The Determined (groundbreaking)

Chapter 1

Spanish Town, Jamaica

Spine pressed against the prison wall, Anne rested her hands on the swell of her stomach.

The cloth of her breeches—the same ones from the night of their capture—clung to her damp skin as she sat on the unforgiving stone floor.

She could still smell the grapeshot and gunpowder.

She wore the same shirt too—his calico shirt.

The bitter memory pierced her like a rapier.

Not even the child had energy to move. Nothing had energy to move in Jamaica’s heat.

Anne didn’t bother to glance up at the hush of men speaking outside her cell, the sound of their shuffling boots. Among them, she made out the voice of the burly guard who brought her daily water.

“I insist on supervising,” he said. “She has no shackles.”

“Are you suggesting I am unable to protect myself against an unarmed woman?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

The guard huffed. “She is no woman.”

“I can hold my own,” the stranger said. “I assure you.”

Anne stiffened, aware of her vulnerable position. But if this visitor dared to touch her, he wouldn’t be able to hold his own bowels when she was done with him.

She resolved to betray no nerves. A silence followed, heavy as the humid air in this godforsaken garrison.

“Do consider—”

“Surely, my good man, you have heard of my reputation?”

The guard relented. “I’ll be down the hall. Call if you need assistance.”

Not until after the squeal of her door opening, then closing with a decisive click, did Anne tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear. She lazily lifted her gaze up from the straw-covered ground.

“Good afternoon,” the gentleman said, clearing his throat and removing an ostrich-feathered tricorn.

He wiped beads of sweat from his wrinkled forehead with a kerchief—clean as snow—before placing it inside the leather bag he carried.

Anne watched without blinking as he scanned the dim room: the saggy cot, a three-legged stool, a rancid bucket, the streak of sun from the slash of barred window above.

Then, finally, at her.

“I am sorry that a young woman of twenty-three, in your condition, must bear these difficult circumstances.” He arched a brow, as if ready for a reaction—any reaction.

She looked away, hiding a stab of despair.

Sighing, he pulled the wooden stool from the corner and placed it in front of her. “May I?”

Anne balked. She couldn’t help it. She’d known a life of pleasantries and politeness once, and she could still see through them.

“I don’t have to ask who you are, since on that everyone is clear. Or are they?” He paused. “But you can call me Captain Charles Johnson. Yes, I know my way around a ship—circumnavigated the globe by my twenty-seventh birthday, if you can believe it.”

“What I believe is that you’re a rat spying for Governor Lawes.” The sound of her own voice, loud yet raw from eight weeks of solitary confinement, startled her.

“No, miss. I assure you, I come on my own business.”

At this, the baby kicked. Hard. Her hand flew to her side. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She still had two months of this feisty thing waging war in her womb.

The captain smiled, probably thinking he was making headway—the fool. He took a seat, then pulled out a small oak desk from his bag, along with a quill and some parchment. He rested a crystal inkwell on the floor.

No weapons. No objects of torture. Anne felt her muscles relax and eyed the writing materials with a surge of longing.

But still, this gowl—whoever he might be—deserved nothing.

“You have no reason to fear me,” he said.

“I don’t fear you,” Anne lied.

Johnson inhaled, nodding. She didn’t like the way his eyes lit when she spoke.

“I’m a writer as well as a captain,” the man said, inking his quill. “I traveled far to see you. And your friend.”

Mary’s face flashed before her.

“I am compiling a book. The world is eager to understand you, to learn how—”

“No,” Anne said. No, no.

No.

Anne placed a firm hand on the wall to pull herself up, to yank herself out of the upswell of desperation that flooded her chest and threatened to drag her under.

She did not want to sit below him—to be pitied, judged, or exploited by this blunderbuss.

She folded her arms over her belly and glared at the desk balanced on his knees.

Her fingers twitched with yearning as she imagined wielding the quill herself.

“If you help me,” Captain Johnson said with practiced patience, “I might be able to help you.”

Of all the many lies she’d ever been told, it was the most beautiful one she’d ever heard.