A Different Sort of Perfect

by Vivian Roycroft

  Her spine stiffened without her permission. "I'm a quick study."

  "Excellent. Keep that in mind, Mr. Staunton, when the betting pool gets underway."

  "Oh, yes, sir." Staunton eyed her and grinned. "Don't take it that way, Lady Clara. Our midshipmen's berth and warrant officers would bet on paint drying or two snails racing."

  "And in any case, that strong scent of coffee means our breakfast is ready." Captain Fleming offered his arm. The amusement in his pale eyes softened, as if he'd never tease her again. "May I escort you to the great cabin?"

  Prickles of nervous energy tickled her skin from her belly outward. Something about the man… As Staunton tilted his tall black hat, she placed her hand gingerly on Captain Fleming's arm and allowed him to escort her toward the stern. For breakfast, she'd brave far worse. After all, how bad could he possibly be?

  Chapter Seven

  Fleming led his uninvited guest through his impromptu bedchamber — he'd no intention of entering hers — past that aggravating hammock, to the great cabin, at Topaze's stern end. Hennessy and his mates had moved the dining table and chairs from the coach to the great cabin's larboard side, and it was set for two when they entered. Beside him, Lady Clara gasped.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Oh, no." Her eyes were wide and round. She fingered the Sheffield silver, the snowy napkin, the pewter plate glistening in the misty light peeking through the stern windows. "This is beautiful. I'd no idea a small ship could keep such an elegant table."

  And now that he looked more closely, Hennessy had laid the table with the best plates and silver, rather than the stuff kept for everyday use. So like a sailor; they might not want her aboard, but if she was already there, by gimbals, they'd do their utmost to impress her. "Topaze is rather a wealthy ship, you know."

  Her gaze rose to his and a spark of something flared within her eyes. Interest, respect, appreciation? Invitation? No, she'd said she was hunting for the man she loved. Mrs. Fleming's little boy would be far down on her list of priorities, surely. But the notion was flattering and there was no harm in being pleased, regardless of how little it meant.

  He tucked her chair in to the table, carefully not brushing her silken sleeve with his fingers, before seating himself. Lady Clara had approached the table directly, with the straightforward interest of a child, and so he'd seated her as he'd intended, with the sunlight from the stern windows falling fully onto her face, without having to finesse things. He'd be able to assess his guest with no need to guess at her reactions.

  Hennessy poured coffee, set the little creampot of goat's milk in the table's center, and served chops, eggs, and soft tack.

  "But this looks wonderful," she said.

  The note of puzzlement in her voice raised his eyebrows. "'But'? Does that mean you considered us savages before the bacon hit your plate?"

  She had the grace to redden. "Of course not. But one hears stories of the naval officer's hard lot, and bad food always claims a place of prominence in such a tale."

  "If we have to round the Cape in chase, without time to stop for fresh provisions, you may yet experience those tales." He paused for a sip of coffee. He'd long ago made certain Hennessy knew his next breath depended upon the captain's morning coffee being served hot and hot; there were times when life was good, being the captain. "But early on in a voyage, we manage to scrape out some reasonable style."

  She turned her attention to her plate and flushed again, a soft pink that glowed like the misty sunlight beneath her delicate, translucent skin. She'd pulled her hair into a simple twist, tightened until it looked painful, but already the first wisps drifted free and gathered about her ears and cheeks. Its color was so light, too pale to be called flaxen, more like the blooms of the acacia tree outside his bedroom window at home. It looked softer than a setter puppy's undercoat.

  And far more inviting. He needed to keep his mind where it belonged — on his plan. Until he could return her home, she was his responsibility and he'd have to remember that.

  And only that.

  He cleared his throat and eased it with more coffee. He'd eaten half the chop, but so much of his attention had been on her, he couldn't recall a bite. Hopefully they weren't tough or stringy; poor food was a sad way to welcome any guest, even an uninvited, spoiled debutante. "I regret discussing business over our meal, but the first full day out is generally a busy one and this may be all the time we have until late."

  Her head shot erect. The sudden ferocious intensity made him straighten. Her hair was pale but her eyes were dark, such a dark brown they were next to black. At that moment, it required little imagination to picture sparks flying from them and igniting the table, the cloth, and the remains of their meal.

  "Business?" she asked.

  He nodded. "I thought we might work a trade."

  Make that the entire ship. Her intense response astonished him. Did she imagine he meant something dishonorable? He'd never allowed bawdy talk at his table, nor did he encourage it amongst his officers and midshipmen, and he'd certainly never intended to imply—

  No. He hadn't. And he hadn't. The widening of her eyes was surprise, not outrage. She hadn't delved into murky physical depths when considering what she might have to trade. Her reaction could only stem from something else entirely, and prickles of unease crept up his arms, overlying his unworthy disappointment. Impossible to decide which was worse, his impure assumptions or her unknown possibilities.

  He took a deep, soothing breath. The delicate part of his plan approached at stu'nsail speed. "The problem is, Lady Clara, I must carry you on the books in some manner."

  She shook her head. "On the books? I don't understand."

  "Every ship maintains accounts. The purser mainly keeps the books, but the captain holds the final responsibility. There are ledgers for each consumable aboard — food, water, gunpowder, the different types of shot, sail-maker's goods, ropes, everything."

  Her shoulders drooped and the intensity vanished with extraordinary suddenness. She pushed her plate aside. "And you must account for my consumption."

  "Exactly." It wasn't precisely true, of course. Every captain had the right to carry a guest aboard and not even the notoriously parsimonious victuallers could quibble over the morsel she'd eaten. Besides, during their hurried refitting in Plymouth, he'd sent Hennessy ashore with letters of credit and currently the captain's storeroom in the hold was packed so tightly with quality provisions, he couldn't possibly work his way through them even if they did miss restocking at the Cape. Even if he invited the midshipmen to dine with him every night of the week. He could carry her from here to Pulau Pinang and flip the books.

  But that wouldn't serve his purpose.

  "May I presume you write a clear, readable hand?"

  The paltry sunlight couldn't conceal the mystification spreading across her face. He hid a smile, but not very well, judging by the irritation that followed.

  "You may so presume."

  "Because I need a clerk."

  Her eyes flew open. His battle against that smile turned desperate.

  "Oh, do quit — smirking at me." She folded the napkin and set it aside with a table-top slap. "You wish me to work my passage?"

  Now for the tricky part. "It's an imposition, I know, and I must beg your pardon for that. But I cannot possibly maintain the mission, the books, the muster roll, the midshipmen's education, and the ship itself, without some assistance." He poured the last of the coffee into their porcelain cups and let her have first crack at the milk; he'd drink it black for the rest of his life if this worked. Allowing frustration to seep into his voice, he continued, "And I can't ask Mr. Abbot, or Mr. Rosslyn, or either of the midshipmen to help. We're seriously undermanned and especially under-officered—"

  "Under-officered?" She shook her head as Hennessy removed the plates.

  Hennessy would overhear, of course, and spread the gossip throughout the ship. Which was exactly what Fleming wanted. In other words, impeccable timi
ng. "Yes, a ship the size of Topaze needs at least two more lieutenants and an entire wagonful of midshipmen. We could have taken additional officers aboard at Plymouth, but there were none available whom we knew, and it can be devilishly tricky, working with strangers during an important mission. So we chose to put to sea under strength and work harder to make up for the lack." Of course, it didn't help that Rosslyn was always desperately seasick the first week of every cruise, but at least he'd improve and resume his duties at some point.

  She paused. An endearing pucker tangled her forehead. "You're saying your ship and crew are undertaking an important mission."

  "I'm sorry, did I not explain that?" Good; he sounded like an overworked, under-assisted captain, adding weight to his persuasion. "A French frigate escaped from Brest and is sailing for the Indian Ocean, presumably intending to intercept the East India convoy. Our assignment is to stop her." He wouldn't mention the Bonaparte spy who'd been captured in Devonport with the convoy's sailing date clearly noted in his diary, nor the fact that British naval intelligence had no idea how deep the rot went, nor that they'd been ordered not to touch shore until the Cape, only pausing to water at the Canaries, nor that they'd go into battle before then if they caught up with the Armide. He wanted her cooperation, not a panicky debutante screaming across the table.

  A pulse fluttered in her slender throat like the wings of a delicate butterfly, fluttered again. For a moment it seemed he'd made his case and convinced her; a conscious awareness in her eyes, almost a knowingness, told him she understood the depths of what he'd said, that she didn't need the horrid details explained. But then her dark eyes clouded. She leaned over the table, staring down into the linen. More wisps of pale, pale hair fluttered free, surrounding her cheeks in a yellow cloud.

  "And that's why you can't help me find him."

  He nearly took her hand. Her little whisper, so hopeless and breathy, aroused a wave of protectiveness and sympathy within him, and he actually lifted his hand and began reaching across the table to where hers rested, fingers curled as if all her muscles had collapsed with her hopes. In the nick of time he recalled himself, changed targets, and picked up the creampot instead. A few drops trickled from it into his almost-empty coffee cup, and he stirred it in to give himself time.

  Lady Clara had him off-balance; that had to be it. And it wasn't her, not exactly, but her presence here, aboard his ship and sitting at his breakfast table, that had him acting without thinking. Surely he was gentleman enough—man enough, to conquer his baser impulses even when off-balance?

  He had to admit, now she wasn't trying to rip his head off, she was a lovely young woman: face, figure, charm, manners, she had all the usual attractions, perhaps in greater quantities than one normally saw. In particular, she held herself well, with a healthy grace that was an elegance in itself. Now that he considered it, he'd never seen her grab for support, no matter how Topaze behaved, making her a natural sailor despite her sex. And something about her behavior, that high-minded seriousness she sometimes displayed, brought out the worst in his sense of humor. Glib little teasing comments weren't the most amiable of conversational gambits, but they'd do when he couldn't think of anything better.

  Oh, my eye and Betty Martin, too. Who was he trying to fool? This was the very reason captains and crews did not like having women aboard. She'd turned his head and—

  "Is there nothing you can do for me?"

  Her chin drooped further, hiding her face. Was she laughing at him? deliberately manipulating him? Look up, he wanted to say. But in his head the words sounded so boorish, he couldn't force his mouth to form them. He tried willing her chin up, thinking strong thoughts, even urging her with his tightened stomach muscles. But when she did, finally, raise her head, those dark eyes had dulled to despair.

  Desperately, she'd said last night. She desperately needed his help.

  In his foolish heart, he believed her.

  No matter what his wiser head might think.

  "Perhaps we can work something out."

  He didn't say that. He did not say that. But she stiffened, jerked erect, leaned forward, and there was that ferocious intensity again, staring back at him like a hungry tiger scenting human flesh. Not the best image, perhaps. But horribly apt.

  "You mean it? Honest?"

  Before he could be trapped further, Fleming raised a hand and held it out, palm forward. "I said perhaps. After we've found our marauding frigate, it wouldn't hurt to cast around a bit. I presume you've some way of finding your captain?" He didn't want to use the word French in relation to her quarry, not while any of the crew were present. Some things it was better they simply didn't know. Had Hennessy overheard that little detail the previous night? Impossible to recall.

  She nodded, two jerks of her head. All her grace had vanished with the thought of her lover, leaving her brittle and breakable, and so that arousal of sudden tension meant her thoughts were centered on him. When he'd earlier mentioned discussing business, she'd assumed he meant her business, not his. It figured.

  Two different people resided within the same smooth, ivory skin — the pleasant, pleasing gentlewoman and the starveling tiger hunting for her mate.

  The thought disturbed him. So did the eagerness brightening her eyes and face. He'd offered the tigress a chunk of meat; she'd willingly snapped it up. Even if it contained his arm. Or poison.

  But now he was being silly. Fleming shook himself mentally and found a smile. "Then we have a deal? You'll join my crew for the duration of the voyage as captain's clerk, and afterward we'll do what we can to find your captain?"

  Lady Clara paused, then nodded again. A hint of grace seeped back into her motions. "Thank you, Captain, yes. We have a deal."

  All right, it was silliness at best to think of taking the king's ship on a wild goose chase after a French captain who might or might not wish to be found. Fleming would get the necessary details later. For now, he had what he needed, a captain's clerk and a woman who was no longer a woman but a member of the crew.

  Now to convince the rest of them.

  Chapter Eight

  A pipe shrilled a martial call on the deck above. Clara slipped the knotted leather strap around her neck; a penner inkhorn dangled from the end, and Captain Fleming had assured her it contained the finest oak gall ink, as well as a crow quill and white sand, before he'd hurried away.

  As if chased by a bear.

  Hardly complimentary to a lady, when a gentleman ran from her presence. But he'd mentioned the first full day of a voyage was a busy one, so perhaps he merely had work to do. Still, he needn't have run quite so fast.

  She scooped up the leather-bound book he'd given her for keeping notes, although it seemed far too fine for such a clerkly task. The great cabin, as he'd called it, stretched from one side of the ship to the other across the entire stern, and it seemed to be a sort of parlor and office reserved expressly for the captain — and the captain's clerk, or so she hoped. Two cabins were immediately for'ard, one to larboard or left, where Captain Fleming had slung a hammock, and the other starboard or right, where she'd slept with the hanging cot. No door communicated between the two smaller cabins — just as well, there'd be less invitation for gossip — but each of them had doors leading into the great cabin and out onto the gun deck. He'd made no mention of moving her to another location, so it seemed he wanted her under his protection, which was also fine by her. She'd fantasized over shipwrecks, storms, and savage natives wearing grass skirts during those giddy hours huddling within the hanging cot, but there were some feminine dangers that hadn't occurred to her.

  Clara slipped from the great cabin through her little sleeping quarters and out to the gun deck. A red-coated Marine sentry stood outside the captain's bedroom door, stiffly at attention and with a musket to his shoulder. His eyes were blank, his face wooden, and he didn't turn her way. Would he answer if she spoke? Was that even permitted, or would she commit some breach of naval discipline with innocent words? Something else
she'd have to learn. She lowered her head and hurried past, climbing the aft ladder to the quarterdeck.

  Fog still enshrouded the Topaze; if anything it had thickened, cutting them off from the rest of the world with impenetrable walls. The swishing water along the ship's sides, so loud the night before, made a quieter ripple of noise now, and the deck held level and steady beneath her slippers. Only two sails billowed overhead and they high on the masts. She craned her neck, peering up; misty plumes drifted past the brilliant canvas like grey ghosts.

  Someone cleared his throat.

  Captain Fleming, of course. He stood at the quarterdeck's forward railing, with a carved wooden chair and Mr. Abbot beside him. Of the two, the chair seemed happier to see her. Staunton hung in the background, that grin permanently etched on his face, watching the lot of them as if expecting some grand entertainment. And beyond the railing—

  —beyond the railing, the entire crew waited.

  In a veritable sea of faces, a horde of sailors crowded the frigate's left walkway, the larboard gangway, in a disorderly clump. At the stern, the ship's opposite end, a unit of red-coated Marines formed a block of brilliant color in the gloom. They all stared. At her. And they appeared no happier than Mr. Abbot.

  She gulped.

  "Lady Clara." Captain Fleming cleared his throat again, as if his calm confidence was little more than a sham. No hint of his previous teasing curve touched his lips. "Do you care to be seated?" He gestured to the chair.

  Shooting seemed preferable to approaching more closely. Or flogging, or just about any other penalty that could be imposed. But they were all watching her with grim eyes and it was unwise to show fear to a pack of hunters. She forced herself across the deck, step after mincing step, and took the chair Captain Fleming held for her.

  He leaned closer and murmured in her ear. "The old muster list with all the sailors' names is toward the front of the book. Find the page and, as I call out each name, make a tick beside it if he answers."