Friend? A poor choice of words, to put it mildly.
Scowling, Sophie slanted a look at Bentley, Lord Leete. Despite the sudden Atlantic gale—a storm so violent that it had broken the mainmast of her father’s merchant ship, forcing the captain to seek refuge in this remote Cornish cove—their aristocratic English passenger managed to look perfectly poised and polished in the raggle-taggle surroundings.
Or rather, perfectly irritating and infuriating.
The raging seas had swept away the schooner’s gig and jollyboat, and the tiny fishing village had only one small sailing craft that the inhabitants were willing to sell to the stranded travelers. Despite his fancy title, the odious viscount was being extremely ungentlemanly about the situation.
“Oh, fie—where is your sense of noblesse oblige, sir?” she demanded. “I thought all you highborn lords were supposed to have a sense of chivalry.”
“I’m afraid my personal feelings must be submerged in favor of my country’s needs, Miss Thirkell,” replied Bentley primly. Paying her no further heed, he turned back to the village elder. “As I said, Mr. Pengareth, I am a diplomat with the Foreign Office returning from an important mission in America. So much as I sympathize with the young lady’s desire to celebrate the holidays in Town, I cannot help but insist that my request take precedence.”
“Request—ha!” muttered Sophie bitterly. “It’s your coins that speak with a golden eloquence.”
“It is not my fault that your captain’s sea chest was lost in the storm,” said Bentley. Unfortunately, the iron-banded box containing her father’s money had been moved to the jollyboat when the schooner was in danger of drifting onto the rocks, so it, too, had been washed overboard, leaving her with naught but a pocketful of pennies.
“Be reasonable, Miss Thirkell,” Bentley went on. “I have a highly confidential report to deliver to Whitehall regarding negotiations between our two countries, and it must arrive in time for a special council meeting scheduled to take place on the evening of December twenty-fifth. In light of such circumstances, don’t you think that you are being a bit childish to grouse over missing a Christmas goose dinner with all the trimmings?”
Sophie bit her lip to keep from uttering a very unladylike word in retort. His assumption was unfair and untrue, but somehow the elegant, effortlessly assured Lord Leete had the uncanny ability to make her feel like a scrubby little hellfire hoyden.
This wasn’t the first time they had met. The viscount had been in Boston for several months prior to embarking on the fateful ocean voyage, and as her father, a wealthy merchant who was one of the city’s leading citizens, often entertained foreign diplomats with lavish suppers and fancy balls, the two of them had sailed in the same social circle.
And the waters have always turned choppy whenever the currents brought us together.
“Were my concerns merely centered around my stomach, you would have cause to rake me over the coals, sir,” she responded. “However, they are not. I, too, have been delegated to deliver an important package. And while it may not have the same international repercussions as your mission, it is . . . it is . . .”
Arching an imperious brow, Bentley waited for her to go on.
Sophie hitched in another breath of the foul-smelling air, blinking back the sting of salt against her lids. “It is very important to me and my family, no matter that we make up a very tiny, insignificant part of your diplomatic world.”
For an instant a ripple of emotion seemed to darken his gaze, but then he looked away and the curl of his gold-tipped lashes hid his eyes.
Pengareth blew out a regretful sigh. “Well, missy, I get yer drift, and yer story of kith and kin touches my heart.” He thumped a callused fist to his chest to emphasize the avowal. “But alas, a boat costs money.”
“Which I haven’t got,” she said softly.
The fisherman twitched a silent shrug of sympathy, but his eyes remained riveted on the viscount’s purse.
“Then I assume the matter is settled,” said Bentley. He spoke in a low tone, but to Sophie’s ears, his words seemed to take on an insufferable thrum of arrogance as they echoed off the taproom walls.
Gathering her skirts, Sophie turned for the door with an angry swoosh of silk.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
“Just one last question, Lord Leete.” She paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Who is going to sail your newly purchased vessel for you?”
The wavering flame caught a flutter of surprise flitting over his features. “Er . . .”
Ha! He could hem and haw all he wanted, thought Sophie. But no amount of fancy talking was going to change the fact that he was a complete landlubber. Indeed, during the ocean voyage, it had become abundantly clear that he didn’t know a hawser from a ratline. While she, on the other hand, had been around her father’s fleet of sailing ships all her life.
“I . . .” Bentley gave another a small cough to clear his throat. “Why, it’s very simple. I shall hire one of the Bulldog’s crewmen.”
“One of my father’s crewmen?” said Sophie. It was her turn to waggle a brow. “Oh, I highly doubt that Captain Brewster can be convinced to spare any of his prime hands.”
“But—” squeaked Bentley, for once losing his air of calm composure. However, he quickly inhaled a steadying breath and re-assumed a self-assured smile. “Never mind. I am sure that Mr. Pengareth can recommend a local man who will gladly sail my boat for a handsome fee.”
“All the way to Lunnon?” The fisherman make it sound as if the city were located on the newly discovered planet of Uranus. After carefully counting out the coins in the purse, he shook his head. “Besides, ye’ve only got enough here te cover the price of boat.”
“I promise you that the man will be paid in full as soon as we reach our destination.” A pause. “Along with a extra bonus for the Holidays.”
Sophie gave an audible sniff.
“One can’t eat promises,” pointed out Pengareth. “Nay, ye won’t be finding anyone in this cove willing to abandon his nets on the word of a fancy stranger. Not with French privateers and the pesky Revenue cutters adding extra waves to the treacherous Channel waters.”
Despite the shadows swirling in the salty air, Sophie saw the tic of a tiny muscle mar the smoothly shaven line of the viscount’s jaw. “My good man, I assure you my word is gold.” A rustling of cloth and oilskin rose above the sound of slurped ale. “Look, I have proof that I am a diplomat, engaged in an extremely important mission for the Crown.”
Pengareth squinted at the document thrust under his nose.
“See, here are my official credentials from the Foreign Office,” added Bentley, tapping a finger to the ornate wax seal and crimson ribbon attached to the paper, just below the elegant lines of copperplate script.
“I have a feeling that Mr. Pengareth can’t read,” murmured Sophie. “Which leaves you stranded in these isolated waters.” She paused to let her words sink in. “That is, unless you care to negotiate.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“A compromise.” Her mouth curled up at the corners. “Isn’t that an essential element of diplomacy, sir?”
A faint ridge of color rose to his cheekbones. “One of them,” he said tightly. “However, the key to a successful compromise also includes the ability to work in harmony with each other. I, for one, always look to forge a partnership with someone who understands the importance of prudence and restraint. A predilection for bold, brash behavior is likely to lead to trouble.”
Touché. Sophie kept her smile pasted in place, though in truth his words cut like a knife. He was right to chide her for being a rebel against the strictures governing female deportment . . . but why, oh why, did he always seem to bring out the worst in her? From the very first awkward encounter, when she had splashed claret punch on his immaculate ivory-colored waistcoat while displaying a knife trick, to the horribly embarrassing moment when—
“Well?” h
e asked, breaking the stiff silence. “What is it that you propose?”
“You have the boat, and I have the skills to sail it,” replied Sophie. She might be outspoken and independent to a fault, but no one had ever criticized her nautical expertise. “So, seeing as we both wish to reach London by Christmas, I am suggesting that we pool our resources, as it were.”
A low hiss of air leaked from his lips. “Impossible! What you suggest is highly irregular—not to speak of highly improper. We can’t travel together unchaperoned. Why, your reputation would be ruined. And so,” he added grimly, “would mine.”
“You can either stick to your rigid English rules and remain marooned here in . . . in . . .”
“Penpillickentish Bay,” piped up the fisherman.
“Or you can throw caution to the wind,” challenged Sophie. “Which is your only prayer of dropping anchor in the River Thames by December twenty-fifth.”
Ebb and flow. The sound of the waves slapping against the stone jetty drifted in through the slatted shutters. The wind howled, its keening note thrumming with the echo of his earlier words.
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
“So, what’s it going to be, Lord Leete?”
“By the rusty prongs of Neptune’s trident! I must have been dangerously deranged to agree to this,” muttered Bentley, as wind rattled through the rigging and a fresh pelter of freezing rain slapped against the sail canvas. He pressed a sodden sleeve to his dripping nose. “Or dangerously desperate.”
“Did you say something, Lord Leete?” called Sophie from her perch by the tiller. “Any problems?”
“No, no—things are going along just swimmingly,” he answered testily. Despite the oilskin jacket, he was soaked to the skin and the damp chill had seeped right down to his bones. And I’m famished, grumbled his stomach. Breakfast had been naught but soggy biscuits and a swig of cider.
“Tighten the jib sheet around the forward cleat,” she ordered after peering up at the bow through through the skirls of dark mist. “The sail is luffing.”
Wincing, Bentley tugged at the rope, feeling the rough hemp scrape another layer of flesh from his palm. “My superiors had better appreciate the sacrifices I am making for King and Country.”
‘The jib sheet, not the pennant halyard!” cried Sophie as the little sloop gave a wild lurch, causing the boom to swing across the stern and nearly knock her into the sea.
“Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing the right line and making it fast. “How the deuce can one tell the difference in the midst of all this chaos?”
“Oh, pish, this is just a passing squall. The wind is already changing.” She shifted course slightly and the boat’s motion became somewhat smoother. “You can come and take a rest in the cockpit now. It will blow over in another few minutes.”
Tripping over one of the ringbolts, Bentley flopped unto the varnished bench, feeling as clumsy as a hooked flounder. “How can you tell?” he demanded, spitting out a hank of wet hair.
“The sky is lightening in the east.”
“It is?” He squinted at the leaden clouds. “I see naught but unrelenting gray.”
“I’m sure your treaty negotiations would look to me like a sea of mumble jumble to me.” Shading her eyes, Sophie edged the tiller to the left. “It’s all a matter of what you are used to, I suppose. When something is familiar, it seems easy.”
An astute observation. Miss Thirkell clearly had a lively, intelligent mind . . . which was intriguingly apparent in the rare moments when she wasn’t using her sharp, sarcastic tongue to flay him to ribbons.
The sloop took a sudden dive into the trough of a foam-flecked wave, sending Bentley’s stomach sliding into his ribs with a sickening lurch. On second thought, a spartan breakfast had probably been all for the good.
“You seem, er, very comfortable with the vagaries of wind and water,” he gasped, feeling himself turn a little green around the gills.
“Oh, I am,” replied Sophie. “I’ve been sailing on my father’s merchant ships since I was in leading strings.” Grinning from ear to ear, she lifted her face to the howling gusts. “Lud, I always find it exhilarating to feel a flutter of an ocean breeze on my cheeks.”
Breeze? It seemed like a great, thumping gale to him. But then, Bentley felt like a fish out of water away from land. While she appeared a gloriously happy sea nymph, a force of nature, confident and in command of the white-capped waves.
His gaze drifted down to her snug breeches and sea boots. He had never seen a young lady clad in male garb, and as she stood up and stretched to adjust a brass pulley on the boom, the full effect was . . .
“You,” he said slowly, forcing his eyes away from the shapely stretch of leg to the flight of a lone herring gull overhead, “are a very unusual female to enjoy battling the elements.”
Her voice lost its sunny exuberance and turned grim as the shroud of fog ghosting over the bow of the sloop. “By which you mean I have none of the poise and polish of your highborn London lady friends.”
Damnation. Bentley swore an inward oath. His fellow diplomats considered him extremely articulate, often lauding his skill in simplifying complex ideas and expressing them in a clear, concise manner. Yet around Miss Sophie Thirkell, his tongue seemed devilishly determined to tie itself in knots. How else to explain how a simple observation had been interpreted a criticism?
It hadn’t been meant as such . . .
Well, not exactly.
Honesty compelled him to admit that he wasn’t at all certain what to think of his companion. A part of him—the part that valued order and tradition—found her devil-may-care attitude defied all conventional notions of proper feminine behavior. After all, rational rules and roles were cornerstones of civilized society.
But the other part . . .
Bentley slanted a sidelong look at her sparking sea green eyes and red-gold curls, flying in unruly splendor on the swirling gusts of wind. There was no denying that something about her spirit was captivating.
“Oh, go right ahead and look down your long, lordly nose at me.” Catching his glance, she lifted her chin to a pugnacious tilt. “I may be a rough-cut bit of New England granite compared to a smooth-sparkled London gemstone, but I am heartily glad that I know practical skills, however shocking they may be to your delicate sensibilities.”
“Miss Thirkell—”
Ignoring his attempt to interrupt, Sophie expelled a loud huff. “At least I know how to be useful, rather than frittering my days away in idle indolence—”
“Miss Thirkell.” He raised his voice another notch to make himself heard above the rattle of the rigging.
“—simpering, gossiping and stuffing myself with sweets.”
“Are you finished?”
She opened her mouth, and then shut it without a sound.
“Excellent,” snapped Bentley, his usual calm command of his emotions unraveling around the edges. “You are all afire to take offense over imaginary slights,” he went on. “Yet you yourself are awfully quick to pass judgment on people you have never even met. There are a number of highborn ladies in London who are engaged in, as you call it, useful endeavors, like aiding the poor and establishing schools for orphans.”
Sophie inhaled sharply but remained steadfastly silent.
“As for me looking down my nose at you, that accusation is also unfair. I have made every effort to be pleasant, only to have my civilities thrown back in my face.”
Waves slapped against the hull, sending up a splash of salt spray. Blinking the mizzled drops from her lashes, Sophie squared her shoulders. “Civilities?” she repeated. “You were going to leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere, without so much as a thought to my predicament. But then, I suppose you had conveniently forgotten my father’s kindness to you in your time of need. That he offered you passage on his speedy merchant ship, so that you might bring your government news of your secret negotiations in time for the special council, was the only reason you were able to reach in England i
n the first place.”
Bentley squirmed uncomfortably against the slatted seat, once again on the defensive. “Blast it all, Miss Thirkell, I have tried to explain the situation before and shall try to do so again,” he said patiently. “As a diplomat, I cannot allow personal feelings to interfere with my duty.”
“To the devil with your duty!” she exclaimed hotly. “You and your fancy words! Go ahead and pontificate all you want—no words will change the fact that you acted like a scrub.”
He wasn’t quite sure what a scrub was, but it took little imagination to guess it wasn’t anything flattering.
“You must understand, a representative of the Crown cannot afford a whiff of scandal to attach to his name. It reflects badly on the Foreign Office.” Gritting his teeth, he assured himself that he had done the right thing in following the letter of the law in regards to propriety. “And so I must always carefully consider all the ramifications of my actions.”
Ye Gods, if his superiors ever got wind of this little interlude, his career would be sunk.
“Sometimes you have to think with your heart instead of your head, Lord Leete,” countered Sophie. “Or don’t they teach you that in your fancy bastions of privilege.”
However tartly phrased, her words rubbed raw against his conscience, causing him to respond more harshly than he intended. “And sometimes you have to exercise a more ladylike restraint if you wish to sail along smoothly with other people. Or don’t they teach you that in your free-spirited Boston schoolrooms?”
Her mouth pursed into a perfect “O” of outrage. “Oh, you odious, insufferable prig! How dare you lecture me on tactful behavior?”
“Because I am accorded to be an expert in it,” answered Bentley rather smugly. He was now on more solid footing.
Or so he thought. However her retort quickly rocked him back on his heels.
“For all your flowery platitudes on showing more consideration for the feelings of others,” replied Sophie, “you never even asked why I was in such a helter-pelter hurry to get to London by Christmas.”
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 22