The Secret of Her Guardian Sailor: An Inspirational Historical Romance Novel

by Chloe Carley

  “Onions, hold on!” he yelled through the din of the storm. “Can you grab the rope?”

  Onions lifted his head and looked up. “I think my wrist is broken!”

  “Can you grab it with your good hand?”

  “The rope is too slippery. I’ve tried.”

  Noah frowned and gripped the timber with his thighs, locking his ankles together beneath the beam. Spinning upside down, he reached out for the rope that held Onions and heaved it up with all of his might. The rangy youngster was right—the fibers of the rope were too slick to grasp with one hand. Even with two, Noah was struggling. Still, he refused to give up.

  “I need you to swing up and grab my waist,” Noah urged. “As soon as you’ve done that, use me to climb up onto the mast. We’ll cut the rope once you’re up there. Can you do that?”

  Onions nodded. “I think so.”

  Noah kept both hands on the rope as Onions did as he was told, his body swinging like a pendulum for a few seconds before he surged up and threw his arms around Noah’s waist. With his back to Onions, Noah couldn’t see what he was doing, but he could feel the frightened young man’s hands locking together. Onions stayed there for a moment to catch his breath, before shimmying up the rest of the way to the mast. As soon as he was safely on the beam, sitting astride it, Noah pulled himself the right-way-up and turned over his shoulder to look at his crewmate.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” Onions replied, his voice shaking.

  “Come on then, let’s get back on solid ground.”

  Leading the way, Noah shuffled all the way to the central rigging and began the descent. He kept a close eye on his crewmate as they both clambered down in case a sudden jolt of paralyzing fear happened to take hold of Onions. He had seen it happen before, where grown men had refused to move from their spot on the rigging for fear of falling. Even from a short height, they had clung to the rope for dear life and refused to budge. He didn’t want that to happen to Onions.

  A round of applause erupted as they reached the main deck, with a few of the men clapping Noah on the back in congratulations. A large group had gathered to watch, evidently brought out of their cabins by Onions’ panicked cry.

  “See, I knew there was a reason I asked you aboard,” Benjamin remarked, giving Noah a particularly hard thump on the back. “I’m hoping to make it back to England’s fair shores with the same number of crew I started with.”

  “Oh aye, and how many times have you done that, captain?” one of the sailors, a seasoned old goat called Horatio, replied sarcastically.

  “There’s a first for everything,” Benjamin cackled, throwing a blanket around Onions’ shivering shoulders. “Anyway, you’re still here, aren’t you? What have you got to complain about?”

  “Aye, you’re right there. Ought to keep me mouth shut while the going’s good.” Horatio drew a puff from his pipe, which was miraculously still alight despite the downpour. A wisp of bluish smoke coiled from the bowl. He’d sailed with Benjamin on every voyage he’d ever undertaken and lived to tell the tale. Not all men were as lucky. As far as captains went, Benjamin’s crew mortality rate was poorer than most.

  “All that matters is the boy is going to live to see another day,” Benjamin cheered. “Here’s to Noah and to Onions! May he never put a foot wrong again.”

  The other men chorused the cheer, but Noah was in no mood to celebrate. He hated near-misses like that—lucky escapes that could have been avoided. He couldn’t understand why Onions had been up there in the first place when the sails should have been loosened during the first breath of the storm. Someone had given the order. Someone who had made the initial mistake of leaving the sails out and sent Onions to cover it. Noah had a feeling he knew exactly who was responsible for Garrick was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’d like to go below deck and get warm, captain, if you don’t mind?”

  Benjamin nodded. “Aye, get yourself wrapped up. But first, make sure the cargo is content. We don’t want her telling tales to her papa when we reach America now, do we?”

  “No, of course not.” Noah gritted his teeth and hurried in the direction of Rachel’s quarters, wiping the endless torrent of raindrops from his saturated skin. He could hear the men laughing and joking behind him, a noise that set his nerves on edge. Why were they permitted to shuffle off their responsibilities? None of them had saved a crewmate from certain death. He pushed down the rising annoyance as the bitter cold seeped deeper into his bones. There was no use arguing against it. The only trouble was, at this rate, he knew he’d end up with a lingering cold that would make the next few weeks at sea very unpleasant.

  The door opened as soon as he arrived with Nan bundling him inside.

  “What the—” He tried to fight her off, but she was surprisingly strong. “I only came to see how yourself and Miss Faulks were faring. I hope you did not see much of that unfortunate incident?” He paused for a moment to observe the mysterious realm of the Empire Suite at night. Candles flickered, and a roaring fire burned in the grate. Above it, a pot boiled. On the rug before the crackling flames, a tin bath had been set out with cotton draped over the sides to keep away the sting of heated metal. Truly, it reminded him of a strange otherworld, to which he was not supposed to be privy. This was the secret realm of ladies. A place where he was not entirely comfortable.

  “We saw it all, Mr. Sharpleton,” Rachel replied, emerging from a chamber at the back of the main room. Her bedchamber, he supposed, though he did not dwell too long on the thought. Although the hour was late, she still wore a day gown of emerald green. Nan, on the other hand, was dressed in cotton nightclothes with a jacquard robe of gold and jade fastened over the top. It did not look like something Nan could afford to own making Noah wonder if Rachel had lent it to the old woman. A kind gesture, if so.

  “I really must be getting to my own chambers,” he insisted.

  “Nonsense. Miss Faulks and I have drawn you a bath,” Nan shot back. “Actually, it was to be Miss Faulks’ bath, but she thought you might benefit from it more keenly.”

  He glanced at Rachel, taken aback. “I cannot accept.”

  “Why ever not?” Rachel replied.

  “It would not be proper of me.”

  “Of course, it would,” Nan urged defiantly, trailing her hand in the steaming water. “The bath is already here, as you see. We’ll leave you to it, so never fear. Although I have a son of my own—there are no surprises for me.” She cackled irreverently, bringing an embarrassed smile to Noah’s lips.

  “Please accept, Mr. Sharpleton,” Rachel implored. “We watched what you did this evening and I should hate for you to catch your death of cold after such a heroic act.”

  “I am no hero.” He hated the nonchalance with which the word could be tossed about. “I did my duty, that is all.”

  “Nevertheless, I urge you to accept. There are still many weeks left of this voyage,” Rachel continued. “Call it a selfish act if you will, but if anything were to happen to you, I should feel far less safe aboard this vessel. Nan and I must have you in the best of health if you are to perform your guard duties as you have been ordered.”

  Noah sighed. “It does not feel right for me to accept.”

  “Oh hush,” Nan muttered. “Get in the tub and have a good soak; get all those shivers out.”

  “I will not leave this room until I agree, will I?” He chuckled awkwardly.

  “You can attempt it, dear boy,” Nan replied, cackling delightedly.

  “Very well, but only as I do not wish to put any strain upon Doctor Bentham’s services,” he relented after a brief pause. “If I can avoid a pestilence of the lungs, I must do all that I can to see it done.”

  Rachel smiled. “Very wise, Mr. Sharpleton. Shall I leave Dandelion in the room to keep you company?”

  “I should like that very much, Miss Faulks. She can protect me if anyone should try and sneak a glance.” His throat constricted as he uttered the words, wishing he could
take them back. They had been intended as a joke but only Nan laughed. Rachel, meanwhile, looked flustered and uncomfortable. “I did not mean… never mind.” He did not want to make matters worse.

  The Irish Wolfhound padded out of Rachel’s bedchamber and curled up beside the tin bath, placing her head on her paws. He could almost see the pity in the hound’s eyes. Still, she looked much better now that Rachel and Nan had trimmed and combed her matted fur, though Noah supposed she would always look somewhat scruffy. It was very much the nature of the beast.

  “Well, enjoy your soak,” Nan chimed in, breaking the awkward tension.

  “Thank you. I shall bring your breakfast in the morning—do you have any specific requests?”

  “The same as this morning,” Nan replied.

  “Very good. And for you, Miss Faulks?”

  Rachel tapped the side of her chin. “Yes, the same,” she answered, after a moment or two. “Although, could you ask the cook to add a little more butter and salt to the eggs. They were so terribly bland this morning. He ought not to be so miserly with the seasoning. Salt is hardly difficult to come by and he can always purchase more at the ports we stop at.”

  “I will let him know, Miss Faulks.” There it was again, that perpetual sense of self-entitlement. He did not understand how she could behave in such an ever-shifting manner. On the one hand, she could be surprisingly generous. On the other hand, she could be so completely oblivious to the ways of the real world. He doubted she even knew the price of salt.

  With that, Rachel and Nan retreated to their chambers, leaving Noah to the prospect of a hot bath. He couldn’t deny it was somewhat exciting. Cold dips in the ocean were nice, but a hot soak was a wondrous thing. As he checked the curtains and began to undress, he realized he had gone the entire conversation with the two ladies wearing nothing but his shirt and trousers.

  No wonder Miss Faulks looked mortified, he thought, utterly ashamed. In all the adrenaline of the evening, it seemed he had lost touch with his manners. At least he had the delicious caress of the hot water to wash away his embarrassment. Truly, a good bath could fix just about anything.

  Chapter Nine

  “Is that Spain?” Rachel cried from the balustrade of the ship, her heart fluttering with excitement. A stretch of coastline had appeared in the near-distance half an hour ago, and the sailors were jumping into action. She presumed that could only mean one thing; that they would soon be heading into another port.

  The miserable rain of the previous few days had given way to a crisp, clear sky, and the shining rays of the fierce sunlight had brought out her good humor. There was nothing she loved more than a beautiful day. Plus, her seasickness had relented and though her stomach still felt somewhat unsettled, she could walk about the deck without fear of purging the contents all over the wooden planks.

  “It is, Miss Faulks,” Noah replied. He stood a short distance from her, his gaze turned out toward the distant shore.

  “Do you think I might be permitted to take a walk on dry land this time?”

  He turned to look at her. “I cannot think of any reason why you may not, though Nan shall have to accompany you. Dandelion too, of course.”

  She shrieked with delight. “I am so looking forward to it.”

  “We shall only have a brief time on-shore, so you must not linger too much,” he warned, speaking in that stern, cold voice he often used with her. Sometimes, it softened to a friendly warmth, but she had come to discover that it usually reverted back to aloof detachment. Every time she thought they were making some progress in developing an acquaintance, he would resume its use and put her firmly back at the starting line.

  “I promise you I shall not,” she replied. “I will be as good as gold.”

  ***

  An hour later, the ship docked in the busy port of A Coruña. The Emerald sailed smoothly around the Galician promontory to reach the curved harbor, tucked away in the Gulf of Ártabro. A warm sun beat down on the deck as the sailors scrambled to get the vessel into its designated position along the wooden wharves that jutted out.

  To Rachel, the sea seemed impossibly blue, the water barely disturbed by waves rolling in from the Atlantic Ocean. She had never seen a waterfront so beautiful. Hurrying to the gunwale, she peered over the curved side of the ship and gazed in wonderment at the people milling about. They did not look remotely English but thrillingly exotic. All around the port, she saw olive skin and tumbling locks of dark hair combined with vibrant chatter in a foreign tongue. It made her excited and anxious in equal measure. Adventures awaited and yet, she had never felt so far from home in all her life.

  The women were particularly beautiful, walking with effortless elegance in dresses of fierce red and sunflower yellow, the patterns rich and hypnotizing. They fluttered about like exquisite butterflies, their tone melodic to Rachel’s ears. She would not admit it, but even the men were remarkably beautiful—their tanned skin seemed to glisten like bronze in the day’s light and their dark hair curled in the most perfect way. Dark eyes looked up as the Emerald pulled into harbor, the glint of them welcoming and dangerous all at the same time.

  “What is that, Mr. Sharpleton?” Rachel asked, turning to Noah. He walked up beside her and followed her pointed finger towards a tower-like structure nearby. It rose up from the edge of the promontory, vast and rectangular, with a domed minaret at the very top.

  “The Tower of Hercules,” he replied.

  She gasped in delight. “What is it?”

  “A lighthouse, Miss Faulks. An old one, though it still works.”

  “How tremendous.” Everywhere she looked, new and enthralling sights met her naïve eyes. “Might we visit this tower?”

  “I suppose we may,” he answered, after a moment’s pause. “You will not be able to see much more of the port if we visit the tower, however. Captain Frodsham has given us two hours on-land.”

  “I should very much like to see it. Do you think Hercules himself built it?”

  Noah smiled at her. “I rather doubt it, though this entire port is steeped in rich history. The Romans were here, once upon a time, and this port has always been used as a thoroughfare.”

  She glanced at him with wide eyes. “Might you tell me some stories, Mr. Sharpleton?”

  “If I can remember any, I will do my best to regale you.” He nodded toward the Empire Suite. “If Nan is ready to depart, we may disembark at your convenience.”

  Rachel hurried over to her quarters and poked her head into the shady interior. Nan stood by the fire, warming her hands though it was positively tropical outside. The old woman’s constant shivering alarmed Rachel, but she did not feel it was her place to pry about the cause. All she could do was keep Nan warm and ply her with as many blankets as she could find.

  Dandelion bounded over and snuffled her snout against Rachel’s palm. Delighted by the creature, she sank to her knees and ruffled the dog’s fur. Dandelion stuck out her tongue and panted happily, as Rachel scratched behind her ears the way Noah had shown her. It seemed the dog loved having her ears scratched more than anything else in the world, strips of dried meat included.

  “We have arrived, Nan,” she said, giggling at Dandelion’s excited licks as the smeared her cheek.

  “Is that so?” Nan turned around and pulled her array of shawls tighter. “Well then, shall we see what the Spaniards have to offer? Ooh, it’ll be nice to stretch me legs awhile and get some fresh air in me lungs. I’ve almost forgotten what solid ground feels like. It’ll seem mighty queer not to be rocking about all the time.” A grin spread across her wizened features.

  “Galicians,” Rachel corrected. “Apparently, that is how they prefer to be categorized.”

  Nan nodded, releasing a hearty cackle. “I can well understand that, Miss Faulks. We Liverpudlians don’t much like being called English neither—we’re a different breed entirely.”

  With that, Rachel and her chaperone headed out of the Empire Suite and met Noah at the top of the gangway. A gro
up of sailors had slid it onto the wharf in the interim.

  “Ah, it’s mighty warm ain’t it,” Nan remarked, lifting her face to the sun’s heat.

  “Hopefully, it will do you some good to take a turn about the port,” Noah replied kindly. “Sea air has been known to have many medicinal properties. If legend is to be believed, a sailor has only to survive his voyages on the open ocean and he will be rewarded with a long life. Death does not enjoy the taste of saltwater, by all accounts.”

  “Is that so?” Nan smirked.

  “That is what the men say, though I have yet to see much evidence,” he admitted, chuckling.