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The Story Starts Here___________________________

After the battle with the “Yorkshire,” Michael was loath to subject Harry to any more fighting. He wanted her safe. Because the time wasn’t right for him to return home to Annapolis, he knew he must make the most of his time. His ship was a privateer and the crew was getting restless. Though loyal to a man, they sailed to make a profit, to help support loved ones left at home and to line their pockets while they could.

Unable to locate any British ships along the middle colonies, Michael made the decision to sail straight to St. Eustatius. Under Dutch rule, this small link in the chain to Leeward Islands, lying midway between Guadeloupe and Puerto Rico, was the busiest and richest port in the Western Hemisphere. Caressed by warm tropical breezes, it offered sanctuary to a weary traveler.

Michael had been loath to venture into the mid-Atlantic, to cruise for months at a time, looking for British ships. But upon reaching St. Eustatius, the available merchandise persuaded him not only to venture into the Atlantic, but to sail all the way to France. Fortunes could be made in only one trip and Michael sensed the time was ripe.

With the extended cruise, Danese mentally set aside her return to her family and to Baltimore society with a sigh of relief. She threw herself into a renewal of the studies the captain gave her. She could now navigate by the stars, could use a sextant and compass well, could read any map Michael had on the ship, and was able to gauge wind and sail combinations.

Oliver taught her how to shoot a pistol and musket, and how to calibrate firing range of the cannons by tilting the armature the right amount of degrees. Though still a cabin boy, Danese was now educated enough to command a prize crew.

Challenged daily, Danese could say she was happy. Only one thing stood in the way. The closeness with Michael was gone. Danese was positive she wasn’t imagining it. Whenever he was near her, Michael seemed to stand back a prescribed distance, and the spontaneity that had always existed between them was missing. The laughing and sharing seemed stilted and Danese didn’t know why.

Michael avoided touching also, and she missed the tactile sensations of his warm hand on her shoulder. But most of all, she missed his glance. He could not meet her eyes, and Danese longed to gaze into the depths of his beautiful green eyes. If it was something she had done wrong, she felt he would have said so. Surely, if he thought she was female and had betrayed him in some manner, he would have confronted her by now, wouldn’t he?

As the days passed and the pleasures she had experienced in St. Eustatius slipped into memories, Danese dearly felt Michael’s absence from her life. Though she was surrounded with friends, crewmen she had grown to know well, Danese was, at times, overwhelmed with loneliness.

As the ship docked at Brest, the sight that greeted them was the most shocking Danese had ever witnessed. Painted faces and swirling skirts beckoned eagerly to the sailors crowding the deck of the ship. Danese was amazed by the transformation of the men she knew and respected. Fine, dependable men shouted lewd remarks and chuckled heartily at their own wit.

Many of the women appeared grotesque in appearance. Tall white wigs sat high on their heads, while their faces were not recognizable under all the white powder and cream. Bolices gaped open, the contents displayed for anyone willing to pay the price. Danese was sickened at the sight.

Furious to find Harry on deck, when he had left specific orders to the contrary, Michael considered a punishment. Gazing down at the riot of gaudy females, he figured it was too late. Why not tease his straight-laced little cabin boy?

“Don’t get any ideas, Harry.” The deep rich voice brought Danese quickly to attention. “Don’t ever try any of the dock women; not if you value your health.” Danese gasped at Michael’s forthright manner of speaking.

Michael gestured around him. “The men joke and carry on, but they are all wise enough to know the filth these women carry.”

Danese huffed. Her face a bright red, “It’s disgraceful! I would never…….”

“See that you don’t,” he snapped, amused by her indignation. Suddenly thoughtful, Michael said gruffly, “If I had my way I’d keep you on the ship. I am warning you to stay with Oliver. You are not to go anywhere alone, and that’s an order.”

He went on in a clipped voice, while Danese stared at him speechless, wondering what she had done wrong. “If you don’t obey me, I will not hesitate to lock you in your cabin. Is that clear, Mister?”

Danese began to sputter as her anger rose to the surface. “L….lock me..me in my cabin? Why I never……”

Michael growled, his shoulders drawn up, increasing his height.

Danese was panting in her rage. Why was he treating her like this? She had always stayed close to Oliver or Michael for her own protection. Now, here was Michael, issuing orders to her as if she could not be trusted.

Michael looked as if he would say more, instead he turned abruptly on his heel and walked quickly towards his cabin. Danese saw the scowl on his handsome face, but did not know Michael’s conscience was hurting. Suddenly aware of the tears threatening to course down her cheeks, she ran to her cabin, the only place she could be alone.

Michael slammed the door, berating his shortness of temper. He had no right to take it out on Harry. The Lord knew, it was his own self-discipline keeping him from touching her in the first place. All these long months, the only thing he craved was touching her, running his fingers through her soft hair, crushing her to him until every one of his body parts touched every one of hers.

Damn! Here they were in the middle of a war, surrounded by men, most of whom he could trust. But there was always a doubt. What if there was even one man who would plot to take what the captain had? What if there was one who would hurt Danese badly enough to destroy her? What would he do then?

And so, he forced himself to stay away. With distance between them, he could be objective and rational. But put her close by and all Michael could think about was her, all he could see was her, all that he was, was hers.

Having heard the men finish unloading the cargo of rum, molasses, timber, pitch and turpentine, the quiet of the moment engulfed Danese as she lay on her cot staring at the wood over her head. The thrill of arriving in France was gone. With Michael treating her in this fashion, Danese was in no mood to care about anything.

Danese wished she knew what she had done for Michael to treat her as if she had betrayed his trust. They had laughed together, fought together, shared so many things. Didn’t he know his cabin boy worshipped him? From her, Michael would always know loyalty and respect. She would never betray him. Never!

A loud knock on the door brought Danese out of her reverie. Oliver called her name and encouraged her to join him. Deciding that companionship was really what she needed, Danese bounded up from her cot.

“That’s enough, lad. I’m putting on the poundage just listening to you.” His chuckle lifted Danese’s spirits slightly, at least enough to push her worries about Michael into the back of her mind. Her usual happy nature returning, Danese laughed and quickly followed Oliver from the ship.

Long days went by and Michael did not return. At first, Danese though he was arranging cargoes, but she soon found out from Oliver that the cargo was already procured and would be arriving in a few days. Where then, was Michael? Was he still angry with her?

Oliver would not enlighten her, no matter how much she prodded, telling her only that the captain was taking care of personal business. She finally stopped asking. Disappointed about not being able to tour the French city in Michael’s company, Danese resigned herself to having as good a time as possible with Oliver. They spent the nights on the ship, Oliver taking the early morning watch, then they left the dock area to see the sights that Brest offered.

Intrigued by the foreign atmosphere and people, Danese’s eyes were everywhere at once.  Though Baltimore’s people were stratified with the landed gentry at the top of the social ladder, the difference between them and the poorer population was nit as blatant or visible as here in France. Danese knew her memory could be faulty, but she didn’t remember the English slums being as bad as some they came across when walking on foot.

Danese was more than happy to return to the wharves with their perpetual salty tang in the air, and the sweet-sour smell of spoiled, ripened fruit and musky cargoes.

Four days after arriving, and still not having seen Michael, Danese’s spirits began to drop. As she returned with Oliver and several of the crew from taking the evening meal, Oliver waved them ahead and stopped to speak with Fowler, the second mate, as he stood watch at the gangplank. “Jeremy, come to the captain’s cabin when the bells sound. I have a note I want sent to the captain.

“Aye, Oliver. I hear you.” Jeremy paced off in the opposite direction as Oliver and Danese went below.

Danese yawned and said, “I guess I must really be tired. I’ll see you in the morning, Oliver.”

“Aye, lad, you sleep tight now.” Oliver patted Danese softly on the back.

Danese finally heard Jeremy enter the captain’s cabin, and a short while later, he left. His footsteps sounded loudly down the companionway. Danese eased the door open and stepped out. Thankful she did not have to pass the captain’s cabin on the way out, since Oliver was still there, Danese scurried up the steps and across the deck, barely reaching Jeremy before he started down the gangplank.

“Jeremy, wait! I’ll take the message.” Danese panted as she drew to a halt. Seeing his puzzled expression, she ventured. “Oliver changed his mind. You’ve just come off watch and must be tired. Besides, you have earned a rest. I’ll just take the message for the captain.” Danese deftly plucked the note from Jeremy’s hand. Now just point me in the right direction.

Danese followed the streets easily, but quite soon, a feeling came over her that she was not alone. Shrugging it off, she moved more quickly, evading darkened doorways and men on the street. Losing her way, she had to circle around as best she could for the streets no longer ran in parallels.

Surprised that so many people were still out in the streets after nightfall, Danese tried not to stare at the brightly painted women who whistled at her and gestured lewdly with their hands. Averting her eyes, Danese hurried on, with the same nagging feeling that she was being followed, yet unable to see or hear anyone.

Her heart gave a lurch when finally Danese saw the sign over the tavern door. The insignia showed a white horse rearing on its hind legs, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Unable to understand the language, she was grateful for the age-old practice of drawings to match the name of the establishment.

Glancing over her shoulder, she quickly entered the Rearing Stallion. The air, heavy with smoke from the fireplace, almost choked her. Several tables were filled with greasy-looking men, their ale and wine mugs gripped tightly in their hands. Even a knife at her waist, partially hidden by her shirt, did not give her much reassurance. Michael had shown her how to fight hand-to-hand with a knife, but after several encounters with Michael’s brute strength, they determined Danese’s only advantage was the ability to move quickly.

Gathering her courage, she moved into the dimly-lighted room. A great fireplace with hearth and caldron took the space on an entire wall. The walls themselves were darkened with years of soot and greasy dirt. The patrons were being served by a buxom lady of middle years, her large breasts seeming to leap from their confinement with every movement she made. Large trenchers of food adorned a few tables, the men slopping the food into their mouths without the benefit of utensils. Danese’s stomach almost turned at the sight.

Conversation stopped as she entered, then suddenly resumed, the tones low. Danese smiled inwardly, knowing she couldn’t understand the French they spoke anyway. Making her way across the slippery floor, Danese wondered why Michael was staying in this filthy hole, when he could afford so much better. She waited until she saw a large man with a dingy apron, coated with food stains and grease, come in from a back room.

His words had been so slurred, Danese wasn’t sure he had acknowledged whether or not he spoke English. She tried again. “What room Captain Smith?

“Nodding that she understood him, Danese turned and started up the stairs, being careful not to brush the walls with her clothing. Michael’s taste in accommodations was appalling! Walking slowly down the hall toward room five, Danese began to feel that maybe she hadn’t done the right thing by intercepting and delivering the message. Would Michael be angry with her? He probably would be, but it was worth risking his wrath just to see him.

Danese raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. Michael had expressly barred his “cabin boy” from the room and the coarse female voice she now heard from within told her why. A cold shiver raced over her body, and her heart hardened. Danese squinted her eyes in anger and her breath increased.

Almost turning on her heel, she caught herself. Why should I run away? It is Michael who is in the wrong. But then the thought hit her like a sack of bricks. What was Michael doing wrong? He is unmarried, not betrothed, young and virile, but most of all, he does not know he is breaking my wretched heart!

The anger drained away leaving her empty of feeling. Danese’s clenched fists relaxed and she shuddered an emotional release. Slowly, ignoring the sounds from within, she raised her hand and knocked softly. Blinking away the tears that had formed in her saddened eyes.