you?” Desperation returned to her voice.
“Sat up...too quickly,” he managed. Carefully he swung his legs to the side. The tunic and trousers they had put on him were light and loose, and his feet were bare.
“I’m terribly sorry. I know I shouldn’t bother you—Mama says I’m not supposed to—but...but...” The tears started again.
James stood, nearly toppling with the movement of the ship. “Tell me where to look.”
“You’ll need a lantern.”
Of course. A lantern. He’d seen one hanging on the wall and in the darkness he managed to find and light it. His tiny liberator, he now saw, was a miniature sultana. Her dark hair hung in a braid down her back, and tiny jewels flashed against her olive skin at her ears. Fabric of a rich blue draped her from neck to toe. She had the darkest eyes, and they fixed strangely on his chest while her tear-streaked face trembled.
“I’m afraid he might have gone into the hold,” she said pitifully.
The hold. Bloody hell, this was a fool’s errand. The ship continued to pitch, yet he managed to lurch out the door and into the passageway. “Which way?”
“Left!” she cried.
He didn’t know this ship, but he’d known a great many, and he found the stairs quickly. He started down and she followed him, clinging to the railing.
“Mr. Bogles!” she cried. Her voice trembled. “Mama says I’m never to go in the hold.”
Excellent. He may as well remove his balls now and save Captain Kinloch the trouble. He reached the floor and glanced around. It was an upper hold, full of everything from casks of wine to bolts of textiles. How much legally gained was anyone’s guess.
“Mr. Bogles!” Anne called again, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
“Stay here,” he ordered. James hung on to a stack of crates held in place by a timber frame and stumbled farther into the hold, shining the light this way and that.
“Wait,” Anne cried. “I have some dried fish. He loves it more than anything!”
A bribe ought to increase his chances, which as things stood, were zero. Light-headed, he hung the lantern from a hook on an overhead beam and went back. The ship heaved and crashed and some cargo on the starboard side shifted noisily as he struggled to find his usually reliable sea legs.
Anne was already holding out the dried fish when he reached her, but something wasn’t right. She faced to the side without looking at him. “He’ll come for this,” she said, as though speaking to an invisible third person. “I know he will.”
“I’ll give it...a try,” he said, out of breath. Immediately she turned toward him with her arm still outstretched and her eyes fixed on his belly. He paused. “Anne?”
“Yes?”
He held out his hand. She didn’t seem to see it, and a hole opened up in his gut. “Anne,” he said sharply. “Can you see?” There wasn’t time for niceties.
“I hear him!” Her face lit up suddenly and she pointed past him. “Mr. Bogles! Oh, do hurry!”
Blind. Anne was blind.
Hell and damnation, he’d led a blind child into the hold. Damn Jaxbury for not saying something. He lurched forward and grabbed her arm. “We’re going above.” Mr. Bogles could fend for himself.
“No!” Anne screamed and struggled. “We can’t leave him!”
“You