“I can see why your cousin sent it to you, Mr. Hay.” Did he mean to share the reward with his cousin, she wondered, or keep it all to himself? “The young lady’s tale is passing sad, and I shall pray that she is returned, unharmed, to those who love her.”
Still the mate blocked her path, clearly unconvinced. “I only wish to see that right is done, ma’am.”
“An admirable virtue, Mr. Hay.” Though she smiled at him, her voice turned sharp. “But I’ll advise you to keep your fancies to yourself, and from my husband in particular. You would not, I think, wish to find yourself in a discussion with him.”
She swept by him, her head high, and down the narrow steps, into Michel’s chest.
“Are you all right, chère?” he asked softly, taking her arm, and from the way he’d slipped back into the French, she realized how worried he’d been. “I left Barker as soon as I decently could. Where’s Hay?”
She didn’t answer, instead laying one finger across her lips and cocking her head toward the deck, and Hay. Understanding at once, Michel nodded and led her back toward their cabin.
Until she felt Michel’s hand on her arm, she hadn’t realized how much the mate had upset her. Her heart was still racing, her palms damp, and as Michel lit the lantern in the tiny cabin, she sank down on the edge of the bunk before her legs buckled beneath her.
She’d done more than refuse Hay’s help. She’d chosen her loyalties, and God help her, she prayed she’d chosen well.
“Mr. Hay knows,” she said hoarsely, hugging her arms around her body. “He knows who I am, and he’s guessing at the rest.”
Michel looked at her sharply and swore. “You told him?”
The accusation stung. “He had a handbill. My father has offered a reward. And I didn’t tell him, Michel. Truly.”
“You must have told him something in all that time.”
“Only that I was Mrs. Geary, and that if he didn’t leave me alone he’d have to answer to you.”
He stood very still as he realized what she’d done. “You lied because of me?”
“I had to, Michel.” She tried to smile, but after an endless day of trying she finally failed. Why, why didn’t he understand? “I didn’t want to go with him.”
“Then take care you’re not alone with George Hay again, chérie,” he said. “I’ve brought you this far, and I’m not about to give you up to some two-penny bounty hunter.”
“Damn you, Michel, is that all?” She stared at him, her heart pounding. “After everything we’ve shared and done, that’s all you’ll let yourself say? That all I am to you is something to be kept from another man?”
Briefly he glanced down at his hands, unable to meet her eyes. She was right. She deserved more from him than he’d ever be able to give. She deserved a man who was free to love her.
Wearily he looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Rusa,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry for everything.”
For what seemed to him an eternity, she didn’t answer, sitting on the edge of the bunk with her hands clutching tight to the mattress and her eyes enormous. She’d every right to be angry and hurt, but could she guess that he was frightened, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life?
Mordieu, she wasn’t his and never would be. But what would become of him if he lost her now?
Then, with a sigh that rose from the depths of her heart, Jerusa came to him, slipping her hands around his waist as he folded his arms over her shoulders. Whatever her own sorrows might be, they were nothing compared to what he suffered. With her cheek against his chest, she closed her eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, and prayed that sorry would be enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Josh sat alone in the front room of the tavern, swirling the rum and lime juice in the tankard before him and considering how tired he was for having accomplished so little.
He had left his father in Bridgetown on Barbados while he had come here to Martinique. Eager to begin his search for Jerusa, he’d left the Tiger at dawn on Monday, only to discover that St-Pierre’s citizens prided themselves on being as late to rise as Parisians, and it had been close to noon before he’d been able to meet with any of the port officials. But no matter how many coins he left on those official desks, to be discreetly slipped into official pockets, there still had been no English ships seen in the Martinique port within the last month, and certainly no tall, fair English ladies. The officials were quite sure of that.
He’d made even less headway with the letters of introduction his father had written for him. Here the Sparhawk name meant nothing. The royal governor his father had known had been recalled to France, and the man who had replaced him had been too busy to receive an English sea captain. Perhaps, suggested his officious secretary, there might be an appointment open in September, or surely in October, if Captain Sparhawk chose to remain in St-Pierre that long. As the secretary had shrugged and sighed and shaken his fashionably powdered head, Josh in frustration had silently wished the secretary and all his kind to the devil.
His father had warned him it would be difficult, but Josh hadn’t wanted to believe him. English ships and English sailors—even those from New England—were unusual in Martinique’s waters, nor particularly welcome when they did appear. Though Josh had sailed in the Caribbean for years, he’d been here only once before, with his family while he was still a boy, and his single, hazy memory of the place was his oldest brother scuffling in the street with two Pierrotin boys who’d mocked his English clothes.
Not that things seemed to have changed much in the years since. As Josh had walked through the cobblestone streets, even the port’s Creole prostitutes had scornfully flicked their skirts away from him. The sooner he found Jerusa and they could head back for home together, the better.
But where exactly was Jerusa? Wearily Josh sighed again. Now that he’d exhausted the official channels, he’d have to explore other, more risky possibilities. After supper he’d begin with the rum shops near the water, and pray he’d be more successful than his brother had been at keeping clear of fights with Pierrotins.
Through the tall, open windows of the tavern the sun hung low over the bay, and from the street came the sounds of the city rousing itself from the sleepy heat of late afternoon for the enticing promise of the evening to come: men laughing now that their day’s work was done, a slave woman singing for her own pleasure, a pair of street fiddlers sawing through the latest jig. The last time Josh had heard fiddlers had been the ones hired for Jerusa’s wedding….
“Monsieur? Pardon?” said the serving girl. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur?”
“Forgive me, lass, my thoughts were elsewhere.” But the girl only stared blankly, and Josh groped for the foreign words to say the same thing. These last days his limited sailor’s French had been sorely tried, and having the girl waiting before him with a tray tucked beneath her arm wasn’t helping him concentrate. “Ah, plaît-il, mademoiselle?”
“Oui, monsieur, avec plaisir.” Like most of the women on the island, she was small and dark, her skin dusted gold and her cheeks full and blushed like peaches. But unlike all the other women, she didn’t scorn him but smiled instead, and enchanted, Josh grinned in return.
“What’s your na—oh, hang it, lass, I’ve forgotten myself again,” he said, but the girl only giggled behind her fingers, her