Beloved Castaway by Kathleen Y'Barbo Read Free Book Online

Carter?” Isabelle’s sister called. “Perhaps you should take the reins. If you’re agreeable to our terms, that is.”
    Stifling a grin, Josiah gave the woman a curt nod. In what was possibly the most foolish of his decisions of the evening thus far, Josiah pressed past Emilie Gayarre to put his hands around Isabelle’s waist and hand her into the back of the wagon. She landed easily on the mound of canvas, then quickly scampered away.  
    Forcing his attention away from Isabelle, he turned to offer help to her sister. Shunning his assistance, Emilie Gayarre climbed aboard and motioned for him to take the reins from the cowering Dumont woman.
    Josiah gripped the reins and slapped them on the back of the pitiful excuse for a horse, urging the nag into a slow forward motion. This accomplished, he slid a sideways glance at the Dumont woman.  
    “She made a misstep and fell from the lower staircase at my home,” Emilie said. “I feel just terrible about it, but with our concerns over missing our appointment with you, sir, we hadn’t the time to repair the damages.”
    Damages? He cast another glance at the cowering female. Hardly the word he would have chosen, yet what business had he in caring?  
    Josiah leaned into the turn as he eased the wagon around the bend leading out of the alley. In a matter of weeks, England and these women would be behind him with the coast of Africa beckoning. How simple a life he aspired to, merely a ship loaded with cargo and a fair wind in his sails.
    What cargo his hold bore, he hadn’t a care. Anything that brought a profit; anything that kept the Jude and its crew at sea.
    Liar.
    Josiah cast a furtive glance for the owner of the voice. Who dared cast aspersions on his honesty?
    He was many things—a rake and a wastrel, according to his mother; and a serious disappointment to God and family, according to his father—but as yet, he’d not stooped to dishonesty.
    Yet you lie to yourself.
    This time he knew from whence the voice came. It was his own.
    The wagon rolled on toward the dock, and with each turn of the noisily squeaking wheels, Josiah fought the urge to curse himself for a fool.  
    Any cargo save this one, the horrific symphony seemed to declare. Any cargo save this one.
    ---

    Any vessel save this one, Isabelle’s senses screamed. Any other means to flee.
    It was silly, this gnawing fear in her belly, brought on no doubt by the nearness of the infidel Carter and the surprise that her escape from New Orleans would not be made alone. And what of the mademoiselle and her companion? Why had a day so anticipated in the Gayarre and Dumont households ended in an alley where heretics and thieves roamed rather than in the glorious cathedral, home of the wealthy and pious?
    And where among this confusion was Monsieur Andre Gayarre, the mademoiselle’s brother? Had he not been betrothed to this woman who now rode among them? Did his hand spill the blood staining the fine lady’s bridal gown?
    So many questions.
    “Isabelle, how are you faring?” Emilie called.  
    “I am well, thank you, mademoiselle,” she answered.
    Isabelle fixed her eyes on the blackness above, preferring the nothingness of the night to the details of the day. It gave her some assurance that while the world seemed to spin in endless circles, ever changing and never certain, the Lord Almighty remained a sure, steady rock on which to stand.  
    The wagon rolled past a neat line of vessels, each bobbing at anchor with mast posts disappearing into the evening sky. Here the docks swarmed with activity, and the chattering of many tongues made understanding impossible. The occasional crash of wood against wood punctuated the constant sound of water lapping against the quay.
    The scents were stronger than in the alley or back on Burgundy Street. Rotting timber and humid night air competed with the odor of many sorts of cargo and the stench of unwashed bodies to form a pungent mixture. Above it all hung the