When he and Willa received an invitation to the captain’s table for supper that evening, they assumed the other officers would be joining them. However, when they arrived, they were greeted by Captain Still alone.
Once they were seated, the captain asked all of the servants to leave the room once glasses of Madeira had been poured.
“I brought the two of you together tonight to toast your new lives back in England. I’m sure you’re both looking forward to sharing a real bed for a change.” He smiled and honored them with a slow wink
Cullen stole a sideways look at Willa and saw the pink flush spreading from her cheeks down to the creamy skin above the low bodice of her wedding gown.
“On a more somber note, there are two things I have to report.
“First, I regret to say that last night, my First Lieutenant, Mr. Dalton, jumped ship to join the Chilean warship that has been anchored in the harbor seeking word on Napoleon’s condition. They sailed for home with the early morning tide.”
Willa’s face turned so pale, Cullen feared he’d have to take her out into the fresh air. “Why would he turn his back on such a promising career within the Royal Navy?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps they offered him a better position.”
Cullen stood suddenly and paced the length of the cabin before turning to face Captain Still. “Did he go of his own free will?”
The captain gave him a broad smile. “I certainly hope so, because he’s not welcome back here.
He continued. “In a second bit of sad news, I received an Admiralty message from the East India ship just arrived from England and anchored in the harbor basin.”
Cullen couldn’t help peering out the stern sweep of windows in the captain’s quarters for a look at the ship.
Willa seemed more impatient than he was. “What was in the message?”
“You have nothing further to fear from Ariadne. She was murdered on the ship she and Monsieur Duvall took to Naples.”
Cullen exchanged glances with his wife.
“Has anyone been arrested?” Willa’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“No. Unfortunately, her partner, Henri, disappeared into the streets of Naples before her body was discovered in her cabin.”
Cullen stared back out the windows at the ships bobbing in the harbor for a long time before speaking. “I suppose that’s because dead men, or women, tell no tales. Isn’t that right, Captain Still?”
“I find the less tales revealed, the better off we all are.”
Cullen raised his glass, and Willa followed suit.
“Here’s to keeping inconvenient truths to ourselves.” Captain Still raised his glass in a final toast and then rapped on the table for his servants to bring in the steaming dishes for supper.
Epilogue
August, 1822
MacKenzie Lands, Northwest Scotland
* * *
Willa sneezed. And then sneezed harder three more times. Just walking through the doorway of the ancient cottage had stirred up clouds of dust. “How many years did you say it’s been since someone lived here?”
Cullen leaned his wide shoulders against the frame of the open door and gave his wife a fond look. “Let’s see. I’m twenty-nine. Umm, that would be twenty-nine years, give or take a few months.”
“Why would your family let this little house stand empty for all that time?”
“Oh, it’s been used, I’m sure, over the years by the odd shepherd or farm manager.”
Willa raised her brows in the relentless look she used to let him know she would not be put off.
“Oh, all right. It’s an old story. My mother disappointed her father, the laird, by loving unwisely and then ending up with a hard-headed lug like me.”
“Loving unwisely?”
“My father’s clan, the MacClouds, were not exactly on the best of terms with the MacKenzies. They met when my father was home for the summer after completing his physician’s studies at Edinburgh and assisting old Doc Clarghy in Inverness.”
“How did they meet?”
“My mother died before I was old enough to be curious and ask her.” He stopped in silence as if he couldn’t go on, but finally he continued in a lower voice. “My father would never talk about my mother. All he ever said was it was never a good idea to marry ‘in a fever of lust.’”
Willa laughed aloud, peals of laughter filling the small parlor they stood in. “No danger of anyone ever looking back and accusing us of such a ‘fever.’”
She sobered at the intense frown on her husband’s face just before he walked surprisingly quickly to her side for a man of his size. He reached down and pulled her up against him so savagely, her bonnet slipped back over her head. He ripped away the ribbon ties and flung it to the floor.
“That’s my best…” she tried to complain before he scooped her up and walked to a plump sofa pushed back against the wall of the front parlor. When he plopped her down, more dust spiraled up, and she sneezed again. They both broke into fits of laughter.
He pulled off his boots and joined her on the dusty sofa, feathering kisses down the tender skin above her breasts. He made short work of the silk fichu covering at her neck and threw it to the floor to join her discarded bonnet. When he eased up her skirts and levered a thumb beneath a garter holding up a stocking, Willa couldn’t stifle a small whimper.
He sat up and leaned close to her lips. “Not so fast, my greedy little Puss. There’s a lot of work ahead of us before she gets what she wants.”
The Arethusa’s crew had been paid off, and they’d come home, Cullen on half pay. When he’d broached the possibility of his volunteering to re-join his old comrades on the West African Squadron, she’d convinced him to change his mind, at least temporarily. She understood his need to go back to the squadron. He needed to wrestle again with the mystery of the cause and ultimate cure of Yellow Fever. However, she had needs of her own. She’d convinced him to bring her to the MacKenzie clan lands to make a home for a special family. Theirs.
During the last few months of their service before the journey back to Portsmouth on the Arethusa, they’d finally discarded all the precautions they’d adopted against conception.
Their lips crushed together in a long kiss, and when he nudged her thighs apart with a knee, she opened to his touches and wrapped her legs around him as he entered her.
Later that night after a long day of sweeping out the cottage and removing sheets from the furniture, they kicked off shoes and stockings to sit cross-legged on the front stoop. She leaned back into his arms while they sipped lemonade and Madeira and counted hundreds of fireflies swooping among the trees.
His Aunt Elspeth had sent a small army of servants to help with the cleaning and prepare a late supper.
“Do you think your aunt suspects we’ve been naughty?”
He turned her to face him. “Naughty? Do you think she knows about the bottles of wine we’ve liberated from her cellars?”
“No, silly…you know…”
“Oh.” He gave a long exhale. “That. I’m afraid the whole clan knows we’re a couple of clumsy lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other.” He took a long sip of Madeira. “And I’m afraid you’re very noisy too.”
She smacked him hard against his solid chest. “You’re making that up.”
“No. Quite the opposite. There have been official complaints.”
“Complaints about what?” Her gray eyes were wide in the fading light, and he couldn’t resist prolonging the suspense.
“Complaints from Dr. MacCloud that he’s had to listen to his wife’s cries of pleasure, all the while waiting far too long to release all his own pent-up needs.” With that, he took the lemonade glass from her hand, pulled her to stand on bare feet, and scooped her up again to carry her inside toward the dark at the top of the cottage stairs.
Afterword
England, and her allies, chose the most remote spot in the world with the island of St. Helena to imprison Napoleon afte
r his surrender following Waterloo. However, intrigue and escape plots still swirled around him until his death in 1821.
Here is a bit of the background which led to Napoleon’s imprisonment on St. Helena in lieu of outright execution:
“The Duke of Wellington to Sir Charles Stuart, Orvillé, 28 June 1815
I send you my dispatches, which will make you acquainted with the state of affairs. You may show them to Talleyrand if you choose.
General ___ has been here this day to negotiate for Napoleon’s passing to America, to which proposition I have answered that I have no authority. The Prussians think the Jacobins wish to give him over to me, believing that I will save his life. Blücher wishes to kill him; but I have told him that I shall remonstrate, and shall insist upon his being disposed of by common accord. I have likewise said that, as a private friend, I advised him to have nothing to do with so foul a transaction; that he and I had acted too distinguished parts in these transactions to become executioners; and that I was determined that if the sovereigns wished to put him to death they should appoint an executioner, which should not be me.”
Although the official ruling on the cause of Napoleon’s eventual death was stomach cancer, various conspiracy theories have been advanced over the years, including possible gradual poisoning by arsenic.
Among the many unexecuted plots for Napoleon’s liberation from St. Helena were: escape by submarine, an escape to New Orleans engineered by a group of Americans, and a highly improbable plan to transfer him to Chile to renew his plans for world domination from there. That attempt died when the perpetrators discovered how much his health had deteriorated.
The Royal Navy had ships patrolling the waters around St. Helena and a full contingent of troops on Ascension Island to forestall any serious liberation attempts.
A number of Royal Navy surgeons figured prominently in the emperor’s care and treatment while he was imprisoned on the island, including the Irish surgeon, Barry E. O’Meara on the Bellerophon, the ship where Napoleon surrendered himself after his defeat at Waterloo. Dr. O’Meara followed him to St. Helena and became his personal physician during his time there.
Before the Bombardment of Algiers in 1816, there actually was a Royal Navy surgeon, Dr. David McManus, who played a role in helping to evacuate the family of the British consul. He was captured and imprisoned, along with the consul, and a number of sailors, but the baby was released to the Royal Navy before the bombardment began. All British prisoners were eventually released to Lord Exmouth after the Dey capitulated to his demands.
And last but not least, the beautiful HMS Arethusa did actually exist, but alas, she was not one of the ships sent to patrol the waters surrounding St. Helena. The myth behind her name, however, was irresistible to work into the plot driving “Pride of Duty.”
If you loved the adventures of the devilishly handsome officers of the Squadron in “Pride of Duty,” please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or your favorite book blog. Your humble seagoing scribe deeply appreciates all your efforts to help her spread the word.
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Coming Soon!
Other Titles in the Men of the Squadron Series
Pride of Valor – January 2021
Pride of a Warrior – March 2021
Other Books By Andrea K. Stein
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Blockade Running:
Fortune’s Horizon
Horizons East
* * *
Blanchard Family Rum and Shipping Dynasty:
Secret Harbor
Rhum Bay
* * *
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Steamy Nights on Super Yachts:
Way Too Deep
Up Too Close
Out Too Far
Chapter 1
51º30'35.5140"N, 0º7'5.1312"W
London, England
April 1820
* * *
Miss Sophia Brancelli fidgeted and shifted from one foot to the other. She was as fond of ribbons as the next young woman, but her friend, Lydia, was a slave to the silken trim.
Other shoppers crowded around them in the tiny milliner’s shop on old Bond Street. “Why can your friend not choose?” one woman demanded with an angry hiss into her ear. Sophie ignored the complaint.
This was their third trip to the milliner, and Lydia seemed no closer to a decision than on their first visit. A pale rainbow of rolls lined the wooden counter, their curled tails cascading over the edge.
After sneaking a stealthy look at her friend, Sophie slipped a much-folded piece of foolscap from her reticule. She worried her bottom lip and wondered whether she should change cloudy to stormy.
Just as Sophie pulled out a worn pencil stub, Lydia finally sighed and chose another shade of green. A green so similar to the one she'd chosen the day before, Sophie would be hard put to tell the difference unless both lengths were side by side. The cost of Lydia's ribbons would pay the butcher for a month of the cheap cuts Sophie had made do with in her father’s topsy-turvy household.
As soon as Lydia paid the shopkeeper, Sophie strode toward the doorway and sunlight outside. The minute her boots touched the pavement, she was lifted from her feet. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had inexplicably shifted on its axis.
Time slowed, and she viewed what was happening as if through a fog. A strange man grasped her arm in a grip so tight, she could almost feel the fatal squeeze of the coil of one of the jungle snakes in her grandmother's novels. The smudged slip of paper and pencil slipped from her hands to the pavement.
Abruptly, Sophie remembered the parasol Lydia's grandmother had insisted she carry to shield her from the sun. She’d looped the handle’s ribbon onto her wrist while reworking her lines. She grabbed the parasol with her free arm and swung hard. A satisfying thump and scream sounded as the weapon connected with her attacker's lower limbs.
As quick as he loosened his grip, she pulled a hatpin from her bonnet and jabbed in the vicinity of his eyes. Another scream, but this time her aim landed far off the mark and only slashed his chin.
With a bellow of pain, he pulled back a fist, rage darkening his face. In spite of the threat, Sophie refused to back down. Lydia’s screams echoed down the quiet street. Just as the stranger’s knuckles neared her face, he and his accomplice dropped from her line of view.
For one addled moment, she wondered if the ghost of her dead grandmother had risen to her defense. She thrust again hard with her hatpin toward where the attack had begun.
Sophie lost her balance and sat down with a thump at the edge of the street. Shaking, she sank her elbows to her knees and rested her head in her hands. Her parasol had rolled to the edge of the walkway. At a sharp cramp in her hand, she realized she still clutched her trusty hatpin. After a restorative breath, she looked up into the deeply tanned face of a Royal Navy officer in full uniform.
He knelt in front of her, asking question after question. “Are you hurt? Who did this to you? Are you with a chaperone?”
Blood dribbled from his wrist, staining his white glove. Zeus! The hatpin. She knew she should provide him with some answers, but couldn't. She could barely breathe properly, so shaken was she by the encounter with the unknown men who’d tried to drag her toward a waiting hack carriage.
He grasped her by th
e shoulders. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin muslin of her dress, and his solid competence fortified her courage. The runaway terrors slowed, allowing her to breathe normally again.
The first thought to pop into her head once she’d settled a bit was: Respectable women of the ton did not find themselves in situations like this. This was the sort of turmoil that might befall the actresses who had kept company with her late father.
"Are you hurt?" The naval officer shed his gloves and ran his hands down her arms as if seeking injuries. “Holy St. George! Is this your weapon?” The hatpin rolled into his hand from her slackened grasp, and he tucked it safely within a pocket. His frown softened a bit, he shook his head, and gave a low chuckle.
He clasped her hands as if he feared she might break and smoothed his thumbs over the soft pads beneath her thumbs. If the stranger continued his exploration for injuries, Sophie feared she might expire from pleasure. If only he knew the ink-stained fingers her white gloves hid.
Lydia for once had nothing to say, but watched over them, her eyes wide. Sophie thanked the gods Lydia’s lady’s maid had not been able to accompany them on the latest ribbon expedition. She would have been horrified and sent the gentleman packing. The thought of the uncompromising older woman spurred her to action. Damn the pleasure.
"No." Sophie snatched back her hands. Only then did she notice his eyes. They were an extraordinary shade of blue, the sort of blue that didn’t belong in such a stern, dark face.
Pride Of Duty: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 2 Page 20