by Lara Archer
Revoltingly enough, she felt herself blush. “That was before you chose to utterly disrespect my opinions about Mr. Rapson and carted me out of the Countess of Leeds’ soiree like a sack of barley.”
“Ah, that. I wounded your pride, did I?”
A hot pulse stabbed in the middle of her chest. He must be doing this deliberately. How could he not realize how insulting he was?
But his brows were still raised in puzzlement. Unless that, too, was designed to provoke her.
“And you’ve come to hate me,” he said, “on such a slight basis?”
“That wasn’t slight. And believe me, I have a long list of reasons to hate you.”
If her words wounded him, his expression didn’t show it. “Come now,” he said, in that damnably insinuating way he had. “From the day we met, I’ve done nothing but look out for your welfare, making every effort to teach you what you need to know. And I daresay you’ve enjoyed the lessons.”
The impulse to kick him grew stronger with every passing second. “Don’t congratulate yourself. Those lessons didn’t seem to cause you any particular suffering.”
“Oh, you have no idea, ma belle. I have nightmares.”
“You don’t!”
“Dreams, then.” His gaze fixed on hers, and there was something in it suddenly, something softer and more human again, that made her heartbeat stutter. “Maddening dreams.”
She managed to tear her gaze away, to turn her focus back to the wild roll of the waves. Seconds ago, she’d wanted to do him an injury, and now somehow he was doing it again—making her all too aware of the nearness of his body, making something at the core of her start to heat and melt. It made no sense. And it wasn’t fair.
She felt him lean in closer.
“May I remind you,” he said, in that tone that felt like a caress, “the lessons I taught you that night were about the pleasure a man may bring to a woman. But you still have much to learn about the pleasures a woman may give a man in return.”
She clenched her jaw. “Men don’t seem all that difficult to please.”
“Fair enough. Certainly nowhere near as difficult as women. But there are nuances. And variations you should become aware of.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s most definitely so. We might as well take advantage of this voyage, to continue your education. With the ocean here to inspire us. All that blatant rocking and swaying—”
No! She wasn’t going to let this go any further. “I find the ocean unsettling, actually,” she replied sharply. “The sheer size of it. Like some great, heaving animal. Breathing. Crouching for attack.”
That shut him up. For a moment.
“That’s how you see it?” His head cocked to one side, his jocular look draining away. “Such an odd little creature you are,” he said, his voice thoughtful now. “What’s your life been like, to make you this way? I can scarce imagine.”
“The diametric opposite of yours, I suspect.”
“No doubt.”
“No doubt.”
“All right, then,” he said. “I see what I need to do.” And he reached beneath the flap of his heavy greatcoat.
Instinctively, she took another step back. What on earth was he intending to do to her now?
She glanced down to where his hands were reaching. To her surprise, from a thin leather case attached to a strap at his waist, he drew out a cylinder of brass and wood. Gently, he gripped each end with his fingers, and pulled; the cylinder elongated to nearly the length of his forearm.
“Allow me to expand your horizons just a bit,” he said, and held out the cylinder to her. “A small peace offering, if you will.”
She stared at the peculiar object. “What on earth is that?”
“A spyglass.”
Oh. She’d read of those, but never seen one.
He nudged it into her hand. “Go on—take it.”
She sighed. It seemed harmless enough. Certainly safer than anything else she might receive from him.
“See the moon out there?” He pointed at the tiny sliver of pale white against the sky, just above the horizon. “Put the narrower end of the scope to your eye, and look at the moon through the glass.”
She did, at first seeing just a blur until his fingers made some subtle adjustment. Then the world lurched. The horizon jumped towards her, the moon swinging closer like a curved blade.
She jolted back, hastily lowered the scope. Then tried looking through it again.
And forgot for the moment to be angry.
That little slice of moon wasn’t pale at all, but half a dozen shades of blue and gray, and pitted like a slab of granite. She reached the fingers of her free hand towards it, stretching them into empty sky. “Amazing. It looks close enough to touch.” She moved the scope slowly to the left then, scanning along the horizon. Waves everywhere, far, far out beyond where the eye could see. “Good Lord. The sea does go on forever.”
He chuckled. “Not really,” he said. “Spain’s out there, not two hundred miles away.”
“Truly?” Everywhere she looked, nothing but shifting ocean. Out here, even the solid ground of England seemed like nothing more than a fever-dream. “Solid land? With inhabitants? And buildings? Quite impossible,” she teased. “You’re a reckless liar, indeed, Lord Hawkesbridge.”
“Not this time, I assure you. There’s land, positively infested with cities. Cathedrals. Universities. Farms and orchards. Taverns and whorehouses, too, by the thousands.”
“Ah.” She lowered the spyglass again, shot him a sharp look. “No doubt you can personally testify to the reality of each and every one of those whorehouses.”
He lifted an aristocratic eyebrow. “I’ve never frequented whorehouses, actually. Vile places.”
“What? That sounds almost like a moral compunction, my lord. Perhaps I’ll believe you when I see this ‘land’ you speak of.”
“Nothing moral about my objection,” he said, sounding almost offended. “I simply have no interest in a mercantile transaction with women who feel only contempt for the men who bed them. Not at all to my taste.”
She blinked. A matter of taste, was it? Or was there something more behind his words? A certain line of tension in his jaw suggested a different sort of emotion—anger, perhaps?
But curiosity about him was perilous. She needed to keep her attention off him, not try to look further inside. So she raised the scope again, scanning in the other direction, letting the ocean fill her thoughts again.
Water, water everywhere. Her belly swooped at the endless, heaving reality of it.
And somehow she couldn’t resist commenting on it to him. “You know that passage in the Aeneid,” she said, “where waves swallow seven Trojan ships? I’d always assumed that was poetic license. Now I see Virgil was being quite literal. Seven ships would be nothing in all this.”
“Indeed. Pray we meet no storms on this voyage.”
“Too late,” she sighed. “The whole world’s already flooded.”
He gave a dark laugh. “No doubt the wicked world deserves such a fate. But I believe there’s a Biblical promise against that sort of totality. Involving a rainbow, as I recall.”
“Lucky for you, since the iniquitous were traditionally the first to drown.”
“I’m a remarkably good swimmer. And with my luck, there’s always the chance I’d wash up safe on Circe’s isle. I’ve always rather fancied the idea of taking a sorceress to bed.”
She was about to respond with yet another jibe—about the likelihood Circe would turn him straight into a pig—but then something flashed in the spyglass lens, right on the horizon. Just at the limits of vision, a sort of creamy smudge. She squinted through the scope; she was quite sure that smudge hadn’t been there a moment before.
“What?” Sebastian sounded concerned. “What do you see?”
“Nothing. A cloud, maybe.”
“Let me look.” He took the scope and aimed it in the direction she’d been looking. He stood qu
ite still for almost a minute, his fingers working lightly against the outside of the scope. And then he stiffened. “Blast it all. A sail.”
His tone sent a shiver through her.
“Mister Davies!” he cried up to the midshipman in the crow’s-nest. His manner changed yet again, all hard focus and efficiency. “Fix your glass east-northeast! Just at the horizon!”
Scrambling to attention, the midshipman did as he was asked, and after a few moments he cried out, “A sail! Captain, a sail! Hull down!”
“How many masts?” called Sebastian.
“Two, my lord . . . no, three, maybe. Not close enough yet to be sure.”
“Damn,” Sebastian said under his breath. “It’ll be three, mark my words. A warship.”
He set his hand to Rachel’s upper arm, his eyes more stern than she’d ever seen them. “Looks like I was right about Lord Henry Walters being quick to spread word of Salomé’s return.”
Captain Whitmore hurried to join them at the rail. “’Tis a merchant ship, most likely, Lord Hawkesbridge. We’re traversing a major shipping route. No cause for great concern.” Nonetheless, he’d pulled out his own scope and scanned the horizon anxiously.
Sebastian gave a cynical laugh. “Tell me, Captain,” he said. “How many years have you carried passengers for Helm? You know as well as I do that ship won’t turn out to be a merchant. We’re headed into battle.”
Chapter Seven
Rachel shivered. Amazing how different the ocean felt with its emptiness filled by that one little ship, still invisible to the naked eye.
The waiting had stretched on three hours, with the First Lieutenant himself climbing into the rigging to perch like an oversized blue jay, glass trained on the horizon.
“She’s flying Danish colors, Captain!” he cried at last. “I don’t recognize her, but she’s a heavy frigate. 44-gun, from the looks of her. We’re a close match in arms, but there’s no doubt she’s quick. And in full sail.”
“No merchant, then,” the captain grumbled. “And likely not Danish, either.”
“She’s French,” said Sebastian with utter certainty. “Flying under false colors. She’s looking for us, and she’ll engage us the moment she’s close enough to fire.”
The Captain regarded him for a moment, and grew sober. “Prepare for battle,” he called out to his crew, igniting a flurry of activity all over the ship. “And spread all possible sail! I don’t know that she’ll reach us before nightfall, but we’ll be ready if she does. If she draws nigh, my lord, I’ll ask you and the lady to go below into the hold. You’ll be safer there.”
Sebastian shook his head in a firm negative. “I’ll stay above, Captain. I’ve experience manning cannon. And if it comes to boarding, you’ll want my sword alongside yours.”
The Captain studied him a moment longer, then nodded in assent.
As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the approaching ship came on with ever-greater speed. Sebastian’s body looked tense as a spring, and he scarcely moved from his position by the rails, his scope constantly to his eye.
By late afternoon, Rachel could see the ship herself without a glass; it looked toy-like in the distance, but still she felt too unnerved to take Sebastian’s advice to rest in the cabin.
They spoke very little, though he did turn to her at one point, his gaze crackling with anger. “Why didn’t you listen to me, little nun, when I told you to go home? The Lancashire moors are dull as ditchwater, but safe.”
“That ship,” she replied, ignoring his words. “What happens when it reaches us?”
He hesitated, a muscle working in his cheek. “She’ll fire her guns, we’ll fire ours, and the first one crippled or sunk shall be the loser.”
“A charming game. And if we both sink?”
“We’d consider that a draw.” The ironic gleam in his eye gave way to a grim look. “But I’d lay odds they’d prefer to capture this vessel. To capture Salomé Mirabeau. Capture you.”
“Do we have any chance of outrunning it?”
“Perhaps. Though she’s windward of us at the moment, and that gives her the advantage for attack. Damn it, I should have skewered Lord Henry Walters when I had the chance.”
“Sebastian,” she said, clutching at his elbow. “When the battle comes, I don’t want to go down into the hold.”
He whirled on her. “You will go down. You can’t imagine how fast things will move up here—the air full of flying metal and splintered wood. A maelstrom designed to chop you into bits. You must stay safe, if you wish to live to finish your mission.”
She drew in a sharp breath. But she’d taken a quick look below-decks when they’d first come aboard, and the idea of being sent down there, into that lightless, airless space, drove her to the point of panic. No way in hell did she want to be boxed in down there.
Night fell, nearly moonless and inky dark, with the French ship still out of range of attack, darkness rendering it invisible once more, but even she could sense its malevolent hulk pushing ever closer, implacably pursuing.
Both Sebastian and Captain Whitmore insisted no attack would come before first light, so, exhausted and frightened as she felt, she didn’t object further when Sebastian suggested they both try to rest in the cabin while they could.
His mood was unusually somber, and after he helped her undo the fastening of her gown, he actually turned his back and allowed her some modesty while she stepped out of her skirts and underthings and pulled a nightgown over her head.
She slid beneath the covers of the bed while he readied himself to sleep in the hammock he’d been using since they came onboard. She turned to face the wall, trying not to look at him either, but she felt his presence as surely as she felt the looming of that enemy ship.
He grunted quietly as he pulled off his boots, but after that he made no noise, not even the noise of climbing into the hammock.
What on earth was he doing, if not getting ready for sleep?
When she could bear it no longer, she rolled to her other side, and found him standing stock still in profile to her, head bowed. His coat and neckcloth were off, but he still wore his shirt and trousers. His hands held the ropes of the hammock, halfway through the act of tying the knot that would pull it taut for sleeping, but he made no move to actually fasten it.
How long had he been standing frozen like that?
And looking so desperately sad?
She sat up on one elbow. “Sebastian?”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his head swiveled slowly towards her, and he looked almost surprised to see her there. “I’m sorry,” he said, and his mouth curved up in a smile that somehow made him seem more melancholy than ever. “I thought you’d already fallen asleep.”
She shrugged. “That seemed a rather wasteful thing to do, considering we may have only a few hours left to live.”
She’d meant it as a joke—a dark joke, granted—but his smile vanished as though she’d slapped him.
“Rachel,” he said, his voice going very low. He stepped closer to the bed, gripping the canopy rail with his hands, leaning in over her. His face was so terribly serious. “Rachel, I—I truly am sorry.”
“For waking me? I told you I wasn’t—”
“No, damn it all. For bringing you here. For all of this.” Even in the soft lantern light, his eyes seemed to blaze. His manner, though, had no trace of his usual lordly scorn. And his voice was earnest. Unnervingly so. “I should never have . . . I shouldn’t have allowed any of this to happen.”
Now she sat up all the way, letting the blankets fall to her waist. “What is it exactly you think you allowed to happen?” she said, with as much dignity as someone wearing nothing but a nightgown could muster. “Let me remind you, I came on this mission because I wanted to. You couldn’t have stopped me if you tried.”
“You came to avenge your sister. Not to throw your life away.”
“And what could it matter, if that turns out to be the cost? My life was as good as thrown away lo
ng before now. This was my one chance to make it worth something. Is my one chance. That ship hasn’t attacked us yet. We may win the fight.”
His expression was unreadable, but strangely gentle. “Perhaps.”
“You told me yourself the crew are mostly former British Royal Navy.”
“True enough. They are well trained, and will all fight hard. And you spotted that ship early enough to let us move out of immediate range. We might even lose it during the night.”
“Do you think there’s a reasonable chance?”
“The French are canny, and the currents here give us less freedom than we’d like to slip away, but there is always a chance.” He attempted a smile again. “I want to get you to Vigo, Rachel, believe me. You would—you’d like it there. The safe house where we stay, it was the closest thing to a home Sal had.”
He hadn’t mentioned this before.
“It was?”
He nodded. “Her books are all there.”
Her books? A wash of tender pain went through Rachel’s chest. Yes, of course, wherever Sarah’s books were, that would have been her home. Apparently, Sebastian understood that about her.
An urgent longing filled her, to see the place, to hold the books themselves, to know where her twin sister’s mind had traveled in all those years they were apart. How cruel if she got this close only to end up beneath the waves.
Her fingers dug into the blankets. Of course, life never had difficulty being cruel.
It had taken everything else from her over the years—her parents, whose faces her memory could scarcely conjure anymore, Sarah, Mr. Rapson, even the little village of Rookshead, which had at least become familiar if never exactly beloved. Really, she should be used to it by now.
“Now where is your optimism, sweetheart?” Sebastian asked. “You look so glum, all of a sudden.”
She shrugged. “I feel . . . lonely. That’s all.”
“Lonely?” His brow furrowed, and he leaned in a little closer over her. “Not frightened?”