In Chandler's lap.
Fork-side up, thankfully.
Oh, dear. And just as they were starting to get along so well. Without thinking further, Clara grabbed the fork. She wrested the beef from his lap, yanking it past his astonished and not-happy face, dropped it back onto the platter, grabbed a cloth—
And stopped herself in time.
It was impossible that she'd even considered it. Even without thinking properly. Even if she'd drunk her weight in the captain's red wine, twinkling in the still-intact decanter clasped between Hennessy's hands. No, such a thought had never, ever crossed her mind.
She handed the rag to Chandler. Without looking at him.
And concentrated on sawing off a final, extra-large, thick slice to top off his sandwich.
Hennessy stared at the table and rearranged the dishes, pushing everything neatly back into place. Captain Fleming's face seemed frozen.
As soon as the final slice touched the bread, Chandler slapped the roll together, mumbled something that at least sounded polite, grabbed his meal, and vanished through the captain's cabin and up the aft ladder.
Only then did the captain snigger. Hennessy's shoulders twitched. Even with his back turned, sloshing dirty dishes in the basin. No need to see his face.
Blasted men. The story would be all over the ship tomorrow. And just as her relationship with Chandler had entered reasonably positive territory.
* * * *
For the most part, his crew liked her and considered her one of their own, a testament to Fleming's efforts in that regard. But half his officers didn't merely consider her unlucky; they considered her far worse, a contretemps in motion, the clumsiest, most graceful person they knew. Eating a wet sandwich, flavored with rampant seawater, was preferable to waiting calmly at table for her next disaster. Considering the serrated edge on that knife, Fleming wasn't certain he could blame them.
Hennessy hefted the basin of dirty dishes. Water sloshing, a minor tempest within the larger one, he carried it out and vanished into the gun deck's shadows. As soon as he'd well and truly gone, Lady Clara slumped down into the seat opposite his, her face twisting. Frustration, anger, tears? Not anything he wanted to see.
"He'll get over it." Fleming sliced into a second chop.
"Doubtless." Her acidulous voice cracked at him. "But will I?"
True, she'd demonstrated again and again that dignity mattered to her. Fleming chewed as he thought, using his knife and fork to keep his dinner on the plate. He nodded at the sideboard, where the wineglasses had been wrapped in cloth and wedged into position. "Grab two."
He filled them from the decanter, the last of an incredible Château Beychevelle that glittered like blood-soaked jewels in the lantern light. The first sip closed her eyes; the second settled her back against the chair. Her chest rose and fell, drama or contentment, but her soft sigh was drowned out by a wave crashing onto the upper deck. He swallowed half his own wine — a sacrilege, that, but better inside him than all over the tablecloth — and chewed in peace while she sat, apparently lost in thought.
In their companionable silence, he spoke his thought aloud. "You never told me about him, you know."
With the rampant storm overwhelming all conversation more than a few steps away, it was his first chance to ask.
She froze, the wineglass clutched in both her hands, and there again was the brittle desperation she'd worn like a mask when she'd first come aboard. He hadn't seen it in so long, he'd thought it worn away by the sea air and the crew's acceptance, a memento she wouldn't be taking ashore.
At least her latent tigress hadn't appeared to bite his — arm.
"Well." She sipped again, swirled the wine around her mouth, and held it there, as if unsure what to say and seeking to draw inspiration from its smooth texture and cedary flavor. "He's perfect, you see."
Fleming swallowed. "That's a bit vague."
Her sideways glance was drier than the Bordeaux. Another sip, then she set the wineglass atop the table and held it there with both hands. "He's tall, with broad shoulders and good skin, a strong chin and high forehead, auburn hair…"
For long minutes she spoke, singing the unknown Frenchman's praises in desperate adoration. According to her rambling account, he was charming, elegant, witty, kind, handsome, appealing, stylish, a graceful dancer, and the owner of excellent taste, a château, and a vineyard. All the blasted man needed was a canal and perpetual motion machine, and he would indeed be shamefully perfect.
But he didn't seem real.
Her description, long and rambling, flattering and appreciative, did not make her Frenchman come to life. She'd missed the note, somehow, and something in their conversation felt off. But tired as he was from fighting the storm and holding Topaze together with his teeth, Fleming wasn't certain what that something might be.
And she never spoke the man's name. Not once, in all that account, did she use anything beyond masculine pronouns, general terms, and a dreamy, still-desperate expression. Or was she distracted? Difficult to say.
Of course, she was tired, too; no one had slept deeply since the storm had struck, not with that sound and fury surrounding the frigate. The hanging chair seemed rumpled, and perhaps she'd rested there, rather than in her appointed place. Keeping herself handy in case of need? It wasn't as if Hennessy couldn't feed the staff, although her willingness was touching.
Somewhere during their voyage, he'd become fond of her — as well as lecherous, he had to admit. Her imprecise description concerned him. It sounded as if she barely knew the man, and if so, how could she possibly be in love with him?
Finally her words died away, as if she could find nothing else to say. He'd finished his dinner, warmed his hands with coffee and his belly with toasted cheese, and it was time for him to return to duty. But Abbot held the deck with both mids to second him, and the smells of coffee, wine, meat, and somewhat frowzy female combined in a pleasant, home-like manner. He'd never dawdled nor shirked his duty before, not even as a sea-green midshipman. Surely the world owed him a few minutes now.
One last mouthful, and she drained her wineglass. Her throat lengthened as she leaned back her head and rippled as she swallowed, a slow, languorous movement like a stretching cat, and her eyes again drifted closed. If nothing else, describing her Frenchman had soothed her, or perhaps that credit should go to the Bordeaux. She set the glass on the table and sat still, the ship's gymnastics rocking her relaxed body and thrown-back head, breath after deep breath lifting her breasts before lowering them. The lantern's light made her translucent skin glow antique gold, like the satin on the cabin furniture. If he stretched out his fingers—
He was in danger. Grave danger. And she wasn't safe, either.
"I believe the storm's lessening." Her voice equaled her movements, lazy and content. It jolted him. Never mind that nothing could happen, aboard a ship one hundred forty-five feet long and thirty-six feet nine inches abeam, that wasn't instantly gossiped about from stem post to stern. They were alone, man to woman, with his baser instincts aroused, and nothing good could come of it.
No matter how exhausted he was.
He rose. The chair scraped across the deckboards, too loud as the storm drew breath. "I must return to the deck."
Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Those eyes, dark and more liquid than the swelling sea, captured him, held him. Blast the unknown and indecipherable Frenchman. If he leaned over her now—
He cleared his throat and felt like the fool he was. "Pray excuse me."
* * * *
Captain Fleming fled.
The silence had felt so comfortable, so intimate and natural. Soothing. As if she'd been cosseted in a soft blanket, in a warmed bed, in goose-down pillows.
And he'd fled. He'd risen, excused himself, and fled.
Dratted, frustrating man.
Clara swiped his glass, tossed off his last swallow of that wonderful, wonderful wine, and let Topaze's roll carry her away to bed. Hennessy caught the decanter
before it toppled over the fiddle to the deck, but even through the storm's tiring tantrum, the crystal tinkle of a shattering glass was clear.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was the stillness that woke her.
The first red edge of dawn christened the sea through the now open gunport. But no holystones rumbled overhead, no water rustled along the ship's side, and the sleeping cabin didn't tilt around her, the hanging cot not even gently swaying but hanging indeed, straight and steady. They were becalmed, the storm over. Good; they'd have time and a level deck for refitting. Surely some rope had broken and something had been carried away during the preceding madness.
Clara threw aside the bedclothes and sat up, wriggling her bare feet on the cool, damp boards and stretching her arms up into the cot's lines. Below decks a pounding began, mallets on wood in an uneven rhythm. The carpenter and his mates, starting on something. Had the storm opened a seam, cracking the ship like an eggshell? Not likely; Topaze was a well-founded, weatherly ship, no matter how wet. But something needed repairing, that was clear.
She dressed quickly, twisted her hair into a simple knot, and ran on deck, eager with a tingling anticipation as the sun pushed its bottom rim over the distant, invisible African horizon. The hard slanting light turned the ocean metallic gold around the Topaze, a still surface reflecting the sun's squashed-orange shape and adding sharp, jagged edges. The stillness extended, it seemed to the ends of the earth, except — she leaned over the starboard quarterdeck rail for a clearer view — except due south, more than a league beyond the figurehead's face. There the storm still loomed, a black tantrum crawling along and hiding the path ahead, opaque to her peering. Was that a flash of lightning, somewhere deep beneath those impenetrable clouds? It was impossible to say.
But the storm's passing left Topaze in peace. And for all its solid-seeming bulk, the storm moved faster than the frigate at her finest, leaving no chance they'd run into it again no matter they traveled the same pathway. Clara sucked in as much clean salt air as her lungs could hold. The morning sun warmed her back, the calm stretched around her, widening like an expanding gondola balloon, and the peace within her stretched to fill it.
Overhead, the storm stays'l had vanished. Only the maincourse and a jib were set and they hung limp, a lone breath of air rattling the sailcloth. The masts, yards, and rigging were alive with reefers knotting and splicing. In the foretop, David Mayne nodded and smiled to her, his hands never pausing; on the fo'c'sle, Jeremiah Wake touched grave, gnarled fingers to his greying curls and bowed his head in greeting.
One sailor, wearing dirty old trousers and a ragged Guernsey frock, standing on the maintop as if balancing on the mast, waved and swung himself onto the backstay, sliding down more like a monkey than a civilized Christian being. Golden curls shone in the unforgiving morning light. The sailors at each level glanced at him in passing but didn't pause in their work, and then he thumped onto the quarterdeck, not a yard away, doffing his sennit hat.
"Lady Clara."
She bobbed a not-quite-serious curtsey. "Good morning, Captain Fleming. How goes the reefing?"
"The preventer backstays all held and the masts all stayed standing." A silly smile creased his patrician face and he rested one hand on the wooden taffrail. "A few more hours, and she should be — well, not good as new, but good as possible without the assistance of a well-founded dockyard and a crew of skilled workers."
It was impossible not to smile with him. No matter how well she remembered their mutual fire and the presence of the invisibly interested crew all around. "And the wind? Shall it oblige us, do you think?"
His smile twisted into something rueful. It still looked silly, out of place, and most unusual, rather as if he had a pain and sought to hide it. But a growing intensity in his eyes, behind the silliness, made her shiver. "There's no guarantee, of course, and we have had the most extraordinary weather south of the Line this cruise." One hand snaked out and scratched the backstay he'd just slid down. "But I've never known the southeast trades to remain obstinate for long."
"What on earth are you doing?"
His fingers froze. "I beg your pardon?"
"To the backstay, sir?"
Fleming yanked his hand away and clasped it behind his back. Then he laughed, self-conscious and in full awareness of being caught. "It's another sailor's superstition, I'm afraid. Scratch a backstay and whistle for a wind. The old-time fo'castlemen swear it never fails."
"And you? Does it work for you?"
His smile died. He eyed her, at first with soft puzzlement crowding out the intensity, then with a growing wariness. "Well, it generally brings up a wind of some sort. But not always the one I'd intended."
He couldn't possibly mean her, could he? The little shiver returned, bringing tingles to her arms, as if she'd felt a chill. Clara turned back to the starboard rail and leaned over the ocean's mirror. Her face stared back, her expression unreadable, guarded, confused. A gentle ripple shuddered across the reflection, a cat's paw of wind sighing past, and again something flickered, surly and distant, in the heart of the receding storm.
"Is that lightning, do you think?"
He leaned on the rail behind her, peering over her head. Their arms touched; he made an abrupt withdrawal, as a gentleman should. So why did she feel that wistful pang?
"Where away?"
"Dead ahead." Awkward choice of words, considering. "See? There it is again, light flickering into darkness. But the light isn't really all that bright and I don't hear any thunder." She was afraid to say it, afraid to sound silly. But the flickers seemed more crimson than white, as if the raging storm had cut itself with its fury and now it bled into the sea.
"Quiet on deck!" Fleming yelled, in a voice calculated to reach the jibboom and foretop. The muttering, clacking, and rustling all ceased. But the hammering below continued. Staunton vanished down the fore hatchway with a flick of blue tailcoats and a moment later silence reigned. It was a strange sort of silence, no longer calming but electric, waiting for the next flash. Clara shivered again, more chilled than ever. Beside her, Fleming leaned far out over the still water, a vertical line between his eyes and the tails of his eyebrows tightly drawn down. Nobody seemed to breathe.
Heartbeats later the flicker came again, clearer this time, perhaps nearer and closer to the storm's outer edge. And reddish, definitely reddish. The distant rumble reached them long seconds later. Fleming straightened.
"That's cannon fire."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cannon fire.
The boyish delight he'd felt at his ship's survival blew apart and died away. Fleming leaned further over the railing, peering around the halo of Lady Clara's hair and straining to pierce the receding storm's secret heart. The crimson flickered again, not in the same place but off to the right and somewhat lower, and this time it traveled not left to right but right to left. Two ships, one larger than the other, firing broadside to broadside. Fighting for their lives.
It could be anything — a slave ship hindered by the storm and brought deservedly to bay, a whaler desperate to hang onto its catch against a privateer, an Indiaman that sailed ahead of the announced schedule. But a cold certainty settled in the pit of Fleming's stomach. The ship on the right seemed remarkably low, more like a sloop or brig than a proper ship, and its flickers were smaller and sharper-sounding, as if from four- or eight-pounders. Not every vessel of such modest size would put up a serious fight if set upon by a more massive enemy, but the little one buried in the sea-level clouds ahead fought like a tiger brought to bay.
It could only be Lamble and the Flirt. Higher gunports in the other ship meant a frigate, most likely French, possibly Spanish. The only such ship he knew of in the area was Armide.
He could be wrong. But his guts said otherwise.
The storm was moving faster than the embattled ships and would soon pass beyond them; he'd know more, and more certainly, when that revealing event took place. Until the capricious trade winds resu
med their duty, he had no chance of joining the fray. In the meantime, he had a battered frigate to prepare for combat, so it could be ripped to shreds again.
"Mr. Abbot?"
"Aye, sir?"
"How fast can our reefers go?"
The hands cheered, a savage snarl of voices. The clattering and banging resumed, redoubled. Abbot's response, no matter how correct nor possibly clever, drowned beneath the surge of noise.
And there was Lady Clara, standing against the quarterdeck railing. The morning sunlight blazed down, hard and pitiless as the flickering cannon fire flashing across the still ocean. She stood motionless, contained and reserved, controlled rather than brave. His heart thudded once, painfully loud, then settled back into its usual steady rhythm. Perhaps a bit faster than normal.
"What can I do?" she asked.
His mind formed the words, "Get below," and his mouth opened to say them. But his voice had more sense and refused to cooperate. If he ordered her to safety, how likely was she to obey? She'd obeyed every order he'd given her during the entire cruise. But their relationship had changed somewhere among the Atlantic swells, changed from the distance between a captain and a crew member to something more. Closer to friendship? Impossible to say. But the change meant he'd only be able to wield his authority once. Then he could expect questions. Or anger.
Or, if he insisted upon acting the captain and forced her behavior, their relationship would change again.
Not a step he was yet willing to take.
"For now, take notes." He unsnapped the repeater's chain from his waistcoat and handed the pocket watch to her. "Keep track of events and the exact times they happen. Begin with our sighting the cannon fire, about one minute ago."
Her granite control eased and she nodded. "I'll need supplies." She turned, ran down the after hatchway, and her topknot vanished below.
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