The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  CHAPTER 4

  Nathaniel reached out to assist Hope as she tried to jump from the oscillating bosun’s swing. Clutching her waist, he lifted her toward him and set her down as gently as he could. She winced when her feet touched the deck.

  Her scent of honey and sunshine swirled around him, and his body heated despite the morning chill—despite all his efforts otherwise. She raised her sapphire gaze to his, brightened further by the smile curving her lips. Clearing his throat, Nathaniel picked up the brown bag he had dropped in order to help her. Even as angry as he was, even now knowing her lack of virtue, her close proximity still affected him like it had back in Charles Towne. What was it about her that made him so weak?

  “Thank you, Mr. Mason, but I don’t see why I must be brought aboard ship as if I were a crate.” She brushed dirt from her green muslin gown that, though stiffened and splayed by the various undergarments ladies were required to wear, did naught to hide her bounteous curves.

  “’Twould be improper and dangerous for you to climb the ropes above the sailors, miss.”

  With a huff and not an ounce of embarrassment at his comment, she shielded her eyes from the sun and gazed toward the docks of St.

  Kitts jutting from the small town like tongues ready to receive their daily food. Beyond the ramshackle buildings and waving palms, the island swooped to form a huge mountain blanketed in mossy green. Over the hill in the distance, a darkening sky gave Nathaniel pause.

  “Barbaric place,” Hope spat out, jolting him from his admiration of the small island’s beauty. But how could he blame her after what had nearly happened to her in this tiny port? Though exhaustion tugged upon her face, her smooth pearly skin, no longer smudged with dirt, shimmered in the morning sunlight that also set aglitter her bouquet of golden curls pinned atop her head. No one would recognize her as the filthy, rag-clad woman auctioned off yesterday in the town square. And although she held her pert little nose high in the air, shame still seemed to weigh down her shoulders. She observed the bustling deck, seemingly unaware of the appreciative glances thrown her way from every man aboard—or was she? Something in her expression, the slight uplift of her lips, the lofty slant of her brow, told him otherwise.

  When Nathaniel had tapped on her door that morning, she had opened it with such force, he thought she would barrel right into him. The mixture of shock and delight beaming on her face took him by surprise. Had she thought he would abandon her? Like Lord Falkland? Like her father? Like how many other men in her life? But he had been far too angry to spend any more time in her presence, so after he arranged for her bath, a fresh gown, and a meal, Nathaniel had sought his night’s rest elsewhere. Perhaps he should have at least informed her. She had been through a harrowing experience—by her own doing to be sure—but he was a Christian, a man of God, and she needed his comfort, not his anger, nor his contempt.

  Angry voices drew his attention up on the quarterdeck, where a group of sailors crowded around the man Nathaniel assumed to be the captain. One crewman kept pointing toward the eastern sky while the others grunted their agreements laced with foul exclamations. The captain planted his fists upon his waist and responded to his men, and although Nathaniel couldn’t make out his words, the man’s rigid stance and the fury reddening his face said more than enough.

  A muscle twitched in Nathaniel’s jaw. Word among the seamen at port was that, although Captain Conway was new to the Caribbean, he had already acquired a reputation as a cruel, overbearing man, and few but the most desperate signed on to his crew.

  A net full of barrels hauled by ropes rose over the side of the ship and hovered in midair, and Nathaniel quickly guided Hope out of the way toward the railing. “What type of ship is this, Mr. Mason?” She squinted into the sun perched atop the green crest of the island. “A merchant brig.” He tightened his jaw and scanned the choppy harbor.

  “Like your ship,” she said in a voice thick with guilt as she stared down at the moist deck.

  Yes. Then he spotted her—his brig, the Blue Triumph. Jeweled waves danced against her hull as she rocked in the bay. An ache formed in his gut. He supposed he should be pleased Hope felt some remorse, but Nathaniel could summon no joy at the thought. It would take him years to recover from the loss, and that meant more years before he could realize his dream of owning his own merchant fleet.

  “I am truly sorry, Mr. Mason.” Her eyes shone with sincerity. “I made an awful mess of things and have cost you a great deal. You have been nothing but kind and done more than most gentlemen would.” She laid a hand on his arm. “When we return home, I’m sure my father will offer some recompense for your loss.”

  Tugging his arm from beneath her hand, Nathaniel ignored the spark that shot through him at her touch, even as he doubted her declaration to be true. Admiral Westcott’s reputation spoke of a gruff, commanding man who was as tight with his fortune as he was in running his ships.

  Taking a step back from her, Nathaniel forced his thoughts to her less redeeming qualities. She was a sly one—a charmer. Like a coquettish fox, luring men into her den, skilled in the art of female attraction. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to her in Charles Towne. There, he had thought her a virtuous woman. But a proper lady would not sneak aboard a man’s ship with the intention of running away with him, regardless of whether she thought they were betrothed and he was unmarried. Nay, a woman like that was certainly no longer chaste. A woman like that was too much like his mother.

  However sincere her apology, Nathaniel had no intention of allowing his anger to dissolve. Yes, he could forgive her—as was his Christian duty. But forget? Forgetting such a horrendous infraction was far beyond his ability and bordered on the divine. And he was not God.

  A gust of wind from the west crashed over them with the smell of fish, salt, and sweat, and Hope raised a hand to her nose and lifted her gaze to a family upon the quarterdeck. A man dressed in silk stockings, black velvet breeches, and an elaborately embroidered waistcoat stood beside a woman who was fretting over her young daughter. Hope’s gaze locked upon the little girl, and she smiled for the first time since Nathaniel had seen her on the slave block.

  Behind the couple stood Captain Conway, arms locked across his chest, surveying the loading of the ship. A young, light-haired gentleman standing beside him leaned to whisper in his ear. The man’s gaze landed on Nathaniel and Hope as he spoke to the captain, and the gleam in his eyes sent a ripple of unease down Nathaniel’s back.

  The commanding shouts of officers drew Nathaniel’s attention back to the main deck where amidst the sailors scrambling to follow orders, a small group of passengers—satchels, and valises in hand—scurried across the deck. Several crewmen followed behind them. One by one, they slid over the railing and climbed down to a waiting boat.

  The captain marched to the quarterdeck railing and thrust a fist in their direction. “Begone with you, then. Leave, you yellow-livered cowards.” He let out a wicked chortle. “We have no need of your kind.”

  Nathaniel reached out and grabbed one of the departing crewmen, a young boy with shaggy brown hair and red splotches on his face.

  “Why are you leaving?”

  “A hurricane, sir.” He gestured toward the angry sky in the east. “Headin’ this way.”

  “You don’t know for certain,” Nathaniel said. “Most likely, ’tis just a summer storm.”

  “Mebbe, but I ain’t takin’ me chances. Not for the likes o’ Cap’n Conway.” Fear sparked in the young boy’s brown eyes, and he hurried off after his companions.

  Nathaniel eyed the thick clouds piling atop the horizon. By sailing this time of year, they risked facing one of the monstrous storms, but many a year passed in which none occurred. He glanced at Hope, whose attentions had shifted to the handsome, light-haired man who’d been speaking to the captain but who now marched across the deck issuing orders and sending looks of interest her way. Nathaniel huffed. He needed to get her settled in her quarters below—away from the eyes of unsavory
men. He needed to escort her safely home. And the sooner the better. His inquiries at port had told him there would not be another ship bound for Kingstown for two weeks. And that was far too long to wait on the whim of a possible storm.

  A loud crack pierced the air followed by the snap of twine and the groan of heavy crates. “Look out below!” someone yelled.

  Nathaniel shot a quick glance above him, dropped his bag, grabbed Hope’s arm, and yanked her out of the way.

  Slam! The crunch and crack of wood shot across the deck. A jarring impact shook the brig. Hope leaned into him, her chest heaving. “Oh my!”

  Atop the spot where they had just stood lay the shattered pieces of several crates. Clothing, jewelry, spices, and coffee spilled from the splintered cavities. Ale chugged onto the deck from a cracked barrel. Nathaniel said a quick prayer of thanks. If he hadn’t looked up in time, both he and Hope would have been crushed. He spotted the edge of his brown bag beneath a massive box, and a muscle knotted in his chest.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mason. You have saved my life once again.” Hope raised a hand to her forehead and laid her head on his shoulder. “I feel faint.”

  Nathaniel flinched at the feel of her soft curves pressed against him, but he feared if he moved aside, she’d swoon to the deck and he’d be forced to take her in his arms.

  The young man Hope had been watching with such interest shouted obscenities at the sailors manning the ropes. His cropped sandy hair flopped in the breeze as he marched across the deck, shifting a harried gaze over the broken crates and pieces of rope littering the deck. His eyes settled upon Nathaniel, then Hope, and he charged toward them.

  “My apologies, sir, miss. Are you both unharmed?”

  “Yes. I believe so.” Nathaniel eased Hope away and brushed the dust from his waistcoat. “However, my dunnage was not so fortunate. I believe it has suffered an early death.”

  The young man clicked his tongue and stared at what remained of Nathaniel’s bag. “I hope it contained nothing of value.”

  Just everything I had left of my ship. Nathaniel grimaced and gave Hope a curt smile. Since he’d met her yesterday, he’d lost his ship, nearly his life, and now everything else he carried on his journey: clothing, his prize spyglass, his mother’s locket, his ship’s logbook, among other valued mementos—all in his efforts to save her. If he believed in such things, he might think she was a woman of bad fortune.

  “Mr. Gavin Keese.” The young man extended his hand to Nathaniel. “I’m the second mate.” He glanced at Hope, admiration glinting in his eyes.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Keese. I am Nathaniel Mason, the navigator.” Nathaniel grabbed his hand and gave it a strong but friendly shake.

  “Aye, good. Then we shall be working together. As you can see, many of the crew have abandoned the ship in fear of a little storm.” His features wrinkled in disgust. “Which has left the remainder a bit overwrought, I’m afraid. No doubt the cause of this mishap.” He shifted his admiring gaze back to Hope. “And this is...?”

  Nathaniel ground his teeth together. “Forgive me. May I introduce Miss Hope Westcott.” He forced a smile.

  With a gentlemanly bow, Mr. Keese placed a kiss upon her ungloved fingers. Hope gave him a coy smile that would have melted even the most zealous priest.

  Several seconds—which seemed like long minutes—dragged by in which Mr. Keese and Hope’s eyes and hands remained locked in a lingering, playful dalliance.

  The biscuit Nathaniel ate to break his fast that morning began to rebel in his stomach. He had assumed the burden of escorting Hope safely home, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with any more of her troublesome liaisons. Grimacing, he fought back the urge to step between Hope and her new admirer. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I must check in with the captain.”

  “Good. I shall keep Miss Hope company until you return.” Mr. Keese’s blue eyes never left hers. “If that’s acceptable with her, of course.”

  She smiled her approval, both of them ignoring Nathaniel.

  Growling, he stormed off to report to the captain, who ordered him to show Hope to her stateroom and get to work.

  Nathaniel returned and proffered his elbow once again. “Shall we?”

  “Nay, I’m quite comfortable here.” She waved at him, engulfed in laughter at something Mr. Keese had said.

  “I thought you were feeling faint.”

  “It seems to have passed,” she said in a lighthearted tone but did not meet his eyes.

  Mr. Keese scratched the sable-colored whiskers on his jawline. “Alas, I fear I must be about my work as well, Miss Hope.” He kissed her hand again. “But I’m sure we shall see each other soon.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we will.” Hope watched the young man saunter away before she took Nathaniel’s arm with a sigh.

  Disgust simmered in his belly as he assisted her down the companionway ladder. “Perhaps you should avoid playing the coquette until you return to Charles Towne.” He intended to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but it rang clear in the narrow hallway.

  “Coquette? Why, I was doing no such thing.” She released his arm. The ship rolled and she bumped into the bulkhead. Rubbing her elbow, she continued beside him. “I was simply being kind to Mr. Keese.”

  Kind indeed. Nathaniel led her through the dim hallway to the forecabin, where he was told the women were staying. “Most men will not attribute your attentions to mere kindness, Miss Hope.” He halted at the door. “Ah, here we are.”

  “And pray tell, what will they attribute them to?” Her words fired at him like musket shots.

  Nathaniel wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and leaned toward her ear. “Perchance it was this being kind, as you call it, that has caused the mess in which you currently find yourself.”

  She shot her gaze up to his, bumping his chin with her forehead. Light from a nearby lantern hanging on the deckhead filtered down upon her, revealing moist, fiery eyes. “If you are implying I am some trollop who throws herself at any man who comes along, you are mistaken. Lord Falkland and I loved each other, or at least so I thought.” She lowered her gaze and rubbed her forehead. “I would have married him ... if ... well, never mind. I do not have to explain myself to you, nor stand here and bear your insults.”

  “I’m afraid you do, at least until I am able to escort you home.”

  Hope opened her mouth to reply but slammed it shut and looked away.

  Opening the door to the forecabin, Nathaniel ushered her inside and closed the door before she thought of a sassy retort. Turning, he stomped down the hallway and back up on deck. Gazing out upon the dark boiling sky, he tried to shake away all thoughts of Hope. Harrowing or not, her experience of the past few weeks had obviously not changed her. When confronted with the first handsome man who offered her attention, she had all too soon resumed her flirtatious ways. Perhaps God had prevented their acquaintance in Charles Towne for that reason.

  Yet why was Nathaniel still so drawn to her?

  Why, Lord?

  When she was everything he didn’t want in a woman. Without God, without morals, and unwilling to take a good look at herself and see her need for change. The decorous reputation he worked so hard to obtain would only suffer should he entangle himself with such a woman. Nathaniel rubbed his aching side and stiffened as a gust of wind struck him. What if they did encounter a hurricane? He prayed he’d made the right decision. Yet he could not fathom adding another two weeks to his time with Hope. Facing a storm at sea seemed preferable to spending any more time with her than necessary. Women like her caused nothing but problems, heartache, broken lives....

  And orphaned children.

  CHAPTER 5

  Removing her shoes from her bandaged feet, Hope plopped onto one of the beds built into the bulwarks. A sharp pain shot up her back. Lifting the thin feather mattress revealed naught but solid wood beneath. Even imprisoned aboard Falkland’s ship, she’d been given a real bed.

  Falkland. Arthur.

&
nbsp; Her heart felt like a lead weight at the thought of him. Leaning over, she rubbed her burning eyes, trying to barricade any further tears from falling. The smell of rotting wood and some foul odor she could not identify wafted around her, permeating her skin and making her feel filthier, more unworthy than she already did. She brushed a wayward tear from her face. Would the pain ever go away?

  Flirting with Mr. Keese had softened it, at least for a moment. It helped to know other men appreciated her beauty and charm, even if Lord Falkland had not. Without much sleep and even with puffy red circles beneath her eyes from crying half the night, she still could turn a gentleman’s head.

  All save Nathaniel. What a perplexing man. Whenever she began to think he had succumbed to her charms, he would turn away, donning an impenetrable shield against her coquettish darts.

  She huffed. Why on earth did she care? Though he had proven himself to be an honorable man, he was naught but a commoner, a tradesman. Why would she want him?

  Why would he want me? Used goods, soiled, and worthless.

  Nathaniel had rescued her out of his Christian duty. Whenever he looked at her—which he made every effort to avoid doing, as if he could catch some disease from her—disapproval burned in his gaze.

  Rising, Hope stepped to the tiny window and gazed out at St. Kitts. Workers, merchants, and sailors buzzed about the small town like ants. A chill swept over her at the thought she could right now be at the mercy of that hideous merchantman.

  If not for Nathaniel Mason.

  Anguish seeped through her. All she had ever wanted was to find a man who would truly love her, marry her, and give her a brood of children. She loved children, their sweetness, their innocence yet untainted by the cruel world. She had often dreamed of someday opening an orphanage in Charles Towne—a place where unwanted children would be loved and protected, a place where they could enjoy the sweet childhood she never had. Lord Falkland had wanted children—at least he had told her as much, but now she wondered if anything he had said had been true.