Page 88 of Barbarous

“Captain.” For once the younger man did not wear his insolent smile.

“Please, sit.” Hugh gestured to the chair the exhausted man had been occupying before his entrance.

“I ride ’ere like the devil, my lord, but ’ope I am not already too late,” he confessed as he seated himself beside a small table where Kemal had already set up a pot of coffee and bread and butter for the famished man.

“I ’ave been at Whitton ever since dat pig ’ave leff.” He paused in this unkind epithet to stuff a chunk of heavily buttered bread into his mouth and wash it down with a generous mouthful of black coffee.

Hugh almost rolled his eyes—he should have waited to feed the man. Martín’s speech was almost impossible to understand even without a mouthful of food. He could not make the sound th, and instead pronounced it as a d; treated words beginning with an o as if they had an h in front of them, and vice-versa; and referred to inanimate objects as he or she.

“I ’ave bedded dat, dat”—here he appeared to search without success for an English word before resorting to the French equivalent—“salope until my cock, he is raw, and still she give me nutting. Nutting! And ’oo do I see come in de night? You cannot believe it, Captain. You will never believe ’oo show up.”

“Good Lord! Who, Martín?”

“Calitain!”

Hugh blinked. “Calitain? Here? You must be mistaken.”

Martín gave him a withering look of contempt. “I tink I know if I see Calitain.”

“What in the name of God would he be doing at Whitton?” Hugh demanded, his mind reeling.

“Not in God’s name—the Devil’s. And dat is what I find out.” Martín’s voice was triumphant even through a mouthful of bread. “I make sure ee not see me, but I sneak out and go to the stable, where Blake is waiting, dat . . . dat tête de chou!” He shook his head in disgust. “You know Blake?” Martín demanded.

Hugh smothered a smile at Martín’s use of the English slang term, cabbage head. Clearly he’d been working on his English, although not the level of discourse Hugh had hoped for.

“I’ve met Blake—he is Hastings’s footman or groom or some such.” Hugh could no longer stand to wait while the younger man struggled to find the correct English words.

“Tell me the rest in French, Martín.”

Martín’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Captain,” he said in his native tongue. “Calitain told Blake that if his master didn’t bring him the remainder of the money he owed, he would take the offer to some other Englishman. He also said he would make ‘Aystink very sorry.’” Martín stuffed another chunk of bread in his mouth and Hugh waited impatiently while he chewed and swallowed.

“Blake tried to calm Calitain and told him ‘Aystink had the money and would meet him at his ship. When Calitain left, I followed him to a shack outside of town—eh, maybe for smuggling. I saw only one other man with him.” Martín gulped down a mouthful of coffee before continuing. “After I left there I went to talk to Delacroix. He said he would do what he could to find Calitain’s ship. And after I left him I rode directly here. En fin!” He made a chopping motion with his hand to indicate he’d finished his tale.

Hugh sat back in his chair, speechless at the turn of events. Calitain had been running slaves for years. Hugh could think of only one reason the notorious slaver would risk coming onto English soil—where he was a wanted man: to collect money from a delinquent investor.

“If Hastings owes him money it can only be for one thing,” Hugh finally said.

“Oui, slaves.” Martín’s voice was flat. An escaped slave himself, Martín was not well-disposed toward those who dealt in human cargo.

The first time Hugh met Martín, it had been with the blood of his last master still fresh on his hands. Apparently the man had attempted to make use of Martín’s body one time too often for the young man’s patience. Like many who worked the bordellos of New Orleans, Martín was of mixed blood. The fact that he was what the Americans called high creole, owing only a fraction of his heritage to the blood of captured Africans, made no difference to his situation under American law. He’d been born a slave and would have died one if he’d not taken matters into his own hands.

Hugh looked at Martín as he worked on the last pieces of what had been a formidable pile of bread. While he seemed much like any other man his age—obsessed equally with women, money, and fine clothes—there was a strange kind of deadness in his exotic golden eyes.

Hugh had seen the look more than once when he looked in the mirror. It was a deadness that came from having once been another man’s possession. Not always as well tended as his master’s other livestock—horses or dogs—and constantly awaiting the day when one’s value decreased and one would face a humiliating sale, to be passed along to some other master.

“Now that Hastings’s plan to marry Lady Davenport has fallen apart, I can only assume he has decided to ransom her.” Hugh took a deep breath and forced himself to put into words the sickening thoughts in his head. “It is also possible Hastings has learned of the bad blood between me and Calitain and will offer Daphne to him as payment.”

Martín nodded grimly.

“The boys mentioned that the men who tried to abduct them talked about a boat ride. I believe Hastings must be taking her to Calitain, who is obviously somewhere close to Eastbourne.”

Martín finished the last of his coffee and exhaled with satisfaction. “You are ready to ride, milor’ ?” His lips twisted into an impudent grin, making sure Hugh knew that it would take more than one grueling ride to slow down a man of his abilities.

“I am only delayed by the pleasure of watching you gorge yourself,” Hugh replied, already on his feet. The door opened and Kemal entered.

“Ah, Kemal, perfect timing. Will you lay out my regular kit, not the town foppery, pack my new pair of pistols, and take another pair for you and Martín. I’ll have my sword as well,” he said with a grim smile. “Perhaps I’ll even find somebody to use it on.”

Chapter Twenty-One