The Tiger's Bride

Reversed Ducks Flying had yet to be achieved by anyone aboard the Phoenix.

Jamie could understand his men’s ire at being interrupted in the attempt. Still grinning, he sent Burke to disperse the sampans clustered about the schooner like minnows about a pike. A shout to the crew alerted them to be ready to raise the sails.

The need to be off pulled at him. Like an impatient mistress, the dark sea beckoned. He took a last look over his shoulder at the lights of Macao. He wouldn’t see them again for weeks, perhaps months. As if drawn by a beacon, his gaze went to upper reaches of the city. Flickering torches illuminated the outline of the old Portuguese fort on the crest. Below the fort, Jamie knew, perched the Presbyterian Mission House.

Unbidden, the image of a prim, disapproving Sarah Abernathy flashed into his mind. Almost immediately, that gave way to a vision of the woman who’d faced him at the House of the Dancing Blossoms, her sherrycolored eyes alight with laughter. Who would have imagined a missionary’s daughter would have the pluck to enter such an establishment? She was, Jamie concluded once more, a most unusual missionary’s daughter.

He discovered just how unusual the very next morning, when the daily monsoons blew up their usual storm and a fierce gust tipped the Phoenix bow down into a deep trough. Masts groaned. Sails whipped. Waves creamed the decks, and a white-faced, wide-eyed Sarah Abernathy tumbled out of the rope locker.

Chapter Four (#ulink_356071f0-21b0-5b2f-9da8-fe21cf559970)

From the moment Sarah had climbed aboard the Phoenix with the streams of Chinese bringing supplies, she’d debated over the right time to leave the tiny, airless rope locker where she’d hidden herself and make her presence known to the captain.

She certainly didn’t wish to do so until after Macao had fallen well astern. She’d wanted to wait until they were too far out for Straithe to turn about…or toss her over the side to swim back to shore, which possibility she considered far more likely.

And she had more sense than to cause a disturbance during the nerve-racking run past the warships patrolling the entrance to the bay. Even from her uncomfortable perch atop a coil of prickly hemp inside the dark closet, Sarah had sensed the tension that gripped the entire ship as the captain ordered all lights doused and absolute quiet above decks.

For what seemed like hours, she’d huddled on the rope, her every nerve tingling, with only the sounds of the timbers creaking and the sheets rattling to disturb the silence of the night outside. Sarah knew that the heavily gunned frigates had orders to blow out of the water any smugglers caught trying to slip up the coast. Only by such draconian measures could England hope to maintain the East India Company’s tight grip on the China trade and, coincidentally, enforce the Emperor’s edict that all barbarians conduct business only at Canton.

When at last the Phoenix had gained the wide, seaswept straits and the captain ordered the sails rigged to run with the stiff southwest winds, she was so limp with relief that she couldn’t quite summon the courage to emerge from her hiding place. Instead, she scrunched her legs under her and folded into a pillow the loose, padded jacket she’d worn over her blue cotton trousers and robe. Lulled by the slap of the waves against the hull and the steady rise and fall of the schooner, she soon fell into an exhausted sleep.

In the early dawn, the ship pitched violently and dumped Sarah out of her prickly nest. She banged her head against the locker’s wall and came awake to the realization that the monsoon winds had caught the Phoenix firmly in their grip. She was struggling to right herself in the tiny space when the ship dipped again. This time, it seemed to stand almost on its head.

Looped lengths of rope dropped from their pegs and pounded Sarah’s head and shoulders. The timber walls around her groaned. Without warning, the latch securing the locker entrance popped. The door banged open, and Sarah tumbled out.

Instantly, warm, driving rain pelted her body. Waves foamed the deck, which tilted at a sharp angle under her. Floundering helplessly, she slid across the slick boards and came up hard against a raised hatch. Grabbing the coaming to anchor herself, she scrabbled onto her knees and flung her head back to clear her wet hair from her face.

The first thing that caught her eye was the seaman hanging onto the halyards a few feet away, his mouth slack with astonishment as he gaped at her. The second was the towering wall of green that rose above the rail behind him. Sarah opened her mouth to shriek a warning. The cry never left her lips.

A hard band clamped around her waist, cutting off her breath. She was yanked upward and carried like a sack of beans away from the illusive safety of the hatch cover. A heartbeat before the onrushing wall crashed down on the Phoenix, her rescuer pulled open a door and tossed Sarah down a shallow flight of stairs. She landed on a hip and an elbow in a narrow companionway.

The figure behind her braced a huge shoulder against the door to hold it against the smashing force of the water. When the surge subsided, he swiped dripping dark-red hair from his eyes and shouted an order over his shoulder.

“Stay below! The captain will be seein’ to you when the winds break!”

With that, he plunged back outside. The door banged shut behind him. For a few blessed seconds, the ship leveled. A momentary calm descended. Then the Phoenix dropped into another trough and the wild ride began again.

Sarah knew the daily monsoons that came with late summer usually blew through within an hour or less, but this time it seemed as though the ship plunged and rolled forever. After a while, she gathered enough strength to slowly, carefully, push herself to her feet.

With an arm braced against either wall, she made her way down the narrow passageway. She passed two minute sea cabins on her left. The mates’ quarters, she assumed. On her right was the open space that served as the dining saloon, where the captain and his officers would take their meals. The door at the far end of the passageway opened into the master’s cabin.

Thankfully, Sarah stumbled inside and flopped into one of the chairs bolted to the floor on either side of a similarly anchored round table. It was some moments before she’d collected herself enough to take stock of her surroundings.

Not much larger than the room she shared with Abigail at the Mission House, the cabin contained only the table and chairs, a bunk built to the captain’s rather large proportions, and a massive sea chest secured to ring bolts in the floor. A railed shelf running the width of the room at eye level held an assortment of books, decanters, instruments, and smaller chests, all secured against the pitching sea by straps.

Despite its unpretentious size and few furnishings, the cabin still conveyed a sense of richness and warmth. Perhaps it was the way the brass fittings gleamed in the gray light that seeped through the high, narrow transom window. Or the dark sheen of the Spanish mahogany paneling and trim. Or the exquisite gold embroidery decorating the green silk covering the bunk.

Richness and warmth…but not opulence.

How strange, Sarah mused. Straithe risked his life with every run he made up the coast He also gained enormous profits, if the rumors whispered about him were to be believed. Yet his private quarters displayed little evidence of a man addicted to wealth. No doubt he squandered his ill-gotten gains on drink, games of chance, and the denizens of such establishments as the House of the Dancing Blossoms, Sarah decided with a sniff.

One sniff led to another, and then to a sneeze. Shivering in her clammy clothes, she wrapped her arms around her chest. She was wet to the bone and most uncomfortable. The change of clothing and few personal necessities she’d smuggled aboard with her lay under a pile of rope in the locker…she hoped! She desperately wanted to shed the thin, wet cotton, but didn’t wish to open the captain’s sea chest to search out dry clothing. Secreting herself aboard his ship was one thing. Pawing among his personal possessions was quite another.

The Phoenix plunged on, its timbers creaking and groaning like a discordant chorus. As the minutes passed, Sarah’s eyes returned to the green silk coverlet again and again. Finally, she pushed herself out of the chair and crossed to the bunk. Bracing against its side, she quickly peeled off her robe and trousers. She hesitated a moment longer, then unwrapped the length of unbleached cotton she’d bound around her upper chest to disguise the generous bosom Straithe had referred to in such an ungentlemanly way.

The wet breast band dropped to the floor with a plop, and Sarah gave a sigh of sheer relief. Clad only in her clammy linen drawers and camisole, she swirled the silk coverlet around her shoulders. It settled over her body with a warmth welcome even in the muggy dampness. Feeling much restored, she returned to her chair to await the captain.

As suddenly as it had come, the monsoon blew through some moments later. The Phoenix ceased its violent bucking. The sea calmed. In contrast, Sarah’s heart started thumping painfully. By the time she heard the door to the companionway open and Straithe’s deep voice bellowing to someone to hold her hard to the wind, she could hardly breathe. She clutched the embroidered silk and braced herself for a storm of a different sort.

Sure enough, Straithe entered his cabin with the force of a typhoon. The door crashed back against the bulkhead. The captain stood on the threshold, his wet clothing plastered to his body and his blue eyes so dangerous that Sarah scrambled to her feet.

Under his soaked linen shirt, she could see every tight, corded muscle clearly delineated. He looked as wild and untamed as the sea he’d just battled. In that moment, Sarah understood why the Chinese sometimes referred to the elemental masculine force as a white tiger.

And the female as a green dragon, she reminded herself.

“I knew it,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “The moment Burke told me that an Englishwoman dressed in Chinese clothing had stowed away aboard the Phoenix, I knew it could only be you.”

Since the scathing remark didn’t seem to call for a response, Sarah made none.

“Are you mad?” he demanded, advancing slowly into the cabin.

No coward, Sarah nevertheless took a step back, then another, until the table behind her blocked any further retreat.

“Not mad,” she returned with somewhat less confidence than she would have liked. “Only determined.”

“To do what?” His anger leapt across the few feet separating them. “To prove yourself as addlepated as your father? To destroy your reputation completely?”

The idea that the notorious Lord Straithe might harbor any concern for her reputation struck Sarah as so novel that she didn’t answer immediately.

Straithe put his own interpretation on her silence. His face hardening, he let his gaze drop insultingly from her face to her shoulders. Only then did Sarah realize that the silk coverlet had slipped down her arms. Her wet camisole clung to her upper body every bit as revealingly as Straithe’s shirt hugged his. Heat surging into her face, she hitched the coverlet up.

The captain took another step closer. His lip curled in what Sarah could only describe as a sneer. “I must offer my apologies, Miss Abernathy. Had I realized you were so determined to put yourself in my bed, I wouldn’t have allowed you to depart the House of the Dancing Blossoms as readily as I did.”

His nearness unnerved Sarah. She’d forgotten how overpowering the man was at close quarters. It took every measure of her courage to infuse her voice with the same no-nonsense tone she’d use if one of her brothers was up to some prank.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t wish to put myself in your bed. I want only to find my father.”

“I told you I’d make every effort to find your father.”

Her chin lifted. “I didn’t trust you to keep to your promise.”

Jamie stared at her, the force of his anger colliding with the tattered remnants of his pride. He’d been accused of many wrongs in his day, most of which he readily admitted to. But for all his free-spirited ways, he lived by the code that had been bred into him as surely as his black hair and stubborn nature.

He’d never killed a man except in battle or a fair exchange of fire. He’d never bedded a woman who didn’t want it. He’d never run opium or slaves, as the East Indiamen did. And never, ever, had any man…or woman, for that matter…accused him of not holding to his word, once given.

That this bedraggled missionary’s daughter would do so stoked his simmering anger at her recklessness into fury. His jaw working, he took another step closer.

“You might come to rue your lack of trust, Miss Abernathy. You chose to stow away on a ship crewed by outcasts and misfits. Until I can put you on another ship heading back to Macao, you will stay in this cabin. If you so much as show your nose outside the door, I’ll treat you as I would any man jack aboard who disobeyed my orders.”