Beloved Captive by Kathleen Y'Barbo

Perhaps he would look to Fletcher for advice. Indeed, this sort of thing could be best decided when more than one was involved. But before he could speak about it, Caleb knew he had another to consult. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave for a spell.”
    “A nap this early in the afternoon?” Fletcher chuckled.  
    “A visit with the Lord,” he said. “There’s a conversation to be had.”
    “I see.” If his curiosity was piqued, Fletcher’s expression gave nothing of it away.
    “And when He and I are done, I shall seek you out for some advice if you’re of a mind to lend it.”
    His smile was quick and broad. “Always, lad,” he said. “Always.”

Chapter 9

    May 27, 1836
    Aboard the Sunday Service

    Only the broad back of the stranger was within Emilie’s reach, but despite the smoke that burnt her throat and stung her eyes, she fought with all she had. Finally, the man strode back into her cabin and tossed her unceremoniously onto the bunk.
    He was a large man, wide of shoulder and clad in rags that looked to have once been elegant clothing. A garish yellow coat barely covered the remains of a fine linen shirt. Atop his mop of filthy blond hair, he wore a gentleman’s top hat that had seen better days. Where she expected to see boots, the man was barefoot.
    All of this she saw as she plotted the best path to the open door.
    Before Emilie could flee, he had her hands. With one knee, he pinned her to the mattress while he lashed a length of rope around her wrists.
      “Would that the flames weren’t upon us, lassie,” he said, his face near and his breath vile. “For a woman of spirit sets my blood a-boilin’.”
    A crash somewhere near the cabin door caused the man to jolt. Seizing her chance, Emilie pulled away. His lunge sent Emilie skittering to the corner of the bunk. “I’d rather go down with this ship than leave it with you,” she said before dissolving into a fit of coughing.
    When he came near, she recovered just in time to rake her nails across his cheek. That failed to dissuade him, so she kicked him, landing a blow that sent him backward.  
    The man rose, and a trickle of blood traced a path down his pock-
marked cheek.  
    “Miss,” he said as his chest heaved and the top hat tumbled to the floor, “ye jest got yer wish.”
    Time skidded to a halt, and Emilie watched the horrible man reach for the pistol hanging from his belt by a red silken cord.  
    He lifted the pistol.
    Checked his aim.
    Smiled.
    Without warning, a wall of water divided them.

    * * *
    Havana

    That evening after a dinner of sumptuous proportions, Caleb finally broached the subject of his letter from the attorney general. Rather than describe it, he simply handed the letter to Fletcher.  
    “Read it,” Caleb said, “and you’ll see my need to visit with the Lord this afternoon.”
    Fletcher quirked an iron-gray brow. “Lad, one never requires a letter from some fellow in Washington to have a need to speak to the Lord.”
    “Enough of the jest,” Caleb said with mock impatience as he lifted the mug of strong coffee. “Read and then I shall entertain your thoughts rather than allowing your thoughts to try and entertain me.”
    “Clever,” he said as he lifted the letter and lowered his gaze.
    For a moment, Caleb turned his attention to the brilliantly hued room, its glorious tile and heavy timbers giving the impression they sat in the reception hall of some grand Spanish hacienda. Beneath the light of what seemed to be a thousand lamps twinkling to music provided by a skilled guitarist, all of Havana looked to be in attendance.
    Were not men of all kinds dining in the establishment, Caleb might have felt out of place. His overlong, sun-streaked hair and length of beard made him appear as though he’d long ago given up on a barber’s skills, yet he looked no worse than some and better than others.  
    He chuckled at the thought of what his colleagues at the attorney general’s office would