Rules of Engagement

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Eleanore stepped out of the way as he dropped like a felled tree. The floor shuddered under the impact.

  “Oh my sweet lord…!” came a soft, alarmed cry from the door.

  She looked up. The footman stood there, a tray in his hand, bearing the decanter and glass she had asked for.

  Eleanore went to him and plucked the decanter and glass from the tray. “Have someone removed this person from my room, will you? I will be in the upstairs library until it is done. I will need a carriage arranged for me. I will return to London tonight.”

  The footman found his tongue. “Yes, my Lady,” he said hastily.

  THE ESTATE WAS ON the outskirts of London, so the journey to Mayfair didn’t take long at all. The sun had set by the time she arrived, making it rather late, only Eleanore couldn’t care about that.

  The carriage was not a rented hack. It belonged to the estate. The driver was a gruff-spoken ruddy-cheeked man who took pains to make her comfortable and her journey a smooth one. He lit the lanterns before starting, even though it was still daylight, anticipating the night to come. She appreciated the thoughtfulness.

  When he halted the horse outside the white stone house on Park Lane, the driver climbed down and peered in the open window. “We’re here, my Lady.”

  “Could you knock on the door and have the butler ask Lord Innesford to step out and speak with me, please?”

  “Of course, miss.” He touched his cap and hurried over to the front door. There were few lights in the windows and for the last time she considered the wisdom of knocking on Cian’s door in the middle of the night. Only, she did not think she could wait until morning. By then, her courage would fade.

  Then it was too late to reconsider, for the driver’s knuckles rapped on the green door.

  There was perceptible pause, then the door opened a crack. Eleanore couldn’t see who opened it. Only darkness showed beyond the edge of the door.

  The driver spoke, gesturing toward the carriage. The door shut. He came back to the carriage. “He says he’ll speak to the lord.”

  In the window to the right of the door, orange light sprang to life, making the white curtains glow. The light shifted. It was a lamp, being carried.

  The door opened and the lamp emerged. Cian carried it. He wore a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, although the gown was open, as if he had just now thrown it on.

  The driver opened the carriage door for him and Eleanore heard his murmured thanks as he climbed in. He put the lamp on the floor between them and sat on the opposite seat and studied her as the driver shut the door.

  The carriage shifted as the driver climbed up to his bench.

  Cian’s dark eyes didn’t reveal anything in the low light. He reached out to pick up her hand and turn it, examining the knuckles. “What happened?” he asked.

  For the first time, Eleanore noticed the shredded skin over her knuckles and the spots of blood which had formed and congealed. In her agitation to leave the estate and the odious Mr. Belmont, she had overlooked the minor sting of her hand.

  “What has happened is that I have reached the outer limit of my tolerance,” she told Cian. “Life has lost all its charm.”

  “It never did hold much allure for you,” Cian said.

  “When I came back from…after the storm…” Her throat tightened.

  “You wanted to feel again,” Cian said. He nodded.

  “And for a while, I did,” she admitted.

  “Only when you balance upon the very edge of ruin and disaster, do you feel anything,” he pointed out.

  “Yes.” She let out her breath. “And now, not even on that knife edge does it feel good. I think…” She pressed her fingertips to her temples, which hurt. “I really think I must be rid of this demon which makes me start and shy whenever a curtain stirs in a breeze. It isn’t normal, Cian. I think if it was gone, perhaps I might be able to appreciate simple things again.”

  He considered her. “You want me to take you on the ship now,” he guessed.

  “Yes. I know it is not quite August yet, but I hoped you might—”

  Cian shook his head. “You know I will. I have merely been waiting for you to be ready to try it.” He shifted toward the door and put his hand on it. “I have some arrangements to put in place, then I can be ready to leave on the ten o’clock train for Truro. You must go home, Eleanore. I will pick you up at nine o’clock.” His gaze fell to her hand. “Ask James to put some gin on your knuckles.”

  He climbed out, then reached back in and picked up the lantern. Eleanore heard him speak to the driver, who acknowledged softly.

  The tightly wound coil of tension in her chest shifted and eased as the carriage rolled into motion once more. Then she remembered that in a day or two, certainly no more than that, she would step upon a ship and feel a breeze against her face and see the sails billow and slap and feel the deck tilt.

  The tension wound up tighter than ever.

  Chapter Nine

  When Eleanore came downstairs the next morning, the front rooms were already busy.

  She had slept late, for she had not fallen asleep until extremely late. Now her head ached with too little sleep, although she could not—she would not—halt what she had set in motion. She suspected she would feel just as ill and unprepared no matter when she went through with it. Putting it off would not ease the occasion.

  Tennyson appeared as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Would you like a late breakfast, my Lady? I’m sure Cook could prepare some eggs for you.”

  “No, nothing, thank you, Tennyson. I couldn’t eat a bite. Where is James?”

  “In the library with Lord Innesford,” Tennyson said, his tone abruptly dry.

  She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It wasn’t quite half past eight yet. “How long has Lord Innesford been here?”

  “Nearly an hour, my Lady.”

  “I see. Thank you.” She moved over to the library doors, which were closed. She could hear murmuring beyond them. She tapped firmly, then pushed the door open and moved in.

  James stood by the window, watching the early morning traffic in the square.

  Cian sat in the chair in front of James’ desk. He had turned to watch her brother. His gaze shifted to Eleanore.

  James saw her and moved toward her. “Innesford has been explaining what you want to attempt. Are you sure, Eleanore?”

  “Not in the slightest am I sure,” she admitted. “Only, I have tried everything else, James, and nothing works. Not for long, anyway, which leaves me with no choice. I must conquer this madness, if I am to have any hope of a life.”

  James picked up her hand and examined the broken knuckles. “Tell me the name of the bastard who forced you to defend yourself.”

  “He is no one. A man of low intelligence who didn’t listen. He has heard me properly, now.”

  “Was it the Belmont heir?” Cian asked.

  Startled, she looked at him.

  Cian shrugged. “You generate gossip wherever you go. One only has to sift for the truth.” His mouth turned down. “He’s an arrogant bastard, that one.”

  James did not look startled at the curse. He merely smiled. “Not anymore.” He gave Eleanore a small smile. “You are braver than me, sister. I applaud your attempt to face this.”

  She shivered. “Then you will not try to prevent me from trying? I thought you would.”

  James shook his head. “Mother and Coleman will not like it. As the head of the family, I should not approve, either. Cian has explained, though, why you must do this and how it might help. I will not stand in your way.” His smile was small. “I suggest you leave as swiftly as possible, though, before Mother emerges from her morning room and Coleman from his study.”

  Cian got to his feet. “And before either of them sees me,” he added. “Are you packed, Eleanore?”

  Last night, when she had not been able to sleep, Eleanore had added additional items to the valise which had accompanied her to the estat
e for the weekend. “I am ready to leave,” she admitted, as her heart fluttered uneasily.

  James put his arms around her and held her for a moment. “I wish I could go with you,” he said, his voice low. “I wish I could help.”

  “You have helped,” she assured him. “Do not let Coleman bully you, James.”

  He let her go. “Good luck.” He walked over to the bell pull and tugged it.

  Tennyson walked in almost immediately and James asked him to bring Eleanore’s valise downstairs and out to the carriage waiting at the curb.

  Cian moved up to her side. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low.

  Eleanore nodded. James moved ahead of them and plucked her bonnet from the stand and held it out to her, while looking over his shoulder toward the morning room door.

  Tennyson came down the stairs with one of the footmen carrying Eleanore’s valise and both moved out to the carriage.

  No one stepped out from their morning rooms to protest. No last-minute complications stopped her. Eleanore followed Cian out to the Williams family carriage and stepped into it.

  She felt ill.

  THE TRAIN HALTED AT Truro, which necessitated a change of trains to reach Falmouth. Cian was so familiar with the journey, though, Eleanore had no reason to think or worry about the transition.

  The train was nearly empty. The ton would not desert London for another two weeks, yet, so few people were leaving the city. Cian found an empty compartment for them and no one attempted to enter the compartment for the entire journey.

  As usual, he sat opposite her. He spoke little, usually only if she said something first. As Eleanore had more than enough to occupy her thoughts, she did not speak much, either.

  Whenever she looked up from the book she was unsuccessfully trying to read, Cian’s gaze was upon the land passing the window at a great rate, although she couldn’t shift the feeling that he had been watching her.

  The first glimpse she caught of the sea was a blue line at the edge of the horizon to the south, not long after the train left Exeter. Eleanore watched the blue line grow larger and more definite.

  Could she do this?

  “All you have to do is ask to stop and everything will stop at once,” Cian said, startling her.

  Eleanore glanced at him. “And if I cannot bring myself to even step off the train?”

  “Ah, then I must carry you across the platform to the London-bound train.” A smile threatened to form at the corner of his mouth. “Even I cannot arrange for a train to turn on its tracks.”

  “Or go backward?” she added, lightly.

  It was almost the last conversation they had before catching the train to Falmouth. Once settled upon the train, Eleanore gave up all pretense that she was reading. She stared out the window at the glinting dark blue sea she glimpsed at the top of hills. It looked flat and calm, reflecting the cloudless sky.

  There were boats upon the water which she could see as small dots.

  As the train wound around the last curve and the harbor and rows of white houses of Falmouth appeared, she gripped her hands together.

  Cian settled beside her and separated her hands. He held one of them. “It is too late to sail, today,” he said, his voice low. “There is a hostel right on the wharf which I use all the time when I come down here.”

  “I don’t think I can wait another night,” Eleanore said. “Is it really impossible to go out today?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “I would prefer to start out with lots of daylight to spare, although we can take the ship out past the heads this afternoon, if you cannot wait. It is a fine day for it,” he added.

  A cab waited at Falmouth station. Cian headed directly for it. “Good afternoon, Jimmy.” He hefted their two cases onto the carrier at the back of the cab.

  “Afternoon, Lord Innesford,” the driver called, tugging on his cap. “To the inn?” He picked up the reins.

  “The luggage can go there. Tell Mrs. Truworth I need two rooms, tonight. You can take us directly to the Natasha Marie.”

  “Right, my lord.”

  Cian helped Eleanore into the carriage.

  She gripped the railing beside the door with clammy hands, her heart racing. The picturesque town passed by in a blur, for all she could see was the wide river and the open sea beyond the heads.

  The water appeared to be perfectly calm and almost completely flat, even this close.

  The carriage moved onto an old, cobbled quay. Ships sat beside it, their masts and ropes bare. Across the river for as far as she could see were even more of them—a whole forest of bare ship masts. The ships and small boats dotted the river like sheep in a meadow. There were hundreds of them.

  The carriage halted beside a white ship tied up at the quay.

  Cian opened the door and stepped out. He waved to a man standing on the ship’s middle deck, then turned to hold his hand out to help Eleanore down.

  She made herself reach for his hand, then rise from the seat and move out of the carriage. One step, then onto the cobbles themselves.

  There was little wind—not even enough to stir the curls which had escaped at the sides of her face. However, a strong scent of brine was in the air and, faintly, the smell of rotting fish.

  Cian spoke to the driver, who said something in return. Eleanore heard none of it. She could not shift her gaze away from the long white ship. Even though she knew little about ships and sailing, she could see this was a beautiful boat. It was elegant. It also looked sturdy.

  She monitored the rails of the boat, measuring them against the edge of the wharf. “The boat isn’t rising and falling,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.

  The carriage pulled away, leaving them alone on the wharf.

  “That is because we are on a river here,” Cian said. “The water only rises and falls with the tide, which takes six hours to turn.”

  She swallowed.

  The man on the deck of the boat did not gesture to them or call out. He stayed where he was.

  “Shall we move to the edge of the quay, so you can look at her more closely?” Cian suggested. His voice was a low, deep murmur.

  Eleanore nodded. It was a tight movement which made her neck ache.

  Cian took her elbow. “Just a few steps.”

  Eleanore took the first step, her heart booming. Then it was easier to take the remaining steps until her boots were upon the solid edge of the quay. She could reach out and place her hand on the wooden planking on the side of the ship, if she wanted to.

  Shivering, she raised her hand and placed it flat against the ship.

  The wood was warm and smooth. And quite dry.

  “Is this…is she a brigantine?” Eleanore asked.

  “The Natasha Marie is a cutter,” Cian replied. “Cutters are the fastest ships on the sea,” he added. “They can outrun everything.” Warm pride colored his voice. “Would you like to go aboard?”

  Eleanore lowered her hand. Stepping aboard was why she was here. Only, now, she hesitated.

  Cian nodded. “I must go aboard and speak to Captain Connell. Stay here, if you like.”

  He strode to the gangplank, then climbed it with swift steps, turned and climbed down the steps to the deck. Eleanore watched him move toward the man on the deck and shake his hand. They spoke in swift, low voices.

  She made her feet shift. One foot forward, then another, toward the gangplank. There were boards nailed across the planks at regular intervals, just as there had been on the last gangplank she crossed. This one, though, had ropes on either side of it.

  Eleanore shuddered. Her father had made a jest about her toppling over the side as he held out his hand and guided her along the narrow plank. “Then the captain will pluck you out of the water with a great hook and leave you hanging so you can dry.”

  She could almost feel her father’s hand in hers. It had been bitterly cold, that night. The smell of snow in the air was stronger than the smell of salt. The wind had whipped her cheeks, making them sting.
>
  Eleanore put her hand against her cheek. It felt cold, even though the sun was shining full upon her face. She looked up at the cloudless sky over Falmouth.

  “One more step,” Cian told her.

  She gasped. He was standing on the end of the gangplank. She hadn’t noticed him walk back across it.

  He held out his hand. “One step,” he repeated.

  Eleanore took his hand. She gripped it, squeezing compulsively. Then she took the step—a long one, so she stood upon the very end of the gangplank.

  It shivered under her movement and she clutched at the rope, her heart leaping about.

  Cian’s hand tightened. “You are perfectly safe,” he assured her. He backed up a step, then another, until their arms were stretched. “Another step,” he coaxed.

  One more step. This time, the movement of the plank beneath her boots was greater. She gasped, flailing for the rope. Cian caught her hand and held both firmly, until she was steady once more.

  Captain Connell had not moved from his stance on the deck. He watched them, but did not comment, not even to laugh at her helplessness.

  “The gangplank won’t move more than this,” Cian assured her. His gaze was steady. “This is as bad as it gets,” he added. “The deck is far more stable.”

  Some of her tension eased. She took the next three steps up to the edge of the gang plank. Then she looked down upon the pale, thin boards of the deck below.

  Cian already stood upon the top step of the broad ladder down to the deck. He stepped down to the rung beneath and turned to watch her. The steps were flat and wide, with a curved rail sweeping down beside them. Those steps would not move as the gang plank did. They were a permanent part of the structure of the ship.

  Eleanore reached out and gripped the top of the handrail. Her palm was moist.

  With a convulsive movement, she transferred her weight from the gangplank to the top step.

  “You can turn and come down backward, if you wish,” Cian pointed out.

  She shook her head. “I want to see where I’m going.”

  “Of course you do.” He took the next step down. “Whenever you are ready.”