Chapter Two
“I want you to go with Warstein.”
Abigail jerked her head up from the book in her lap as her father entered the hotel room. “I already said no. Not without you.”
He sighed. “We will run out of items to barter soon. I visited four banks this morning and none would extend credit without a letter of credit. They wouldn’t even accept my ledger verifying our holdings in Savannah, saying they’ll still need references.
It could take weeks to secure such confirmation.
Warstein was right. I’m going to have to find a job—hopefully one that includes lodging, but it likely won’t be suitable for you. ”
A familiar tightness wrapped around her ribs. “I don’t want to stay by myself with a family I’ve never met.”
“If you go, you’ll be safe and I can focus on getting things arranged. It shouldn’t be long. Once I have employment, I’m certain I can at least secure a line of credit.”
She played with the hem of her sleeve, twisting the delicate lace between her fingers. “How long do you think it will be before we can go home?”
“Whenever that bloody pirate is taken care of. I’ve already sent a letter to Washington, but it could be a while before we see help from my friends there. Besides, there might not be anything to worry about. Lieutenant Caldwell may have been able to take Jame—Thorne out the night we left.”
Her stomach turned. “We’ll be outnumbered ten to one.
” The lieutenant’s words had haunted her ever since they left Savannah.
While they fled, her best friends, Samantha and Josephine, had stayed behind to help hold off the pirate and his men.
Not knowing their fates made her fingers tremble over the page in her book.
Her heart seized as it did each time she thought of them. They could be…
No. She would not allow herself to even consider it.
“Why is he after us?”
He jerked his head up at her soft words. “It’s none of your concern.”
“How is it none of my concern if my life is in danger? You recognized his name. Surely you must know what brought this upon us.”
His lips settled into a thin line as he glanced out the window. He flipped out his pocket watch, turning it over again and again in his hand. “These matters are not fit for a woman’s ears. Warstein’s friend can keep you safe, so leave it to those capable of handling it, and don’t worry yourself.”
She gritted her teeth. “But I will worry. Especially about you. Please don’t make me go.”
His hand clenched into a fist around the watch. “It’s too late. I’ve already accepted his offer. He will be here shortly to take you there himself.”
Abigail sank back against the cushions, unable to mask the panic rising in her chest.
Her father cleared his throat. “Go pack your things.”
She rose, the forgotten book thudding to the floor. “Everything I own is already in one bag.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Very well. We can wait downstairs.”
With a tight inhale, she swept her bag from the sideboard and strode to the door. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble floor as her father struggled to keep up. On the broad stone steps outside, Abigail tried to steady her breathing.
Before she could gather her thoughts, he pointed up the street. “There he is.”
Abigail shielded her eyes and frowned as the merchant’s wagon came into view. A simple wooden bench mounted atop rough-hewn wheels and drawn by a single mule, it rattled to a halt. Her stomach clenched as she followed her father down the steps to the street.
Her hand tightened around her reticule as they drew near the wagon. “You expect me to travel alone with him, in that?” The words slipped out in a sharp whisper.
Warstein chuckled and gave her a knowing look as her father crossed his arms. “A fine carriage won’t make it down the roads we’ll need to travel.”
After slanting her a worried glance, her father tossed her bag into the back of the wagon and helped her up.
Abigail climbed onto the bench, perching carefully next to the merchant.
She had hardly taken her seat before the reins slapped and they lurched into motion.
A pang of panic twisted in her chest and she stole a look back over her shoulder.
Her father’s figure grew smaller against the road, his hand raised in a silent farewell, and her chest tightened.
Abigail sat in silence as the wagon rattled down the street.
Soon, cobblestones gave way to packed dirt roads and the buildings fell behind them, replaced with small farmsteads.
The scent of fresh-turned soil and cut hay replaced the overpowering smells of the city.
As they traveled, the road skirted low, marshy areas where reeds bowed above dark water.
Dragonflies flitted past in rushes of blue and green and the occasional heron lifted with a startled caw.
After a few miles, the marshes transitioned to canopies of cypress and tupelo, their trunks rising from slow moving channels.
Spanish moss hung low from the branches above, the wispy clumps a comforting reminder of home.
Frogs trilled as dappled-green swamp closed in around them and they left all signs of civilization behind.
Abigail frowned. “Where are you bringing me?”
“I’m taking you to the Moreau homestead. It’s quite a way from town, with very few neighbors. It’s the best place I can think of to disappear—short of traveling to Europe. Thorne will not expect you to be hidden away in a swamp.”
“How do you know them?”
“Lucien’s father worked for me many years ago. He was one of my best sailors, and his son is an honorable man.”
She pressed her lips together. “So, I’ll be staying with him and his wife?”
Mr. Warstein’s gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. “He’s not married.”
“Oh.” Abigail folded her hands in her lap as unease wound through her. “I thought…I thought you said I would be staying with a family.”
“His aunt lives with him. I haven’t met her yet, but she’s highly regarded in town. You’ll be safe—and chaperoned.”
The road narrowed further, overgrown brush pressing in on both sides of the wagon.
Abigail twined her fingers together. “Do you think Thorne will come to New Orleans?”
One gray brow lifted as he glanced over. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were already here.”
She swallowed and couldn’t help a quick glance at the empty road behind them.
The wagon jolted over a root, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the bench.
The trees thickened, gnarled branches forming shifting patterns in the dim light filtering through the canopy.
A distant birdcall echoed somewhere deep in the swamp, the sound startling in the heavy silence.
“I… I just don’t understand,” she admitted, voice tight. “Why? Why are we being hunted? What could my father have done to warrant this? He’s retired from the Navy and is a respected man. Surely this pirate can be reasoned with.”
Warstein’s gaze remained calm and unyielding. “Thorne chooses his targets carefully. If he believes someone wronged him, there is no negotiating.”
Abigail’s stomach churned as the wagon bounced along the uneven path, the scent of damp earth rising from the marshy ground beside them.
The wagon slowed, and Mr. Warstein pointed ahead. “Here we are.”
Abigail’s eyes widened. Surely, he jested. The narrow drive disappeared into heavy brush, seemingly dead-ending in the swamp where weeds grew over the wheel ruts in tangled mats. Still, he turned the mule and they bumped along the overgrown path, ducking as branches swiped at the wagon.
Abigail’s eyes widened as a two-story house came into view.
It rose from the swamp, its sagging roofline hinting at its age.
Paint, once a pale cream, lifted in curling strips from weathered siding.
Rose bushes thrust toward the sky in tangled masses, spilling over the railing onto the crooked porch.
Shutters hung at uneven angles on rusted hinges with curtains drawn across each window.
It looked… It looked abandoned.
The wagon creaked to a halt, and Warstein hopped down, extending a gloved hand to help Abigail to the moss-covered ground.
Long grass swept against her skirts as they made their way to the porch, where the wood bowed beneath their feet, threatening to give way.
Mr. Warstein lifted his fist and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the small clearing around the house.
Silence greeted them. Abigail swallowed as seconds stretched into minutes.
He frowned. “Perhaps I took the wrong dri—”
Before her relief could fully wash over her, a board creaked inside, and the curtain at the window shifted. Abigail’s heart began to race. The door cracked open, and she caught a flash of long, graying hair as slender fingers tightened around the worn wood.
“Who’s there?” A woman’s soft voice greeted them.
“Henry Warstein. I’m here to see Lucien.”
“Warstein?” Surprise laced the woman’s tone, and the crack narrowed to a slit. “Lucien isn’t home. You’ll have to come back.”
The merchant’s hand flashed out to catch the door before it closed. “I don’t have time to come back. This is Miss Abigail Ross. I was hoping you and Lucien would agree to let her stay here for a while.”
“Stay here? With us?” A laugh came from behind the door. “Lucien would never agree.”
Thank God. Abigail began to turn, the need to escape the crumbling home overtaking her.
But the merchant stayed put. “Ms. Moreau, please. Her life is in danger. I hold Lucien in respect, having known his father for decades. I would not ask this favor if it were not truly necessary.”
Abigail’s pulse thundered in her temples. Please say no.
A reluctant sigh answered him. “Very well. Leave her here on the porch.”
“I beg your pardon?” Warstein blinked. “Surely she should be brought inside?”
Another long pause. “If you must know, I’m not fully dressed.”
He tugged at his collar. “Ah. Very well… I shall remain out here with her.”
“No need. She’ll be perfectly safe”