The Jezebel's Daughter by Juliet MacLeod

the expressions and murmured conversations of the men we passed, though a spot right between my shoulder blades itched almost continually. The men were looking at me much the same way the planters had looked at me the previous evening. I wanted to turn and scream at them, just to break the tension that was slowly, unbearably building inside me. Thankfully, my guard seemed to notice my agitation, and put his body protectively between me and the tents, casting baleful glares and resting his hand upon the hilt of his sword. I felt a tiny amount of gratitude towards him.
    We soon came upon a small cluster of some fifty or sixty men were standing in the surf, loading two small jolly-boats with boxes and crates and bags of supplies. Another boat was headed towards the brigantine I'd seen earlier at anchor. I had been right—the Jezebel was the brigantine. Overseeing it were two familiar figures—Captain Graves, dressed once more in black, and Mr. MacIsaac, standing a head taller than his captain, wearing black breeches, a white shirt, and a black waistcoat brocaded with Chinese-style flowers in a bright, peacock-blue thread.
    All eyes swung in my direction and work halted as the men stared at me, open lust in their expressions. I cut Ben a sharp, betrayed look, and all my feelings of gratitude disappeared. Graves murmured more orders to the crew before he and Mr. MacIsaac made their way up the beach toward Ben and me.
    “Lady Weymouth,” Mr. MacIsaac said before taking my hand and bowing over it. He straightened and nodded at Ben, who returned the gesture with a smile.
    “Good morning, Mr. MacIsaac,” I said, reluctantly letting go of the quartermaster's hand and extended my own to the captain.
    He merely glanced at it before turning the whole of his attention to Ben, his face frightful as he stared hard at the free man. “Why is she here?” he grated.
    “Sir, I thought it be nice for her to see you off,” Ben explained.
    “If I wanted a woman to see me off, I'd have told my fucking wife I was ashore. Take her back to Dupris's.” He glanced at me then, his eyes raking me hard from head to toe. “Blue suits you,” he grunted before turning and going back to the crew, which had stopped working to watch the scene.
    I could feel the shame and anger burning brightly in my cheeks and I fisted my hands at my sides, holding back the urge to burst into tears or strike the Captain right in his bloody mouth. His wife ! I clenched my jaws and turned away angrily, not responding to Mr. MacIsaac's mumbled apologies. I began walking back in the direction where I thought the brothel was located, not paying any heed to where I was going, anger clouding my vision.
    His wife ! Gideon Graves was married and she lived here, on the island somewhere. Did she know about me? Did she care? Why did I care? The man was a bastard, heartless and cruel. He had misused me and misused his wife. Why was I so surprised that he had violated his wedding vows and broken the sanctity of his marriage? Why did it bother me so? Why was I so angry? I snorted derisively at my own thoughts. He was a pirate; vows clearly meant very little to him. He was a criminal, the lowest of the low. Such behavior was no doubt perfectly acceptable in his world.
    A strong hand fastened itself around my upper arm and swung me around. I squealed in fright and hit out, connecting my palm with a solid chest. “Lady Loreley!” Ben's voice cut through the haze of my anger.
    I yanked my arm out of his grip and took a step back, staring up at him, snorting like an enraged bull. “Why did you bring me down here?” I raged at him. “To humiliate me more? What he did to me last night wasn't awful enough, so you had to heap more injury on top of it?” By the time I was finished, tears were streaking down my cheeks, hot angry tears that I shoved away with the heels of my hands, hating that I was crying again. Why couldn't I be more like a man? Why couldn't I be angry without