She gave him a long look. “I do know, but it’s hard to shake old habits. I was my father’s equivalent of the ship’s first lieutenant in the surgery, I suppose, for all those years.”
“As soon as those blasted, mysterious passengers show up, we’ll be on our way. I’m afraid I get too antsy waiting in port to set sail.”
Willa squeezed his hand and was rewarded with a heated look she was surprised didn’t melt through the chill morning air and wisps of fog.
Because of the early hour, the streets were fairly empty, save for farm carts delivering goods to the Portsmouth shops. They paused to sniff at wafts of warm bread smells coming from a corner baked goods shop. They looked at each other and without the need for words, walked through the open door. Cullen paid for four still-steaming raisin buns. When they stopped to cross the street toward the modiste’s shop, he cast a look around before pulling a piece from one of the buns. He popped half into her mouth before finishing his half in one bite.
“We’re behaving like naughty children,” Willa chided.
“And why not?” Cullen used the pad of his thumb to wipe a bit of crumb from the side of her mouth. “We will not enjoy nearly so fine a treat as this for at least a year.”
Cullen stopped so abruptly, she nearly walked past him. A small, white dog had flung itself at his knees. He knelt and grabbed the creature, giving it a vigorous rubbing behind its ears. Small yips of pleasure erupted, and the stubby tail made frantic waves of recognition. A familiar young woman raced toward the dog, a Royal Navy officer in close pursuit.
“Sophie,” Willa called out.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, kneeling close to her runaway pet. “Bad dog, Lancelot.” When she shook a finger at him, he began mad licking of her soft kid gloves, accompanied by profuse drools rolling out the side of his mouth.
Her husband, Captain Bellingham, gingerly lifted the creature, obviously attempting to avoid gathering more slobber on his gloves. He firmly tucked the dog beneath one arm.
Sophie gave the small creature one last pat on the head before turning back to Willa and Cullen. “After I saw the beautiful gown you wore from Mrs. Butterworth’s shop, I decided to have her adjust some frocks for me. I had them sent over yesterday. I’m going in to be measured this morning.”
Willa had not had a female friend since she was a little girl, and enjoyed Sophie’s company more than she would have thought.
“Mmmm,” Sophie said, taking a deep whiff of the contents of the bag Cullen carried. “That smells wonderful.”
Arnaud Bellingham chuckled and pointed at Cullen. “You’d better give it up before she takes it from you.”
Cullen immediately opened the bag and displayed the contents.
“Well, maybe just the smallest one,” Sophie said, and made quick work of transferring one of the hot buns to a handkerchief before whisking the warm package into her reticule.
The glow in Sophie’s cheeks this morning in contrast with her wan appearance at the wedding breakfast, having her gowns let out, cravings. Everything made sense. By the time Captain Bellingham returned from his tour of duty, he would be a father.
Or a widower.
Chapter Eleven
Cullen watched the rapidly changing expressions on his wife’s face. For all her pragmatism and stubborn outlook, she was no good at hiding her feelings. He knew she was thinking about the babe Sophie carried. The firm line of Willa’s mouth softened into a smile. The expressions after that ran the entire gamut from happiness to dread. Willa feared the idea of bearing a child.
She was the daughter of a skilled physician after all. Of course, she’d know the risks and might have been present or assisted at a birth.
By now, Cullen viewed his marriage as a slow march toward an ending he could not predict. Some days they seemed to understand each other better and move ahead. Other days, he felt as though they’d lost most of their forward momentum.
He watched her now. Her dark curls had grown out more since that fateful day they’d argued in the dust and heat of the stable yard. Her thick, glossy hair hung down and framed her face when she leaned over to pet Sophie’s naughty dog in Arnaud’s arms. Her gray eyes softened, and crinkles formed at the edges of her eyes while she laughed at the pup’s antics. Cullen longed to lean over and kiss that long, patrician nose. How had he ever mistaken this warm woman for a man?
Arnaud gave him a sharp jab in the ribs after their wives disappeared inside the shop. He put Lancelot down on the sidewalk where he circled a few times before settling into a curled, gray-white heap, staring out from a black spotted face.
“The little bugger is calm now? What kind of trick is that? He doesn’t even seem like the same dog.” Cullen gestured at the currently quiet dog.
“He knows Sophie will fuss over him if he makes a cake of himself.”
“What does he think about you?”
Arnaud patted one of the pockets in his uniform jacket. “He knows I keep ginger biscuit crumbs in here. “You might want to think about how to keep your wife happy in the same way.”
“What?” Cullen exploded in laughter. “Keep treats in my pocket?”
Arnaud pointed to the paper of warm raisin buns Cullen still held. “Looks like our wives are inordinately fond of those.”
Cullen changed the subject to try to keep the image of his wife’s lips closing around the bit of raisin bun they’d shared, and the look of pleasure in her eyes when she’d swallowed the warm pastry. “How soon will your ship and the lads be ready to return to the squadron?”
Arnaud’s teasing grin disappeared. “We’ve finally coaxed most of our old crew back, and added some new recruits. Capt. Neville and Lt. Bourne have been scouring the coastal villages for marines.” He stopped for a moment and stared out over the forest of masts in the harbor. “They say the good Baltic wood is cured enough to raise the mainmast next week. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“What does the Admiralty say?”
“They say, ‘Good riddance.’ Time for us to get back to the squadron. Too many slavers slipping out of the estuaries, and not enough of our ships to intercept them.”
“When you were last in London, did you hear anything about some passengers we’re awaiting?” The look on Arnaud’s face was not what Cullen wanted to see. His old captain knew something, and it wasn’t good.
Arnaud continued to stare down at the harbor for long minutes as if waiting for some sort of sign or arrival before turning back suddenly toward him. “I don’t know what their mission is, or their final destination, but one of them is Ariadne. She’s one of the Arethusa passengers bound for Gibraltar.”
Christ. Ariadne. First, he’d been ripped from his squadron, then forced into marrying an unwilling woman. Now he’d have to face an old lover turned enemy in close quarters in the midst of trying to court his own wife. And Ariadne would not make it easy. No. He’d have to tell Willa as soon as possible. And he’d have to tell her everything. A nasty blow was headed their way.
Madame Ariadne de Santis arrived aboard the Arethusa in a great flurry of boxes and chests…and a great deal of bowing and scraping by the men and officers of the ship, including Captain Still. Willa knew this, because she witnessed the mounds of luggage, officers, and sailors surrounding the woman when she hurried topside after hearing the incessant thumps overhead.
Clouds of a heavy, expensive scent of lilies heralded a woman full of self-importance, and mystery. Willa’s husband, the ship’s surgeon, was suspiciously absent from the gawking throngs. He’d tried to explain Madame de Santis the night before during their nightly talk in the dark across the thick blanket hanging between them.
Cullen had shared a past with this woman, he’d said. He’d even had the audacity to warn Willa not to be offended by the other woman’s possible lies or unwarranted piques of jealousy. His final warning, however, had seemed odd in the extreme. He’d made Willa promise never to be alone with the woman.
From Madame de Santis’s delicate silk slippers
to the strands of pearls tucked within her high-piled curls, the new passenger reminded Willa of an exotic fish out of its element. Once, off the coast of Spain, a sailor on the Arethusa had caught a huge, rainbow-scaled specimen that had flopped mightily and snapped razor-like teeth. One of the carpenter’s mates had clubbed it to death before the Poppy’s mates had made fast work of cleaning and filleting the monster.
However innocent the woman’s presence on the ship might be, Willa suspected there was much more to the story of her past with Dr. MacCloud than he’d revealed. She told herself she didn’t really care. Some things simply had to spool out, regardless of consequences, like a play at Covent Garden.
She sensed, rather than felt, Cullen behind her, close behind. His breath warmed her skin beneath the soft tendrils of hair at her neck that had escaped from the tight bun she’d twisted in with pins that morning. Willa ignored the shiver down her spine, smoothed her plain gray muslin work dress and moved briskly toward the main mast for morning call of ailments amongst the crew.
She assumed Cullen would follow, but then heard Captain Still call out. “Dr. MacCloud, Mrs. MacCloud—please come meet our passengers.” The man stumbled over her title, clearly still adjusting to her new identity aboard the Arethusa.
Willa longed for the years when she’d answered to just plain “Wills.”
Cullen turned toward the new passengers, dread welling up in his throat like a leaden ball of hard tack. Four years had not changed Ariadne. She was the same iron-willed termagant who’d left him for dead after shooting him in Algiers. He could see past the artfully rouged cheeks and the pouty soft lips to the black-hearted bitch he knew her to be.
He sucked in a tight breath and moved toward them, steeling himself for whatever might come.
“Mrs. MacCloud?” Ariadne turned her face toward him, for once a hint of shock in her deep violet eyes. “Why did I not know you’d become leg-shackled, Cullen?”
Willa, who had glided up behind him in silence, answered in his stead. “We did not have time to publish notices,” she interjected smoothly. “Dr. MacCloud insisted we marry before the Arethusa sails for St. Helena.”
Ariadne seemed momentarily nonplussed that Willa had dared speak to her. Her head snapped toward the source. “Have we been introduced?”
Cullen felt as though his tongue had deserted him. He knew he had to speak, but the words stuck like claws in his throat.
The tall, dark-haired man next to Ariadne came to his rescue. “I am Monsieur Henri Duvall, and this is Madame Ariadne de Santis. The captain told us you assist your husband in the surgery, but he did not warn me of your great beauty. Mrs. MacCloud, I would be grateful if you could, ah, prescribe some sort of balm for the mal de mer.” He bowed slightly and made as though to take her hand.
Willa jerked back out of his reach. “I formed a new supply of ginger powder pills last week. Come to the surgery later today, and I’ll put together a few in a paper.” Willa brushed back a curl nudged loose by the freshening breeze on deck and favored the damned frog with one of her rare, faint smiles.
Cullen shoved past Ariadne to stand between his wife and the newcomer. “I must warn you, Monsieur. Ginger pills don’t always work. You might be better served by staying above deck…and keeping a bucket handy.”
He turned to his wife, deliberately giving the man the cut direct. The sharp intake of breath from Ariadne was telling. She was not accustomed to being ignored.
With a gentle hand against the small of Willa’s back, he urged her toward the main mast where a line of men already waited. The combination of the men’s boredom and access to harbor front amusements while in port always took its toll.
Willa gave him a look over her shoulder and teased in a low voice. “Are you jealous?”
“Mrs. MacCloud, ye’ve not yet seen me jealous. If I were jealous, I would have planted a facer on that glib Frenchie.”
“But he didn’t even touch me.” Her mouth opened in a small ‘O’ that Cullen yearned to trace with his finger.
“If he had, he’d be dead, and I’d be in gaol.”
Discomfort did not begin to describe the feelings racing just beneath Willa’s lightly boned stays. In a matter of minutes, she’d gone from being showered with flirtatious regard from the strange Frenchman to suffering a glimpse of the fierce protectiveness of which her stubborn Scot husband was capable. Being the object of two men’s dueling attentions at the same time had almost made her giddy.
Almost. Frankly, she wished mightily to return to just Wills who had shared an easy camaraderie with the men of the Arethusa. And speaking of the men of the Arethusa, the line today required the usual inspection by her husband and dispensing of packets of powders for mysterious stomach ailments or the inevitable pox.
Willa’s tight, looping script noted each man’s medical condition alongside the date in the ship surgeon’s log for which her husband would be responsible at the end of each year, and on which their income would depend.
A twinge of pride took her by surprise. Her husband already recognized the men by name, having made it his business early on to get to know each and every sailor on the crew. She could not explain how something so simple made her hands tingle every time he accidentally brushed against her.
“Mrs. MacCloud, we seem to have run out of doses of unguents.” He lowered his voice. “For treating the pox. Are there more in the sick bay?”
Willa’s maybe-I-will, maybe-I-won’t daydream of warming to the idea of sharing a bed with her husband ended abruptly. “Of course.”
She gathered in her skirts and hurried below, noting the strange passengers had disappeared. Her husband, the long line of patients, and the forenoon watch were the only ones left on deck. Once she descended into the bowels of the Arethusa, and entered the surgery and sick bay area, the lower deck heaved as the ship bucked against her lines. The tide was rising.
Willa moved quickly to the sea chest at the foot of her bunk in their tiny cabin. She opened the lid and pulled out the top tray where she kept packets of various mercury salts, jars of herbal salve, and a monogrammed, silver-backed brush that was all she had left of her mother.
Beneath the tray lay all of the clothes belonging to Wills, neatly folded in case she needed them again on short notice.
Cullen leaned against the Arethusa’s seaward rail and breathed in the salt air, along with the other questionable odors of the inevitable death and decay wafting from the Royal Navy’s Portsmouth basin where the Arethusa remained snug at her berth. She belonged out there on the ocean, and the sooner they set sail, the better he would feel.
Life ashore waiting for a ship to provision before shoving off on another mission always made him feel a bit off-balance.
From where he stood he could just make out the ship’s gilt-painted name up near the bow. The irony of her namesake hit him squarely. In the Greek myth, Arethusa was a nymph and daughter of the goddess Nereus who protested mightily the sensual attentions of the river god Alpheus. After a long, tempestuous struggle, she’d turned into a stream that merged with the god’s mighty river and ended in a fountain on the isle of Ortygia. Both of them had to transform before they could peacefully coexist.
His mouth curved into a maybe-this-might-work-out smile as he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. Soon the ship’s bell would signal the end of the two dog watches. He’d left Willa below writing furiously in the journal she kept, biting at her bottom lip as she scratched out line after line in the soft light of the lantern. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember a time without the stubborn woman at his side. When they worked together, sometimes they completed sentences for each other. When they were treating patients, words were rarely necessary.
When he slipped the watch back into his pocket, he felt the outlined ridge of an oval in an adjoining pocket. In the creeping, cotton-gray dusk of the basin, he pulled out the tiny miniature. He gazed down at soft green eyes, a heart-shaped face, and the always ready, freely given, and only-for-him smile, or so he�
�d believed as a boy. This miniature had been commissioned by a man who loved her. A man who was like a stubborn puzzle to Cullen, a puzzle with unseen, moving parts.
Cullen sent a silent, prayer-like request to his mother, wondering if she could hear. He’d never needed anything more than he needed to know how to love Willa. And he was terrified he might be too late, he might miss his last chance to get this right.
Willa carefully tucked her journal back into her sea chest and re-stacked the storage trays just as she heard Cullen’s footsteps echoing toward the surgery. In the middle deck tonight, there was a crush of women the men had brought aboard for entertainment. The strains of boisterous fiddle music poured into the cabin, making ignorance of what went on impossible to maintain.
The laughter and soft cries did not bode well for a good night’s sleep in her lonely bunk, shut away from the warm man on the other side of the damned thick blanket hanging between them. She’d always ignored the crew’s below-deck, in-port antics with women before she’d married Cullen, but now she could not ignore the added tension. Before, she’d lived her life as a single young man, curious about the riotous noises but hadn’t cared much about what went on outside the surgery. Every now and then, one of the prostitutes would opportune her while the ship was in port. When she’d decline, they’d call her a “Molly boy.” Now, every laugh, every cry, went straight to the fears and indecision swirling through her mind and settling somewhere in the lower part of her body, making her squirm.
“Willa?” Her husband’s voice floated across the dark inside their cabin. She’d doused her candle and scrambled into her bunk when she’d first heard his approach. Now the sound of her name on his lips inside the tiny space they shared did not so much reach her ears as lap at the tips of her fingers and the very ends of her toes. The sound invaded her body, like waves wearing away the shore.
Pride Of Duty: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 2 Page 9