Chapter 13
Annabelle walked beside Shadbolt as they continued toward the healer’s shop. Her mind was racing, her emotions awhirl.
Behind, Hawke and Grieg were analyzing the sword fight. Grieg wanted to discuss every movement, and Hawke seemed pleased enough to provide the details.
Had she not witnessed it herself, Annabelle would have rolled her eyes at the recounting. But she couldn’t simply write it off as men’s typical boasting. Seeing Hawke in action had been nothing short of breathtaking.
The arrogant man with the amused smirk had vanished entirely, replaced by a warrior.
His movements had been graceful, measured, powerful.
He’d anticipated his opponents’ strikes and returned them with lethal precision.
Annabelle had been unable to look away. She rubbed her arms, shivering.
She had never witnessed a true sword fight and had always imagined them to be refined, even romantic.
But in truth, the conflict had been violent and brutal.
And it had been because of her. If she’d only remained close . . .
Inside, she still trembled, and she was unable to push away the memory of the man’s rough hand over her mouth, the foul smell of his breath, the gleam of the blade as it came closer. She gasped in a breath.
“Belle?” Shadbolt touched her elbow. “Are you well?”
She nodded, giving a smile, although by the concern in his eyes, she could tell it hadn’t been convincing.
“Are we near to the healer’s?” she asked, wanting to ease the worry from her friend’s face.
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “It is at the top of this hill.”
Madame Dauphiné’s shop was set apart from the nearby houses, enclosed by a wooden fence. A stone path led to the door through a garden filled with a myriad of herbs, grasses, and flowers.
When they stepped inside the shop, intense, competing aromas hit Annabelle all at once. The attack on her senses made her cough and her eyes water.
Shelves lined the walls, and on them were jars and corked bottles containing powders, liquids, and substances of every color. Clumps of herbs hung from the ceiling, and potted plants bloomed on the windowsills.
In spite of the heat, there was a fire in the hearth, a boiling pot of . . . something hanging from a hook over it.
A woman was grinding with a mortar and pestle at a table in the center of the room. She was old; Annabelle judged her age to be well above seventy. A red scarf wound around her head from which whisps of white hair escaped, contrasting strikingly against her warm brown skin.
The woman looked up and smiled at Shadbolt. “I ’ave not seen you for years, chéri.” Her voice was low and warm, lilting with a French accent.
Shadbolt bowed his head. “Madame, it is always a pleasure.” He introduced the others.
Madame Dauphiné rested her gaze on each of them in turn, looking closely. She did not appear to be judging as much as making an appraisal. She studied Annabelle for a particularly long time, a small smile gracing her lips.
Annabelle did her best not to fidget beneath her gaze. She was debating how to approach the matter when Shadbolt spoke.
“Madame,” Shadbolt said, “you made a tonic, once, a remedy for Reid Courtney—”
“It smelled of sulphur,” Hawke added.
She looked between the men, appearing entirely unhurried. “Oui. I remember.”
“Could you make more?” Shadbolt asked.
“Someone is ill again?”
“Not yet,” Grieg said.
“It is a preventative measure,” Hawke added.
“Ah, you intend to sail there. To that island.” Her serene countenance didn’t waver, but her tone conveyed disapproval.
“Yes,” Shadbolt said. “We must.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving Shadbolt’s face. Something in the way she looked at him seemed to see beyond, to understand more than he said.
True to his nature, he did not flinch or look away.
“I will make more,” she said at last.
“As much as you can,” Hawke said. “Please. I intend to keep my crew safe.”
“You will return for the tonic tomorrow morning,” she said. “Bring a cart.”
Apparently Madame Dauphiné was entirely comfortable doing business with men, and they hadn’t needed Annabelle’s assistance after all.
“Thank you,” Hawke said.
The healer gave a nod that was a clear dismissal.
The men turned to go, but Annabelle stepped closer to the table. “Madame, I wondered if you perhaps have something for my friend to relieve the pain in his hip.”
Although she lived in a small shack on the edge of a pirate city, Madame Dauphiné was poised, her mannerisms commanding respect, and Annabelle found herself mirroring the woman’s grace, speaking to her as she would a modiste in a high-end dress shop.
Madame Dauphiné studied Annabelle again, then motioned with a crooked finger.
“Come with me.” The old woman led her to a shelf, peering at various containers before selecting one and handing it to Annabelle.
“He should rub this salve on his hip each morning, or anytime the pain becomes too strong.” She gave her a small bottle as well.
“This will help him to sleep. One drop is enough.”
Annabelle put the jar and bottle into a pocket in her skirt and retrieved her pouch of coins. “Thank you.” She inclined her head.
Madame Dauphiné pursed her lips to one side, looking at Annabelle. “Usually a young woman comes to me for la potion d’amour.” She glanced toward the door. “But I see you have no need.”
Annabelle followed the healer’s gaze.
Hawke leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He nodded at something Grieg was saying, then replied, but his gaze remained on Annabelle.
She rubbed the back of her hand through her glove. The skin where his lips had touched prickled like it had brushed against stinging nettle. She felt her cheeks heat at the memory.
The healer gave a knowing smile.
Annabelle paid for the remedies, and the group left. Breathing the fresh cool air was a relief from the cramped heat of the shop.
“It will be night soon,” Shadbolt said, looking toward the lowering sun.
“And it is time for supper,” Grieg said. “We should take rooms here rather than travel back to the ship only to return in the morning.”
Hawke agreed, and Annabelle was relieved. The thought of walking through Basse-Terre in the dark was terrifying.
The inn they found was merely a tavern with a few rooms on the upper floor.
The taproom was dingy and crowded with tables.
The hanging lanterns did not provide enough light to illuminate the space, and there was no breeze to disperse the smoke in the air.
Shadowy figures moved in the room, and she could hear muttered voices, women’s laughter, the scrapes of chairs, and the thud of tankards being set down the tables. But she could see nothing clearly.
Annabelle didn’t need to be told to remain close while Hawke spoke to the innkeeper.
The innkeeper looked toward the group, scowling and wiping his hands on his filthy apron. “Sleeping quarters are upstairs. No other guests tonight, so take any room you like.” He handed them each a lantern. “You’ll wish to freshen up. I’ll have your supper ready when you return.”
They climbed the staircase and found the bedchambers facing a balcony that overlooked the main room. Annabelle could feel the eyes of the patrons on her as she opened a door and peeked inside the dark room.
“I apologize, Lady Annabelle.” Hawke took her lantern and lit it. “I know you’re used to much finer lodgings.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “This will do quite nicely.”
The small room contained only a cot with a straw mattress and a washstand.
A glance at the water in the basin told her it hadn’t been changed in a while.
Annabelle removed her hat and gloves, setting them on the bed.
She wished she’d brought a hairbrush but made do with finger-combing her curls and putting her hair combs back into place.
She smoothed down the curls that covered her ear.
Hawke remained in the doorway. “Should I have supper sent to your room?”
Annabelle shook her head. She did not want to be left alone.
The four ate in a subdued silence. Annabelle could feel the men’s tension as they scanned the room between bites, and she knew it was because of her that they worried.
The day had begun with the anticipation of an outing on a beautiful tropical island.
But after the encounter with the men in the alley, everything felt ominous.
Her companions were on edge, and she could think of nothing to say that would ease their apprehension.
The sound of a fiddle filled the taproom, and there were excited murmurs from the patrons around them.
Annabelle’s companions each put a hand on their weapon.
The fiddle was joined soon after by a flute and then another.
As if it was the signal they had been waiting for, the diners stood, chairs scraping on the wooden floors.
Hawke, Shadbolt, and Grieg jumped to their feet, and Annabelle was a breath away from hiding beneath the table. But none of the people looked in their direction. They were all making their way toward the back of the tavern. Toward the music.
Annabelle and her companions looked at one another, confused. Then, they followed.
The crowd went through the tavern’s rear door and into a large courtyard. In one corner, the musicians sat on a dais, playing a jolly tune. Torches burned around the edges of the courtyard, but they were unnecessary as a bright full moon had risen.
From all around came the sound of cheerful voices and happy laughter. The entire mood of the evening changed into one of joy as the crowd she’d feared only moments earlier began dancing around her.
The celebration was like nothing Annabelle had seen before.
Rather than strictly constrained steps in a stuffy ballroom, these movements were uninhibited, free, and wild.
Men and women tromped over the hard-packed dirt, spinning and hopping.
Some clapped or stomped their feet in time with the music.
Annabelle clasped her hands, swaying from side to side, unable to hold back a grin.