by Barbara Dan
"Damnation, sir," he called, obviously surprised that he'd been hit, "Whom do I have the privilege of engaging?" His voice, though strained, was admiring in tone. In one broadside, this bogus fishing vessel had left his mainmast and sails in tatters, and at least twenty of his men were either wounded or dying.
"MacGregor and Burton here," Bruce called. "And yourself?"
"Lieutenant Geoffrey Shelton, commander of this vessel."
"Shelton, you have exactly two minutes to surrender, or I shall blow you out of the water," Bruce replied, delivering his ultimatum in his most lethal tone. "I have both the munitions and the men to send you straight to hell, unless you heed my warning."
Bruce motioned his crew to reload. Nostrils seared by gunpowder, grim-faced men, including those manning dummy cannons, went through the motions of preparing the next charge. Caught up in the spirit of the moment, their actions gave convincing proof that they meant to show no quarter to the men of the Bowden.
Meanwhile Bruce strode up and down the smoke-filled deck, consulting his pocket watch. Loudly he counted off the seconds, furnishing fire from his match wick to the men at each cannon, along with hearty words of encouragement.
"This time we shall give you all twelve guns," he announced decisively across the short distance between the two ships. The war of nerves continued, as he called out the time.
Nearing the last few seconds, he raised a hearty, reckless laugh from his gut and called, "All right, Shelton, prepare to meet your God."
He took his stance. "Ready! . . . Aim!"
"Hold, hold!" the Bowden's commander called. "We yield, sir." Shelton, clutching his arm, swayed and put down his horn.
"A wise decision," Bruce said humorlessly, acting as if he regretted having to call off his men.
"Prepare to board," came the order from Burton, urging his ship closer. As soon as the grappling hooks were secure, Bruce and Burton swung over on a line to the Bowden's deck, over a dozen men at their heels and the rest of their crew ready to back them up.
Within minutes, they had received Captain Shelton's sword, clapped him and his officers in irons, and secured the common sailors in the ship’s hold.
"Good work, MacGregor," Seth congratulated him.
"Aye, it worked well enough this time," Bruce conceded. "I'll put my crew aboard and bring her into port. It'll be safer if we sail in convoy."
Burton nodded. He had never experienced anything close to what he had just witnessed. "A day and a half, and we'll be home, barring any problems." He nodded toward the storm clouds heading their way. "I'll send Lydia over." Seth turned with every intention of retrieving his sister.
Bruce stopped him with a scowl. "No! For the time being, leave her where she is. I have plenty to say to the lady, but right now she'd only be in the way."
Turning his back, he gave his men orders to clear the decks of damaged sails and rigging on the Bowden. "By the way, Burton," he called over his shoulder, "half the prize money is yours. Nice work."
Seth went back to the Isobella, slightly dazed by his extreme good fortune, to be sharing the Bowden's bounty.
Everyone on board was elated by the unexpected victory. All except one.
The danger past, Bromby had no choice but to let Lydia out of the cabin. She didn't take the news well that Bruce specifically desired that she remain where she was.
"There's always clean-up after a battle, sis," Seth explained, putting an arm around her shoulders.
Huddled in her brother's bulky clothing, Lydia glared across the short expanse of water between her and her husband. My hero! she thought rebelliously. She kicked a heavy coil of rope and stubbed her toe.
"Wait till I get him alone," she vowed, hopping about.
Seth chuckled, seeing his sister's agitation. "Don't be in such an all-fired hurry. You saw what he's up against. If you go against his orders, he won't take it kindly. Right now, he looks fierce enough to chew you up and spit you out."
"He does, doesn’t he?" Tears sprang to her eyes, and Lydia began to pace like a tigress along the rail. All she wanted was Bruce's love. And she had very nearly succeeded, before the Bowden came along. Now, it appeared, he meant to leave her behind on the Isobella, while he sailed back to port with the captured prize.
* * *
Bruce turned to heave debris over the Bowden's side and, as if nudged by an unseen power, caught her hungry gaze, as she watched him from the Isobella. He straightened, passing a sleeve over his brow. "Burton," he called in his clear baritone, "how about sending over that cabin boy to help clean up this mess?"
"Cabin boy!" she exclaimed, her jaw dropping in surprise.
"I think he means you, Lydia," Andrew Graham laughed, returning to the Isobella on a long line. He jumped down to the deck beside her.
Thrilled to her toes, Lydia waved, but Bruce was again busy restoring order, his back to her. Impatiently, she watched Seth bring down a long, notched boarding line from the rigging.
"Hurry, Seth!" she cried, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Why, she could swim the distance in less time than it took him to fashion a loop for her foot.
"Keep your shirt on," Seth laughed, giving her a leg up to the dangling rope.
Finally her foot was secure in the loop; she wouldn't wind up in the drink. Lydia grasped the line. "Now!"
Seth gave her a mighty heave.
She held her breath, never daring to look down at the churning waters below, and swung right into her husband's waiting arms. He caught her and set her gently on the Bowden's deck before him. "Ah, Mrs. MacGregor. We meet again."
"Cabin boy, indeed!" she retorted with a wobbly smile.
"Indeed, madam," he said softly, his eyes taking in her boyish attire. He caught her small hand in his big rough one and pulled her toward the starboard gunwale. "My men and I are hard pressed at the moment, but I'd like you to give the ship's physician, Dr. Wells, a hand."
Lydia looked down the length of the blood-stained deck. Men lay sprawled like discarded puppets. The odor of slowly dissipating smoke and burning canvas, the sight of shattered bodies and splintered timbers sickened her. She had seen wounded men before, but by the time they reached New London, far removed from battle, they had already received some care.
She glanced up to find the muscles in Bruce's face stretched taut. His eyes burned like black coals. This was no game he played out at sea, she realized; he found this war as appalling as she did.
"Aye, Lydia," he nodded, as if reading her mind. "Heroics make exciting news at home, but not nearly so pleasant in the clear light of day." His eyes pierced hers like the deadly steel of a rapier. "Perhaps a dose of reality will cure you of any further desire for frivolous adventure,"
Lydia swallowed, gazing up at him. Only his strong hand on her arm kept her from full retreat. "Is it frivolous to want my husband home?" she countered, barely audible above the shouts of his men, as they raised a thousand pounds of sail.
"Aye, madam wife, frivolous," Bruce growled. "A man's heart rests easier, knowin' his wife's safe at home. Not traipsin' about and stickin' her nose where it doesn't belong!"
Lydia stared up at him, speechless.
"This is no tea party," he went on, savagely. "Make yourself useful, woman."
"Most gladly," Lydia snapped, throwing off his hand.
Stone-faced, Bruce went back to preparing the ship to get under way. For her part, Lydia stepped past two sailors carrying the grisly corpse of a young midshipman toward the rail. She saw at once how badly the knowledge she had gained over the past few months was needed.
She hunkered down beside the ship's physician, who was busy cutting away a shirt, so that he could tend the flesh wound on a young seaman's arm.
"Doctor, I have some experience treating wounds," she told him.
Barely glancing up, Wells surrendered a roll of bleached muslin, similar to hundreds she had helped roll in New London. "You take this man," he told her. "I'll see to the more serious casualties."
&nb
sp; "Have you anything to wash out the wound?" she called after him, but he didn't answer. Instead, Wells stumbled over to another patient lying propped against the hatch. His unsteady gait brought her to the shocking realization that the doctor dosed himself as liberally with spirits as he did his patients!
Scandalized, Lydia dropped to both knees and winced to see the bone fragment protruding from the sailor's sleeve. Fortunately, while she was still wondering where she could find clean water, soap and carbolic acid, or a reasonable facsimile, Jeremiah Winston appeared on deck with a pail brimming with hot water.
Grinning, he handed over a bar of strong lye soap and a jug of rum.
Lydia beamed up at him. "Bless you, Jeremiah!"
Armed with this meager defense against human suffering, she set herself to the task of cleaning and bandaging every wounded man on board, in hopes of heading off gangrene. Working diligently, she didn't even notice when Bruce set sail.
Hours later, she rose and stretched, relieved that the worst was over. Her patients were resting comfortably, the dead had been committed to the sea, and Doctor Wells was sharing a bottle with a dying man. After feeding those who were too weak to take nourishment on their own, she stumbled off toward the captain's cabin. She had to get off her feet, no matter what that ogre husband of hers demanded of her.
Fortunately Bruce was on the quarterdeck conferring with his first and second mates, and too busy to notice her defection.
Across the bow, a fissure of lightning split the dark, lowering sky. The air had grown heavy; and another storm was imminent. Swaying with fatigue, Lydia lurched across the threshold. The cabin smelled like a cedar forest. A military commode, a chest of drawers, and a small desk, all bolted down, were a welcome sight, as was the solid birdseye bed. But nothing was so tempting as the small hip bath, and hot steam rising toward the ceiling.
Lydia tossed aside her woolen cap, her heart overflowing with gratitude. Quickly she doffed her clothes, never so eager to enjoy the simple pleasures of bathing. She dipped a toe into the inviting tub, then quickly lowered herself into the bath. What a saint Bruce is, she thought, not only rescuing her from certain disaster, but seeing to her creature comforts, while she was out on deck, slaving away.
Humming slightly off-key, she lathered herself all over, then piled her hair high and, standing, rinsed thoroughly, using the pitcher from the dresser. Her back to the door, she was too busy splashing to hear Bruce walk in.
God, but she's beautiful! Bruce thought. His throat tightened with emotion, as he watched her complete her ablutions. The water flowed down her back, making her skin shine in the lantern light. Listening to her soft humming, he smiled tenderly. When she reached blindly behind her for the towel, he placed it in her hand.
Startled, Lydia glanced over her shoulder at the handsome giant grinning at her bare backside. She opened her mouth to thank him for arranging for her bath, but it seemed she had misjudged him—again.
"I see you got to my bath ahead of me." He stepped forward, and Lydia backed away, clutching the towel around her very pregnant body.
"Your bath? she echoed with a slight frown.
He spread his hands wide, indicating his disreputable garb. "I sorely need one!" Bruce lowered himself into the cabin's only chair and tugged off his worn boots. "Cease your gawking, wife," he rumbled in cheerful complaint. "Hurry now. Dry off, and fetch me more water."
"What?" she choked out.
"You're the cabin boy, aren't you?"
Yawning, he peeled off his shirt and absently rubbed his chest fur.
Lydia eyed him through a dripping curl. Who did he think he was, ordering her about like a deckhand? "Fetch it yourself!" she told him, tucking her towel modestly around her expanding torso. She cared not for his bold stare, nor the stubborn set of his jaw. She was not going to don those dirty britches and tote water from the cook's galley!
Bruce stood and, coming to her, wound a long wet strand of her flaxen hair around his finger, until she was standing on tiptoe. "Mutiny? Ah, lass, what am I to do with ye?" he drawled in a heavy brogue. "I draw the line at keel-hauling violet-eyed ladies, you see."
Instantly Lydia saw where she had erred in her handling of this awesome manly specimen she called husband. Even his bantering tone couldn't disguise his fatigue or his right to command. Bruce already ruled her heart; now he seemed to be asking for the surrender of her will. Clearly the choice was hers. Did she put her own pride ahead of his needs, or not?
Viewing Bruce as her greatest need, Lydia sought the role of peacemaker. "I'll gladly draw your bath."
Bruce looked pleased by her sudden tractability. Having fought the British, he didn't want to fight his wife, too. "Thank you, wife. I was just testing your mettle," he said, heaving his big frame upright. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll fetch my own water."
"Oh, Bruce," Lydia said, relieved. "I do so love—" Letting the towel slide, she reached out to embrace him, sweaty clothes and all, when . . .
A knock sounded at the door.
Oh, please, God. Was this her fate, to be forever interrupted by a knock at the door?
While Bruce crossed to the door, Lydia hastily slipped between the crisp linen sheets on the bunk and made herself invisible.
"Storm's upon us, Cap'n," said a voice from the companionway.
"Batten down tight, Cooper," Bruce told the seaman, "and prepare to make a run."
He closed the door and turned to meet Lydia's tearful gaze. "Get some sleep, Lydia. I'll have Wells tend the wounded tonight."
Lydia nodded meekly, watching him button up his jacket and struggle into his boots.
"Close those angel eyes, for I battle strong temptation." He blew her a kiss and left.
Staring at the door, Lydia huddled beneath the blankets. She played such a small part in Bruce's life. The war, a storm . . . everything, it seemed, took precedence over their marriage. Frustrated, she bit her lip to keep from crying.
The candle guttered, plunging her into darkness.
Silently she vowed it wouldn't always be this way.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The storm hit with unexpected force. Already battle damaged, the Bowden pushed on for home port, battling howling winds and rain all the way. Ploughing, churning seas slashed the groaning decks, drenching the crew and the topside with chill-crunching sea spume.
The Bowden began to take on water around eight, keeping Bruce's men busy all night at the pumps. Pushed to the limit, MacGregor and his men fought to stretch safety lines, fore to aft, and tie down vital equipment. Hours later the storm blew over, as fast as it had struck, and the ship was able to continue. But they had lost valuable time, as well as all contact with the Isobella, last seen steering a course toward Martha's Vineyard.
It was past two in the morning when Bruce trudged off to grab some shut-eye, leaving his second mate in charge. Stepping into the cabin, he spied Lydia, her long hair shimmering like moonlight across her pillow; the only soul aboard who had managed to pound the pillow throughout the storm.
Shaking his head over his wife's remarkable capacity for sleep, Bruce stripped off his wet clothes. His eyes caressing the dim outline of her hip, he stretched, rolling his neck to work out the kinks, then ran his hands through his damp hair with a sigh. What he wouldn't give to know what had prompted his dainty pepperpot of a wife to take such a dangerous journey.
Slipping between the sheets, Bruce turned and kissed the long strand of golden hair that strayed across his pillow. Lydia murmured in her sleep, and he moved closer, lured by the fresh scent of lavender on her skin. His big hand, intent upon exploring, lightly cupped her sweetly rounded breast. It fit his hand to perfection. A bit fuller than he remembered, but provocative and already responding to his gentlest touch.
Lydia stirred restlessly and, dreaming, snuggled her backside into him, spoon fashion.
Instantly inspired, Bruce let his fingers travel down her luscious contours to her nicely rounded tummy. Absently he stroked her navel, nearly in
toxicated by her womanly scent.
An unexpected flurry of activity beneath his fingertips startled him out of his amorous fantasy.
Twice more it happened.
Alarmed, Bruce rose up on one elbow. He cocked his head and focused on the strange vibrations emanating from her . . .
Nicely rounded tummy?
Bruce sat bolt upright, his fingers spanning her belly.
"Lydia!" His face broke into a broad smile. "Why didn't you tell me about the baby?"
His wife lifted her head an inch off her pillow and stared at him drowsily. "Oh, that." She yawned and hitched her fanny.
"No, I mean it, Lydia," he proclaimed happily. "You're pregnant!"
This might be news to Bruce, but it wasn't exactly a revelation to Lydia. She rolled her eyes at him, tugged the sheet higher, and turned her back.
"And here I thought I ate too many oysters for supper," she mumbled sleepily.
Bruce swooped down, his whiskered kisses tickling her neck. She turned to swat him and became the recipient of a passionate kiss on the mouth. For Lydia, it was like having a delicious dream, only it was real. And Bruce wasn't mad at her anymore.
She grabbed Bruce by the ears and, locking soft moist lips to his, put all the pent-up frustration of their unbearably long separation into her embrace. Laughter came bubbling out of her like living springs of water, as she pounced on him playfully, her full, ripe breasts grazing his face. She felt him nuzzle her through the light camisole that covered her ripening figure, while his fingers worked the tiny buttons, freeing her breasts.
"Oh, Bruce," she giggled, feeling him lightly teeth her nipples.
"When did you get pregnant?" he marveled, believing that he at last understood what had inspired her recklessness.
"Silly question! You practically ordered me to make you a son on your way out the door last December, remember? Naturally I obeyed my lord and master." Said with a kittenish smirk.
Bruce's brows arched in surprise. "Obey? You?!" He laughed and drew her even closer.