Mischief and Mistletoe

by Jo Beverley; Mary Jo Putney; Patricia Rice; Nicola Cornick; Anne Gracie; Joanna Bourne; Susan Fraser King; Cara Elliott

  Off-balance, Bentley steadied himself by repeating the familiar words about duty and the need for disciplined detachment. Satisfied that he had made a perfectly logical argument, he ended with an oblique challenge. “You truly think your reason could be more important than the negotiations between our two countries?”

  “No.” The answer rose above the crack of the canvas.

  He started to smile.

  “I think it equally important.” For a moment, Sophie looked as if she wasn’t going to elaborate. But after chuffing a reluctant sigh, she continued. “My father has long been estranged from his English family. There has been no contact between them for years—indeed, I don’t even think my grandfather knows of my existence. But now that Papa is ailing, he wishes to end the feud. And so he has asked me to serve as an envoy of sorts.”

  Her hand strayed to the oilskin package stowed beneath the binnacled compass. She had, he noted, kept it close ever since coming aboard the little sloop.

  “Let me guess,” he murmured, falling back on humor to cover his confusion. Diplomatic meetings usually followed a very predictable script, but this encounter had fast drifted into uncharted waters. “A peace offering of your unusual New England treats—smoked cod, maple syrup and blueberry jam.”

  “Go ahead and mock me, and my father’s provincialism, Lord Leete. I don’t give a fig what you think of us.” Fighting the force of the rising sea, Sophie brought the sloop a point closer to the wind. She went on, but in a far softer voice, as if she were speaking to herself.

  “I’ve been delegated to bring the heirloom family Bible to London in time for Christmas, and come hell or high water, I mean to do everything in my power to carry out Papa’s wish.” The tarred rigging thrummed, casting dark shadows across the taut white sail. “Given that it is the season of good will to all mankind, perhaps it will be accepted.” Her expression, however, did not hold much hope. “Nonetheless I must try, though God knows—as you so kindly pointed out—my skills at diplomacy are virtually nil.” A sigh puffed into the wind. “All my life, I’ve heard stories about my English relatives.... They sound far too stiff and starchy to welcome me as one of their own.”

  Was that an extra glitter of moisture in her eyes?

  The queasy lurch of Bentley’s insides had nothing to do with the choppy waves. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but it was his stomach that saved him.

  It gave a loud growl.

  “You had better go below and have a bite to eat. There is a basket with ham, cheese and bread in the forward locker.” She squinted into mizzled mist. “The wind has changed yet again, and a fresh squall seems to be headed our way.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” he replied.

  “Go below, and that’s an order. I’ll need your help with the sails shortly, so I can’t afford to have you fall into a dead faint from lack of nourishment.”

  “Miss Thirkell, I . . .” Her point made perfect, practical sense, but he hated feeling so damnably helpless. “I am not used to taking orders from a lady.”

  Her flash of teeth was clearly not meant to be a smile. “At the moment, I’m not speaking as a lady, but as the ship’s captain. And however little you like it, I am in command of this vessel.”

  On that note, Bentley retreated to the cabin, muttering darkly under his breath.

  “I have enough swirling gusts to handle without having a pompous bag of wind blowing in my ear,” grumbled Sophie as the hatch slammed shut. “A gilded tongue and clever phrases aren’t worth a vial of spit in the real world.”

  Self-righteous indignation didn’t quite quell the twinge of regret that things had turned so stormy between them.

  Did I really expect a titled lord to admire a provincial hellion?

  Her mouth thinned to a wry grimace. “I have been reading too many romantic novels,” she added, feeling foolish for having secretly admired him. “It’s easy to create a happy ending out of ink and paper. However, life is not a fairy tale. No knight in shining armor is going to swim up on a silver sea horse—”

  A splash of salty spray hit her full in the face.

  “Enough of daydreaming.” Heaving a gurgled sigh, she glanced up at the thickening clouds and frowned. Things were going to get worse before they got better.

  Sure enough, the wind shifted to north-northeast, its shriek growing louder, its force growing stronger. Hands aching, muscles tiring, Sophie hunched down and struggled to keep the sloop on its compass heading in the blustery seas. According to the charts provided by Pengareth, there were several small harbors on this stretch of coast where they could seek shelter. But first the sloop must round the dangerous jut of rocks up ahead.

  “You must be famished.” Echoing her own growling stomach, Bentley’s voice floated up from below. He poked his head from the hatchway. “I made you a slab of bread and cheese. It’s not elegant, but it’s edible.”

  “Thank you.” Sophie gratefully accepted the food.

  “And Mr. Pengareth added a flask of smuggled brandy to the supplies—for medicinal purposes.” Bentley passed it up. “A swig will warm your insides.”

  “W-warmth would be w-welcome,” she said through chattering teeth. The brandy burned a trail of liquid fire down her throat, but as the heat radiated through her limbs, she felt it buoy her spirits.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Ducking flying spray, he crawled across the cockpit.

  “Not really,” she answered. “It takes an experienced hand to hold course in this weather. One small slip and the sails will luff, spinning us broadside to the swell. That would make us vulnerable to a broaching wave.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means we would sink,” replied Sophie flatly.

  “Ah.” Bentley scooted closer and watched for a moment as she worked both the rudder and the mainsail. “I know you think me a useless fribble, but I can tug on a rope. And I’m actually quite good at following orders.”

  “As you know, I’m not shy about bellowing commands. But in this case, it’s best that I handle the sloop alone. Things happen quickly—I simply react instinctively to the nuances of wind and water.”

  Looking thoughtful, he nodded.

  “You could, if you like, try to snug down those flapping sheets by the ratlines, before they tangle and cause trouble.”

  Moving alertly, Bentley began to wrap the ropes around the belaying pins.

  Perhaps Lord Leete wasn’t so starchy after all. Despite the drenching seas and biting cold, he toiled in uncomplaining silence.

  Dragging her gaze away from his waterlogged form, Sophie concentrated on watching the clouds scud across the leaden sky. To the east, the color was lightening and taking on a tinge of pink. Red sky at night—sailor’s delight. A good sign, according to the old maritime adage.

  “What’s that?”

  She jerked around at the viscount’s query and saw he was pointing at a dark shape off the leeward rail.

  “Is it . . .” he began.

  “Another ship,” she confirmed. “And coming on fast.”

  Damnation.

  Pengareth had privately warned her that a French privateer had recently been spotted in these waters. Small boats were sometimes snapped up as prizes, with both the vessel and the crew hauled off to France.

  Sophie stared a moment longer, assessing the shape of the sails and hull. “I think it’s Le Loup, a twenty-two-gun frigate out of Calais.”

  Bentley uttered an oath. “Aren’t we too small a fish for a privateer to hook?”

  “Not according to Mr. Pengareth. He didn’t wish to scuttle his sale, so he made no mention to you of the threat. But that’s why no fisherman was willing to sail this sloop to London. Le Loup has apparently been feasting on the local commerce, and given the dirty weather, we are likely the only tasty morsel available.”

  “And you took on the task, despite the risk?”

  “As you have pointed out, I’m a bold, brash hellion. And stubborn to boot—I made a promise to my father
, and I have every intention of keeping it.”

  Though the swirls of fog she saw a flutter of sails as the privateer tacked. It was now on a course to intercept their small vessel.

  “They’ve spotted us,” she said.

  “I must scuttle my documents,” said Bentley grimly. “The French can’t be allowed to get their hands on those papers.” He made no mention of the fact that he would likely be imprisoned for the duration of the war once the privateer captain discovered he was no rough-spun local fisherman.

  “How willing are you to take a risk?” she shot back.

  “We can’t outfight them, Miss Thirkell.” His voice held a note of humor, despite the direness of their situation. “They throw a broadside of twelve fourteen-pound cannonballs, while we have approximately eight oak belaying pins to heave at their hull.”

  “No, but we might be able to outfox The Wolf. According to my chart, there are a series of shoals sticking out from the rocky promontory ahead of us. We are a shallow-enough draft to pick our way through them, while Le Loup would smash itself to bits if it tries to follow.” She gauged the distance to the shadowy ridge of land off the larboard bow. “It will be close, but I think we can outrun them.”

  “Then let us fly,” replied Bentley without hesitation.

  Sophie tightened her grip on the tiller. “Be advised that it’s a dangerous choice, Lord Leete. They might blast us out of the water, or we may come to grief on the rocks. Surrender is the safest course—with your silver-tongued skills, I daresay you will be able to negotiate your release from prison without too long a wait.”

  He answered with a phrase that no gentleman would normally say in the presence of a female.

  “Very well—uncleat the mainsheet,” called Sophie, her mouth stretching to a grin. “And be ready to heave like the devil when I give the word.”

  “PULL!” . . . “PULL!” . . . “PULL!”

  The little sloop darted through the dark waves, weaving a zigzag course toward the safety of the shoals. Like a minnow fleeing the jaws of a rapacious Yankee bluefish, though Sophie wryly. She slanted a glance back at the privateer. It had closed the gap between them, but not by much. Her deliberate change of direction had kept Le Loup’s teeth at bay, for the frigate could not come about as fast as her vessel.

  “Haul in the jib a touch, Lord Leete!” The viscount was fast becoming a seasoned sailor—she no longer had to point out the correct rope. “Just a little bit farther, and we should be safe.”

  BOOM!

  The cannonball landed close enough to send a spout of gray-green water washing over her stern.

  “Oh, fie, what a scrub the captain is to shoot at us.” She stood up and shook her fist at their pursuer.

  Another plume of smoke belched from the frigate’s side.

  “Duck!” cried Sophie as the missile whistled overhead, missing the mainsail by a hair.

  The next shot fell a little short.

  “Keep the sheets taut! We’re nearly out of range.” she called to Bentley. Just ahead, she could see a foaming line of surf breaking upon the shoals. “Look sharp—the leeward line needs another turn.”

  “Right.” His broad shoulders were a dark, unflinching silhouette against the foggy gloom. Pulleys squeaked as he followed her orders. “I’ve never been shot at before. Have you?”

  “Not with a cannon,” she replied. “There was a harbor brawl in Kingston that turned a trifle hot. But the Spanish sailors were drunk, their pistols were damp and their aim was atrocious. They ran like rats from a sinking ship once I shot the lead fellow’s earring off.”

  He gave a rumbled laugh. “Remind me not to cross swords with you.”

  “A good idea,” she answered, smiling in spite of the danger. A sense of humor under fire said a lot about a man . . . or woman. “I’m quite skilled with a blade as well.”

  The sound of the waves churning against the rocks cut off all further banter. Steady, steady. Drawing a deep breath, Sophie concentrated on the menacing shapes ahead, looming dark and jagged as the teeth of a sea monster, waiting to eat them alive.

  “Let us pray that I’ve chosen the right tack,” she muttered under her breath, steering for the narrow gap in the churning seas. The chart showed no details, forcing her to judge the likeliest route by intuition alone.

  The sloop shot through the opening, shaving past a sliver of barnacled rock by naught but the width of a razor. So far, so good, she thought... only to hear a sharp crack as the forward jib sheet snapped from the strain. As the wind spilled from the flapping sail, the little vessel yawed around, the force of the waves slamming into the hull and knocking Bentley head over heels into the bottom of the cockpit.

  She, too, was thrown off her perch, but managed to keep a grip on the tiller. Struggling to her knees, Sophie brought the bow around, just as a cresting wave rose behind the stern. “Hold tight, Leete!” she cried, hoping that he had the presence of mind to grab onto a stanchion to keep from being washed overboard. An instant later, a deluge of dark, foaming water crashed into the cockpit.

  To her horror, she saw her precious package—the family heirloom Bible—wrested from its shelter by the swirling sea. Caught in the current, it floated past her outstretched fingertips, followed by Lord Leete’s official documents, which had been wedged in beside it at the start of the chase.

  “Oh, no!” It was now the salt of tears stinging her eyes.

  A jagged scrape, a shuddering shiver and suddenly the sloop was through the turbulence and into calm waters.

  Safety.

  “Oh, no,” repeated Sophie with a choked sniff. The Bible was gone. Gone. She felt utterly defeated despite having eluded the French privateer.

  The sea sluiced out through the scuppers, revealing a very bedraggled Lord Leete kneeling in six inches of water. His hair was plastered to his skull, his garments were dripping . . . and his hands were gripping her oilskin-wrapped Bible.

  “B-but your documents!” she stammered. “W-what about your documents?”

  “I daresay they are on their way to Neptune’s locker,” he replied. He had added a slab of the sloop’s ballast to the wrappings, to ensure that they would sink quickly if capture was imminent. “I could grab only one thing.”

  “But your council meeting!”

  “The words of mere mortals must yield to a higher good.” A wry smile twitched on his lips. “Actually, I know the contents by heart, so the ministers will get all the details they need without the benefit of paper and ink. Whereas your family heirloom was irreplaceable.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Sophie. “Thank you for saving my Bible, Lord Leete.”

  “Thank you for saving my arse, Miss Thirkell.”

  She swallowed a burble of laughter.

  “You were magnificent.”

  Oh, surely the wind had distorted his words. “We’re not quite out of danger yet,” she cautioned as a sharp gust rocked the sloop. “If you can haul down the tattered jib, I’ll get the mainsail under control and head for the lights up ahead. According to Mr. Pengareth’s chart, that should be the harbor of Stony Creek—a safe port in a storm.”

  Bentley flexed his scraped hands, wincing at the burn of salt against his raw skin. Dry clothes, hot food, mellow brandy—no matter that the pungent smell of fish and pine tar hung over the ramshackle wharf, the moonlit land had never looked so delightfully appealing. It was late—very late—but he prayed that the local tavern would still be open.

  “Be ready to jump out and snug the bowline around the piling when I drop the mainsail,” called Sophie.

  He nodded, taking up the heavy rope.

  “Toss it here,” called a gravelly voice. Bentley saw a half-dozen men step out from the shadows of the crab traps. “We’ll help ye tie up here.”

  “Much obliged,” Bentley replied, grateful for the offer. Smiling, he heaved the line to the waiting hands, relieved that he didn’t have to fumble with making the unfamiliar nautical knots.

  Echoing his thanks, Sophie th
rew over the stern line and set to furling the mainsail.

  “Dirty weather out there,” commented Gravel Voice.

  “Aye,” said Bentley. Following Sophie’s orders, he set to tying down the jib and coiling the forward lines neatly on deck.

  “An impressive display of sailing.” Gravel Voice seemed to be the spokesman of the group. “Even the local men don’t dare to cut through those shoals.”

  “We were in a bit of a hurry,” said Sophie. After a quick check that all was shipshape, she took up her wrapped Bible and stepped onto the wharf.

  “To put it mildly.” Bentley gave a little laugh as he followed her.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” chorused the group.

  Gravel Voice’s raspy chuckle was the first to die away. “You’re under arrest.”

  “On what grounds?” demanded Sophie.

  “Smuggling,” replied Gravel Voice, fixing her with a hard stare.

  “You must be daft—”

  Bentley gave her a swift kick in the shins, which thankfully surprised her into silence. “What my sister means,” he said quickly, “is that you gentlemen are definitely mistaken. I assure you, we are innocent of any wrongdoing—”

  “Innocent?” piped up one of Gravel Voice’s companions. “Then why was a revue cutter trying to blow you out of the water, heh?”

  “It wasn’t a revenue cutter,” protested Bentley. “It was a French privateer.”

  “Hmmph.” One of the other men spit in the water. “How d’ye know about The Wolf if ye ain’t working hand in glove with the Frenchies?”

  “Because—” began Sophie.

  Another nudge cut her off. “Let me handle this,” he whispered. “Diplomacy is my area of expertise.”

  She gave him a fishy look, but kept her mouth shut.

  A promising start, he thought wryly. My skills must not be too rusty if I’ve convinced Miss Thirkell to remain mum.

  “Actually, that’s quite easy to explain, sirs,” said Bentley in a louder voice. He went on to give a quick recount of the Atlantic storm and the broken mast that had forced the merchant ship to seek shelter. “So I purchased this little sloop from one of the locals, so that we could continue our voyage to London without delay.”