Page 11 of Barbarous

Only the Great Sou’wester registered Hugh’s entrance. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” The bird followed the order with maniacal laughter.

“I should have left that vile bird on the Ghost,” Hugh muttered.

Kemal ignored the comment and began a minute inspection of Hugh’s clothing while it was still on his person.

“Kemal—” Hugh began, too fatigued to tolerate the man’s obsessive ministrations.

Kemal dropped his hands. “I will shave you while your bath is filled, Captain.”

“Excellent.” Hugh thought back on the day as Kemal pulled off his boots.

The excitement the Batavia’s Ghost had generated when it approached the harbor would have been comical had it not almost led to its sinking by the local constabulary, a nervous and rather inexperienced group inclined to fire first and ask questions later. The excisemen who minded this part of the coastline had never before encountered such a famous vessel and had remained skeptical even after viewing the Ghost’s letter of marque. It had taken Hugh’s impressive collection of endorsements to convince them, one such letter written and signed by Admiral Nelson himself.

It had been the admiral who’d convinced Hugh to pursue a career as a privateer.

Hugh had been engaged in a spot of smuggling the first time he’d encountered Nelson’s ship, the Agamemnon, fleeing a French squadron. Recognizing a countryman in distress, Hugh had distracted the lead French vessel with his cannon before turning tail and barely escaping the skirmish himself. His actions had been enough to allow Nelson to escape and fight another day.

A few months later Hugh had met Nelson in Tunis, where the story of Hugh’s escape preceded Hugh like a sirocco.

Nelson had shown his gratitude with documents to ease Hugh’s way in difficult situations and also to assist him in acquiring his letter of marque for the Ghost. The famous admiral was the first to thank him—and also the one who would christen Hugh the King’s Privateer—but over the years many other members of the British Navy, from humble seamen to the head of the navy, had come to appreciate the Batavia’s Ghost and its one-eyed captain.

Hugh slipped into one of his gaudier robes, an emerald-green and gold affair that had been a gift from his mistress in New Orleans. He pulled off his eye patch and tossed it onto the dressing room table, taking a seat in front of the glass while Kemal prepared to shave him.

He sighed as he studied his battered and scarred reflection; he looked old—and he felt even older. Light glinted off the razor as Kemal stropped it, reminding Hugh of another, equally sharp blade that had cleaved his eye neatly in half fifteen years ago. Only the fact that his eyes had been open when the blade fell had saved the eyelid; a blessing he hadn’t appreciated until sometime later. Hugh knew he should count his blessings that all he’d lost was one eye, but he still felt rage when he looked at the scar: rage at the men who’d done this to him. Hugh had killed five of those men, but the last one—the worst one—was still living and breathing when so many far better men were not. The scar ached at the thought, just like it always did; just like it would until Hugh put an end to it all.

But that would need to wait. First he would have to look into the matter of Will’s threatening letters.

A lovely face floated into his mind. The countess’s distant, untouchable beauty and eminently touchable body would have been hard enough to resist. But the severe looks she’d given him whenever he teased her had guaranteed his interest.

“Captain?”

Hugh blinked and looked in the mirror. Kemal had finished shaving him while he’d fantasized about his nubile young aunt.

He stood, shrugged off his robe, and went to the gray-and-white marble bathing chamber, where steaming water awaited. Joints popped and muscles ached as he lowered himself into the extra-long tub, a vessel which had been constructed for Hugh’s grandfather, a man who’d been even taller than Hugh. He lay back and let his mind drift as he soaked, guiding his thoughts away from his alluring aunt back to this past journey.

Hugh had been on his way to England in response to Will’s letter when he’d received an urgent message from a woman he hadn’t spoken to since before his escape from Sultan Babba Hassan.

The woman had been a girl the last time Hugh saw her— only fourteen when she’d been given to the sultan by Faisal Barbarossa, the notorious corsair captain who’d captured her, Hugh, and dozens of others. Even now the memory of that day was agony. The girl had cried as if her heart were breaking as they dragged her away. Foolishly, Hugh had gone after her and Barbarossa’s men had grabbed him and whipped him bloody for his useless efforts.

Hugh had put her from his mind over the next two years, afraid he’d go mad if he thought about her life in the sultan’s harem—only a stone’s throw from where he labored every day under the overseer’s lash. But he had never forgotten her and had risked everything to send her a message when he planned his escape. She had never replied.

Until now. Somehow she had managed to survive seventeen years in the sultan’s palace. But it appeared her luck had finally run out and she was in terrible danger. The message had been emphatic: Hugh must come to Oran immediately.

Had it not been for Will Standish’s urgency, Hugh would have gone to Oran himself. But Will’s missive had been almost frantic, so Hugh had deposited three of his best men in Gran Canaria with instructions to hire the next ship headed for the Mediterranean. Once they reached Oran, the men were to find the woman and her son and keep them safe until the Batavia’s Ghost returned for them.

Hugh soaped the mass of scars that ran up his left arm and across his chest while he considered his ship’s next journey—a journey that would have to take place without Hugh. Now that he’d returned to England he might as well stay and get to the bottom of the threatening letters. He had already taken steps to have the Ghost ready to leave quickly—perhaps even on tomorrow’s tide, with his first mate at the helm. Hugh wanted to send the Ghost on its way before word of his return reached the ears of newspapermen and turned Eastbourne into a circus. He grimaced. That powder keg would explode sooner rather than later and Hugh would need to be here to put out the flames when it did.

Hugh considered the two letters Will had shown him. As of right now, the first and only person on his list of suspects was Malcolm Hastings. Hugh didn’t know if Hastings was the source of the letters, the reason for the warning letters, or another threat altogether, but he would certainly find out.

He lowered his torso into the tub and sluiced away the soap. He didn’t like sending the Ghost into danger without him, but he also couldn’t dismiss Will’s concerns out of hand and leave Lessing Hall without looking into the matter.

Hugh snorted. Not that he could stay in good conscience, either; at least not if he had to fight his urges to bed the beautiful widow every step of the way.

Chapter Four

Daphne spent the remainder of the day seeing to the myriad housekeeping matters Hugh’s arrival engendered. As a result, she returned to her chambers with less than an hour to rest, wash, and change for dinner.

She was certain the gown Rowena had selected for the evening was the most unattractive item of clothing in her wardrobe—perhaps in existence. Daphne had always allowed her maid to choose her clothing because such matters were of no concern to her. But even Daphne, with her utter lack of fashion knowledge, could see the drab gray dress was spectacularly ugly.