Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew

by Collette Cameron

  He gave them a toothy smile and set their food on the box serving as their table. “Miss. Cap’n.”

  “Thank you.” Oliver gave the lumpy porridge the once over with a dubious gaze. “Would you mind asking Fairnly if there’s any ginger to make tea? It might help with Miss Blaire’s mal de mer.”

  “Aye. Straightaway.” Still grinning, and looking entirely too pleased with himself, he wandered away, whistling what Oliver knew to be a favored hymn.

  After gracefully sinking onto a crate, Blaike draped a serviette on her lap.

  “I was wondering if you’d teach me how to use those interesting instruments I saw on your desk?”

  Gifted is the lady who knows what secrets to hold

  fast in her heart and which mysteries are better off revealed.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Oliver went rigid.

  Teach her?

  M’Lady Lottie scampered down the side of her cage. “Cheeky wench,” she said, erecting her coral-toned crest.

  Showing off for Blaike, was she? Or jealous mayhap?

  Blaike rotated to observe her.

  “She almost seems to respond, doesn’t she, Oliver?”

  Did she realize she had addressed him by his given name again?

  Yes, he was an intimate friend of her guardian and brother-in-law, but protocol should be observed. Nonetheless he found it incongruously pleasing that there was another area that she didn’t regard as necessary. She was truly an original woman. Diamonds of the first water, her guardian had called the Culpeppers. But Blaike was more than an exquisite beauty. She possessed a brilliant mind, keen wit, and a charming sense of humor.

  But then he already knew that about her.

  Just one of the many reasons she intrigued and fascinated him. How was it possible to love someone so intensely, more with each passing day? Bewitched and besotted. That was what he’d become. And a hopeless, romantic fool.

  Blaike, her head tilted at the adorable inquisitive angle that was hers alone, still waited for his response.

  “Sometimes, I think she does understand and answers me. Or maybe she reacts to inflections in voices or certain words cue her responses. McMaster oft’ boasted how intelligent she is, and he swore she conversed with him.” Oliver swallowed a spoonful of gloppy, barely tepid porridge and shuddered.

  Yes, seeking Fairnly’s replacement took precedence when the Sea Gypsy docked in London.

  Loathe to waste the food, he lifted another spoonful to his mouth. His stomach reacted rather violently to the globby mass.

  Mayhap he should forgo breaking his fast until his belly had decided it wasn’t going to toss the unappetizing contents onto the decking. Instead, Oliver poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Would you like to try a taste of my coffee?” He angled the pot toward her cup. “It’s caffè d'u parrinu. An Italian specialty made with Arabic coffee flavored with cinnamon and cloves. I confess, I drink far too much of the brew.”

  He’d personally taught Fairnly how to make the beverage. Poorly prepared food was one thing, but improperly prepared coffee bordered on sacrilegious.

  “It sounds heavenly. I’d love to try a cup.” She gave him a coquettish smile. “That must be why you smell like spices.”

  He didn’t dare ask how she’d come by that knowledge.

  After pouring a cup and passing it to her, he lifted his cup to his nose. Inhaling the soothing aroma, he took a savory swallow. Every time he smelled caffè d'u parrinu, the scent hurtled him back to his earliest memories of Mamma and Nonno sitting at the kitchen table, chatting in Italian, drinking the steaming beverage, and eating pizzelle, Oliver’s favorite pastry.

  “Mmm.” Raising her cup to her nose, Blaike too sniffed. “It smells wonderful.” After taking a sip she sighed in pleasure. “It’s amazing. Such rich flavor, but not too strong. I’d like to try it with milk sometime.”

  “Alas, we’ve no cows below deck, else I’d rush to accommodate you.” Oliver glanced about, and assured that no one would overhear him, leaned forward. “Did I dream it, or did I fall asleep with you beside me?”

  Blaike fixed her attention on his face as fresh color rose on her ivory cheeks. Her gaze meshed with his for an extended, poignant moment.

  Around them, the usual din of shipboard life continued, yet it seemed as if it was just the two of them, in this special time and place reserved for them alone. For this brief glimpse into each other’s soul.

  She fidgeted with her serviette before she too peered ’round.

  No need to tell him she knew full well her reputation would suffer further if it became known she’d shared his bed, no matter how innocently.

  Making a pretense of reaching for a boiled egg, she whispered, “I stayed until I was certain you were all right. But as you must know, I had to leave before I was discovered.”

  “Tuppence fer a tup,” M’Lady Lottie announced in her sing-song voice.

  Oliver’s and Blaike’s gazes locked again, but in amused shock this time.

  “That’s a first.” He offered an apologetic upward hitch of his lips. “I’m rather leery of what else she might say.”

  Blaike covered her mouth and giggled. “I know I shouldn’t laugh, for she’s truly awful, and I don’t want to encourage her, but I suppose she’s to be admired for her intelligence and aptitude.”

  “You used my hairbrush.”

  Oliver hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. Like an accusation.

  “I . . .” A gust whipped by, almost pulling the hood from Blaike’s head. She snatched at it, just managing to keep her hair covered, then shivered. Skewing her lips sideways, she gave him an adorable, contrite smile. “I did. Forgive me, please. I know it was intrusive of me.”

  “I don’t mind.” He took another sip of the strong coffee to help wash down the lingering taste of porridge. “Whatever I have is yours to use.”

  “That’s most generous of you.” The mischievous twinkle that so often used to sparkle in her gaze appeared. “So, will you teach me?”

  Her face radiated excitement. Such eagerness glowed in her eyes and her cheeks made rosy from the stiff breeze.

  He should say no to such flummery.

  A man with a jot of common sense—and not a glutton for punishment—would have done.

  Instructing Blaike in the intricacies of mapping and navigation meant spending intimate time with her, smelling her delicious essence, inadvertently touching her.

  If Oliver possessed an iota of sense he’d deny her request.

  He didn’t have the time, he could argue.

  It wouldn’t be proper, he might contend.

  But I want to.

  And honestly, he was flattered that she’d showed an interest.

  “I shall, but only when I have no other duties that need my attention.”

  She gave a delighted little clap and squeal. “Thank you!”

  When she looked at him like that, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.

  God save him from himself.

  Aye, and save him from sapphire-eyed goddesses smelling of vanilla.

  Four afternoons later, Blaike and Blaire stood near the poop deck’s rail, watching the crew prepare for a celebration.

  Oliver’s birthday was today, and in preparation for tonight’s festivities, a few sailors had brought treasured musical instruments on deck. They included two fiddles, a tabor pipe, a pan flute, and a little guitar unlike anything Blaike had ever seen before.

  A barrel of rum had been rolled out for the occasion, and Oliver had ordered extra rations for each sailor as well. She secretly hoped there might also be dancing, and that he’d request a waltz from her.

  She’d wanted to do something special for him, since he’d basically saved the twins’ lives, though he repeatedly denied doing so when she and her sister thanked him again. However, there was no practical way to bake any sort of a special treat.

  Just as well, for Fairn
ly gave her the shivers. His lazy eye didn’t bother her in the least, but the peculiar leather pouch covered in illegible scribbles and hanging from a leather strip about his neck made her skin pucker.

  Oliver was right too.

  If the man had seen the inside of a bath tub in the past month, she’d lop her hair off. More than a little unsettling to have someone so malodorous preparing their food.

  Turning her face into the wind, her twin sighed. “I’m so glad to be out of our stuffy cabin. I pray the weather holds for another week.”

  Oliver had said they’d entered the Bay of Biscay and should expect the conditions to turn heavy soon, but Blaike hadn’t the heart to tell Blaire. Today was her twin’s first day above deck. Still pale, and certainly thinner, she didn’t need to know her constitution would be tested again. And soon.

  “Pretty bubbies,” M’Lady Lottie said.

  When that didn’t earn anything more than a raised brow from either twin, the cockatoo flapped her wings and screamed, “Hopper-arsed whore.”

  A few sailors chuckled or commented on her latest coarse adage.

  Hard to believe they hadn’t heard them all before.

  Blaire grinned at the cockatoo, now dangling upside down in her cage and playing with a bell. “She certainly is entertaining. Do you think someone actually taught her to say those awful things, or did she learn by overhearing them?”

  “I have no idea, but it’s not that easy to get her to say new things. I’m trying to teach her a few less unsavory phrases.” So far, the effort had proved futile, even when tempting her with cooked beans, which Oliver said were a favorite treat. “She turns her back on me when I try to get her to say, ‘Pretty bird.’ Instead, she squawks, ‘Lady—’”

  “Bird.” Blaire chuckled while grasping her raspberry colored cloak closed where it gaped slightly at her neck. “I’m fairly certain that’s another term for a lightskirt.”

  “Well, considering where she spent the first several years of her life, I’m not the least surprised.”

  “Odd that, don’t you think? Do you suppose she was a gift from a . . . patron?” Blaire placed a raisin on her gloved palm, then extended it toward the precocious bird. “Me-ow. Me-ow.”

  “Meow? You want her to meow?” Blaike laughed. “Perchance we can teach her to moo, baa, and oink as well.”

  Blaire rolled a shoulder. “Any utterance would be an improvement over her current sculduddery.” She pushed her hand farther into the cage. “Me-ow. Me-ow.”

  M’Lady Lottie cocked her head, snatched the raisin with her beak, then swiftly swallowed the fruit.

  “You didn’t even try to say meow.” Blaire leveled the bird a perturbed look.

  “Mort. Prime mort. Moooort!” the cockatoo screamed.

  “Definitely not a meow,” Blaike giggled. “So far I’ve heard her say trollop, whore, lady bird, and mort.” She pushed a strand of hair back beneath her hood. “I blush to think what other terms for ladies of the evening she may suddenly squawk.”

  They weren’t supposed to know about such women. Nevertheless, anyone who’d spent any time in Town attending fashionable assemblies had heard whispers about those creatures.

  Light skirts, Demimondaines. Lady birds. Bit o’ muslins. Chêre-amies. Cyprians. Courtesans.

  My, the haut ton certainly had a number of names for the unfortunate women. Perhaps because for all of the upper ten thousands’ pretense of propriety, immorality ran rampant among their prestigious, often hypocritical ranks.

  How many of those soiled doves had been reduced to that low status through no fault of their own?

  Seeking Oliver’s familiar form, Blaike scanned the ship’s deck. She’d found herself doing that often these past days. Also found herself recalling over and over those final, startling words he’d uttered in his sleep.

  Blaike. I love you.

  Could it be true?

  For a moment, her pulse thrilled at the notion then stuttered to its regular rhythm. If he felt that way, he definitely knew how to hide it.

  Never a flirt, and certainly not wanting to appear fast, she’d attempted to subtly let him know she had warm feelings for him, too.

  Perhaps not love. Yet.

  But definitely something bubbled behind her chest every time he turned those black as molasses eyes on her. Most assuredly the feeling was worth exploring further.

  She turned her face toward the billowing sails. There was something majestic and invigorating about being on the open sea. A freedom lacking on land. Which was odd, because a ship more closely confined her.

  Oliver said if the winds held, they’d make port early. The news didn’t excite her as much as it did her twin. The ocean’s swells lifted and lowered the ship, the motion soothing and exhilarating. Blaire wouldn’t likely agree with that assessment either.

  Trying not to be too obvious, Blaike swept her gaze across the ship once more.

  Where was he?

  Not a hint in his mannerism or speech suggested he held her in any special regard. Except for that first night when he’d been half-foxed. Even during her two navigation lessons, he’d been as polite and formal as a hired tutor. He’d made sure they were in full view of his crew as he showed her how to use the sextant and never even as much as touched her unless necessary.

  In fact, since that first night, he seemed to avoid being alone with her.

  Even when she changed his bandage, Hawkins or Webb puttered around the cabin. She might not be an expert at ship hierarchy, but she was fairly certain the first mate and the bosun didn’t generally feed birds, clean their cages, make beds, or conduct other trifling duties such as polishing their captain’s boots.

  The expected invitation to dine with him had not manifested either.

  Confound it.

  Confound him.

  Blaike didn’t quite know whether to be miffed or admire him for his diligence in protecting her reputation. Or . . . the unwelcome thought barged into her speculations. Mayhap he wasn’t as fascinated with her as she was with him?

  Then why would he say something that provocative as he slept?

  The unconscious mind was a marvelous thing. It revealed what a person refused to acknowledge when they were awake.

  At least that was her unproven theory.

  Blaike found herself almost desperate to be alone with Oliver. To recapture that magic of the first night. To encourage his interest. To hear him whisper those lovely, magical words again.

  Beyond that, she hadn’t considered. For certain, she wasn’t about to divulge what he’d muttered in his sleep.

  Perhaps he might declare himself before they reached England.

  Slow down.

  One step at a time.

  But time ran short. They’d reach London within a week.

  Scrutinizing the decks once more, she saw him disappearing through the companionway.

  “Blaire, it’s time to change Captain Whitehouse’s bandages. Would you like to stay here, since you’ve been cooped up below for so long?” Touching her sister’s shoulder, Blaike smiled. “I know such things make you a bit queasy. I can ask Mr. Hawkins or one of the other officers to keep a watchful eye on you if you are uncomfortable being alone. However, the sailors have been nothing but respectful and helpful to me.”

  Leaning on the railing, her sister closed her eyes. “I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. I’m not fond of enclosed spaces, and the odors lingering below make my stomach a bit tetchy. Besides,” she angled her head to peer at M’Lady Lottie. “I’m determined to teach her to say something.”

  Blaike squeezed her sister’s fingertips. “I shan’t be above fifteen minutes.”

  Unless she could tempt Oliver to kiss her.

  Oh, now there was a delicious notion.

  Precisely how did one go about such things?

  Even when motives are pure and good-intentioned, divulging a

  secret is akin to opening Pandora’s box. All manner of complications may

  arise, so
judiciously consider the consequences before opening your mouth.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Oliver winced as he slid a palm inside his shirt collar.

  Sure enough. His fingertips came away damp and red-tinted.

  Confound it.

  Served him right for pushing himself too hard too soon. If Blaike had seen him acting the rigging monkey to rescue M’Lady Lottie before the twins came up top today, she’d ring him a peal, to be sure.

  After making quick work of removing his coat and vest, he shucked his shirt. He seldom wore neckcloths at sea. No society hoity toities aboard the Sea Gypsy to look down their noses at him in condemnation for forgoing fashion for common sense.

  Truth to tell, he only had two neckcloths in decent condition, and those he saved for times when a cravat was required.

  Even the coat he donned this morning was for the benefit of the Culpeppers. He usually just captained the ship wearing a shirt, trousers, and boots.

  Bright scarlet stained the cloth affixed to his shoulder, and he wrinkled his forehead in frustration as he rummaged through the basket of bandages.

  How hard could it be to replace the scrap?

  He scowled.

  Cutting the bindings circling his ribs and back he could manage, but wrapping new ones might prove tricky.

  Hawkins should be along any moment to discuss tonight’s activities. Care needed to be taken that none of the men overindulged, and monitoring the crew fell to the first mate. Especially since the clouds on the horizon portended what could become a nasty squall.

  Oliver had plotted a course that should keep them ahead of the tempest; if the wind held, that was. But at sea, as he’d learned a long time ago, nothing was guaranteed. Far wiser to always assume the worst and take precautions.

  Hawkins would advise divine entreaties, but prayer without a plan seemed foolish.

  Oliver glared at the linens binding him. His first mate could be pressed into lending a hand with the bandage, though he was as worthless as Oliver with this sort of thing.

  Scissors in hand he stood before his washstand. He tilted the mirror to better see his wound and had just slipped one blade under the strips below his arm when a knock rattled his stateroom door.