by Jane Goodger
Sara nodded. “I’ve noticed a certain lack of urgency, Mr. Mason. I daresay, each time another boat overtakes us, it’s of little concern. Now, I did note a bit of temper from the captain when that man rowed by us the other day…”
Oliver slapped his knee and laughed heartily. Then he brought out his sextant as if presenting Sara a golden, jewel-encrusted crown. Sara was appropriately awed.
West watched the two with an emotion that was disgustingly close to jealousy. He had no fear that the old man would make an advance toward Sara—or that she would welcome such a thing from the old coot—but he found himself strangely bothered they were becoming such fast friends. Hell, he could barely bring himself to bid her goodnight.
It was, of course, because he wanted her. Because when he entered the cabin after a long and tiring day, it was neat and clean and smelled sweetly of her. It was because when he turned the oil lamp on to lighten the heavy darkness of the cabin, he could look over at her and see her softly feminine form curled up in the bunk, her braid, more often than not, hanging off the edge. If he thought she was truly sleeping, he would have touched that braid, run a thumb over its smooth and glossy surface. But he knew she was awake, and her ready response to his halting “Good night” proved it to him nightly. He went to bed each night fighting the urge to touch her, talk to her. Drag her to his bed and make love to her.
And every night, he would pray to be a better man than he was, a stronger man. A man of honor. He hadn’t realize just how difficult it would be to have her so close, how difficult it would be, after only a few weeks, to recall precisely what Elizabeth looked like.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. That would have been quite enough. But she was charming, as well. Each night, she held the officers rapt with tales that surely she invented on the spot. Her uninhibited laughter was contagious, her wit sharp. Like a sail catching the wind, it seemed as if Sara were unfurling right before his eyes, showing more of herself, filling everyone around her with joy. He would watch her, revealing little of what he thought, and marvel at the fates that would throw him together with her. The perfect wife, when he could have none.
He was in danger, and he knew it, of falling in love with her.
West turned forcefully away from Mr. Mason laughing with his wife. It would not do to care too much, for then he would have to send her away. He would not—would not—put someone he loved in harm’s way. He need only think of his brother to know he could not bear losing those he loved when it was in his power to keep them safe.
West heard her laugh and he smiled, unable to stop himself. The two thought they were getting away with something. He’d known two days after their plan was set in motion what they’d been up to. He had the best-dressed crew on the sea. Within weeks, there was nary a tear or hole in sight. Except, of course, on his own clothing. Usually fastidious about his dress, West was having his own secret game with Sara. He knew it was driving her to distraction to see him walking about with a growing tear in his waistcoat. He’d thought that night he’d poked his finger through the hole would have been her undoing.
“Will you look at that?” Mr. Billings said, his eyes on Sara. West turned to see Oliver holding his sextant to his eye, then handing the navigational instrument to Sara.
“Plan to make your wife the navigator, sir?”
West ignored the humor in Mr. Billings’ voice and instead walked over to where Oliver was giving Sara a lesson in navigation.
“I wouldn’t listen to him, Mrs. Mitchell,” he said. “Mr. Mason once missed the Sandwich Islands by two hundred miles.”
Oliver pushed out his lower lip and squinted his eyes as if deep in thought. “If I remember correctly, sir, I was using yer calculations.”
“Liar,” West said good-naturedly. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Mason, I can take over this lesson.”
Sara stiffened. “Please don’t bother yourself, Mr. Mitchell.”
Oliver gave the couple a sharp look before making a hasty departure. Clearly he thought he was in the middle of a marital tiff. West stifled an irritated sigh. He wasn’t certain he was more irritated with Sara for her coolness, or at himself, for caring.
“Is my company so objectionable, then?”
Sara’s gaze went to the sextant she still held in her hands. “Of course not.”
West told himself he should let things go, it was easier for him that she be wary of him, that she not want his company. But it bothered him—more than he was willing to admit—that she stopped smiling whenever he walked by. The only time she was herself in his company was at the dining table, and she always held herself slightly turned away, clearly directing her stories to the officers and not to him. He frowned at the thought, not knowing Sara was looking at him.
She handed him the sextant, practically shoving it into his hands. “I was simply curious,” she said.
And then, sounding like a dull schoolroom professor, West explained how sightings were made in the morning and at noon, and by that calculations were made to determine longitude and latitude. By the time he was finished, West had nearly put himself asleep with his dry explanation. He wished more than anything that he’d let things be. Sara had been having fun with Oliver, but she was silent standing next to him. Bored, more than likely.
When he turned to her, she surprised him with a smile that took his breath away. Literally, he could not breathe for at least five heartbeats.
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.”
West felt as if he’d just handed her the moon.
The doldrums came, and after nearly two weeks of bobbing gently in calm seas, the Julia’s sails filled once more, the air blessedly cool. And that night, seasickness struck, cruelly for its unexpectedness. Sara didn’t even have time to seek out her well-used bucket, soiling the teak floor and a bit of the rug that covered most of the area. Sara moaned, knowing what was ahead of her, as she carefully pushed down the railing of her bunk and got out of bed. With shaking fingers, she lit an oil lamp, grimacing when she saw the mess. The ship rolled sickeningly and her stomach rolled right along with it as she gathered up a cloth and bucket to clean. This time when she lost her battle with her stomach, she at least had the bucket at her feet.
The door opened but she was too sick to care who stood there.
“I thought this might happen,” West said rather too lightly for Sara’s mood. “Some of the men are sick as well, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Why would someone else’s misery make me feel better?” Sara asked grumpily.
“At least you know you are not alone. Misery loves company, so they say.” He knelt beside her and grabbed the rag, which Sara gratefully gave up without even a token resistance. “Here. Back in bed.” He grasped her upper arms and helped her into her bunk, then pulled the covers over her as if she were a child.
“Thank you.” Then, “Oh, God.” He got the bucket to her just in time.
“It shouldn’t last as long this time,” he said with a smile. “Two days at the most.”
Sara let out a moan. Two days sounded like an eternity when she knew how those two days would be spent. “I thought I was over this.”
“You’ll get sick each time you go to sea after being on land. The doldrums tricked your stomach into thinking it was ashore.”
Sara scowled. “Stupid stomach.”
West chuckled and Sara felt just good enough to appreciate the sound, as well as admire the way it made him look even more handsome. Her heart picked up a beat, and she suddenly felt overly warm lying there with him so close.
“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” she said. West Mitchell, she’d realized weeks ago, was not a man who smiled easily. Or angered or frightened easily.
“Do what, clean?” He continued to smile at her and Sara thought she could lie in bed forever staring at him.
“Laugh.”
The smile immediately disappeared, replaced by that odd look he got sometimes. Sara wished she knew what he was thinking, for it seemed
he was bothered by what she said. Not irritated, as he seemed too often to be with her, but moved or hurt that she’d noted he rarely laughed. West finished cleaning, then stood.
“Is it all right if I turn off the lamp?” He avoided looking at her, and Sara saw that his jaw was tense. As if he were angry with her. Again. Suddenly, she was sick to tears of hearing in his voice, seeing in his eyes, how much he wished her gone.
“If you want, I can leave this ship. I can leave at the next port.”
He turned and Sara knew with a certainty he was indeed angry. “Why do you say such things? As if you are some unwanted baggage that no one wants? As if you are worth nothing to anyone on this ship?”
“Because it is true. You cannot deny that my presence on this ship is not wanted.”
He actually looked as if he might argue with her. Then his gaze softened. “Miss Dawes. These men think you are their angel of mercy. Half of them think themselves in love with you. If I were to send you off this ship now, I fear I’d have a mutiny on my hands.”
The look she gave him was clearly skeptical.
“What would the men say of me if I were to pack my wife up without a by your leave? You’ll stay on board, Miss Dawes, whether you—or I—like it.”
Sara smiled at him, her grin widening at his obvious discomfort. “I had no idea I wielded such power, Mr. Mitchell. Perhaps I should make good use of it.” At this moment of victory, the ship decided dip then rise, and her air of command vanished as she threw her head into her bucket.
For the second time that night, she heard West laugh.
Chapter SIX
West eyed the ship on the horizon with curiosity. It appeared to be a barque lumbering slowly toward them, perhaps a whaler, if her slow progress was a clue. The Julia had been out of the doldrums for a week now, and the men were due for some recreation.
“In the mood for a gamming, Mr. Mason,” West said, his eyes still on the distant ship.
“Would do the men good,” he said. “And that little wife of yours, too.”
West gave his first mate a sharp look. “Why would you say that, Mr. Mason?”
The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Seemed a little peaked lately.”
West turned to find Sara, his eyes locking on her lithe form as she, too, looked to the horizon to the ship. Even in her shapeless brown dresses, she was strikingly feminine. Her hair was braided, but several long, waving strands had escaped to whip behind her. “She’s seemed all right to me.”
“Has she now?”
West, his eyes still on Sara, nodded. “She’s not one to complain,” he said uncertainly. In truth, he’d not paid much attention to her in the last days and had felt immensely better for his effort. It was a small ship and West had made a fine art of keeping his eyes directed to the sea, the sails, anywhere that would keep her from his line of sight.
“No. Not Mrs. Mitchell. She’d not complain if cook served her roach-filled bread.”
West did his best not to roll his eyes. Mr. Mason was clearly one of the men who had fallen under the charms of his “wife.”
“She’s a hearty girl, yes,” West said, barely able to keep the obvious pride from his voice.
“Hearty, ye say. Hmph.”
West’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know something I should know? Is there something wrong with her?” He heard the hint of panic in his voice and told himself he was simply acting the concerned husband. He was frankly beginning to get a bit worried. What the devil was Oliver so obscurely hinting at?
“P’haps ye should talk to yer wife yerself. P’haps ye should ask her about a certain blessed event.”
“You think she’s with child?” he asked, unable to keep the utter amazement from his voice.
“I’d say it was obvious. She’s been eating salty foods, complaining of boredom. Walking around the deck restless as a cat looking for cream one minute, looking ready to cry the next. Holding her stomach.”
“She’s seasick,” West said dryly. “Believe me when I tell you this, Mr. Mason, my wife is not going to have a baby.”
Oliver’s cheeks, beneath that bushy beard of his, turned ruddy. “Well, it’s not as if it’s an impossibility,” he grumbled. Then he glared at West. “If she’s not carrying, then why’s she going about so gloomy? You two have a tiff?”
“My relationship with my wife is none of your concern, Mr. Mason.”
“All new couples fight, Mr. Mitchell. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“And you, who have such vast experience at such things, are about to give advice.” West gripped the railing, trying not to laugh aloud. He did not want to hurt the old man’s feelings, but the idea that Sara was pregnant was too, too funny. Never had a woman gone more untouched than the one sharing his cabin. He shook his head as he contemplated Oliver’s misapprehension. Imagine, thinking Sara pregnant. With his child.
In that moment, he wished fiercely that it was true. The feeling hit him hard and unexpectedly. Sara. Carrying his child. He swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the thought, trying instead to imagine Elizabeth large with child. But when his mind’s eye roved above the swelled belly of his wife, the woman was always Sara. As long as he had a will, such a thing would never happen. It was more than that Sara would never be his wife in truth, but that he would not endanger his child. He thought again of his brother, of the pain Jared endured feeling responsible for the death of his wife and infant girl. He would never put a woman he loved in such a position, and never his own child. Not that he loved Sara. Certainly he did not. But a nagging voice whispered to him: Not yet, at any rate.
“You know, Mr. Mitchell, I may be crazed, but I think that’s the Huntress.”
West’s thoughts abruptly returned to the nearing ship, it’s name now nearly discernable. It’s shape was familiar, and West, who sailed on her before taking the Julia, knew in an instant what ship he was looking at.
“It is the Huntress.” He turned to the ship, joy filling him at the thought of seeing his brother again. “Furl the mainsail,” he cried, knowing that his brother would recognize the signal, even if he did not recognize his old ship. West watched for long moments waiting for the Huntress to respond to his signal for a gamming. Finally, the mainsail was pulled in, and it seemed to West it was a reluctant gesture. A strong and unwanted feeling of unease filled him. He had not seen his brother in three years, and the last time Jared had been torn by a grief so powerful, West feared he might harm himself or someone else. A hearty call from his brother as the ships drew near helped to ease his unaccountable ill feeling.
“What luck, this,” Jared called over. His face was covered by a heavy black beard, but West would have recognized his form anywhere. Jared Mitchell, like his father, was a huge bear of a man with a body that held not an extra ounce of fat. He was the sort of man people called “strapping,” the sort people—especially men—liked immediately. Women were afraid of him at first, for he looked so formidable with his dark looks, his wild hair and beard. Abigail had never been impressed by his size or his boisterous behavior, having known him when he was just a skinny child. She had gentled this giant with her quiet ways. But now, Abigail was long dead, and West sensed something inalterably different in his brother. He looked like a man who had not a care of how he looked, what he said, or what he did. He stalked up and down his ship as if it were a cage holding him back. The men, West noted, hung back from the railing while his own crew had rushed to the side, eager to see unfamiliar faces and to hear tales that were sure to come from this seasoned crew.
Jared’s men looked hard and mean, their clothing little more than rags, their feet were bare. Though this was not uncommon on a whaler, bare feet having much better traction on an oil-slick deck, West couldn’t help but note that several of the Julia’s men now sported brand new woolen socks on their feet. They looked well-fed and well-groomed. Much of this could be attributed to the fact the crew of the Huntress had been gone from home for years, while his own crew was fresh from
New Bedford, still eager to see the world, still unchanged by what could be a cruel way of life.
As West watched, his brother pace up and down, then stopped abruptly, as if he’d suddenly encountered a stone wall. West’s unease grew as he realized what Jared was glaring at. Sara stood by the railing, her face rapt with the excitement of seeing another ship so close. Hell, West thought, he’d have to explain everything to his brother. He couldn’t have Jared going home and telling his mother that he was a married man when he was not. West muttered a curse under his breath as he walked over to where Sara stood.
Sara turned to him, her eyes alight, and he found himself nearly stopping in his tracks. It wasn’t always that way—good God he’d never be able to captain this ship if it was—but sometimes he would find himself startled by her, discovering as if for the first time just how beautiful she was.
“Are we to have a gamming?” Sara asked, sounding like a child talking of going to the circus.
“We are,” West said grimly. “That ship is one of ours. The captain is my brother, Jared.”
Sara grew immediately more solemn. “The one who lost his wife and child?”
“The same.” West tore his gaze away from her face. “I can tell already he is not pleased to see a woman aboard.”
“He does seem to be looking at me rather oddly. I don’t look anything like his wife, do I?”
“No, thank goodness. You are nothing like Abigail. She was uncommonly beautiful, delicate to the point of being fragile. And she had hair as dark as his. They made a striking couple.”
“Oh.” He did not hear the slight note of disappointment in that word.
“I must tell him the truth, that we are not married, Sara. And he will probably not believe me when I tell him…” West cleared his throat. “…when I tell him we are not sharing a bed,” he whispered, fearing the men would overhear him.
Sara looked at him, eyes wide with comprehension. “But surely he will not think you a liar, especially if you tell him you are engage to another woman. Why wouldn’t he believe you?”