My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  Resolution.

  He saw it all, then, when he had refused to see it before. When he had refused to believe. It was there in the way his fiancée had cried out when she’d spotted the dark stain where Akers’ knife had gone in. It was there in the tender hand she laid against the gold lace of the flag captain’s sleeve, the way she caught her lips between her teeth and her eyes flooded with tears.

  It was there in the way the flag captain had become so protective the moment he’d sensed a threat to her— both now and, Ponsonby thought ruefully, in the moments that had brought about the duel back in Norfolk. It was there in the way the other man had defended both her life and her honor, starting with a plunge into a muddy pond and ending with an attempt on his very life.

  And Lieutenant Akers would probably swing for it.

  He wiped a hand down his face, his entire world coming apart.

  And Sheldon Ponsonby, for the first time in his life, felt the bitter taste of defeat when it came to the fairer sex.

  He glanced at the admiral.

  Sir Graham just looked at him calmly and gave a barely imperceptible nod.

  You know what you have to do, Captain.

  Ponsonby cleared his throat.

  “Lady Grace,” he said with as much composure as he could muster. “May I have a word with you in private?”

  She pulled back from the flag captain, her eyes suddenly coming into focus as she realized what she had just done. Delmore Lord raised his head and looked straight out into the distance, as though he could see through the painting of Barbados that hung on the paneled bulkhead and right back to Bridgetown itself. He took a step back, rigid, controlled, and disciplined once more.

  “Of course,” Grace said hesitantly, and looking at her uncle for permission, received a nod.

  She followed Ponsonby toward the door. He opened it and gestured for her to precede him. Her chin came up and he saw her look toward Captain Lord for the briefest of moments as though for approval, even forgiveness, before he stepped into her sightline, closing the door behind him. But Captain Lord was not looking at her. He was not looking at anyone.

  Ponsonby offered his elbow and together, they walked through the darkness to the rail.

  Far forward, he heard drunken laughter and the strains of a fiddle, and the pounding of feet against the deck as the ship’s company danced and sang and celebrated. A splash as something was thrown overboard, more laughter.

  There would be no celebration for him tonight.

  “Lady Grace,” he began, on a deep breath. “I have called you out here to tell you that—”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. Let me speak.”

  “What I have to say is of the utmost importance. It cannot wait.”

  “And if you’re a true gentleman, Captain Ponsonby, you will let the lady speak first.”

  He inclined his head. Waiting for her apology, for her excuses, for her justifications, even as he knew in his heart what was coming.

  She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. Quickly drew it back. Her eyes were both tragic and resolved.

  “I cannot marry you,” she said firmly, raising her gaze to his. “It is not your fault, and there was a time not so long ago when I wanted nothing more than to be your wife. Indeed, it was even expected. But I cannot go through with this, Captain Ponsonby.” She withdrew her hand. “I hope you understand.”

  His smile was pained. “You have loved him all along, haven’t you?”

  Her features softened. “I have. But it wasn’t until tonight that I realized just how much.”

  “More than a friend, then.”

  “Far more than a friend.”

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment more.

  “And what was it you wished to tell me, Captain Ponsonby?”

  He shook his head and tried to smile. He had failed her miserably, really. Failed to defend her honor, failed to give her his heart, failed to do for her what he would have demanded for his own sister had she not already been happily married. He would not make matters worse by taking what was left of her pride.

  “Captain Ponsonby?”

  “Honestly, my dear—” he inclined his head and his pained smile spread. “I have quite forgotten.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain.”

  “I am, too.” He bowed. “I wish you well, Lady Grace.”

  “And I, the same for you.”

  Nothing more was said. He escorted her back to the cabin and calling for his launch, exited the great flagship and returned to his frigate.

  * * *

  Del’s appetite was gone.

  He had watched Lady Grace and Captain Ponsonby leave together. She would likely be placating her betrothed, trying her best to undo the damage. Soothing him for the embarrassment of being misled by Akers, reassuring him of her affections, pledging her love for him. He had no desire to sit here with Sir Graham and the other officers, knowing they pitied him. He wanted nothing more than to be alone, though it would be rude to leave the admiral’s dinner.

  He felt eyes upon him and looked up to see Sir Graham himself regarding him.

  “Go see to that wound, Captain.”

  The admiral understood. He also understood that this wasn’t about the wound, but about the bitter anguish of loss. Del excused himself and stalked out of the cabin. He did not go to the surgeon. Instead, he went to his own quarters, seeking solitude.

  Peace.

  Refuge.

  A marine stood guard outside. He jerked to attention at the flag captain’s appearance.

  “Evening, sir.”

  Del nodded curtly. The marine opened the door and Del entered his domain.

  He wasn’t normally one to imbibe. Tonight, though, might warrant an exception.

  * * *

  Grace heard the side party piping Ponsonby off the ship and realized she’d probably never see him again.

  She did not care.

  A marine opened the door to her uncle’s cabin for her and she stepped inside, her eyes trying to adjust to the lantern light that seemed so bright after the darkness outside. She was escorted aft through her uncle’s expansive quarters and to the great day cabin, where those who still remained had tried to resume an air of normalcy as they continued with the meal.

  Captain Lord himself was nowhere to be seen.

  She felt no sorrow about releasing Sheldon Ponsonby from his vow. She felt nothing but a strange and weightless relief.

  Her uncle looked up at her.

  “Where did he go?” she asked.

  Sir Graham, who was reaching for a roll, pulled it apart and slathered it with butter. “By he, I’m assuming you mean my flag captain.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Did you break it off with Ponsonby?”

  “Really, Uncle Gray, that is my business, is it not?”

  “Everything on my ship is my business.”

  “Last I knew, this isn’t your ship, it’s Captain Lord’s.”

  “And when did you become so well- and ill-versed in naval matters, Grace?”

  “Just tell me where he went.”

  Sir Graham laid down his butter knife. “I suspect he went to question Akers. He’ll likely return to his own cabin, after that. Though I did ask him to go see the surgeon. Doubt he did, though.”

  “Why do you doubt that? You give an order, your captains carry them out.”

  “Under normal circumstances,” the admiral said, and bit into the roll.

  Maeve Falconer smiled. “You should go to him, Grace.”

  “That would be highly improper and we all know it.”

  At that moment, Maeve’s face seemed to shift and then to contort, and as Grace stared at her in confusion, the one-time pirate queen of the Caribbean began to laugh with a gusto that was quite at odds with the cultured elegance her station demanded.

  “The only one around here who was ever concerned about propriety was Del,” she said, “and at the moment, I highly doubt whether or not that’
s uppermost in his mind since he thinks you went out to console Ponsonby and is likely staring quite miserably at the paneling of his dining cabin.”

  “Yes, you should go to him,” said Sir Graham.

  “What? But—”

  “Come, my dear,” said Maeve, pushing aside her plate and getting to her feet. Gone was the savage and competent warrior she’d been just moments before when she’d so effectively disarmed Akers and she was once again the lady, the admiral’s wife, the vibrant red-haired beauty with the mysterious tiger-eyes. “The ship is grand. Easy to get lost. I’ll take you to him.”

  “I would like that,” Grace said.

  42

  Her aunt had not overestimated the size of the ship. Though Captain Lord’s quarters were on the deck just above Sir Graham’s, finding them required going up a deck and gaining entrance via the red-coated marine stationed just outside the door. This, Maeve did with a murmured word.

  “Of course, Lady Falconer.”

  The marine stamped his musket against the deck and the door opened. A wizened old man appeared, standing on a bowed leg and a peg. He had thinning gray hair combed back into an old-fashioned pigtail and he eyed Grace with some suspicion through a smudged pair of spectacles.

  “Hello, Cooper. Is your captain in or has he gone to speak to the prisoner?”

  “He is in, Lady Falconer. But I’m not sure if he’ll—”

  “I quite understand your desire to shield and protect your captain, as that’s what good people do and you are amongst the best, Coop. But Lady Grace here is concerned about him and wishes to assure herself that he’s suffered no grievous injury.”

  It was not a suggestion. It was an order from the admiral’s wife, and Cooper did not question or refute it.

  “Of course,” he said, bowing his head. “Come with me, Lady Grace.”

  Maeve laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder, gave her a look that told her to make good on her chance to right things, and melted back off into the darkness.

  And Grace was left with the old sailor.

  He turned, not waiting for her to follow, and stomped his way across the black-and-white checkered floor canvas, heading aft. Grace, her heart pounding, followed him. A cavernous space, Captain Lord had. To her left, a sleeping cot suspended from a pole, with tented curtains for privacy. Paneled, painted doors, massive guns pulled up to open ports, the great span of deck beams arcing gracefully overhead. Closets where she suspected the steward and clerk and other servants conducted the affairs relevant to serving their captain. Through a screened bulkhead and into another great space that stretched from one side of the ship to the other, the same black-and-white canvas, the paneling painted a milky robin’s egg blue that was pleasant and warm in the glow of the lantern light. A long table for dining, gleaming in that same light. Through yet another barrier and into a third and final chamber, the grand, expansive aftermost portion of the ship with its panoramic gallery of windows stretching from one side to the other. Beyond them was the harbor, a silvered expanse of water upon which the lights of other ships rode, their great masts poking at the stars above.

  Her eyes adjusted and she saw that just beneath those windows were velvet cushions and on one of them sat a man, silhouetted by the starlight. He was looking out into the night.

  “Captain, sir. Lady Grace Fairchild to see you.”

  He turned his head and got to his feet with a weariness of purpose.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper. That will be all.”

  “Sir?”

  “Go join the festivities aft. It’ll be some time before you all have the chance to make merry again.”

  “But sir, I—”

  “That will be all, Cooper.”

  The wizened sailor nodded, cast a last suspicious glance at Grace, and clumped his way to the door. It opened on well-oiled hinges, and shut behind him.

  Click.

  Thump.. thump... thump.

  And he was gone.

  For a long moment, Grace stood there in the gloom, rooted to the spot, her hands clenched loosely in front of her. She could feel her heartbeat banging in her ears. Her palms were damp. She wiped them discreetly on her skirts.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing the bloody spot on his coat.

  “I’m still breathing.”

  “May I see?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He opened his coat, unbuttoned his vest, yanked his shirt from his breeches and lifted it, showing her the torn bit of flesh so she could see that it was superficial. He quickly covered it again and looked away.

  “Hard to see in the darkness,” she murmured. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “It is most unseemly, Lady Grace, for you to be here in my cabin. In the dark. Alone.” His voice sounded rough in the darkness. “Your husband-to-be will not approve.”

  Grace stood unmoving. “I have released Captain Ponsonby from his commitment to me.”

  The words hung flatly in the silence. The heartbeat in Grace’s ears grew louder and she waited for a reaction, a word, anything from this man who stood a few feet away.

  “And why,” he asked quietly, “would you do such a thing?”

  She took a deep breath and looked at him in silhouette, wishing she could see his face in the gloom, his eyes.

  “Because I do not love him.”

  He turned once more to look out over the harbor, his hands clasped behind his back in the eternal pose of a mariner, and said nothing.

  “I don’t love him, Captain Lord. I can’t love him. And maybe I was fascinated by him at one point in time, but I never loved him. There’s only one man on this earth that I love, and that man is you.”

  He remained unmoving for a long time and when he spoke, his voice was as quiet and flat as the sea spread out beyond the great windows behind him.

  “Do you know what my cousin Connor used to call me?” he asked, still not turning around. “Deadly Dullmore. And he was right, y’know. I am dull. Boring. Not exactly the stuff from which a fair maiden’s dreams are made.”

  “You are not dull. You are solid. Dependable. Honorable and kind.”

  “Regimented. By-the-book. Unadventurous.”

  “West,” she said.

  He turned slightly, so that she could see the strong blade of his nose backlit by the night outside. “What?”

  “The wind. It’s out of the west. What there is of it, anyhow.”

  He turned further around, the starlight momentarily glinting off the epaulet on one shoulder. “And how would you know that, Lady Grace?”

  “I had a good teacher. But it is out of the west, and I know that because when Lady Falconer brought me here, I happened to look up and there was a flag, and it was flickering out in that direction,” she said confidently, pointing to her right. “Which makes the wind out of the west.”

  “Hmm.” She sensed, rather than saw, his reluctant smile. “And you are certain of that, are you?”

  “I am certain.”

  She stepped closer to him.

  He did not move.

  “And how do you know that that direction is the west, Lady Grace?”

  She took another step toward him. “I would like to say that I looked up at the stars, found Polaris, and deduced it that way. I would like to say that I looked at the lay of the land that is Portsmouth and figured it out from there. But the truth is, Captain Lord, I did neither of those things.” Another step closer and in the gloom, her hand stretched out, her fingers reaching, finding, his. “The truth is, I made it easy on myself... and asked my Aunt Maeve.”

  Yes, he was definitely smiling, now. She was close enough that she could see the whiteness of his teeth, and close enough that she could stand on tiptoe now, anchoring her hand against his, stand on tiptoe and tilt her head back and—

  The ferocity with which he pulled her forward and up and against him surprised her. In that simple gesture were weeks’ worth of need and pent-up want, of unspoken desires left to simmer for too long, of relea
se. His head lowered and his mouth was suddenly hard against hers, his hand coming up to thread through her hair, to cup the back of her head and draw her close. He tasted of something sweet, maybe wine, but before she could wonder at it his lips were moving against hers, his breath against her cheek, his tongue licking the seam of her lips until they opened, hesitantly at first and then, as passion lit her blood and flared through her body, with a fierce and desperate need.

  Aside from him, she had never kissed a man before. Had never been kissed by a man before. Not even Ponsonby, really. Her every sense was assailed. The faint roughness of his jaw against her cheek and chin. The taste on his tongue, on his lips. The sound of his breathing, the whisper of his clothing as he moved. The aroma of his soap, or maybe it was cologne, something faintly exotic, heady, masculine. The powerful arm that wrapped around her lower back like a vise, holding her close. The feeling of breathlessness until he pulled back, put his hands on the outside of her shoulders, and with reclaimed tenderness, set her back and away from him.

  “Captain Lord?”

  “You came here tonight, Lady Grace, for a reason known only to yourself.”

  “I don’t want you to call me Lady Grace. I am Grace. That is my name. I’d be happy if you would use it.”

  “You came here tonight for what reason?”

  “I told you. To tell you that I love you.”

  “And what do you want of me?”

  The words stung and she suddenly felt foolish. Uncertain. Unsure.

  “I want nothing from you,” she murmured.

  He stood holding her, hands still against her shoulders. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will take this ship and your uncle and his family back to Barbados. It is quite likely, Grace, that you and I will never see each other again.”

  He had not said he loved her.

  He was going away.

  He did not say he loved me. Is my heart wrong? Was Ned wrong? Have we all been wrong?

  “Captain Lord,” she said quietly, “I came here tonight to tell you that I was in error. That God never put Captain Ponsonby in my life in order to get me to marry him, but to get me to marry— Oh.” She reddened. “Oh, that doesn’t sound quite right.”