Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (34 page)

      
After one such diverting morning, Joss strolled around the deck with the expansive Gaspar Soulard. Poc accompanied them, always on the alert for the elusive and annoying black cat he scented nightly on Alex. From high in the crow's nest where he was just completing a watch, Alex observed the pair laughing and talking animatedly.

      
Ever since his wife had begun to recover from her mal de mer, she had drawn the attention of every man on the vessel, from grizzled old Captain Neale to the fourteen-year-old cabin boy Tom. They followed her about like damned lap dogs. The rough seamen's attention did not bother him half so much as that of the male passengers, especially that damned Frenchman. He scowled as Soulard made some
bon mot
that sent Joss into peals of laughter. He'd always loved her laugh, rich and hearty, utterly unaffected. Now, as the enchanting sound floated up to him, he gritted his teeth.

      
Damn the woman, why did she have to change this way? She had made him desire her when he had no intention of leg-shackling himself to her in a conventional marriage—as if she would be anything but horrified if he made physical demands upon her!

      
When the third mate began to climb the mast to the crow's nest, Alex was glad to relinquish his watch and descend to the deck below. He had seen enough of Joss in her bright yellow gown, laughing and flirting with the damned supercargo. The Creole had bought smuggled French wine in such excess that all of it could not fit in the already overcrowded hold and had to be stored abovedeck, lashed between the mainmast and the mizzen. During the earlier storms the lashings had worked loose.

      
Soulard should have spent his time securing the expensive wine, not squiring around his wife! Intent on expressing those sentiments to the supercargo, he climbed toward the deck. Tar, sunning himself on a coil of rope, spotted Alex and jumped down to meet him.

      
The big tom crossed the deck just as Joss and Soulard, along with Poc, turned at the bow and headed aft. Sighting his nemesis, the terrier let out a ferocious growl and barreled down the length of the deck toward his quarry. Rather than run, the cat bowed its back, legs splayed, claws flexed. Every hair in his heavy black pelt stood straight out from the top of his ears to the tip of his tail. A low feral yowl split the deckside quiet as Poc tried too late to put on the brakes.

      
"Poc, no!" Joss cried, dashing after him.

      
Gaspar Soulard gallantly followed her to lend what assistance he could without getting close enough to the contest to have his new doeskins mussed. Fur and blood were devilish difficult to get out of kerseymere. " 'Ave a care,
ma petite
, that you are not scratched," he said in his heavy French accent, taking her arm to move her back as Poc ran afoul of Tar's first lightning swipe.

      
With a yip of pain the dog leaped back, nose bloodied. The game was suddenly not fun any longer. Did this imbecile feline have no sense of sport whatsoever? Before Poc could regroup, the tom got in a second raking blow to his muzzle, then turned and began jumping gracefully up the pile of wine crates, as if saying, "Catch me if you can."

      
Once the business end of Tar was occupied clawing into ropes and wooden slats, Poc was galvanized into hot pursuit. Although far from graceful, he made up in determination what he lacked in speed, scrambling after the cat. As they neared the top of the eight-foot pile of crates, the roughhousing of the two animals began to loosen the already precariously frayed hemp lashing the wooden containers together.

      
With one scornful glance over his shoulder, Tar leaped effortlessly from the top of the kegs onto the mizzen and climbed to perch atop a yardarm, then looked down as if bored with the whole game. Robbed of his quarry, his nose smarting keenly, Poc clambered onto the top crate with a loud bark, then jumped against the mast in frustration as if to jar the cat from his secure position high above.

      
Unfortunately it was not Tar that was jarred loose, but rather the crates upon which the dog was jumping. With a loud ripping sound, the whole pile began tumbling helter-skelter, wooden slats splintering and the wine bottles within flying through the air like cannonballs to shatter against the deck.

      
"Poc!" Joss cried out, trying to reach her pet, who tumbled right along with the cargo, vanishing from sight in the avalanche.

      
Just as she stepped forward, Alex seized her around the waist and hauled her back to safety. "He'll either land on his feet or we'll have to dig him out. You can't help him by getting coshed on the head," he yelled over the sound of cracking wood and shattering glass.

      
"Let me go! What if he's hurt?" She flailed ineffectually at him as he set her behind him, maintaining his hold on her arm.

      
"When the dust clears, we'll see if he's hurt," Alex replied calmly over the sound of loud cursing in an interesting hybrid of French and American English.

      
Gaspar Soulard had not been so fast on his feet as Alex had. He stood in the center of the deck, his embroidered silver waistcoat, sky-blue cutaway jacket and cream doeskins drenched in fine French claret. Ruby droplets fell like spring rain from the points of his carefully waxed moustache and soaked into his once snowy starched cravat. He blinked his eyes against the sting of acidic wine and ran one hand through his hair, only to come away with a cut on his palm from a shard of glass caught in his tight dark curls. Stamping one foot, he cursed even more volubly, shaking his head almost in sync with the equally soaked dog, who did likewise as he emerged from the wreckage, none the worse for his ordeal.

      
Joss smothered a burble of laughter when man and dog let fly another spray of wine upon one another, but Alex held nothing back, laughing uproariously as he cried out, "This may be the first time a man employed by the Blackthorne line drowned in wine rather than saltwater."

      
Soulard scowled furiously. "Blackthorne Shipping weel lose thousands of dollars on thees wine."

      
"It was worth it, Gaspar," Alex replied, placing one arm possessively around Joss's shoulders.

      
From across the deck, Barbara smiled silently. Matters were progressing slowly but in the right direction.

Chapter Seventeen

      
Joss stood on the deck surveying Savannah.
What did I expect—London?
This was the Americas, new and raw and boisterous. The city was small and mean by comparison to any modern European port, yet there was a look of enterprise about the inhabitants. The bank of the Savannah River was lined with all manner of ships, from sleek massive Indiamen to wallowing coastal trawlers.

      
This flat, swampy coastal lowland was unlike anything Joss had ever seen or read about. Huge oak trees trailing grayish ribbons of moss stood sentinel in the heavy air. Now that they were several miles inland on the river, the brisk salt breeze of the open ocean was gone. Insects hummed ominously in the sultry noon heat.

      
She felt light-headed, at once eager to quit the hateful rocking of the ship, yet afraid to set foot on the alien soil. More than anything else she was nervous about meeting the rest of Alex's formidable family. Barbara was English but Devon and their children were entirely American. What if they did not like her?

      
You 're being a cake again
, she reminded herself. Barbara had continually assured her of a warm welcome by everyone. If only she and Alex were truly husband and wife, if he loved her, then she would have felt able to cope with any extremity. But their marriage was a sham and she was alone. Terrified.

      
As if to reassure her, Poc came up and sat beside her, thumping his tail against the deck loudly. She reached down and scratched his chin fondly. "Will you be my guardian in this strange new land?"

      
"There's nothing to fear, Joss. Georgians may be a little rough mannered by English drawing room standards, but they're friendly," Alex said as he walked up behind her.

      
"Even if I am English and our countries are at war?" she asked dubiously.

      
"You married me. I guess that makes you an American now. My father was a Loyalist during the revolution. He fought for the British as a King's Ranger."

      
"You never mentioned that before," she said, digesting that bit of heartening information.

      
He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. He's had thirty years to become reconciled. Uncle Quint fought for the rebels. His good offices went a long way toward smoothing Papa's entry into the Savannah business community."

      
"Then no one held his political beliefs against him?"

      
"His politics were less of a problem than his Muskogee blood. Some people will never accept that," he said flatly.

      
"Oh...I had thought that here in America..."

      
"That it would be different for a mixed blood than it is in Europe?" he asked bitterly.

      
Joss had never seen this side of Alex before. If he had ever been bothered by his Indian blood or felt discriminated against because of it, he had not spoken of it. Before she could frame a reply, he caught sight of a familiar face on the dock and waved excitedly, calling out something in a heathenish tongue she assumed was Muskogee.

      
The rolling plank surface of the deck seemed to evaporate like fog beneath her feet when she saw the virtually naked, copper-skinned savage who returned Alex's greeting. Every inch of his flesh—and there was a good deal of it visible—was covered with hideous blue tatoos. His scalp was shaven except for one long lock of inky hair, which was adorned with shells, beads and feathers. Heavy copper loops pierced his earlobes, stretching them grotesquely.

      
Dear God, this could not be Devon Blackthorne! Could it?

The Muskogee climbed aboard the ship—and the two men embraced as they continued to jabber in that foreign dialect. Then Alex turned to her with a broad smile wreathing his face. Seeing the way she stood frozen in horror, his own expression quickly shifted to stormy hostility. "Joss, may I present my father's cousin." He uttered some utterly unintelligible name, then translated it as "Pig Sticker."

      
Joss gathered her scattered wits and made her curtsy, weak with relief that the naked savage was not her father-in-law. But she could see that she had angered Alex with her vaporish reaction to meeting her first full-blooded red Indian. She certainly did not disdain him for being of another race, even though she admitted not feeling at all comfortable seeing so much bare—not to mention disfigured—skin exposed.

      
"Pig Sticker taught me how to shoot my first bow," Alex said, a warning in his voice.

      
Joss recovered sufficiently to smile at the austere countenance of Pig Sticker. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister, er, Sticker."

      
He smiled for the first time and the harsh impassivity of his features softened. In perfectly intelligible English, he replied, "My heart is glad Sun Fox takes a mate."

      
Poc chose that moment to edge his way around her and move in front of the Indian with a sharp bark of excitement, sniffing the red man's unfamiliar scent.

      
"This is Poc, Pig Sticker, my wife's guardian and a brave little warrior in his own right," Alex said as his companion stretched out a gnarled hand for the dog to sniff. Apparently it met with Poc's approval, for he gave it a slurpy lick and wagged his tail.

      
Surp
      
rised at the dog's reaction, Joss explained, "He doesn't usually take to strangers easily."

      
"Like his mistress," Alex muttered beneath his breath as Barbara approached. She gave the Muskogee a broad smile of welcome and he in turn inclined his head regally to her.

      
"It is good to see you again, old friend. Is Dev in the city?" Her voice held a hint of breathless eagerness.

      
Pig Sticker nodded. "He speaks with
micco
of Savannah."

      
Barbara sighed her disappointment. "If he's tied up with the mayor, we'll not see him soon," she said to Joss. "That man can blather on for hours."

      
"Pig Sticker has learned some disturbing news," Alex said to his mother as they walked down the rickety planking to the riverbank. "It's rumored that Tecumseh is returning to confer with the prophets he left behind in the towns."

      
"And to stir up more grief among our people, I vow," Barbara said grimly.

      
Joss listened to their exchange in puzzlement, piecing together that they spoke of some Indian leader from far away who had come to persuade the Muskogee to war against the whites. She noted, too, how Barbara had used the words "our people," identifying herself with the savages. How could a cultivated and charming English lady such as Barbara Blackthorne have allied herself with a group of naked, tattooed men with shaven heads? Did Alex's beloved Grandmother Charity look like Pig Sticker? She shuddered to find out.

      
Joss's troubling thoughts were interrupted by Barbara's sudden outcry of joy. "Dev!" She broke away from them and ran into the arms of a tall, golden-haired man who swept her into a fierce embrace. Joss stood back, somewhat embarrassed by the ardent kiss Alex's parents exchanged, yet longing for Alex to treat her with that same eager abandon.