A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2)

by Danielle Thorne

  Just as stars began to emerge from beneath the cover of daylight, James noticed a group of men crowded over the forward hatch. He ignored them for a time so they would not think him cross, but two of them jerked their heads back and looked his way so fast his gut tensed. He swept his gaze across the deck in search of Mr. Howe, but the bosun was nowhere to be seen.

  Heads began to turn. Something was up. He called for the nearest ship's boy—Mr. Albermarle's son—who was knotting rope in an out-of-the-way place along the rail. The barefoot lad with bark-colored hair stuck out in all directions approached. He nibbled on a piece of rolled tobacco, his face pensive as he watched the men over the hatch.

  James nodded toward the crew. "What's wrong with Mr. Rusk?"

  The boy glanced toward the bow; he'd obviously been lost in his own thoughts, too. "I don't know, sir. I was below deck 'til just now." He hesitated and a guilty look crossed his face. "I..." he began, then looked away.

  "Go on then. Find out what."

  James hated to leave the con and insert himself in the commotion. He had not fully earned the men's trust, he knew, but they seemed to find him likeable enough despite his lack of experience. More men looked with concern toward the hatch. James glanced up and saw some of the crew on the yardarms staring down. Drawing a breath of courage and hating to make a fuss, he squared his shoulders.

  "What's that then?" he called in a firm tone. Young Albermarle was lost from view, surrounded by the men. Two of them dropped down the ladder as he approached, and he heard raised voices from below.

  "Smoke," someone said just as the scent hit his nose. James inhaled sharply, pushed the crowd aside, and dropped down the ladder just as the bosun came up. His eyes were enormous, and a sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

  "There's fire in the hold," Mr. Howe snapped and then he began to shout: "The buckets! The alarm!" All at once, the deck exploded into action, but James froze at the top of the hatch.

  Mr. Howe grabbed his arm and shook it. "Fire in the hold, I don't know how, but it's spreading fast." The smell of smoke was stronger now, and James began to feel dizzy. "What's your orders? Mr. Hathaway? Sir!"

  James swallowed, expecting to see bright orange flames crackling in the darkness below him at any moment.

  "Sir?"

  The ship. His post! James took a breath and jumped, nearly shattering his ankles and knees. He grabbed a lantern and staggered down the passageway to another hatch that dropped to the next deck underneath. The air grew thick and the pungent odor of smoke, choking. A shadow burst up the ladder from below followed by two more men and empty buckets just as the ship's bell began to ring out in a pounding clatter.

  "It's out of control," one cried, and the trio dashed past him. James felt a hot draft erupt from the hatch's mouth like the sinister breath of a volcano. His mind raced, unsure of what to do. He could not put out a fire alone. He didn't have the authority or the cowardice to scream for everyone to abandon ship.

  James tried to think, to sort things out in an organized manner, but he was a man of action—spontaneous action, and trying to consider every detail paralyzed him. Perhaps that was what Papa had meant all along.

  His mind clouded as the air became acrid. There was no room for mistakes. Eerily, he watched a red-orange glow emerge from the hold. It reminded him of light striking the locks of Phoebe's hair, and then pounding footfalls came up from behind. He found himself moving into a water bucket line as Mr. Howe screamed orders echoed by Captain Ogden above deck. It was no good.

  James could feel heat from the boards beneath his feet. The far end of a bulwark where hammocks were slung burst into flames. Some of the men shouted in terror and scurried up the ladder into the night. The choking smoke became unbearable, and his coughs grew more ragged.

  He stepped aside as licking fire moved along the deck at his feet and looked back in the near darkness. It was only him and a frantic Mr. Howe left, with the Albermarle boy at the foot of the ladder looking all around with rounded eyes. The boy shook his head like he could make it all go away by refusing to accept it, but someone had to...

  James's eyes burned and began to seep. "Go!" he shouted, realizing they would all three burn to death if they did not escape now. He jerked Howe around and shoved him forward, and they stumbled their way to the ladder. The bosun grabbed young Albermarle by the neck and shoved him upward into someone's hands. There was no one waiting for James when he managed to drag himself out of the smoking hole. All around him everyone screamed orders at everyone else and lines whizzed through box and tackle as two small skiffs were lowered.

  James crawled to his feet gasping for air. Captain Ogden towered over the helm shouting orders and shaking his fists, barely discernable in the twilight. Smoke leaked from all of the portholes, and the entire ship had a strange glow.

  The powder magazine! remembered James, and he suddenly understood the panic. There were guns and gunpowder stored in the ship's magazine for protection. He dashed to the rail where men slid over, some with casks and others waiting for the second boat to drop. He raised an arm and shouted, "Captain!" toward Ogden. It was then he saw little Albermarle dashing back and forth like a frantic rabbit trying to follow orders from a dozen mouths.

  "Boy!" he shouted, and then he remembered his name. "Zachariah!" he screamed.

  The boy froze in his tracks, panting. James motioned him over, and he stumbled forward. Tears streamed down his face. "It wasn't me," he cried, but every other detail on his face suggested he'd had something to do with this.

  James grabbed Zachariah by the shoulder. The second skiff was on its way down, half-full. Other members of the crew flung themselves over the ship's side, clinging to the ratlines like desperate spiders trying to stay in their webs.

  They can't swim, he thought, remembering so many sailors could not. He looked back and saw Howe coming across the deck dragging a dazed Captain Ogden by the arm. When the captain saw James, he spat, "What have you done, Hathaway? What have you done?" Spittle sprayed from his mouth, and his eyes swelled like two moons.

  It was all gibberish to James. The boy beside him put his arms over his head and ducked as a rumble threatened from the belly of the ship. "Zooks!" James cried, "she's going to blow!"

  The sugar! If its dust had not started the fire, the flammable sweet powder would certainly turn the ship into a fireball. Heat rolled through the air in waves.

  "Take the boy!" shouted Howe, who ignored the ranting captain, too.

  "You go," ordered James, forcing himself to come to his senses. He'd asked for this job to prove himself. He could think fast in a canoe in the Cooper's mad currents. This was just a little more water if he focused only on what was happening around the ship. He might often scramble at the last minute, but he never overturned.

  Zachariah went over the side, scrambling to catch the limp rigging, and James went after him. He barely held on tight enough to keep from falling into the sloshing water below. Grabbing the tail of the boy's shirt, he guided him down into a skiff attempting to push off. There was little room left.

  The ship grumbled, threatening again, and a blast exploded on the port side. The ratlines trembled, and James looked up to see two more men coming down. He pushed Albermarle's son down hard, and with a scream, the boy fell the remaining distance into the boat, landing on the angry, frantic bodies of men.

  "Wait!" James shouted as it began to pull away. The moment seemed surreal as a calm moon shined down on the scene. Its silver rays reflected off the swaying sea. The ship rocked about in an odd motion, the gap between her hull and the departing skiff increased, and James heard Ogden scream in fury from overhead.

  There was little choice but to let go and hope for the best. His instincts told him to hold fast, but he knew he was losing precious time. Flames climbed up the stern now. The taffrail and a mizzen sail caught fire.

  With a deep breath, James jumped, his arms outstretched to catch the edge of the skiff as it floated away. He knew the instant his
flying feet smacked the hard surface of the sea he'd missed his mark. The bosun and he would drown with the Lily's captain. He would never be wed to Phoebe Applewaite, and she would never know he loved her.

  TWO WEEKS AFTER SHE stood on the oyster shell-strewn sand and waved goodbye, Phoebe realized she no longer obsessed over who would buy her goods in the marketplace. The new piles of handkerchiefs and delicately embroidered fichus had grown little by little, but the pressure to make a sale had eased if not evaporated. Her heart felt lighter. There was no schedule for her next shipment of embroidered goods so now was the time to focus on her shop's inventory.

  Mama had insisted Phoebe wear her wedding gown, for Winnifred had refused it when she married Daniel. Being as it was of lovely ivory silk with bright green sprigs accented by peach, pink, and blue blossoms and that it had been only slightly altered once, Phoebe agreed. Mama was right, the colors would set off the auburn in her hair and make her apricot skin—as James called it—glow.

  They found a mantua-maker in town who could fit them in with the wedding months away, but Phoebe insisted that she refashion the gown herself. True, she was weary of needlework, but she could not surrender to the thought that she should pay someone to do something she could do herself. She might have only been a child at the time, but the War of Independence had affected her in that way. For others, like Mama and Winnifred, it apparently had the opposite effect.

  With clouds rolling across the dull sky in ominous swells, Phoebe pushed the pile of lush fabric aside and stood up from the settee. Charity had offered to bring her coffee, but she'd declined, thinking that a swift walk down to the market to purchase more thread would be a good opportunity to get some fresh air before the spring rain began.

  Phoebe also refused Charity's offer to accompany her, and as was her habit, fetched a wool cape to keep away the damp. She hurried out, her pattens keeping her shoes above the sandy mud that lingered where the cobblestones had been unearthed. Soon, the holes in the street would be filled with salted puddles if the foreboding weather was any indication.

  She scurried down to a dry goods shop on the corner of Broad Street, stamping her feet before she pulled open the door. A little brass bell tinkled, and she smiled to herself. Yes, she would have one, too, maybe a whole string of them to announce the arrival of her customers.

  After scrutinizing the inventory arranged behind the counter, Phoebe shuffled up and down rows of displays on the other side of the store. A flat sweetgrass basket the size of a tabletop was filled with various shades of fine gossamer thread hetcheled from flax. It looked like the perfect thing to trim her reinvented wedding gown. Something new for something passed along from yesterday. She smiled faintly to herself.

  "Oh, Miss Applewaite. How lovely you look this morning."

  A familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts. Behind her stood Mr. Quinton. He doffed his hat, and she gave him a curtsey that almost faltered when she saw his married sister behind him. She forced herself to move her tongue. "Good morning to you, Mr. Quinton, despite your exaggerations. It's quite windy and damp and has blown my hat out of shape."

  Alice Leonard stared. Phoebe curtsied with brittle knees. "Mrs. Leonard."

  Mr. Quinton slanted his head and made a show of studying her. "My apologies, Mrs. Hathaway-to-be. I only saw the lovely locks draped over the collar of your cape and knew it was you."

  Something in his tone sounded derisive, but Phoebe bit back a frown.

  "I don't suppose you've heard from your intended?" Mr. Quinton continued. "He left a fortnight ago and forgot to say goodbye so there I sat at Shepheard's all by my lonesome."

  "Though I'm sure you knew he was leaving," Phoebe guessed.

  "Yes," admitted Mr. Quinton, "but I forgot the exact day."

  "You poor man," managed Phoebe. She glanced down at the soft thread in her hand. "What have you come into Pilcher's for?" she asked. "I don't often see a man of your reputation traipsing around the market."

  "Oh, I like the occasional visit, and my sister asked me to accompany her to town this week."

  He smiled at Phoebe, but it didn't go very far. In fact, nothing polite about him went far. She wondered how much influence his tart sister had upon him. A few steps back, Mrs. Leonard watched with eyes narrowed in distaste. She looked impatient to move along.

  "See, I was in Payne's," her brother boasted. He touched his neck, implying something mysterious about his tight cravat.

  "He is the best tailor in Charleston," Phoebe declared. "We have used his shop for two generations."

  "Yes, he has been around." Mr. Quinton could not meet her eyes for long. He shifted his gaze to the wall behind her as if examining the baskets and different-sized barrels.

  Phoebe stole a glance at the counter where the line for customers had diminished. "Well, I—"

  "Tell me," Mr. Quinton began again, "do you still intend to open your own shop? What with becoming mistress of Sandy Bank—eventually—I presume your ambitions have completely changed."

  Mrs. Leonard made a choking noise that sounded like laughter.

  "I have not," Phoebe replied. She ignored his sister's critical snort. "I've already found a suitable location, or my brother has, my brother-in-law, I mean."

  Mr. Quinton looked mildly surprised as if her plans had been made up. "You will hire someone to manage it then, I presume."

  She smiled, amazed at his penchant to believe women would never have time to pursue activities outside of marriage.

  "Actually, Mr. Quinton," she explained, "I intend to manage it myself for the time being, as I won't be living at Sandy Bank for some time if ever."

  "If ever?" He raised a brow.

  "Surely, Mr. Hathaway has mentioned to you he has no intention of living out his days in the low country."

  Mr. Quinton sniffed. "I'm sure he'll change his mind. At least in the heat of summer."

  "Apparently I find the season as bearable in town as he does."

  "Perhaps you don't know any better." Mrs. Leonard spoke at last. If Phoebe didn't know better, her pink cheeks could actually be colored from envy. No doubt she'd always adored her older brother's best friend.

  Rather than smart at the flippant comment, Phoebe shrugged. "We have a small house up the Ashley River at Duck Point, Mr. Quinton, and I have spent time in the summer there. I'm afraid I don't find it any cooler than our home in town."

  Mrs. Leonard rolled her eyes.

  "You do have a few tall trees that offer shade," he observed. "I have seen your modest home on Beaufain. Lovely courtyard."

  "Thank you."

  "I don't suppose visits up the Ashley will be in order then," assumed Mr. Quinton, "since your sister and her husband are there. And you have a tract of land, too, I understand. I suppose there's a house?"

  She shook her head in denial. "Yes, my father did set aside a few acres for me, but no, there is no house."

  "How inconvenient." He studied her, his implausible smile dissolving. "I suspect it won't be long then with Mr. Hathaway's plans."

  Phoebe felt her forehead wrinkle. "I wasn't aware James had plans." She stopped short so that she did not say she planned to sell it. She hadn't meant to share such personal details of her relationship with James, especially with this pair, and she certainly didn't want them to know she knew nothing of any other plans that had to do with her land.

  "Nay, not James," Mrs. Leonard corrected her. "He meant his father. Mr. Hathaway is as enthusiastic as Mrs. Hathaway that you will wed. He's wanted a parcel of land up the Ashley for a long time now, not too far inland, and now he will have what he wants thanks to James."

  Phoebe's mind froze even as she felt her composure drop away.

  Mr. Quinton cleared his throat. "Oh, I'm sure it will be cleared for timber—and income—right away. No use in having it sit." He smiled at her but looked uneasy. "So you may have another house in the low country after all even if you do not like the heat."

  Phoebe's heart tightened, and her jaw did, too. She w
anted to explain that she intended to have it sold. It was the only way to mortgage her shop. She'd assumed James understood.

  "You did not know?" Mr. Quinton guessed. "I am sorry, but don't worry, it probably slipped James's mind to mention it." He winked. "To be a captain aboard one of these blasted merchantmen is all he ever really cared about. He would be happy to be a common sailor if that was his lot."

  Phoebe stared a few moments longer then managed to croak, "I do not find anything wrong with his ambitions."

  "None? His ancestors didn't sacrifice all that only to have their descendants move backward. His papa has made a fortune in brick so his family would not have to dirty their hands."

  Phoebe scowled.

  "Well, aren't you a practical woman after all?" purred Mrs. Leonard. "So you must not mind that James only pursued you to please his papa. The old fellow did promise him a position if he settled down right away—and to make him captain soon if he won you over." With widened eyes, she tried to look innocent.

  Phoebe felt her expression harden while the room behind Mrs. Leonard began to spin like time had sped up outside of their conversation. As if sensing her distress, Mr. Quinton coughed and made an odd gesture like he might pat her shoulder. Phoebe's mouth felt dry, her tongue as thick as marsh mud, but she managed to say with a plummeting heart, "Mr. Hathaway is only marrying me to be made captain?"

  The man before her gave a single, swift nod as his sister laughed, "Of course that's why."

  Mr. Quinton blurted, "With your mamas involved and encouraging it all—at least that was the tittle-tattle—I assumed it was understood."

  "What was understood?" Phoebe heard her tone drop several ominous keys.

  "That he would marry you to get a ship, and you would marry him to escape a life of spinsterhood." Mr. Quinton waved his hand like it was nothing. "Or, to get a shop." He gave her a polite smile although he'd just insulted her single state once again.

  "I'm sure he is happy to fund it," Mrs. Leonard chimed, "although I don't know that his parents are aware of his intentions to let you move forward with such a common thing."