Beloved Castaway by Kathleen Y'Barbo Page B

it became tiresome. Better he try another approach.
    “Be still,” he whispered into her ear, “or the entire crew will think I’m in need of rescuing and come running.”
    To his great pleasure, his captive quieted herself, leaving only the heaving motion of her shoulders to show for her prior exertions. Wild eyes, barely blinking, stared at him.
    “You are afraid.” He offered a slow smile. “Or perhaps you are merely biding your time until you flee.”
    Her pleading look answered for her. Of course, fear would rule her actions. He notched up his smile and looked past her to the single window where only the faintest light penetrated the gloom.  
    “Mademoiselle Gayarre, should I choose to unhand you, I will require a promise.” Satisfied with her weak nod of agreement, Josiah pressed on. “I insist you remain silent and docile, speaking only when addressed and making no effort to escape. Will you agree to this?”
    Again, she nodded.  
    “In return you shall be treated with fairness and dignity, so long as you deserve it.” Before he could act to release her, however, the woman had the nerve to sink her teeth into his hand. “By all that is holy, woman,” he avowed to her retreating back, “dare you accost me?”
    The only answer he received was the sound of footsteps trodding a brisk pace on the stairs. So she thought to escape?
    Josiah chuckled and stood by the door to wait. A moment later the steps halted, and, save for the noise of the docks and the storm outside, silence reigned.
    “Mademoiselle? Ça va bien ?” he asked, knowing she was more than fine, although she might not yet realize the fact.  
    She also had yet to discover she’d landed in a trap, for the stair held no visible exit. The Jude’ sformer owner had outfitted the passage with an ingenious system of doors serving to confuse the uninitiated and conceal the unpleasant.  
    The hatch at the bottom of the stairs opened directly into a small yet comfortably furnished chamber of dubious purpose. Beyond the room lay the vast holding area where the African prisoners of war, set to become cargo, had once been quartered one against the other like hogsheads in a warehouse.
    The image flashed through his mind, an imagined scene that, should he descend to the depths his father thought him capable, could one day become all too real. Faces peered at him from the shadows of the hold, differentiated only by variations in the color of their skin or the shapes of their faces.
    Human faces. The odor of their misery still permeated the ship. A wave of nausea threatened. Liar. You are not that man. You never were, and you shall never be.
    Slowly he pushed the thought out of his mind, replacing it with the problem at hand.  
    To exit the captain’s meeting room through the stairwell, one must know the complicated process. The Gayarre woman would never manage it. Only he and two select crewmen, Harrigan and Banks, could manage the convoluted maneuver, and to prevent prying eyes from learning the secret, the passageway remained cloaked in darkness.  
    Perhaps he should leave the golden-haired woman to her own devices and make his way out of the room and the situation. A second, less-visible exit lay at his disposal. An opening into a corridor below had been hidden in a floor panel and covered by a seemingly immovable trunk. He could easily use it now to leave and send one of the crewmen to claim Isabelle Gayarre, thus ending the charade.
    An amusing thought, indeed, but not a solution to his lack of funds. For that, he needed the cooperation of his guest. Until he extracted payment in coin, his ship would remain anchored in New Orleans. The longer the time at anchor, the greater the danger of his plans for William being thwarted.
    Atop one of the trunks lay a document of ownership to a parcel of land and a dwelling of some sort in Clapham, the single item of value gleaned from the woman’s trunk. He considered offering the certificate in return for