Myron grasped her fingers so tightly they ached, reminding her again to school her expression. “She has no pity for you, nor do I. Bear up and face your death like a man, you sorry dunghill, knowing Lady Holsworthy will take great comfort from the fact of your suffering.”
Bella bit her tongue to hold back her natural compassion, unsure whether she could watch, the too-familiar sound of leather striking flesh already echoing in her mind. She wished Myron hadn’t demanded she break her fast. The porridge sat precariously on her stomach.
Using the shackles around his arms and ankles, four sailors dragged him to the grating and secured him there, Hawley screaming before the pain even started. With a nod, Captain Johnson signaled the bo’sun to begin. Dragging the cat out of the salt water, he applied the lashes with enough force to cut on the first stroke. Bella held her head and neck so stiffly, she might give herself a megrim, but she would not allow herself to flinch.
The king’s soldiers and the merchant sailors all stood like ramrods, silent under their officers’ commands. Bella took her cue from the military ranks, biting her cheeks to keep from showing any emotion, staring at anything she could find in the distance, rather than being tempted to look to see if the man would be killed.
Myron kept his hand on hers, curling her fingers around his heavily muscled bicep. When blood began pooling on the deck beneath Hawley’s feet, her husband’s shoulder kept her standing firm; his forearm kept her from turning away. She shuddered, and he leaned in, whispering in her ear, “Take heart, my dear. You need not witness every stroke.”
She pulled just slightly away, keeping her spine upright under her own power. “If I might, my lord, I should prefer to stay until the bitter end.” At his look of surprise, she added, “It is for my honor he is thus tormented. Is it not correct I should witness it?”
He patted her hand and moved his arm to surround her. “Indeed.”
Her fortitude seemed to earn her some murmured approval from the men, though she was certain she would never understand why. When Hawley was finally cut down, she detached her arm from Myron and leaned over the doctor, who was trying to determine whether the man had only fainted or died.
At a convulsion from the tortured sailor, she said, “Doctor, you will need assistance nursing him, I expect.” The doctor looked up over his shoulder, mouth flapping open. Myron reached out to grasp her arm, and she calmly shook him off. The captain started, “My lady, you need not—”
“Nonsense. Doctor, will he survive?”
Visibly gathering his words, pulling his mouth back into a formation that would allow speech, the doctor said, “He will, I think, though the damage is no small thing. I foresee naught but light duty from now on.”
“If he will take on any duties at all, we will need the coffer of medicines from my cabin and a great deal of warm water to clean the wounds.” She turned to Myron. “I believe you told me you brought extra fresh water on board?”
“Lady Holsworthy,” Myron began, “after what he’s done, I—”
“Has he not borne the punishment you demanded?” Bella consciously donned the same countenance she used in the management of her uncle’s estate. “Two of you men will please take him below, and put him in the green cabin. It is close enough to ours that I will hear him stirring if he needs attention.”
“My dear, that is the—”
“There is no royalty to sleep there today,” she snapped. “If you feel it necessary, my lord, you may restrain him, as long as it will cause no further damage, but he will live if it is in my power. These men have sworn to die for me if need be, Husband, so this will be my payment for their loyalty. It will be my part to keep them alive.”
Myron stepped back and motioned for the men to do her bidding.
Chapter Fifteen
Standing with one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, Myron watched his wife assisting the doctor with Hawley. Or rather, he watched the doctor assist her, taking away the rags she used to clean the healing wounds, handing her the salves she used to cover the lacerations, glaring down any protest Hawley might have made. Though, in truth, he had precious little protest left to make after she nursed him back to health with a tenacity worthy of saving a king, not just a wharf rat.
She was seated on the edge of the bunk that had been set aside for men of nobler birth and disposition, gently bending and stretching the sailor’s arm and shoulder. She didn’t even notice Myron had entered the room, such was her concentration on the task at hand.
“Your arm moves much better today than yesterday. It seems you may yet recover.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Hawley muttered. “And I thanks ye for it. More’n I deserve after I—”
She cut him off before he could say another word that might recall the incident a fortnight earlier. “Indeed, it is more than you deserve, but we will say no more of it, for you have repented your actions toward me, have you not?”
Blushing in a way Myron never expected, Hawley answered, “Yes, m’lady. Should never’ve—”
“No, you should not. Not with me, nor any other woman, and I trust it will be your last such transgression.” Her voice was as firm and cold as a spinster governess to a family of unruly boys, and Myron smiled inside to hear it. He didn’t let a bit of amusement show on his face, though, as he hoped that tone of voice would forever shrivel the balls of any sailor who set foot on The Amelia. It would certainly shrivel Myron’s, were she to turn it on him.
Hawley hung his head and nodded.
“Good. Now, as your arms are once again working, I have a task I wish you to accomplish.”
“What task, m’lady?” he asked, his head popping back up, a hopeful look crossing his face. “Anything. I swear it.”
She set his hand back down in his lap and picked up the other arm, again testing the range of motion.
“Doctor Anders says you are a dab hand with a blade. Is that so?”
Anders’ face was disapproving enough that Myron took notice. Whatever she was about to ask of Hawley, the doctor was not fully in support of the request, though he made no overt objection. Myron also marked the fact his sailors’ vernacular was making its way into her conversation rather more quickly than he expected or liked.
Shrugging, then wincing at the resultant pain, Hawley said, “Was.”
“You will need considerable practice to regain that skill, do you not think?”
“S’pose.”
“As will I.”
Hawley sat straighter, and glanced over to see Myron. His eyes widened and face paled. “You, m’lady? You could use a knife?”
“Not at present, no. But you are going to teach me.”
“But—”
“The next time a man comes near me with your sort of ill intent, I am going to gut him…” All three men pulled back slightly at the look on her face, sharp as any knife could ever be. “And you are going to teach me how. “
Myron cleared his throat, and Hawley looked over at him with a strange mix of fear and gratitude. Bella smiled to see him, and Myron felt the instinctive answering grin cross his lips that he was coming to expect. He was a bit surprised how happy it now made him to come upon her during the course of his day.
“M’lady,” Hawley began, stammering a bit at the need to dissuade her, trying to subtly motion with his eyes for Myron’s or the doctor’s support for his position. “It ain’t a good idea fer a girl to—”
If Hawley would argue women’s roles with Bella, he might lose the use of his hands yet. She had been more than a bit indignant that she might be considered bad luck aboard ship.
“An outstanding idea, my dear,” Myron said, leaning down to place a kiss on the crown of her head. “Hawley is among the most skilled bladesmen I have ever had in my employ. I cannot think of a better teacher, especially as he must now move slowly, which will allow you to pick up the skill more readily.”
“But… m’lord…”
“No buts. You will do as my wife asks, under my supervision an
d the captain’s, or I will throw you overboard.”
This was said in such a cheerful tone that Hawley didn’t know whether to take the words seriously or not—until he looked Myron in the eye and met the cold, hard stare that belied his easy smile.
Hawley swallowed hard. “Yes, m’lord. But my arms ain’t—”
The doctor interrupted, glancing over at Bella with the slightest censure, but not enough to really argue. “You are strong enough to hold a dagger, and the exertion will help strengthen the damaged muscles.”
Hawley sighed, but finally nodded his agreement.
“Excellent,” Myron said.
In a moment, though, Hawley’s head snapped up. “M’lady, it ain’t that I don’t want—er—Don’t mean you ain’t—”
Bella patted his hand. “Yes, I understand. You simply never expected you would be teaching the owner’s wife to kill a man. I admit, Mr. Hawley, I cannot credit it. But teach me, you shall, and I will be grateful for your tutelage.” At his blank look, she corrected, “The lessons.”
Clearing his throat, once again blushing like a chastised child, Hawley looked over at the doctor before he said, “Er, m’lady, Cap’n said I weren’t to ask you… but might be you won’t mind so much…” He trailed off, studiously avoiding Myron’s questioning raise of one eyebrow.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Hawley,” the doctor snapped, “do you not think it a poor decision to ask Lady Holsworthy for anything but her forgiveness?”
“But she already give me that! I just…”
Bella cast quelling looks at both of the other men. “Go on, Mr. Hawley. You may ask anything you like, as long as you do so respectfully.”
“M’lady, I just thought… my Ma showed me the reading when I were a boy, but she died before I could…” He cleared his throat again and looked away.
Bella brightened. “Reading? Of course I can teach you to read. It will be a good way for both of us to pass the time.” She turned to Myron. “Do you not think, my lord?”
“You must do as you will, my sweet.” He squeezed her hand and kissed the fingertips. He expected he might not recognize his crew by the time they reached India. He certainly hadn’t known Hawley had blond hair until Bella had insisted he bathe, nor boyish freckles under his usual unruly facial hair.
Beaming, and with a slight bounce in her seat, Bella clapped her hands and said, “Then we will start right away.”
“Perhaps I might delay your first lesson an hour or so,” Myron suggested, “as my lady’s presence is requested by the sailmaker.”
Hawley and the doctor both broke out in grins as wide as Myron’s.
“Whatever for, Husband?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the three of them.
“Only to provide you something that will also be of help in your lessons in bladeplay.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes.”
Myron, Captain Johnson, the doctor, the sailmaker, and Hawley had all been part of the plan now in motion, and all had studiously kept Bella in the dark after her first outright refusal.
“You will not convince me to wear trousers, even if we are nowhere near civilization.”
“M’lady, not meanin’ to be forward, but ‘twill be hard enough to teach you footwork ‘thout your dresses in the way.” With an uncharacteristic squeak, more words rushed out to explain away Myron’s suddenly dark countenance: “Not that I mean nothin’ ‘bout losin’ yer dresses, m’lady… You could wear dresses if you want…” He let out a sigh of relief at Myron’s curt nod.
The doctor agreed with Hawley. “I’d prefer not to amputate your broken leg if you get twisted up in your frock, my lady.”
Bella looked at her husband, but he just shrugged. “I will not force you to it, but Captain Johnson has convinced me of the wisdom, at least… as an option… in certain situations… such as fencing lessons. And you should at least allow the sailmaker credit for the work he has done.”
She nodded. “That is true. He is very kind to take the time.”
“He will make time for anything you ask, my dear, as will every other man on this ship. And he is skilled at his trade; he will tell you himself. His father ran a shop on Savile Row, where he worked for ten years before he was pressed into the navy. He brought a selection of fabrics for you from the Seventh Sea warehouses in London.”
She stood, wiping her hands on the long apron she now always wore over her plain gowns. “You gentlemen are very kind to me, and I do not wish you to think I do not see it. I will go meet with him, then retrieve my Bible and return for your first lesson, Mr. Hawley.”
After she left, Hawley said, tentatively, “M’lord, ‘tain’t my place to say it, but you picked a right good bride for a sailing ship. She ain’t no milk-and-water miss, that’s certain.”
The doctor added. “I’d not want to meet her on the other end of a grappling hook. A bit of skill with a knife, and she will be a dangerous foe, indeed. In part, because you will never see her coming.”
“She is quite something, is she not?”
Chapter Sixteen
“I admit,” Myron said, casting a satisfied eye over her dark green woolen day dress, “I prefer you in a gown to trousers. Hawley told me I was too old-fashioned.”
He tipped the coffee urn to pour himself another cup, then spooned more stew into her empty bowl, buttered another slice of bread, and placed it on her plate. They were having their meal on the open gallery, watching the sun touch the horizon, as had quickly become their habit at sunrise and sunset.
Obediently, she picked up her spoon, her left hand placed firmly in her lap. “Hawley should not be speaking to you so disrespectfully.”
“So I said before I assigned him a week of tarring and three days of slushing.”
He lifted his cup to take a sip, and she lifted an eyebrow. He paused, put the cup back down and removed the spoon. He started to set it on the tablecloth, but at a minute shake of her head, he moved his hand to set it on the saucer. When she smiled, he returned it, if a bit sardonically, finally able to take a sip of his coffee. His lips twitched when her bowl shifted, forcing her to reach up to steady it. His elbows on the table had been a bone of contention until the first plate had slid into her lap, but she had not yet broken herself of nineteen years of table manners in favor of simple logic.
“Nevertheless, I must offer my thanks to our resident tailor for the design of your coat. I believe if your… er… trousers were more in evidence when you work above, I might not be able to turn a blind eye.”
After lengthy consultation, two pair of loose trousers had been designed, and two pair of breeches, topped with outmoded frock coats that covered any womanly curves that might otherwise be displayed more indecently than she’d like, not that her body was particularly inclined to curves. Bella was first disturbed, then delighted, that her unfashionably square form looked extremely well in men’s clothes; better, she thought, than any garments she had ever worn, to say nothing of how much more comfortable they were to wear. Even taking into account her ever-present bank-by-corsetry, with her hair tied in a queue and the addition of a tricorn hat, she might be mistaken for the ghost of her grandfather.
But at heart, Bella was not a boyish lass. She preferred dresses, and so did her husband, so unless she were engaged in tasks that called for breeches, like her fencing and shooting lessons or climbing into the tops to look out over the horizon, she wore woolen day dresses with linen cuffs and collars, a full-length apron with pockets, and the chatelaine Charlotte had given her as a wedding gift. At this time in the evening, though, she had rinsed and hung her apron, collars, and cuffs and changed into cloth slippers from the sturdier leather shoes she wore on deck. She had wrapped a heavy flannel shawl around her shoulders, as it would likely prove a chillier night than she had experienced at sea thus far.
“When next I speak to Bronson,” she began, “I will ask him to consider your wardrobe for India.”
He set down his cup, eying her with
more than a bit of suspicion. “What is there to consider? I’ve a trunk with attire for tropical climes.”
“Good. I will start there.”
“Where do you plan to end?” The mistrust in his eyes might have given her pause if the prince himself had not asked her to smarten up her lord.
In a voice too soothing to soothe, she said, “While I am certain you have exactly the right choices in your trunks for a sea-going merchant attending a dockside auction, I am equally sure you are not adequately outfitted as Baron Holsworthy taking possession of a sizable estate gifted by the prince and claiming a position in the diplomatic corps.”
He pushed his chair back from the table. “What do you intend, Wife? I’ll not be covered in frills and feathers.”
She set aside her spoon and rose, picking up the last of the supper dishes and stacking them to return to the galley. She walked to the cupboard and removed the backgammon board and brought it back. With her hand on his shoulder, she stood behind him as he set up the tiles.
“My lord, you are a simple man of frugal tastes, who abjures extravagance. Can you believe I will order clothes that display you to the world otherwise? I would never be so disrespectful of your nature.” She untied his shirt at the throat and stroked her hand across the rough shadow of a beard on his cheek, then crossed the room to bring his banyan and tuck it around his shoulders. “It is my primary occupation, as your wife, to see to the smooth running of your domestic life with as little disruption to you as possible. You may be sure I do not intend to disorder your every routine, especially not on board the Amelia, where life is lived so casually. But once we make landfall, any clothing at hand in your armoire must and will announce to the world you are a nobleman and an intimate of the Crown.”
He groaned and scrubbed his hand across his face. “Must it, indeed?”
She sighed and patted his hand. “One only dies of being a nobleman if one chooses the wrong side, which you have not yet done. You will survive the acquisition of a fashionable wardrobe. I have seen to the most difficult part already.”
Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella Page 10