The Diamond King Page 3

  He wondered how Burke and Claude would fare together. Burke had no sea skills and would have to be satisfied with working as an apprentice, though he was not pleased about it.

  Alex had given Burke a choice. He could stay in France, and Alex would give him what personal money he had left. Or he could accompany Alex. But he would have to obey the first mate. Burke didn’t like to obey anyone, including Alex.

  “A Frenchie,” Burke said with disgust as Alex joined him outside Rob and Meg’s home.

  “I plan to follow his orders myself,” Alex said. “I know what I dinna know. I know the sea, but I’ve never even seen a sea battle. We need him, and a crew must have discipline.”

  Burke grumbled, “A sea battle is no different than any other, yer lordship. But you will need someone to play the pipes.”

  “You?” Alex stared at him. The greatest cutpurse in Scotland was a musician? Well, that was no more strange than the fact that he was becoming a pirate.

  “I lost them during the battle,” Burke said. “I saw no reason to moan the loss when there was naught to do about it. But if I could have that bit of coin you mentioned, I know someone who has pipes to sell.”

  Alex nodded. “Purchase them. I will meet you in two hours, and we ride to Le Havre. The comte is already there.” He started to turn away, then looked back. “And no more ‘my lord,’ Burke.”

  Burke just shrugged.

  Damn the man. Alex should leave him in Paris.

  “Burke?”

  “Aye … sir.” Insolence dripped all over the words.

  Better to give up. Alex turned his mind to the hundred things left to do. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on them, he couldn’t shake the look of desolation on the faces of Robin and Meg.

  London

  London was exciting and stimulating. And dirty.

  The filth was one of the first things Jenna noticed. And the odors.

  Still, she couldn’t resist peering out of the window as the rented carriage clattered down the Strand, London’s principal shopping street. She was entranced by the contrasts: the fish and fruit vendors, the beggars and the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, the fine homes and dirty streets.

  She was used to country life. She had always thought the city would be a beckoning place. It was not that. Yet she couldn’t deny a fascination with the fashionably dressed men and women strolling about without deigning to notice the beggars crowding the streets.

  She gave the beggars what she could, but she also knew she had to keep some coin for herself. Fifty guineas and a pouch of jewels her father had given her were all she had. If her prospective husband refused her …

  She could never return to Scotland. She knew that much. She couldn’t forget the relieved looks on the faces of her parents, even her sisters. She wasn’t wanted there. She would never again go where she wasn’t wanted.

  “Jeanette, it is unseemly to peer so,” her companion said. The thought of Maisie Campbell, a hefty lady of dour disposition, as her chaperone for the next few months was daunting even as she was grateful for the company of Celia, her maid.

  Yet her quiet soul exulted.

  Perhaps something miraculous would happen. Perhaps she would find someone who wanted—or needed—her. Perhaps someone could accept what her family could not.

  The ship would sail in two and a half weeks. In the meantime, her father was providing funds for a trousseau. Lightweight garments, she was advised. Her future home had a far different climate than that of the cold and windy Highlands.

  A different climate. A different hemisphere. A different world.

  Jenna had ventured out twice, both times with Celia and without the knowledge of Maisie. To be in London and not see anything was a crime, in Jenna’s eyes. But they could not venture far without escort or carriage. Today, then, was a treat even with Maisie’s company.

  Their destination was the dressmaker. Jenna had never been to such an establishment before. A seamstress had always come and stayed at their manor near Fort William while fashioning gowns for Jenna.

  Jenna regretted that her new gowns would not have short sleeves unless they were accompanied by long, matching gloves. The latter might well appear odd in a warm climate and would most certainly be uncomfortable. She told herself again she had to live with what was, and make the best of it.

  Ignoring Mrs. Campbell, she looked back out at the streets. They passed a row of fine homes, then a park. The carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of a line of shops.

  The coachman stepped down, and a man standing at the establishment’s door rushed over to help her out, then the other two women, and led them inside.

  The shop was filled with mannequins dressed in elegant gowns and tables piled with bolts of cloth.

  When the older woman saw the arrivals, she hurried over to them. “My lady,” she said. “You must be Lady Jeanette Campbell. We have been expecting you. Perhaps you would like to look over some patterns and materials I have selected. A complete trousseau, I am told. No expense to be spared. And the journey, my lady, it is so exciting, so romantic. I am honored to be of service to you.”

  She gushed on for a few moments and Jenna could imagine the order that had been sent to her through the advice of a British officer. It was probably due to her father’s guilt—or relief—over her departure from Scotland.

  Within minutes she was looking over the mannequins and selections of materials. The dresses were all very elaborate with huge hoop skirts and panniers. She thought of the temperatures in the Caribbean and described to the dressmaker the designs she wanted. Only one gown with a hoop skirt. The others were to have simple lines. All either had long sleeves or gloves of matching material.

  Mrs. Coyle, the dressmaker, merely nodded.

  She suggested that Jenna undress to her chemise so she could get precise measurements. Jenna accompanied her and the girl who had been working on the dress in the main room to a private dressing area. Celia helped her off with her dress and corset until only her chemise and stockings remained.

  When Mrs. Coyle turned to her, her smile disappeared as she saw the wine-colored birthmark, but it returned quickly. The girl beside her released an exclamation. Mrs. Coyle frowned at her, and took the measurements herself. “You have a fine figure, my lady,” she said. “It will be a pleasure dressing you.”

  The joy of the visit faded. It was all Jenna could do to stand there, her birthmark evident for all to see, until the final measurement was made.

  Celia dressed her again in silence, her glance sympathetic.

  Jenna pulled on her gloves.

  “We should have a fitting next week,” Mrs. Coyle said.

  Jenna nodded as several women were ushered into the establishment. Their arms were bare. Envy washed over her.

  Would anyone ever look at her without seeing the wine-colored mark that ran from the back of her hand up her arm?

  Would the man who had asked her to be his wife see beyond the mark? Or would he, too, gasp and look away?

  She looked straight ahead as they returned to the carriage.

  At Sea

  Alex stood on the deck of the Ami and looked out over the sea.

  It had been four days now. They had slipped from the Le Havre docks under a moonless dark sky. In the days since, they had passed three British merchants but no warship, though he knew that the British often patrolled around the harbor. He had elaborately disguised the cannon, piling up supplies next to them and covering them all with tarps. As an extra precaution, he flew the British flag. He would do his hunting in the Caribbean, not in seaways where his presence would soon become known.

  He was pleased with the crew, a mixture of Scots, Irishmen, and Frenchmen, plus a Portuguese sailor and a few seamen from the American colonies who had left a brutal captain when their ship reached Le Havre. He had questioned the latter to discover whether they were merely malcontents but their stories matched too well. All wanted the prospect of prize money rather than the beggarly
wages they’d received as simple seamen.

  Five of the total crew had been gunners in various navies, and once out of busy sea-lanes, Claude intended to conduct drills.

  The crew members seemed to get along well together, all united in a universal dislike—if not pure hatred—of the English, although the colonials less so.

  They should reach the Caribbean in less than three weeks. The Ami was swift, a quality necessary for a privateer. They needed speed, friendly ports, and targets: British ships loaded with goods from their colonies or sugar and molasses from the West Indies. Just the idea of extracting even a small price from the British for Culloden filled him with anticipation.

  At the moment he just enjoyed the wind and the sun and the sky. It was a moderately warm day with a brisk wind, the kind of day every sailor relished. The sun brushed his cheek, and he savored the sense of freedom, of control, that had been missing from his life for the past two years. He could forget the scar and the way that his leg gave out far too often. Here, none of that mattered.

  The sound of yelling interrupted the relative satisfaction of the moment.

  “Captain,” one of the crewmen shouted.

  Then he heard a loud curse by a young female voice, and a “Let me go,” uttered by a young male voice.

  He uttered a curse of his own.

  He turned to the hatchway. A sailor had two short figures in tow, both wriggling in his hold. “Stowaways, sir. Found them in the munitions storage in the afterhold,” he added with disapproval.

  Alex tipped the cap Meg was wearing and saw that she had cut the long red hair that had been her best feature. Her face was smudged and her lad’s clothes were filthy.

  Robin didn’t look any better. Though he tried to draw himself up into a position of dignity, he looked like a chimney sweep. He appeared small and defiant and uncertain all at the same time.

  “How in the bloody hell did you get here?” Alex asked.

  Meg stuck out her lower lip and remained silent.

  “The barge, sir,” Robin said.

  “The barge?”

  “We heard you talking about the supply barge from Paris. We went to the riverfront and found out which was going to your ship and we, ah, we went aboard.”

  “You stowed away on the barge?” Alex said.

  “Aye.”

  Alex glowered. It was all he could do. He had been a thief, and the children knew it. It did not matter that he had done it for them. And, perhaps, a little for himself. He’d wanted to live long enough to hurt the British. So he hadn’t exactly been a great example for children. He seized on the only reasonable argument. “You promised to do as I said.”

  “That was a year ago,” an obviously unrepentant Meg pointed out.

  “A promise is a promise,” Alex said, finding it very hard to be a figure of authority. He had been that—of sorts—for a year, but he’d always thought of it as a temporary condition to be ended shortly. He’d never really known children before, had not thought to have any of his own for years, and he’d steered away from trying to be any kind of father to them. He had simply provided—usually not very well—for their basic needs until he found someone who could give them the security they needed.

  He didn’t have any love left inside him. There was only anger. The children had enough anger of their own without being even more infected with his. He didn’t know how to comfort. He definitely did not know how to teach values when he had been without them these last few years.

  He certainly didn’t want them to be identified with pirates. It was fine for him. He had nothing else. He had no future. No woman would marry him with his physical wounds or the other less visible ones.

  Burke came up from below deck and stopped at the sight of the children. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “How—”

  “The barge,” Alex said. “Though how they got aboard the Ami is another matter.”

  Robin shifted his gaze to Meg, then to the deck.

  “Robin?”

  “It was not difficult,” he said. “We saw you leave. We took some fruit aboard and sold it to the sailors. When no one was looking, we hid in the hold.”

  “If a ship had fired at us …” Alex closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear thinking of what might have happened.

  “But it did not, my lord.” He shifted again. “Meg and I are thirsty.”

  “And hungry,” Meg said. “We ate all our fruit.”

  “When were you going to make yourselves known?” Alex asked.

  “When you were far enough away that you couldn’t send us back,” Robin said, “but Meg was hungry … and …”

  Meg turned on him. “You were hungry, too.”

  Four days in the dark. Four days with little food and probably less water. But then their stomachs had known hunger before.

  Still, it hurt the heart he’d believed shielded against such feelings. He’d thought once he reached Paris, he would be relieved of those nettlesome feelings that sometimes made him wonder whether he had guarded his heart well enough.

  Claude, his first mate, joined the growing circle of seamen, all of whom eyed the stowaways curiously. “Stowaways?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Alex replied.

  Claude was a frightening figure, standing two inches over Alex’s own substantial height. He had the girth that Alex did not. Nearly two years of healing and being on the run had made Alex lean. He still didn’t eat as he once had. Some of the children had stuffed themselves on the ship that took them from Scotland to France, but others—including himself—continued to chew food extensively to take away some of the hunger. It was a habit he’d been unable to break. Neither had Meg, who was far too thin.

  “We can throw them overboard,” Claude offered, but Alex saw a twinkle in his eyes. Claude was a disciplinarian aboard the ship, but in the weeks Alex had known the first mate, he had also seen a patience and even humor that had already made him a favorite with the men. Alex had remained aloof. Distant. He didn’t want to know men he might well get killed.

  Now each looked at Claude with concern on their faces, obviously wondering whether the formidable man was serious.

  “That’s an idea,” Alex said.

  “Wouldn’t take much effort, puny as they are,” Burke observed.

  “We do not have enough food for another hand,” Claude said severely. “Especially not for two.”

  “We might be able to keep one,” Alex said seriously.

  Meg moved closer to Robin, but Robin looked up and grinned.

  Claude shook his head in despair. “Captain, you lack a fierce glare.” He turned his gaze to Alex. “I assume you know these two … miscreants.”

  “Unfortunately,” Alex said in a cool voice. “Right now, I think they need something to drink and eat. Then we will discuss their immediate futures.”

  Claude’s threat had not had the intended impact on Robin and Meg, but his own cold words obviously did.

  “They should know no’ to go where they are no’ wanted,” Burke said.

  A look of despair filled Meg’s eyes and Robin tightened his hold on her hand. They both had been attached to Burke despite his rough ways.

  Burke apparently saw their dejection, too. His expression softened. “Come along,” he said roughly, “before one of these Frenchies decides to take the mate’s suggestion.” He grinned suddenly. “Then I would have to fight them, and you know how much I would hate that.”

  Robin’s lips twitched. Burke liked nothing better than a good fight. But then the boy looked again at Alex. “We wanted to be with you,” he tried to explain.

  Alex closed his eyes for a moment. “Get along with you,” he said softly. “Wash first, then eat. We’ll decide your fate then.”

  Robin stared up at him expectantly.

  “The barge was very ingenious,” Alex added.

  “You were a good teacher, sir.” The good manners under the cloak of dirt were infectious. So was the mischief behind the words. Robin disappeared down the hatchway before Alex
could retort.

  What in the hell was he going to do with two children? He couldn’t go back. There were British ships all over the bloody sea, their crews keeping an eye out for ships leaving the French port. He’d covered his guns and tried to look innocent, but that would not always work. If they did return and the peace talks looked successful, he would never be allowed to leave again.

  “Captain,” Claude said, “do we turn back?”

  “Nay,” Alex replied. “That would be even more dangerous. The area was crawling with British patrol ships. They would be pleased to grab that lad.”

  “Lads a lot younger than that one have gone to sea,” Claude said. “We don’t have any powder monkeys.”

  “We still do not,” Alex said. “They can work in the cabins and galley but not in the munitions hold. I did not steal—and kill—to keep them alive to see them blown to bits.”

  Claude’s eyes sparked with interest at the comment, but he didn’t say anything. That had been one thing Alex admired about him: his lack of curiosity. The man, a former French naval officer, had wanted the job of first mate—and the five percent share of any prize that accompanied it—and he’d obviously trusted Etienne. That was all Alex knew, although he and Claude had dined together for the last four days. They had talked of little but the crew they were beginning to know.

  He had probed Alex’s experiences at sea, obviously weighing his knowledge, but he apparently had withheld judgment on Alex’s taste for battle. But now Claude grinned, and Alex knew he’d probably had reservations of his own at taking a berth with a captain about whom he knew nothing. For some reason, a reprehensible past seemed to reassure him.

  That didn’t matter now. What did matter were two children who’d had too short a childhood, too little security, too much tragedy. Alex had not the slightest idea of how to make them safe.