by Shirl Henke
* * * *
Alex stood at the bow of the ship watching the western sky fill with brilliant stars. He never tired of the magic of nightfall. "I never realized how much I missed the sea," he murmured to himself as he stared at the dim horizon where the roll of black water and the calm of night sky merged.
In a few weeks he would be home in America. With an English wife in tow. How would Joss adapt to living in a country at war with her own? Would she find his Georgia and Muskogee relatives crude, offensive? Since they'd set sail she seemed to avoid him, continuing the estrangement that had begun after they were wed. He had hoped her agreeing to accompany him to America meant that the old camaraderie would return, but it obviously had not.
He was disturbed by the transformation his mother had wrought in Joss as well. Why the devil had a female of such iron-willed and serious-minded determination decided to deck herself out in ruffles and curls? She was disturbing. She was just not...Joss. And he missed his old laughing, accident-prone, disheveled companion a great deal.
His disquietude might also stem from sex—or rather the decided lack thereof for the last few months. The cargo ship had taken on several other American passengers eager to return home before actual hostilities commenced. One was a perky little redheaded widow from Philadelphia who had been eyeing him with predatory interest since they sailed. Perhaps he could reach an agreement with her that might please them both, he mused idly, but the idea held no particular appeal.
His ruminations were interrupted by a loud rumbling purr and the flick of a tail as an enormous black cat brushed against his pant leg, then leaped gracefully up onto the railing and looked at him with one glowing emerald eye. The other had been lost in a legendary waterfront contest with a huge rat.
"Tar, you old rascal. I thought Captain Neale would have thrown you overboard for stealing from the cook's larder by now," he said, scratching the grizzled ears. The cat butted his big head against Alex's chest and let out a rasping meow as if to say, "Surely you jest. Neale could never catch me."
"I'm amazed you haven't tangled with Poc yet, but then that might explain your absence since we set sail." The mention of the terrier brought Alex's thoughts once again around to his sleeping schedule in the crowded quarters below. "Well, fellow, it's past time I turned in."
Tar watched him stride across the deck and vanish be-lowstairs.
The corridor was dimly lit by a low-burning tallow candle flickering on the wall as Alex made his way to the cabin, suppressing a huge yawn. It had been a long time since he'd done seaman's work. Strenuous exercise and fresh salt air combined to make him more than ready to sink into his bunk.
In bed before midnight and all I can do is sleep, he thought with grim amusement as he shed his shirt and boots before quietly lifting the latch to their cabin door. He was always careful not to awaken Joss, who he knew rose at daybreak. As soon as he opened the door a thin shaft of pale light startled him.
Alex froze. His eyes widened as he stared at the vision silhouetted in soft candlelight. She wore a sheer voluminous garment that swathed her from neck to ankle in soft white cotton yet fully revealed the outline of her body—slender but lithe with high breasts, sweetly rounded hips and long, long legs that were elegantly curved. Her hair was thrown over one shoulder as she plied it with a brush that sent sparks crackling through the curls. The candle glow illuminated soft yet brilliant highlights of bronze and various shades of gold from tawny to pale.
A bolt of pure lust shot through him with startling ferocity, rooting him in the doorway. Poc broke the spell, jumping off the lower bunk, which he had taken to sharing with Joss. He let out a soft yip of welcome as he walked over to sniff Tar's scent on Alex's breeches.
Joss turned with a startled intake of breath. The brush tangled stubbornly in her iong, heavy hair as she struggled to pull it free. Although she did not know it, her raised arms all the better outlined the upthrust fullness of her breasts.
"You're up late," he said idiotically, unable to think of any excuse for spying on her so blatantly.
Joss stared at the thick gold hair on Alex's bare chest, longing to sink her fingers into it, remembering the crisp, springy texture from her one night of passion. In the small confines of the cabin she could smell the scent of aroused male calling forth from her a deep feminine response, although she was unaware of her own musky perfume. She felt as if a hard fist had clenched tight inside her belly.
Her breath hitched. He was staring at her and she was practically naked! What if he did not like what he saw? She was too tall, too thin, too lacking in female wiles for this. Barbara had been mistaken. Yet he continued to stare at her as if she were a prime roast of beef and he a starving man.
Gathering her scattered thoughts, she yanked the brush free of her hair, pulling the tawny mantle around her shoulders. She fought the urge to clutch her hands over her intimate parts like a silly virgin and instead stood straight and met his glowing dark eyes. "I am sorry I did not retire at my usual time. I...became engrossed in reading." She laid down the brush and picked up a slim volume. "Lyrical Ballads. I am especially fond of Mr. Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner. It teaches a superb moral lesson, don't you think?"
She was prattling on like a ninny, unable to stop herself from drawing nearer, her extended hand offering him the book.
"I've never been much for moral lessons, Joss," he replied, forcing a grin that was much more like a grimace. He felt as if he'd explode if he did not do one of two things—seize her and ravish her or leave at once.
"I'll peruse Mr. Coleridge while you finish preparing for bed," he replied, grabbing the book and disappearing through the doorway.
When Alex reached topside, the last thing on his mind was reading about a sailor cursed because of an albatross. Hell, he had his own curse to bear. Clutching the book in his hand, he walked to the railing at the bow of the ship and stood staring into the darkness, letting the cool night wind blow against his scorched bare flesh. He struggled with the inner demons of lust that cried out his deep, pulsing need for this woman.
She is your wife. You have a right to her body, they seemed to say. But she was Joss, his friend and companion, a woman of maidenly sensibilities to whom he had given his bond of honor. He could not touch her. What would she think? She offered him a volume of poetry and he returned such civility with naught but crude lust. She would be appalled, angry, disgusted. It would be a betrayal.
Their former closeness was already in jeopardy. He cursed himself once more for ruining everything with his crack-brained marriage proposal and prepared to spend yet another sleepless night. The redheaded widow in the cabin down the hall never even crossed his mind.
Joss sank onto the bare wood chair, her knees having turned to water after Alex had gone. She was trembling violently, hot yet cold at the same time. Dressed in practically nothing, she had let him look his fill. But he had stood like a somnambulist, his face grim and forbidding. Hardly the sweet impetuous expression of newly discovered love!
And she, always a cake, had further ruined everything by rattling on about poetry! Small wonder he seized the book from her and ran. "He doesn't want me. Barbara's mistaken," she sobbed woefully.
Poc began to whine sympathetically, licking her hands and face as she knelt down and wrapped her arms around him, then buried her face in his wiry fur and cried.
* * * *
"Hold still. 'Tis difficult enough getting these pins set on a pitching ship without you turning hither and yon," Barbara scolded as she worked on Joss's hairdo. The sky, calm and sunny for the first few days of sailing, had suddenly turned pewter gray, and winds whipped the ocean into a frothy frenzy of high waves. The ship bounced from one crest to another, hitting the bottom between them with sickening thuds. Joss, who had never sailed before, was terrified.
"It is getting a bit rough out there," Barbara said calmly.
"A bit rough? That is like saying the Prince Regent is a bit fat! I vow every bone in my body will shatter
ere we reach terra firma again."
"You'll soon get your sea legs." Barbara finished fastening the last ivory pins in Joss's heavy hair, then stood back to admire her handiwork. "Not bad if you would only contrive not to have your face match the shade of your gown."
"You do not think green becomes me?"
"To wear it, yes, to be it, no."
Just then the ship took another deep roll, sending the hairbrush and mirror sliding from the table to the floor. Barbara caught the mirror handily while Joss lunged for the chamber pot.
The storm did not abate for several days. Neither did Joss's indisposition. She lay pale and limp in her bunk while Barbara patiently urged hot broth and cool compresses on her. Utterly humiliated by her weakness, Joss protested that she was best left alone.
"I've never been ill a day in my life before this," she said wretchedly the third morning as Barbara sponged her off and helped her change into a clean nightshift.
" 'Tis not unusual on one's first voyage. I was deathly ill on my first crossing to America, then again when Dev and I returned to London after we were married. He was so patient and tender caring for me..." Barbara considered how alike father and son were. Perhaps it would be best if she ceased shooing Alex away and set him to caring for his ill wife.
Joss was too awash in her own misery to see the gleam of yet another plan in her mother-in-law's eyes. When she drifted off to sleep, Barbara went in search of her son to plead exhaustion. Perhaps she would even develop a slight case of mal de mer herself.
* * * *
Alex set down the tray on the table near Joss's berth and knelt beside her. Her long tawny skein of hair spread across the pillows. She must have worked the plait loose tossing in her sleep. He reached out to touch the wondrous stuff, so thick and soft. His mother was responsible for the marvelous color, but how had Joss concealed so much hair in that awful knot? Why had she swaddled her delicious curves in drab, oversize gowns?
"What were you hiding from, Joss?" he murmured softly. She stirred but did not awaken as his fingertips lightly traced the strong elegant contours of her brow, cheekbones and chin. Perhaps she had not so much been hiding as he and all of his kind had been blind.
Her thick dark lashes lay like lacy fans against her cheeks, concealing those incredibly blue eyes. A pair of spectacles lay within her reach. Odd, now that she no longer was so dependent on them, he did not mind when she wore them. They, like her sharp wit and fierce pride—even her clumsiness—were a part of Joss. He had not yet found a facet of her that failed to charm him.
She moaned restlessly as he studied her face. He was alarmed at her pallor. "Joss, you must eat," he said gently, touching her shoulder to awaken her.
She heard Alex's voice indistinctly, not making out the words, as if he were underwater or far, far away. "Hot, I'm so hot," she murmured, kicking off the covers as she rose to consciousness.
The night rail was prim and high necked yet very sheer. All too clearly he remembered just how sheer. "I, er, think it might be best to keep at least the sheet—you might take a chill," he said, pulling the linen back up.
Joss blinked and struggled to lean up on her elbows, then squinted around the cabin. Where was she? This was not her bedroom. She had not used her drops. Where were those dratted glasses? Then Alex spoke again.
"Careful, Joss. You're weak. Let me help you sit up."
Then it all came rushing back to her—they were aboard ship and she had been wretchedly sick. Barbara had been nursing her. But her mother-in-law was nowhere in sight. It was her husband who sat by the side of her bed, fussing with the bedclothes!
"Alex?" she gasped out, shrinking away from him, clutching the sheet up to her chin in horror. Her hands felt the tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders. She must look a positive fright! "W-what are you doing here?"
"I've brought you some beef broth and a slice of fresh bread. Cook just cut open the loaf this morning. You'd best enjoy it while you can. In a few more days there will be nothing left but hard biscuits and salted meats."
"Don't speak of food," she wheezed, struggling to control her rebellious stomach. She would not be sick in front of him.
"You must try to eat, Joss, to keep up your strength."
"Where's Barbara?"
"A bit under the weather but not as ill as you," he replied with a grin. "She needs some rest so I'm here to nurse you."
"Oh." She digested that. Poor Barbara was probably exhausted after the past few nights sitting up with her. But how could she let Alex see her in such a weak, wretched state? "I'm never ill. I've never had the headache and I don't take cold. This has never happened to me in my life."
"You've never been aboard ship before," he replied reasonably, lifting the lid on the soup tureen.
"I shall contrive never to be again once my feet touch dry land."
He chuckled. "Here, let me feed you a few spoonfuls of broth."
"I can feed myself," she replied ungraciously, reaching for the spoon.
"Your hand is trembling, Joss. You're too weak. Let me take care of you. It's only fair, you know—you took care of me."
"That was different. You were injured."
"And you suffer from mal de mer, which can be quite serious."
"I've long since abandoned the fear of dying. Now my only fear is that I shall live," she said, holding her arms about her cramped middle.
He laughed and slid a spoonful of broth between her lips. "That is my line, I believe, reserved for particularly virulent aftereffects of overindulgence."
"The effects of overindulgence are not an illness, merely a penance," she chided.
"Easy for you to say," he replied dryly, continuing to spoon the broth until she raised her hand, pushing the spoon away.
"I dare not take another sip."
"Then try a few small pieces of dry bread. It's said to help settle the stomach."
She looked dubious but nibbled slowly on several morsels. "That is a bit better. Perhaps—ooh, noo." Abruptly she rolled over to the side of the bed where an empty slop pail sat at the ready as choking heaves wracked her body.
Alex was at her side at once, holding her shoulders and lifting back her hair. When she had lost all the contents of her stomach, he gently laid her back on the bed and wiped her flushed face with a cool, wet cloth. She turned her head into the pillow, awash in a misery of embarrassment, fighting back tears.
"Don't cry, Joss, please," he crooned, stroking her hair away from her face. "You can scarce afford to lose any more moisture," he added, trying to elicit a smile.
A tiny one wobbled on her lips, then vanished on a hiccup. "I am so humiliated for you to see me this way."
"I am your friend, Joss...and your husband," he said gently.
She blinked back her tears and managed a meager smile. "I warrant you never imagined a situation such as this when you offered either friendship or marriage."
"No, I suppose I did not," he admitted.
She groped across the surface of the table, almost tipping the water pitcher before seizing upon her glasses, then put them on and looked at Alex, all traces of levity gone. "Do you regret it, Alex?"
He knew what she meant. "At first..." He groped for words, combing his fingers through his hair as he sat beside her with his elbows on his knees. "Ah, hell, I—"
His response was suddenly interrupted by a sharp rapping on the cabin door and the first mate's voice calling out, "British man-o'-war sighted, Mr. Blackthorne. Capt'n wants to know what he should do."
Joss would have given anything to know what Alex had been going to say, but the spell of the moment was broken. He made hasty apologies and went topside with the mate, leaving her alone to ruminate.
The next twelve hours were a tense and frightening time for all the passengers and seamen as The Muskogee Maiden raced ahead of the British ship. Several times the Americans were almost overtaken, but by moonrise it finally became apparent that they had escaped.
When Alex returned to their c
abin, he was exhausted and she knew the subject of their marriage was best dropped.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, sinking wearily onto the chair.
"I've been able to hold down a cup of broth that your mother fed me...so far. Alex, why did we run from the royal navy? Surely they mean us no harm—this is a civilian cargo ship."
"It's an American ship, Joss, and our countries are at war. They could confiscate the cargo, even impress our men."
"Would they truly do that?" she asked. She had heard rumors about American sailors forcibly dragged onto British ships, but had not believed them to be true.
"I'm afraid so. It's one of the reasons Congress voted for war—although I'll admit not the main one."
"You're worried about how the hostilities will affect your father's people, aren't you?"
"They're my people, too, Joss," he said defensively. "It was because of my Muskogee blood that I became involved with the Chamberlains."
Joss detected a chill in his manner as he rose and said, "I'm going to eat, then try to get some sleep. Would you like something from the galley?"
"No, I dare not eat anything more, thank you. I shall be asleep when you return," she replied in a subdued voice, not comprehending his abrupt departure. Was he angry with her because she was English and that man-o'-war had tried to capture them? Or was he merely disgusted with her for being a wretchedly poor sailor, not to mention an unsuitable wife to present to his family in Savannah?
* * * *
Over the next two weeks Joss began to recover, although she vowed she would never make a sailor. Alex remained tense and standoffish. For her part, Joss avoided him as much as possible after the brief interlude when he had nursed her through that humiliating bout of seasickness. After their unsettling confrontation the night she waited up for him, Joss was scrupulously careful to douse the light and slip into bed before he entered the cabin.
As she felt stronger, she ventured abovedeck to take the fresh air, at first relying on Barbara for support. The crew and motley assortment of other American passengers aboard the ship provided some pastime during the long days of the crossing. Mr. Soulard, a lively New Orleans Creole who served as supercargo on the voyage, had been particularly solicitous during her convalescence. She began to look forward to their breakfast discussions at the captain's table.