The Lady's Command (Adventurers Quartet #1)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Johnson, clearly curious, had lingered to chat for a few moments before heading down for his evening meal.

  Edwina remained beside Declan, gripping the rail to one side of where he stood before the heavy spoked wheel; she looked down the length of the ship, then looked up at the masts soaring high above and at the huge kite-like sails. Finally gazing out and around, she felt engulfed by nature’s power, by the sheer immensity of the sky and the sea, the force of the wind and the waves. In that moment, she understood why Declan would never give up sailing—would never give up the chance to experience elemental moments like this.

  Eventually, curious, she reached out and placed one hand on the wheel, a little below where Declan held it. To her wonder and delight, through the tension and vibration in the wood—caused, she realized, by the forces pushing against the rudder—she could sense the power of the sea running beneath the hull.

  His eyes narrowed against the whip of the wind, Declan glanced, somewhat searchingly, at her. “I forgot to ask, is this your first time at sea?”

  She shook her head, glorying in the tug of the wind on her curls. “Julian loves to sail. When we were younger, before George died, Julian used to take me on his yacht—we sailed on the Irish Sea.” She lifted her face to the wind. “I used to think that was thrilling, but this…this is nature’s power made manifest.”

  Declan heard the sincerity in her tone, saw the wonder in her face; if he hadn’t already fallen in love with her, he would have fallen then.

  They remained as they were, side by side, and she seemed content to be there—watching, seeing, absorbing.

  After some time, entirely without preamble, she said, “You understand why I had to do it, don’t you?”

  He took a moment to ask himself whether, in fact, he did, then answered truthfully, “Yes.”

  Her actions had been reckless, yet at the same time well thought-out and neatly executed—and entirely in keeping with what he now understood to be her overriding goal. Somewhere deep inside, he recognized that, and at some equally deep level, he’d come to realize that he wanted—wished to attain—the very same goal.

  And he wasn’t the sort of man to cut off his nose to spite his face.

  She’d done what she had because she’d believed she had to—that it was necessary for him and for her. She’d done it because she was committed to their marriage—wholeheartedly and without reservation.

  By acting as she had, she was—perhaps not intentionally but in effect—challenging him to be equally committed—to their marriage, to her, to what might be.

  How could he not step up and face that challenge with her?

  She didn’t say anything more, but in the same way that he was starting to understand her, he was increasingly aware that she was starting to understand him. Already, she seemed able to pick those moments when to push and when to let him find his own way through the maze.

  And when she and he didn’t need to say anything more to grow a little bit closer.

  Eventually, he broke the spell that the night, the sea, and the stars had cast over them. “I need to stay at the helm until we pass into the Atlantic proper. We need to turn onto a south-south-westerly heading, and for that we’ll need to change the set of the sails. It might get rough. If you want to go down to the cabin, Grimsby”—he nodded to the bosun, who stood on the deck below the wheel—“will help you down the stairs.”

  Catching and holding back her whipping hair, she leaned nearer and yelled over the wind, “Will it bother you if I stay?”

  He thought of the familiar chaos of a course change; she might well enjoy the excitement. “No. Just as long as you stay close—here, by the wheel—and promise to hang onto the railing.”

  She grinned. “All right.”

  So she was by his side when The Cormorant cleaved through the rolling turbulence that marked the mouth of the Channel, then surged and plunged into the deeper swells of the Atlantic. He called sail changes, and Caldwell—who had come up on his other side—relayed them to Grimsby, Elliot, and Johnson, each overseeing one of the three masts from the main deck. For a good twenty minutes, the air was thick with instructions and orders as the sails were reset, then trimmed.

  In between, The Cormorant pitched and steadied, then pitched and steadied again. As she had promised, Edwina clung to the railing; Declan was relieved to see that she was sensible enough to use both hands.

  Finally, the ship was riding—almost gliding—through the waves once more, their speed swift, their course steady, and all was silent on the main deck, all eyes on the sails as they creaked and settled.

  Further along the rail, Caldwell arched a brow Declan’s way. “Are we going for broke?”

  Declan felt Edwina’s questioning look. He grinned. “Mr. Grimsby—skysail, if you please.”

  “Aye, aye, Capt’n!”

  Seconds later, the skysail on the mizzen mast unfurled, snapped once, then caught the wind.

  “Oh, my!” One hand holding back the hair over her forehead, Edwina gazed up, up, to where the second highest sail bloomed white against the black sky.

  On seeing the look of wonder on her face, Declan smiled. When she glanced at him, he mouthed, “Just wait.”

  Once the ship had stabilized, he called for the skysails on the mainmast, then the foremast.

  Then, once the effects of those changes to the ship’s handling had been adjusted for and absorbed, he called for the moonrakers—foremast, mainmast, then mizzen—to be unfurled.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Edwina stared upward, her expression one of unrestrained awe. “I can’t believe how high up those are! Much less what it must feel like to be up so high.”

  Although absorbed with calling adjustments, he realized she was watching the sailors nimbly swarm over the spars, adjusting lines, bringing the sails taut to his relayed specifications. When she glanced his way, her mouth still ajar, he grinned. “Now you know why they’re called moonrakers.”

  Edwina remained utterly fascinated with everything she saw. Despite her earlier engaging and absorbing experience with Julian in his yacht, she’d nevertheless had no idea that sailing in the likes of The Cormorant would be so much more—that it could be so enthralling. The speed alone stole her breath; she’d never traveled so fast in her life. The sense of power—from harnessing the forces of nature, from being allied with them and somehow linked—was all but overwhelming.

  “It’s a thrill,” she murmured. “This is the epitome, the definition, of a thrill.”

  To her senses, at least. The drama and action of the course change and associated sail changes had effortlessly captured and held her attention. The interaction of the sailors, the orchestration and teamwork involved, had been engrossing to watch. As for the unfurling of the pair of sails at the very top of each of the three masts—the skysails and moonrakers—that had been truly awe-inspiring.

  Excitement and exhilaration still bubbled in her veins when Declan finally handed the wheel to Mr. Johnson and came to escort her back to their cabin.

  She led the way in, but he paused on the threshold, the doorknob in one hand.

  When she looked questioningly at him, he said, “I normally do one last circuit of the deck, just to make sure everything’s exactly as it should be.” He nodded toward the bed. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”

  The implication that they would be sharing the bed—that he wasn’t going to attempt to make any silly stand against that—gave her the confidence to smile at him. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He went still for a second, then he nodded, stepped back, and closed the door.

  Her smile widened. Turning, she strolled toward the bed.

  I’ll be waiting. Declan shook his head as he took the stairs up to the main deck two at a time. He’d told the truth about always doing a last circuit, but he was grateful to be able to seize a few moments away from Edwina’s distracting presence.

  When he’d called for the moonrakers, he’d realized that he hadn’t, until t
hat moment, known precisely where the moon was. Although he’d immediately rectified that oversight, he hadn’t noticed whether the sky was completely clear or whether they were running under light cloud. He did know that there were no storms imminent, but that relied on gut-feeling rather than the use of his eyes. Still, since when did he not know the state of the sky?

  Since he had his distracting wife standing alongside him.

  Gaining the deck, he strolled slowly up the port side to the bow, listening as much as looking. Experience told him exactly how The Cormorant’s spars and lines should sound in any situation; all the tiny creaks and groans reassured him everything was correctly set. His ship was perfectly balanced and running fast before a nicely brisk wind.

  For long moments, he stood in the bow, simply absorbing the joy of being once more on the sea. But, for once—indeed, for quite the first time in his life—that joy failed to snare him, to hold him.

  His mind drifted, shifted, and realigned.

  The lure of the sea couldn’t compete with the lure of what he knew was waiting for him in his cabin.

  Surrendering to the compulsion, to the need he could no longer stand against, he left the bow, continued his perambulation down the starboard side, then nodded to Grimsby, currently at the wheel, and walked to the companionway. Hauling open the door, he went quickly down the stairs.

  At the end of the corridor, he paused before his cabin’s door and drew in a fortifying breath. Then he turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  Taking that cautionary breath had been wise. The sight that met his eyes made his lungs seize.

  She was sitting in the bed, his large pillows at her back, the crimson silk covers and ivory sheets modestly drawn to just below her bare shoulders. The small bed lamps were lighted; their soft glow cast a pearlescent sheen over every delectable square inch of her skin. She’d let her hair free of its usual topknot; it fell in a cascade of rippling curls, framing her face and draping over her shoulders and arms, playing peekaboo with that tempting skin he knew was satin to the touch.

  To his touch. In that instant, he realized that she was his reward, his prize for having consented to walk the path that had brought them to this moment. His to savor; his to delight in. She, her body, was a gift given—in trust, in desire, in knowing, and in entirely deliberate passion.

  She’d been reading a slim novel, but had looked up as he’d stepped into the room. She let her eyes rove over him as she smiled.

  In open welcome.

  Deliberately, she shut the book and reached to place it on one of the shelves in the bed’s headboard.

  He remembered how to breathe, drew in another, tighter breath, and shut the door. With his gaze locked on her, he slowly crossed to the bed, drawn by a force he could not have resisted.

  Not that he tried.

  His mind was already avidly fixed on what he would find beneath the covers—nothing but satin skin, soft curves, and supple limbs. Nothing but lush flesh waiting to firm at his caress, to heat and burn him.

  He halted by the bed, shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it toward his trunk, now neatly stowed beyond the foot of the bed.

  He noticed the eager glint in her eyes—very blue in the soft lamplight—and slowed his movements. He took his time releasing the silver buttons of his waistcoat before sending it to join his coat. He removed his shirt to the same lazy, languid rhythm and saw impatience spike in her eyes.

  Eyes that slowly narrowed as he continued the teasing performance.

  The instant he tossed his breeches aside, she reached for him—caught his hand and, with a tug stronger than he’d anticipated, tumbled him down to the bed.

  To her.

  To her hunger. To her need.

  Before he could even catch his breath, her small hands framed his face, and she kissed him. Kissed him with an incitement, an elemental wanting it was impossible to mistake—and utterly impossible to resist.

  He answered her call and kissed her back and plundered, then he let desire loose, let passion reign—and she did the same.

  Between them, they wrestled the covers away, then hands found skin and they rejoiced.

  Kisses, caresses, gasps, and soft moans became their currency; with lips and mouths, teeth and tongues, with palms and fingers they drove each other on.

  Limbs tangled, pressing close, then shifting away, effortlessly rearranging in a dance they both knew well.

  Yet something had changed.

  Despite the familiarity, this, tonight, was different—a new exploration of a previously traveled landscape.

  For several heated heartbeats, he searched for some guidepost, some frame of reference. It seemed nonsensical to him to feel lost and adrift in this sphere.

  Then he had it.

  Just as, an hour ago, he’d changed The Cormorant’s course, he and she were changing course and taking a new tack in their joint life; in the same way as he’d reset his ship’s sails, what he sensed was them making the consequent adjustments to allow their marriage to run smoothly over life’s waves.

  Once he’d grasped that reality, he steadied, then gave himself over to the task. To joining with her in discovering what, in this sphere, they might do to adjust and strengthen what already existed between them.

  That fundamental connection neither wanted to damage, much less lose.

  In the heated whirl of the moment, their gazes occasionally meeting from under heavy lids, with hot breaths mingling, with lips and mouths trailing over desire-dewed skin, they tried this, then that, searching for, reaching for, a connection on a level they hadn’t previously breached.

  Never before had he thought of using passion to speak—to communicate. With no other woman had he even thought of passion in that way, yet tonight…with his hands and body he spoke to her, stated and questioned, and she replied.

  Awareness peaked; sensitivity overflowed.

  It was a give and take, not of words but of feelings.

  He showed her his thankfulness that she was there, that regardless of his previous stance, he delighted in her company, in the joy of having her with him, of having the chance to share this side of his life with her. And she reciprocated with elation, with effervescent delight in his acceptance of that challenge; she showed him how thrilled she was that he had bent, adjusted, and consented to explore this different tack with her.

  Need built; the passion they’d unleashed whipped them on.

  As he surrendered to the irresistible tide, one last revelation gleamed through the sensual fever overtaking his mind.

  Layers. Everyone had them. It was how she and her family managed the ton, by donning another layer over their already complex personalities. But knowing someone, revealing oneself to another, sharing oneself with another, demanded that those layers—of civility, of defense, of self-protection—be peeled away.

  Tonight, fingers twining, only to clutch tight as desire peaked, bodies joined and straining, merging and fusing to the heated beat as they pushed each other on and up passion’s peak, amidst the sensual maelstrom, they each knowingly stripped another layer away and stepped onto a new level of closeness.

  A new level of intimacy.

  One step further—from where they had been to where they now were. One more step along the road to where they wanted and needed to be.

  Joy in that moment, acknowledgment of what was, and hope for the future—all were encapsulated in the mingled breath each drew before the final moment of passionate cataclysm.

  And then they were there. Fused anew, forged anew as ecstasy claimed them. She valiantly tried to muffle her scream; he buried his face in the pillow by her head and groaned long and deep.

  Then he slumped atop her, and she wrapped her arms about him and held him close.

  Together, they wandered oblivion’s shore, more deeply linked than they had been before.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thirteen days later, Declan stood beside Edwina at the starboard railing of The Cormorant and watched th
e buildings of Freetown draw near. They’d been lucky, and the winds had remained favorable for the entire journey; they’d raced across the mouth of the Bay of Biscay, rounded the northern tip of Spain, then continued south well out from the Spanish and African coasts until they’d finally swung west and sailed into the estuary of the Sierra Leone river. The settlement of Freetown had grown up around one of the bays on the estuary’s southern shore.

  Courtesy of the benign conditions, they’d been able to maintain full sail for much of the journey. Given the need for speed, Declan had chosen to do so. The amount of canvas they’d been flying had attracted attention from other ships out on the Atlantic roads and had, no doubt, caused some raised eyebrows.

  The only Frobisher vessel they’d passed had been the one Declan would have preferred not to meet. Caleb had been sailing north in The Prince, returning from ferrying a merchant delegation to Cape Town, and of course¸ the number of sails Declan had been flying—and, indeed, that The Cormorant had been at sea at all—had piqued his younger brother’s interest. The brothers had long ago devised their own private flag-based language; on spotting The Cormorant, Caleb had all but immediately flown “What’s going on?”

  Declan had pretended not to see. He felt sure he could rely on Royd to keep Caleb busy elsewhere. The last thing any of the family would want was for the youngest Frobisher—he who had yet to learn the meaning of the word fear—to learn about Wolverstone’s mission. It was just the sort of situation that would appeal to the daredevil in Caleb; he would race in, eager to engage regardless of any danger to himself or anyone else.

  Although he was only three years younger than Declan, Caleb was considered the baby of the family by all—someone who still needed to be protected for his own good. That was the reason Royd rarely consented to make the same improvements for speed and agility he made to his own, Robert’s, and Declan’s ships to Caleb’s Prince. If a grown man could pout, Caleb pouted, not that that affected Royd in the least.