Page 95 of Barbarous

Daphne ate. She followed his example, dipping pieces of bread into what was very strong coffee; the combination was surprisingly good. She studied the Frenchman surreptitiously while she ate. Like the sailors she’d seen on Hugh’s ship, both Calitain and Jean-Paul were hard-looking, as if they’d been fired in a kiln. The fine network of scars that webbed his face and throat made him resemble a broken piece of pottery that had been rudely reassembled. His excessively muscular forearms rested on the table, the sinews rippling beneath his tanned skin. His hands were almost as big as Hugh’s and just as calloused from a lifetime of hard work. He looked as if he could break her in half just as easily as he tore chunks from the loaf of bread.

Both men moved with a brittle awareness, as if they were constantly anticipating attack from any quarter. While Jean-Paul was tense, Calitain looked like a man in the process of coming undone, unraveling in fits and starts and cracking along the many seams that riddled him. He was never still. Even when his body was motionless his eyes were not. They flickered restlessly about the room, like wolves circling a kill. Sometimes his lips moved but no sound came out, as if he were engaged in an endless internal argument.

All in all, he was the most terrifying person she’d ever met.

Daphne was concentrating on not doing anything that might annoy the volatile man when an agonized moan came from the corner of the room. She and Calitain turned to see Malcolm hunched against the wall, clutching his head in both hands.

Calitain burst out laughing, the sound heavy with contempt.

“Wha—what was in that bottle?” Malcolm whimpered.

“It was nothing but a little clap of thunder.” Calitain’s lips twisted into a sneer. “It is one of Jean-Paul’s specialties. You don’t want to hurt his feelings, do you?” His face lost all traces of humor. Jean-Paul, also, had stopped whatever he was doing to stare at Malcolm’s shivering form.

“No! I meant nothing untoward, only that is was rather . . . uh, strong. Devil take it but my head is pounding. Might I have some tea?” he asked piteously.

Daphne could have told her cousin that asking these men for anything, not to mention anything that sounded too English—a country they clearly despised—was a terrible idea.

Calitain was at Malcolm’s throat before she could blink.

“What did you say?” He shook Malcolm so hard his teeth rattled like dice. He shot a look at Jean-Paul while squeezing Malcolm with one enormous fist. “What did my lord say, Jean-Paul?” he bellowed, spittle flying out of his mouth and showering Malcolm’s face.

Jean-Paul shrugged, taking his time before uttering the first words she’d heard him speak. “Ee wants le thé.” He grinned, mockingly emphasizing the French word for tea.

“That’s what I thought he said.” Calitain frowned, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was pleased or disappointed he’d been correct. He blinked at Malcolm as if he did not recall why he was gripping his neck.

Malcolm gaped up at his captor and Calitain released him just as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, watching without a flicker of emotion as Malcolm slid back to the soiled mattress, gasping for air like a trout on a stringer.

Calitain pointed to the third chair at the small table. “Get up and eat. Jean-Paul will give you some good French coffee, none of le thé.”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet and flung himself toward the flimsy chair, his face an unrecognizable mask of fear. He yelped and cringed when Jean-Paul came up behind him and thumped a chipped bowl of coffee onto the table.

Calitain watched Malcolm eye the bowl and then look at both his and Daphne’s mugs. For an instant Daphne thought Malcolm might be so foolish as to request a proper mug. But then he looked at Calitain and saw something that made him pick up the bowl and slurp noisily.

Calitain turned to Daphne, a malicious gleam in his eyes.

“We are not set up for company, Jean-Paul and me. We did not think to be here so long. In fact, we did not think to be here at all, but for his lordship here. It is my fault, I suppose. I took his lordship’s word that he would have my money. The word of a gentleman, eh, Jean-Paul?”

The other Frenchman gave Malcolm a look that was even more menacing for its complete detachment.

Malcolm prudently studied his bowl of coffee rather than the mentally unhinged pirate with whom he’d made such an unfortunate alliance. Calitain’s hand clenched and twitched on the table and Daphne thought he might strike Malcolm, but he just waved his hand, the gesture flamboyant and dismissive.

“I should not complain,” he said, leaning close and taking one of Daphne’s hands, caressing it lightly as he spoke. “But for the lordling here, I would not soon be reunited with my good friend One-Eyed Standish. I cannot wait to see the complete look of surprise on my old friend’s face. Just like the surprise it was for me to learn he is Lord Ramsay, eh? A baron, Jean-Paul! Can you believe it?” He looked from Daphne to the laconic Frenchman.

“La vérité est plus étrange que la fiction,” Jean-Paul said, smiling at Malcolm in a particularly unpleasant way.

Calitain, too, looked at Malcolm, his expression like that of a young boy who was about to pull the wings off a fly.

“You know what Jean-Paul means, eh, milor’? You are an educated member of the British aristocracy. No doubt you speak several languages with fluency.” Calitain’s eyes lit with unholy amusement when Malcolm miserably shook his head. Calitain barked a laugh and turned to Daphne, looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if he were reading something written on her face. “You are a smart lady, not like your ignorant companion, eh? Tell milor’ what it means.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Daphne translated, giving in to the small smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth as she stared across at Malcolm. In spite of the unstable nature of her current position, she was truly enjoying Malcolm’s humiliation at the hands of the diabolical lunatic. Calitain saw her smile and laughed; this time the sound was genuine.

“I think the lady does not like you, my lord.”

Daphne realized the madman was purposely misstating Malcolm’s title. He was crazy, not stupid.

His eyes flickered to Malcolm for an instant before returning to her. “Your amour, Lord Ramsay, he and I have been—shall we say—not the best of friends these past years. He is a man who holds a grudge, you see.” He lifted his hands in a very Gallic gesture and shrugged. “I am not that type of man. To me it is business. You understand?” It seemed he was finally asking her a question that required an answer.

“Yes.” Daphne gave him the answer he wanted and kept her face expressionless.