Windmera-Desperation

He appeared to Heather as no less confused by what he saw than his men had been, but as he immediately took charge, she assessed him as far better able to cope with their sudden intrusion on his peace.

“What have we here?” he asked in his native tongue as he looked over the two stowaways.

Heather braced herself, drew a breath, and answered in French, “I beg your pardon, monsieur. My friend and I have had a series of mishaps, and quite unintentionally came to seek momentary refuge on your vessel while you were docked in port. Tired from our…mishaps, we unfortunately fell asleep and…well…” Heather began to falter at the captain’s utter look of incredulousness.

“Aha,” the captain offered and then in English, “allow me to address what is obvious. You are English, though you speak a decent French, still that I can say. Also, though you are ragged, it is obvious that you are not a peasant, but born to the English gentry…is that not so?”

Heather inclined, “Yes…”

He hurriedly interjected, “You are also quite exceptionally beautiful…even in your dirt, so that lends the question, what kind of mishaps and what the devil are you doing on my schooner?”

“Here is the thing. We don’t want to be here,” she offered. “But…”

Irritated, and already envisioning a problem, no doubt with her family, he cut her off, “Nor do I want you here. Are you trying to say that someone on my vessel has taken you against your will and kept you here?”

Heather was now close enough to see his eyes in the dim light of the nearby torchlight. There was a kindness in those depths. “Indeed, how unhandsome it would be of me to suggest such a thing. No, I merely meant that through awkward circumstances we have come to a point where we are at your mercy.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “What utter nonsense to be sure. However, allow me to proceed with first things first. I, mademoiselle, am the Comte de Brabant and captain of this ship.” He turned at that point as Heather’s eyes shifted towards a sound.

That sound—the rustle of a silk skirt.

The captain’s brow rose and he grinned at his sister’s expression. Louise Davenant stood, her cashmere shawl tightly wrapped around her well-shaped shoulders, and her expression of doubt quite evident as she said, “Maurice? Who is this woman and this boy?”

“As it happens, my dear,” he answered her in English, and Heather noted the surprise on the woman’s face. “I have not as yet discovered the answer to such a pertinent question. Come, let us all retire to my cabin and uncover the secrets of this affair.”

Heather turned to Bunky and smiled reassuringly, for she could see her companion was still looking about himself with some trepidation. “There now, Bunky, they won’t throw us to the sharks after all.”

The captain evidently heard this remark, stopped and roared with laughter. “Indeed, resty easy…er…Bunky, I have no intention of feeding you to the fish.”

~ Eleven ~

SO IT WAS THAT WHILE Heather Martin’s future took shape on the high seas, Godwin near lost his mind on land.

He took up residence with his friend, Captain John Pearson, in those first early days. Afraid of the hatred he felt for Sara. Even in her present condition, he thought it best to remain as far away from her as he could.

His friend cast a knowing eye and finally took Godwin in hand. They set sail on his yawl and made for St. Pol-de-Léon. The information they received allowed them an educated guess. This French port was known to house smugglers, and by this time, he was sure that a crew of smugglers was behind her abduction.

Together, they arrived in the little French town and set off to find more information about Heather. The town housed two bordellos, and sick at heart, they searched both.

Captain John held his friend steady when they left the second of the two brothels where they were told that a girl had been promised to them, but evidently had run off before she could be delivered.

“Thank the fates…she seems to have escaped, but where did she go, John? Where?”

They hoped beyond hope and Godwin dreaded the worst, then miraculously they found someone who had noticed Heather.

He was an elderly sailor versed in the English tongue, for he told them that he had learned the language in better times.

“Tiens,” he remarked. “A man could not help but remember that one. Oui, I saw the little flower running and ducking, and knew she was in trouble. She had some young lad with her, looking more frightened than she. Mon dieu…sad, she looked so sad. I thought to offer my help, but they vanished before I could do so.”

Godwin pressed a gold coin into his hand. “More…what more can you tell us?”

The old sailor smiled, displaying teeth that were worn and yellowed in his withered mouth. He shook his head. “I know nothing more.”

Godwin shook his friend’s shoulder. “She escaped them. My little treasure must have gotten one of the young seamen to help her, and she escaped them. Do you hear, John, it is certain now. She escaped them.”

John was a big man, and still had to look up to study Godwin’s face. “Aye, but I have to say it, my friend. She escaped them, but never returned to Cornwall. And Godwin, there is every chance that she won’t.”

“Why would you say that? Why?”