death, as Michel said, another man who would live still except for her? And would it be like this when he met her father, too, insults and dares and then coldhearted death?
“It’s your choice, Hay,” Michel was saying. “You leave, and you agree never to insult this lady again, or you gamble your life on whether I’m the coward. Your choice, mon ami. Your choice.”
God in heaven, she could not look….
Chapter Sixteen
Damn you, Geary,” sputtered Hay. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
Michel shrugged. “I’m French. You’re English. Can you be sure what I’ll do, eh? And you have a knife, don’t you? If my gun’s but a bluff, mon ami, then you can use your blade on me. Not even an English court would find you guilty.”
He watched and waited as Hay decided. Sacristi, the mate’s bland English face was so open he could read the fool’s thoughts as if they were written on his forehead. He himself had played this game so many times that it held neither risk nor excitement for him any longer. Spaniards could still surprise him on occasion, but Englishmen like this one, quivering before him, always backed down because they cared too much for their own skins.
Mordieu, but he was tired, and his head throbbed and burned like the crater of Montagne Pelée, the old volcano beyond St-Pierre. It was taking every last bit of his concentration to hold the pistol steady. Hay must be hesitating because of Jerusa. Not even an Anglais wished to be thought a coward with a woman watching.
But to Michel’s surprise, she wasn’t watching. Instead she’d pressed herself as flat as she could against the bulkhead, as if she hoped she’d somehow squeeze through the cracks to another, happier place. Her face was pale and her eyes were closed, and Michel frowned with concern, wondering if she, too, was ill. Then he remembered the alley in Seabrook, and what in his fury he’d done to her there. Poor Rusa, no wonder she was terrified! Remorse swept over him as he saw she was trembling, and he longed to be able to tell her this would not end that way.
But his own hands were beginning to shake, too, and his shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat. That way, this way: he didn’t care which ending Hay chose, as long as he did it soon.
And to Michel’s relief, the Englishman did. “Very well, Geary, have it your way,” he said abruptly, his face red enough to be on the verge of apoplexy. “I’ve a vessel to command. I can’t tarry here until you come to your senses.”
“A wise decision,” said Michel blandly. He waved the pistol’s barrel from Hay toward Jerusa, and contemptuously he noted how that slight gesture was enough to make the mate’s eyes grow round and owlish. “Now your regrets to the lady, s’il vous plaît.”
Hay sighed with irritation as he turned to bow curtly in Jerusa’s direction. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I have offered any insult to you or your person,” he said. He glared back over his shoulder at Michel. “Does that satisfy you, Geary? Or must I bend my knee and kiss the chit’s hem?”
Michel clicked his tongue, scolding. “You can begin by not calling her a ‘chit’ or any of your other charming little endearments again in my hearing. ‘Mrs. Geary’ will be sufficient.” He leaned back against the pillows and lifted the pistol’s barrel to tap it gently once, twice across his lips. “If I hear otherwise, you will answer to me. And next time, Mr. Hay, I shall not be as understanding. Bonjour, monsieur.”
His eyes had already begun to close as the Englishman slammed the cabin’s door. He felt the gun slide from his fingers onto his chest, and though he vaguely thought he should stop it, he didn’t seem able to make his hand cooperate. He didn’t seem able to do much at all except slip further into the heat and the darkness that were drawing him down, pulling him under like velvet waves, so warm and soft and black….
“Michel?” asked Jerusa anxiously. “Michel, love, are you all right? Can you look at me, Michel? Please? It’s Jerusa, and I want to know if you’re all right.”
But if he heard her he made no sign that he did. His skin burned with fever, and he’d gone limp as a doll made of old rags. This wasn’t right, she thought frantically. How could he have been so lucid—and so menacing—only minutes before, and now be unconscious?
“Oh, please, Michel, can you hear me at all?” She brushed her fingertips across his brow, smoothing aside his hair. His forehead was dry and hot, too hot. Belatedly she thought of the water pitcher she’d thrown at Hay and knew she’d have to go back to the galley for more.
With a sigh she looked down at the pistol on the coverlet, where it had slipped from Michel’s fingers. Lord, he’d left it cocked, and with a little grimace she picked the gun up and latched the flintlock before she cradled it in the crook of her arm. She didn’t want to take the thing with her at all, but she didn’t trust the mate to keep his word, especially not with Michel ill, and with one last look at Michel, she headed back toward the galley.
The boy Israel had finished peeling the potatoes and had moved on to a wooden trencher filled with onions. With tears streaming from his eyes, he barely looked up when Jerusa returned.
“Cook’s no better, ma’am,” he said, flicking off the onion’s thick yellow skin. “Nor is th’ cap’n, they say.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” murmured Jerusa as she refilled the pitcher she’d retrieved rattling around the mainmast between the decks. “I hope they’ll all feel better soon.”
Israel tossed the peeled onion into a battered iron kettle. “Either they will or they won’t, ma’am,” he said philosophically. “Hopes an’ wishes got nothin’ to do wit’ it.”
Unhappily Jerusa thought of Michel. “But surely our prayers will help.”
“If’n you say so, ma’am.” He glanced up at the tin lantern that hung from the beam overhead. The motion of the ship had increased, and the lantern was swinging back and forth so that their shadows danced first large, then tiny, along the bulkhead. “No cookin’ tonight, anyways, ma’am. I warrant th’ order will come down most any minute t’ douse th’ cook fires. We’re in for a blow, no mistake.”
No mistake, indeed, thought Jerusa uneasily as she made her way, stumbling aft to the cabin. She could hear how the wind had changed from the higher-pitched sound that shrieked through the rigging above her, and beneath her feet the deck seemed to have a new life of its own, plunging up one moment and then down the next with such unpredictable violence that before she reached the cabin she nearly spilled this second pitcher full of water, too.
In the bunk Michel hadn’t moved at all. She dipped a handkerchief into the water and wiped it across his face, and then, feeling greatly daring, she lifted back the coverlet and his shirt to draw the damp cloth across his chest and arms. He was still warm, far too warm, but there was nothing else she could do for him now, and with a sigh she rinsed the cloth one last time and laid it across his forehead. She tucked the coverlet firmly around him and beneath the mattress, hoping to keep him from rolling into the high sides of the bunk.
The deck lurched again at yet another new angle, slamming Jerusa into the bulkhead. She had thought she’d found her sea legs by now, but she wasn’t prepared for this, and, rubbing her elbow where she’d hit the latch, she decided the
