Chapter Two

Before he opened the door, James found himself automatically smoothing his hair and straightening his jacket. "You can take the man out of the Navy…" he muttered wryly under his breath. The heavy wooden door opened with a protesting creak and the worn planks of the floor sighed under his feet as he advanced into the room. He took three steps into the room and stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he beheld the dainty figure perched on the edge of the ornate, four-poster bed.

"By God," he swore in a barely audible whisper. All was silent. Or perhaps, the rushing in his ears drowned out all other sound. He stood there for an endless moment, simply staring as though he could not make sense of what he saw. The faint sounds of revelry drifted up through the floorboards and he shook his head, reminded suddenly of his purpose. Slowly, he approached the bed and knelt, hands extended, palms up to show his peaceful intent. Two small, trembling hands placed themselves in his and he raised his eyes, momentarily lost in the twin depths that caught his gaze. The roaring in his ears grew louder. After another long moment, James spoke, his voice soft, but demanding.

"How old are you?"

Molly huddled on the bed, shivering in her thin shift. The Caribbean night was damp and cool, making her long for the warmth of her own bed. Her thin back stiffened suddenly as she remembered that her bed, her room and her whole house were lost to her forever. Her slight body was wracked with deeper shivers at the horrid memories. The landlady, stinking of sweat and snuff, demanding payment. Molly, protesting that her da had paid the rent in full before setting sail on what was to be his last voyage. Three nights spent in a closet, no better than a gaol, with naught but crusts to eat. Greedy, leering faces at the auction held to dispose of the accused debtor's property, the most valuable of which turned out to be his daughter. A humiliating examination, followed by hurried instructions from a sharp-nosed Frenchwoman. Horrible stories about things that surely could not be natural from a half-dozen painted women and dire warnings about what would happen to her should she be displeasing. And finally, Molly again, terrified and shoved into this over-decorated room awaiting her first "customer."

She curled her toes under the edge of her cotton shift, wondering if she could climb beneath the blankets and warm herself. But no. Madam had said she should display herself to best advantage. Molly looked down at her slender, childish body and wondered what that meant. In the end, she decided to simply remain perched on the edge of the bed. She was shivering so hard from cold and fear that she did not hear the footfalls stop outside the door. Only its betraying creak alerted her that someone was there. Like a small, frozen statue she sat immobile, barely daring to breathe. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and she listened as the door creaked all the way open, then closed. She the slight wheeze of the boards under a light tread which then stopped abruptly.

Forcing herself to look up, she raised her pointed chin bravely and beheld, not a greasy ragamuffin such as usually inhabited the streets of Tortuga, but a tall, neatly dressed man. His dark hair was bound away from his face in a neat queue and his plain coat and breeches were free from dirt and wrinkles. He held his tricorne hat in his hand.

She sniffed hesitantly. The odor of rum, ever-present in her nostrils since infanthood, was markedly absent. The man's eyes were a clear, warm brown and lacked the tendrils of red so common in the drunkards of Tortuga. She gazed at him, baffled, wondering how such a decent-looking man had found himself in the sink of corruption and filth that was her birthplace.

Her eyes widened further as he exclaimed under his breath and then crossed the room to kneel before her. He extended his brown and calloused hands, real seaman's hands, palm up and looked at her questioningly. Not knowing his wish, she placed her trembling hands in his, meeting his velvet dark gaze and holding it. She felt bewitched, ensorcelled by an enchantment whose source was wholly alien to her. And enchantment that shattered as he spoke, softly but sternly.

"How old are you?"

Molly struggled to stay calm and provide the answer Madame had instructed that she give. "I'm sixteen, sir. Had me birthday last month, I did. S-sweet sixteen a-and never been kissed. Unless you'd like to have a go, sir." The last words trailed off to a whisper as his eyes hardened and his face flushed with sudden anger.

She watched him warily as he took a deep breath, and replied calmly, "I have spent my life among seamen. Sailor, pirate or fisherman, those men are the greatest tale-tellers known to mankind. Even a cabin boy can lie better than you, my girl. So, I repeat, how old are you?"

Molly looked from his eyes to the floor and back again. His expression was stern and proud and brooked absolutely no disobedience. Finally, she dropped her gaze to the floor and whispered a reply. "I can't hear you," he said gently, tipping up her chin with his forefinger. His touch was warm and gentle, but insistent. Raised in a world where men almost never touched women with a gentle hand, Molly was lost.

"Th-thirteen, sir." she blurted. "Fourteen come next April." She clapped her hands over her mouth and tears ran down her thin, pinched face. Madame had said it would be the streets for her if she ever told her true age. What was to become of her now?

The flare of his nostrils was slight, but Molly saw it and, accustomed as she was to divining moods she knew he was still angry. Had she still lived at home with her da, she'd have been inventing a reason to get out of the house for that expression usually foretold a beating mood. "What is your name, child?" the man asked, still speaking softly and gently cupping her chin.

"M-Mattie." A tiny spark of pride flared in Molly's breast. She would not let them take her name from her. If hers was to be a whore's fate, then that whore's name would be Mattie. Her true name she kept to herself. It was all she had left. The spark kindled a tiny flame of defiance. "But I'm no child, sir. I'm a woman grown and that's no lie." She stared at him, daring him to contradict her.

James found himself caught by her eyes, huge in her thin face. Abruptly, he stood and paced around the room trying to think what on earth he was going to do. What could Madame Kitty have been thinking? Bringing a child into such a place and expecting him to…to…he forced his attention back to the child, for that is what she surely was, in front of him.

The girl, Mattie, followed his movement with wary eyes, arms wrapped around her scrawny frame. He looked at her and she stared back at him, her eyes issuing an unspoken challenge. James felt his heart contract as her bravery and obvious fighting spirit brought memories back that he'd just as soon have forgotten forever. Memories of another defiant, headstrong young lass.

A lass who, a split second later, James realized could be the salvation of this whole sordid matter if he was willing to lay aside his pride. He hesitated a moment, then squared his broad shoulders and came to a decision.

He stripped off his coat, and tossed it to the girl who cowered against the headboard. James cursed himself, knowing that the girl must have thought that the hour of her defilement had come at last. "Put that on," he commanded. "I'm not going to hurt you, lass. Put it on." He used a softer tone; the one that she had responded to earlier. A fighting spirit the girl might have, but she was a delicate bloom all the same and one who could be frightened easily. He watched impassively as the girl struggled into his coat then helped her turn up the too-long sleeves. "No shoes, but that can't be helped," he said, almost to himself. "I'll have to carry you."

"Carry me?" she squeaked. "Where do ye mean to be takin' me, sir?" She cringed back into the corner of the bed, out of arm's reach.

Moving slowly, he knelt beside the bed once again, softly cajoling, "I will take you from here tonight and tomorrow I will send you to a place where you will be safe. I swear it, Mattie. Come, put your arms around my neck, little one."

The endearment seemed to move the girl and she scooted forward. She regarded him for a long, uncertain moment, then wound her thin arms around his neck. He swept her up in his arms feeling the sharpness of her bones against his body as he cradled her against him. She weighed no more than a feather. Hands full, he solved the problem of opening the door with the swift application of his booted foot. The door crashed against the outer wall, arousing curious shouts from below. James quickly descended the staircase, ignoring the trembling of the girl in his arms and her tears, which wet his white, linen shirt.

Madam Kitty was waiting when he reached the bottom step. "James, mon cher! What ees ze meaning of thees…thees behavior? Does the little mademoiselle not please you. Why, I thought…"

"It is apparent that you thought me a man of low enough character that I would violate a child," James snapped, shifting the girl so that she was held even more securely in his arms. "I have no wish to hear any more of your thoughts, Madame."

"Child? Cher James, zat ees no child. No girl on this wretched isle stays a child for long past ze cradle. Where do you theenk ze grown women you bed come from? Ze kitchen garden? Pah!" The madam made a Gallic sound deep in her throat.

"I am well aware of where they come from, Madame. And had you sent another man in my place tonight, it is likely this child would indeed have become one of their ilk. But you did not. You chose me and I choose a different fate for her." He cradled the girl securely against him with one arm and fished a pouch from his pocket. Casting it on the ground at the Madam's feet he spat, "I think you will find more than generous remuneration for your trouble, Madam. And your silence on this matter." His eyes were cold and implacable as the Madam picked up the pouch and spilled a dozen gold coins into her palm.

"Assuredly, cher James," she breathed.

He stalked to the door which a manservant hurriedly opened, lest James repeat the exercise he'd performed abovestairs. But before he left, he turned and pierced the Madam with his gaze once more. "One more thing, Madame Kitty," his pronunciation of the courtesy title was sneering. "If I ever find you've taken such a young girl under your protection again, I will shut you down."

"Pah," Madame Kitty sneered back. "Zere ees no law in Tortuga. You 'ave no right."

"Perhaps not. But I have men. And I have powder. And I will bring this place down around your ears if you cross me. You will not receive another warning." And with that, he stalked out of the brothel, his burden light and fragile in his arms.