Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  Of her shape he knew nothing, for he’d never seen her without her voluminous cloak, though he suspected from the delicate lines of her face and throat and the slender shape of her hands that she was as trim a ship to ever sail the seas.

  Not that he cared, of course. He was perfectly happy alone, slacking his lust with an occasional trip to the small town located at the base of the cliff. The inn there sported two exuberant maids, either or both for the taking, had one enough coin.

  Besides, he recognized the cut of this woman’s jib. She was a stern, strict sort, the type of woman one might marry if one prized well-beaten carpets and hot food all for the mere price of listening to an endless line of chatter over the dinner table. Tristan liked eating his dinners in silence. As for his carpets, they were underfoot, so who cared of their cleanliness?

  She reached the end of the path and planted herself before him. Every line of her body, every nuance of her expression bespoke acute irritation.

  Stevens nodded merrily, his sharp blue eyes watering a little in the blustery wind. “Ahoy there, Mrs. Thistlewaite! And what brings ye forth on such a day?”

  “I came to speak with the captain.”

  Tristan looked at Stevens. “You may handle this.”

  “No, he may not!” Their visitor crossed her arms, her gloved hands gripping her elbows. “Captain Llevanth, I came to speak to you and no one else.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  Her gaze narrowed, and despite his irritation, Tristan found himself noticing her eyes. They were wide and slightly uptipped at the corners, and of a remarkably rich brown color, rather like the darkest swells of a storm-lashed sea and lined by the thickest of lashes overset by a lilting slash of brows. The lady’s frown grew. “You know why I wish to speak to you.”

  Stevens leaned forward to say in what he probably considered a conspiratorial whisper, but was fairly close to a normal voice. “Cap’n, I daresay ’tis the sheep once’t again. One of ’em has a likin’ fer the lady’s garden, he does.”

  Tristan shrugged. “What does she expect me to do about that? You cannot tie up a sheep. A wolf would get it.”

  Stevens pondered this. “That’s true. There’s no real way to tether them that they’d stand fer. If ye used a rope, they’d just eat it. And ye can’t chain ’em fer fear of rubbin’ sores on their little legs. We’ll have to tell her we can’t—”

  “Oh!” The lady threw up her hands. “Please do not talk about me as if I were not here!”

  Stevens looked from the lady and then back at the captain. “Cap’n, did ye think we were talking to Mrs. Thistlewaite as if she wasn’t there?”

  Tristan pretended to consider this, aware the lady’s temper was rising by the moment. Just to irk her further, he let his gaze wander up and down her, lingering on certain areas as if he could detect her shape beneath the voluminous cape. “No,” he said finally, “I do not think we were talking to her as if she were not here since, if she were not here, we would not be talking about her—or to her—at all.”

  “Oh!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Captain, if you wish me to take this matter to the constable, I will!”

  Tristan sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Thistlewaite.” He reached into a pocket and found his pipe. “Tell me the sins of my unruly livestock. I hope they are not partaking of spirits. I will not stand for public drunkenness in my sheep.”

  “Oh, stop being so absurd.” She eyed his pipe with disapprobation. “Must you do that?”

  “Yes.” He packed the bowl with tobacco and tucked the leather pouch back into his pocket.

  Her lips thinned. “Captain Llevanth, I moved to this location to establish a teaching seminary for young ladies. My mother and I are working hard to have things readied, including the placement of some tiles in the garden to make a walkway. We cannot do that when that sheep traipses in over and over, eats our herbs and sends our housekeeper into hysterics.”

  Tristan lit his pipe, shielding the tinderbox from the wind with one hand. Fragrant smoke drifted from the embers, and was immediately whipped away in the stiff breeze. “Do you know what I’d do if a sheep was causing my housekeeper to have hysterics? I would rid myself of the housekeeper. She is obviously unfit for duty. Pity you’re not on a ship, you could just have her keelhauled and stop her caterwauling that way.”

  “Captain Llevanth, this is not a matter for levity.”

  He raised his brows. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I did not, nor do I now, wish you to be here. Which is why I also have no desire to see you successful in your endeavors to bring even more feminine distractions to this peaceful corner of the world.”

  The widow lifted her chin. “Is that why you’ve been placing your sheep in our garden? To make us leave?”

  “I don’t want you here, true. But I don’t care enough to go to such trouble as transporting a sheep anywhere. My sheep are marked and well within the free-range law of the borough. They may go wherever they wish.”

  The woman’s back stiffened. “Someone is putting them in our garden. They cannot be opening the gate themselves.”

  He flicked a gaze over her face, noting the proud curves and pure line. It really was a pity his sheep weren’t behaving. He’d only purchased them to give the men an occupation.

  Tristan hadn’t expected to be responsible for his crew once he’d left his ship. But somehow, after moving to the house on the cliff with only Stevens for assistance, the men had shown up, one and two at a time. At first all was well, but every sea captain knew the dangers of idle hands. To head off any potential trouble, Tristan set his men to the occupations available, including caring for the sheep, cleaning the galley, scrubbing the little cottage top to bottom, and anything else he and Stevens could come up with.

  Tristan took a calming draw on his pipe, the warm glow of the ashes stirred by the wind. “Madam, perhaps you aren’t aware of this, but I am a captain. Captains do not concern themselves with sheep.”

  “Who does, then?”

  “Stevens!”

  The first mate stepped forward eagerly. “Aye, sir?”

  “Listen to the woman for me. Pray let her think you are paying her the strictest attention. Meanwhile, I am going inside, where it’s warmer.” Tristan turned and walked back toward the house, leaning slightly on his cane.

  The flash of a blue cloak halted him in his tracks. Mrs. Thistlewaite once again stood before him, only now she spread her arms to either side as if to block his way. Tristan shook his head at the futile gesture. Really, the woman had more tenacity than…well, just about anyone he knew. She was also rather pleasant to look upon if one ignored the fact she always seemed to be frowning.

  She fixed those great brown eyes upon him once again and he noted that they sparkled angrily. Oddly, some of his own distemper melted at the sight.

  “Captain Llevanth, I do not wish to speak to your butler. I always speak to Mr. Stevens and nothing is ever fixed.”

  “Fixed? Is something broken?”

  “My patience.”

  “Your patience is not my concern.”

  “Oh! You—you—you—”

  “Brilliant return volley. Almost as good as shooting pea shot in retaliation for twenty-pound cannon fire. Surely you can do better than that?” Tristan wasn’t sure why he was goading the lively widow but…a faint smile edged onto his face. It was an enjoyable pastime for all that. Surely it said something about the sorry state of his affairs that he both enjoyed and loathed arguing with his nearest neighbor.

  Her arms dropped to her sides, though her posture remained charged with acrimony. “I did not come to exchange pleasantries with your first mate or to discuss cannon fodder.”

  “Shot. Cannon shot.”

  “Whatever you wish to call it.”

  “Madam, I’ve said it before and again; this is not my problem. Shut your blasted gate—firmly. There. Your problem is now solved.”

  She stamped her foot, her boot landing in a puddle and splashing mud upon the edges of the
moss green skirts barely visible beneath the voluminous blue cloak. “Captain, the gate was shut. Firmly.”

  “So my sheep are jumping the fence into your garden?”

  “Yes. The white one with the black face.”

  Tristan looked over his shoulder. “Stevens, do I have a white sheep with a black face?”

  Stevens scratched his chin, his brow furrowed. “Hm. Seems I seen one of that cut not too long ago.”

  “Is it possible that this particular sheep can jump a fence the height of the one surrounding Mrs. Thistlewaite’s garden?”

  “By Peter’s watery grave, no!” the first mate said, chuckling at the thought.

  She frowned, her flyaway brows looking even more elfin. Before she could say anything, Tristan continued. “Stevens, is it possible for a sheep to fly?”

  Stevens snorted.

  “What about crawl? Could they crawl beneath a gate?”

  “Lord, no! They’re too puffed up. Why they can barely fit through the gate upright and with it open as it is.”

  Mrs. Thistlewaite’s full lips pursed into a scowl. “Captain, I do not know how your sheep manages to creep past my fence, but he does. And then he grazes through my spice bed like a great scythe, eating all of my herbs and—”

  “Stevens?”

  “Aye, Cap’n?”

  “Do we have a garden?”

  Stevens looked around them and blinked. “Why yes. Ye’re standin’ in the middle of it.”

  Tristan took a draw on his pipe as he eyed the foliage that lined the path. “Are these herbs?”

  “Aye, sir. Some of them.”

  “Do any of our sheep cross the fence to eat these herbs?”

  “Why no, Cap’n. Not once, that I can remember.”

  “Hmm.” Tristan noted the rising color in the widow’s face. Perhaps he enjoyed teasing her so much because she looked so very prim and perfect, her hair so severely bound, her cloak buttoned to her throat, her mouth a determined line that almost dared to be invaded. Plundered. Tasted.

  He found himself staring at her mouth. The bottom lip was fuller than the top and gently rounded. He wondered if it was as sensitive as it looked, how she would react if he kissed her, and then gently—

  Startled at the direction his thoughts were taking, he pulled himself back into the present. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, sheep do not jump good fences, nor do they crawl beneath closed gates, nor do they fly through the air to land in the midst of a garden. I, myself, have a garden, and the sheep never bother it, so I feel there are no grounds for your complaints. You will have to deal with the sheep issue on your own.”

  “Captain,” Mrs. Thistlewaite said, her voice frigidly perfect, “I see I wasted my time coming here.”

  “You not only wasted it, but you have made yourself unwelcome. If you keep pestering me, I shall train my dogs to herd all of those silly sheep onto your land every blasted morning. Then you shall have real cause for complaint.”

  “Oh! I cannot believe you’d—How dare you?” She drew herself up, her eyes flashing fire, her mouth set. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  No gentleman. The words flamed across his mind. His father had been a gentleman. “I’ve never wished to be a gentleman. Not now. Not ever. From my experience, gentlemen are not worth knowing.”

  “I daresay you know so many.”

  “I know more than I wish I did,” he snapped, his temper rushing to the fore. “But what about you? If I am no gentleman, are you so much a lady? Where is your sense of propriety, coming to visit a single man, no chaperone in sight?”

  Something flashed through her eyes, a spark of…was it hurt? Tristan instantly regretted his hasty words, for he’d meant to spar, not wound. But before he could say anything, she’d turned and sailed away. Her skirts swished around her ankles, the wind tugging on her hair as she rapidly made her way down the path, back to the gate and the safety of her own home.

  The first mate watched her march away. “That is a fiery wench, that is. Stormy like the sea and just as unpredictable.”

  There was admiration in the man’s voice. Tristan had to admit that he rather admired the spirit the young lady displayed as well. And that mouth of hers…so sweetly curved and gently plumped. He wondered what she’d feel like, beneath the voluminous folds of her ever-present cloak. She might be fat.

  He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until Stevens shook his head. “Lud, Cap’n. Indeed she is not! She’s a trim rig and full-sailed like a proper woman should be. Not a bit of extra leeway to her. In fact, she’s—” Stevens caught Tristan’s incredulous look and colored deeply.

  “When have you seen Mrs. Thistlewaite without her cape? I’ve never once seen her without the blasted thing.”

  “’Twas when ye asked me to fetch the physician fer Mr. Thurwell. The doctor was at the widow’s house.”

  Damn that doctor. Still…Tristan wondered why the widow had reacted so strongly to his barb. Something had definitely caused the wind to fall from the widow’s oh-so-righteously filled sails. He frowned, still perplexed. There was a mystery there. One that needed solving.

  “Cap’n?” Stevens was now leaning far out over the rock, looking down to where the road wended up the cliff face from the village.

  “Aye?” Tristan answered absently, his mind still on the lovely widow. What secrets were hidden behind her eyes? he wondered.

  “Ye’d best come and see this.”

  Tristan sighed and limped over to join the first mate, pausing to knock the dying embers from his pipe against a rock. “What is it?”

  “There, sir. Two coaches and three wagons, full of things, all climbin’ up the path to here.”

  Tristan’s frown grew. Who the hell would be coming to visit him on such a day as this? Indeed, who would come to visit with such an entourage? The front coach was huge, tied to six lumbering horses as they struggled to make it up the winding road. It was a fine equipage, he noted, much strapped with trunks and bags.

  The cumbersome coach was even now slowly clambering up the steep, curvy road that traced the face of a treacherous cliff. As he wondered who it might belong to, the crest on the side panel flashed dully in the overcast gray sky.

  Tristan’s heart turned icy. He knew only one person who possessed such fine coaches and horses. Only one person who would show up unannounced and bring an entire household of servants with him, to oversee his every want and need. And that was the last person who would come and see Tristan.

  Or was it? Heart thundering an odd beat, Tristan straightened and turned back to the cottage. “Whoever it is, they will be an hour, perhaps more before they make landfall. Long enough for us to bite off the edge of this chill with something substantial.”

  Stevens grinned, displaying a row of missing teeth. “A pint of the house’s best?”

  “Or two.” Tristan hurried his step as much as his limp would allow, the wind ruffling the capes of his cape. The cold was beginning to affect his leg, making it ache even more. Whoever was coming to visit would be met with the same reception he gave everyone—nothing.

  He had no need for people, other than the ones the sea had already thrown upon his shores. Those, he understood. Those, he would help. But for everyone else…he just wanted to be left alone.

  He only hoped that the occupant of the coach did not expect a welcome of any sort, for the bastard would not get it, earl or no. Not from Tristan, anyway. Not ever.

  Chapter 3

  It is your duty to make certain your master and everything about him are presented to his peers with care and style. A good butler never ceases his efforts until the last spoon is in place, the table linen pressed and starched, the floors polished and the brandy dispensed. “Steadfast to the last” will win the day.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  Prudence marched home, her heavy boots thumping loudly on the stone-strewn pathway. Blast that man! He was impossible, rude, arrogan
t, irritating, and worse. All she’d asked was that he keep his silly sheep on his own land. Why couldn’t he just do that one small thing?

  Worse, he’d seemed supremely unimpressed she’d made such a request. Perhaps he wasn’t teasing when he said penning sheep was not required. Which was, of course, the silliest thing she’d ever heard. Of course, there’d been many things living in the country had taught her, one of them being the rather narrow nature of some of the laws.

  She turned off the road and onto the garden path, the fragrant scent of mint lifting in the fresh air. The breeze danced about, rifling through the crisp brown leaves.

  Prudence made her way to the front door. Painted red, it mirrored her temper. Scowling, she grasped the chilled brass handle and gave it a firm twist. It creaked open. Just as she entered, the wind grabbed the door from her hand and slammed it shut behind her, the sharp sound echoing through the house.

  “Prudence?” Mother hurried out of the sitting room, her brow drawn, her gentle green eyes troubled. At fifty-two, she was still an attractive woman, her soft brown hair carrying only a touch of gray at her temples. “Prudence! Why did you slam the door?”

  Prudence undid her bonnet and set it on the small table beneath the peg where she hung her muffler. “The wind caught the door. I hope it didn’t frighten you.”

  Mother smiled, smoothing her skirts a bit, some of the tension leaving her face. “Oh no! I just thought you might be agitated about something.”

  “Me? Agitated? Perish the thought!” Not that she didn’t feel like slamming the door—she had. But she refused to give in to base anger. The captain’s rude behavior called for something far more planned and cunning. A grand scheme, perhaps, one that would reduce him to a quiver.

  Feeling somewhat placated by such an image, Prudence hung her cape over her muffler on the peg and managed a smile. “How was your morning, Mother?” Prudence went past her mother and into the sitting room. “Did you finish darning the tear—”