Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew

by Collette Cameron

  That assling deserved to rot in Davy Jones’s Locker.

  Oliver couldn’t summon a jot of forgiveness for him.

  Nevertheless, if the Black Dove had sustained damage enough to keep them well away from the Sea Gypsy, he, too, might offer a prayer of thanksgiving as Hawkins had repeatedly these past few hours.

  One had to admire his first mate’s faith, even if he didn’t understand it.

  On either side of Oliver, Hawkins and Grover also perused the ocean with their spyglasses. The sun edged higher on the horizon, spreading her warmth and vibrant hues over the mild swells.

  “No sign of another sail, Cap’n, nor a suspicious cloud overhead.” Hawkins grinned before angling his gaze skyward and silently acknowledging his God. Again. “I know it ain’t right, and I’ll have to repent, but I sincerely hope that bleedin’ son of a barnacle’s bum met his maker. If so, hell’s fires are burnin’ hotter, for certain.”

  Oliver and Grover exchanged amused glances.

  Make that thrice Hawkins had sworn in front of Oliver.

  They closed their spyglasses, the sounds of the brass cylinders sliding shut a satisfying reminder they’d survived the nerve-racking ordeal.

  Only just.

  “Well done you, sir.” Grover shook Oliver’s hand. “I confess, yesterday I had my doubts we’d escape that witch’s squall. Made me wish I had Hawkins’s strong faith, it did.”

  “With a lesser crew, we wouldn’t have done. I commend you all,” Oliver said.

  He would’ve like to have offered his men a bonus, but given the cargo holds had room to spare, he didn’t dare make such a generous offer. He might just ask Ravensdale a question or two about that shipping heiress. Perhaps she had need of another clipper to transport her goods.

  Nonetheless, pride squared his shoulders the merest bit.

  Not only had they evaded Abraham, they’d make England day after tomorrow, days ahead of schedule.

  Bitter-sweet, that.

  Only one more sunrise with Blaike.

  A morning months ago at Leventhorpe’s country house, sprang to mind. Oliver had suggested she ought to see a sunrise from the deck of a ship.

  Even then, she’d enchanted him.

  Still, he must let her go. He must.

  Grateful that Blaike had obeyed him, he’d neither seen nor heard from her since ordering the twins below. M’Lady Lottie had been curiously silent as well.

  The storm and the threat from another vessel served as vivid reminders why he couldn’t ask Blaike to remain aboard the Sea Gypsy. Last night, missing her horribly though she was safe within the bowels of his ship, he’d entertained that ludicrous notion for all of thirty seconds before reality clobbered him.

  Actually, it had been a bucket hurtling across the deck, and plowing into his shoulder blade that brought home the truth.

  With painful and undeniable clarity.

  Water and oil didn’t mix.

  Residents of Mayfair’s mansions and Whitechapel’s slums didn’t hobnob together.

  Pockets-to-let commoners didn’t consort with the gently bred. Such were life’s inarguable facts.

  The queer pull behind his ribs twitched again, as it did each time he faced that undisputable truth.

  For a time that first night, he fretted he’d miscalculated and ventured too near the squall, and the Sea Gypsy and all aboard her might be lost. Nevertheless, setting any course that would’ve permitted Abraham the opportunity to overtake them had been inconceivable. Better the twins should drown than endure what he intended for them.

  Bloody exhausted—the only crew member to not have caught a few moments of rest—Oliver yawned, wide and gusty. He needed sleep before he dozed off whilst standing and toppled into the sea.

  “Hawkins, you’re in command. I’m to bed for a few hours, but I’d like a bath first. Also, have one of the men inform the Culpeppers that they may leave their cabin. In fact, order them baths, as well. We’ve water enough for certain now, and I’m sure they’d enjoy the luxury.”

  He clapped his first mate’s boney shoulder.

  “Fairnly is to outdo himself today. I want hot food for everyone, and lots of it. Simple fare is fine. Salt-pork, beans, potatoes. The men have earned a reward, so they’re to have an extra ration of rum as well. If he balks, tell him he hasn’t had to earn his way these past two days. Allow him to choose a couple of men to assist him. And please send someone below to bring M’Lady Lottie up. She won’t let me sleep a wink if she remains in my quarters.”

  “Aye. I’ll see to it all.” A grin still etched upon his weathered face, Hawkins swaggered away whistling his usual hymn, only pausing in his warbling to give orders to a couple of sailors.

  Oliver would have liked to personally see how Blaike had fared, but he hadn’t asked for a bath because he longed for a hot soak. He stank of sweat and sea. Fear too, if he were wholly honest with himself. Mayhap he’d check on her after he’d washed.

  Just to make sure she was all right.

  To see if she and her sister needed anything.

  Then he could relax and close his gritty, leaden eyes.

  Yawning again, he strode to the companionway, taking time to thank and compliment his men as he went. Truly, they’d performed magnificently, and he couldn’t be prouder.

  He’d already shrugged out of his stiff coat and was unbuckling his belt when he made his quarters.

  Lottie’s mutters and titters carried to him in the passageway. She’d kick up a dust when she saw him, for certain.

  Bracing himself for her loud welcome, he stepped across the threshold and was brought up short.

  Blaike sat at his desk, reading a book, the cockatoo perched behind her on the chair’s back. A lock of Blaike’s unbound hair clenched in her foot, Lottie plucked at the shimmering strand with her beak.

  The bird spied him and shrieked, “Ol-eeve! Hello Luv.” She swayed back and forth, back and forth, cooing, “Luv Ol-eeve. Missed Ol-eeve.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle at her exuberant greeting. “Hello, Lottie. How are you?”

  “How are you?” she mimicked. “Tired as a trull.”

  There was the Lottie he’d expected.

  “Hello, Blaike.”

  Nowhere near the words Oliver wanted to say.

  I was terrified for you.

  I feared the ship was lost, and I’d never see or speak to you again.

  I wish life was fair, and I dared to offer for you.

  I love you. Senza di te non sono niente.

  Without you I am nothing

  “Hello, Oliver.”

  Blaike slowly stood and offered him an almost shy smile. Attired in a serviceable slate gray gown, she’d never appeared lovelier to his hungry gaze.

  “I came to feed Lottie. I felt so sorry for her, I let her out for a few minutes again. I hope you don’t mind. I’m still trying to teach her new words, too. She’s nearly got pretty bird.”

  She pushed her hair behind her shoulders, and the brilliant mass tumbled to her firm derriere.

  Mamma’s combs would look stunning in her hair.

  As Blaike moved across the cabin, the rising sun’s rays burst in, illuminating her countenance—horribly swollen and bruised on the right side.

  “My God, cara mia. What happened to your face?” Oliver dumped his possessions on his chest as he rushed to her.

  For once, Lottie didn’t offer a raunchy response. Rather, she flew to his bed and proceeded to parade up and down the counterpane, chattering away in cockatoo.

  “I tripped over your trunk that first night. Actually, I was thrown and struck the foot of your bed.” Blaike gingerly touched her head. “The cut isn’t very big, but I cannot put my hair up. It hurts to twist and pin it.”

  “Purdy birrr-dy. Purdy birrr-dy,” Lottie muttered, testing the new words. “Lottie purdy birrr-dy.”

  “Mia cara, I’m so sorry.

  Despite reeking like a London beggar, Oliver pulled her into his embrace, cradling her as if she
were the frailest of flowers. Her hair, a shiny curtain, trailed over his arms. Floral and vanilla essences wafted upward from the long tresses.

  A whorl of emotion constricted his throat, and he had to swallow twice to dislodge the lump.

  Blaike might’ve been killed. Or lain in his cabin injured and suffering these past two days, and no one would’ve known, save her sister. And the twin was too ill to move, let alone venture to his quarters.

  Guilt and remorse burrowed through him, leaving him raw.

  “I should’ve seen you safely to your cabin. Should never have asked you to take Lottie below.”

  Tilting her head, Blaike peered into his eyes. “Nonsense. You were needed above. It was an accident. Unexpected things happen, Oliver. No one is to blame. How are we to enjoy life if we constantly worry about misfortunes besetting us? We all have good days and bad days, mishaps and blessings.”

  She was right, of course.

  It wasn’t humanly possible to control every circumstance, to completely protect those he loved. Yet more than ever he was compelled to admit the Sea Gypsy wasn’t the place for her, as much as he wished it otherwise. He acknowledged full-on the risks a life at sea portended, and he’d not expose her to that peril.

  Blaike belonged safely on shore, the lady of a grand estate, her every whim anticipated and met.

  He gently separated the hair just to the right of her forehead. “The laceration isn’t very big or deep, but you do have a sizable knot where you hit your head. Do you have a headache? I think we’ve powders somewhere. Maybe in the medicine chest.”

  Her shoulders quivered, and he firmed his embrace. She’d endured so much, been so brave and strong. A good cry might do her good.

  The shaking grew stronger, and then she giggled.

  Out loud and wholly delighted.

  Oliver stiffened.

  Blaike was laughing, not weeping?

  M’Lady Lottie also giggled, sounding very much—alarmingly so—like Blaike, then proceeded to yell, “Time to shite” before flying back to her cage and doing just that.

  Mortified, he shut his eyes.

  That confounded cockatoo would be the death of him. How old had McMaster said those blasted birds live to? Thirty or more years?

  What was Oliver to do with her for another decade?

  Blaike laughed harder, fingers pressed to her middle in glee. “That bird is utterly awful.”

  Would she never cease to surprise him?

  Where was the hysteria and self-pity most women would’ve displayed? The accusations and blame? The affront at Lottie’s vulgar vocabulary? Instead, Blaike laughed, her beautiful bruised face glowing with humor.

  “I’m sorry. But I’m imagining our homecoming. Both of us with lumps on our heads, my face.” She swept her hand in the air. “Your shoulder.” Her mirth subsided, and with a silly smile yet bending her mouth, she said, “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? And lud. If you dare bring M’Lady Lottie ashore . . .”

  Finding Blaike’s humor contagious, he chuckled before carefully kissing the bridge of her upturned nose.

  Another fit of giggles overcame her. “I can only imagine the reactions. The censuring looks and slack jaws. The whispers and swishing fans. The theatric swooning.”

  He well could too, and that was why the cockatoo would never be introduced to Polite Society. Any society.

  “I’d quite like to witness that, truth to tell.” She wiped the tears of laughter from the corner of her eyes.

  “I agree, we are quite a pair.” How complete his life would be if only they could be life-long mates, too. With concerted effort, he forced his mind to another less melancholy topic. “You’ll be happy to know, that other than a few bruises and abrasions, no one suffered any major injuries.”

  “I’m so glad. I fretted, wondering how everyone had fared. However, I knew I’d be a distraction and possibly put you or the others in danger if I disregarded your orders and went above deck.” She slid a glance at Lottie preening her underwing. “That’s why I came to see Lottie often. She helped occupy the time and my vivid imagination didn’t run away quite so frequently.”

  He leaned away, and cupping her delicate shoulders, sought her eyes. “How is your sister?”

  Toying with his shirt front, Blaike sighed.

  Chagrin assailed him when she touched his soiled clothing. A homeless vagabond reeked less, but Blaike’s nostrils hadn’t so much as quivered.

  “My sister’s glad the ship has stopped trying to dump her from her berth every two minutes. Nonetheless, she vows she’s never setting foot on a vessel bigger than a row boat for the remainder of her life.”

  Blaike pushed her hair behind her ear, revealing the slim column of her swan-like neck.

  “She discovered, much to her relief, that although ginger tea didn’t help with her mal de mer, hardtack did. I gave her mine as well since the biscuit worked such wonders. She’s still asleep. Has been for hours now. Once the ship settled into a regular rhythm again, she was out like a snuffed candle.”

  A noise in the passageway reminded him they’d soon be interrupted. “I expect my bath or else a man to take M’Lady up top at any moment.”

  “Of course. I’ll leave you then.” She stepped away, her long hair swishing slightly with her movements.

  At once Oliver longed to gather her back into his arms, but a whiff of stale sweat assailed him. Best wait until he’d donned fresh clothing.

  “I ordered baths for you and your sister, too. Why don’t you use my water since she’s asleep, and I can bathe above?”

  “You don’t have to do that, Oliver. I’ll wait.” She touched his bearded jaw. “You’re exhausted. I know you haven’t slept. I’ll come back in a few hours. We’ll dine together, and you can teach me more about astronomy.”

  She leaned into him and whispered naughtily, “Or anatomy.”

  Cheeky, adorable wench.

  “Wanton wagtail.” Lottie flapped her wings, then sidestepped along her perch, head cocked.

  “Lottie,” Blaike scolded over her shoulder. “Say something nice.”

  “Luv-ly Lottie,” the cockatoo promptly responded.

  Oliver clasped Blaike’s hand to his face, then turned the palm upward and kissed the tender flesh there.

  “Il mio cuore è solo tua.”

  Fully above the horizon now, the sun’s radiance burst into the chamber, and through the shimmering glass, a rainbow shone in the distance. The light and the colorful arc seemed somehow symbolic.

  A sign.

  Even after that horrendous storm, when he feared all might be lost, the blazing orb ascended to its usual place in the heavens.

  Her expression at once playful and serious, Blaike clasped his hands in hers. “You did it again. Said something to me in Italian. It sounded very much like an endearment. Was it?”

  Anticipation tinged her words.

  Despite his best efforts not to encourage her affections, he’d failed. That such a woman cared for him humbled and exhilarated. Made him wish he had other options besides a lifetime at sea.

  Tilting his head, not so very far because she was almost as tall as he, Oliver kissed her crown, pouring forth all the reverence he held for her in the swift, light touch of his lips.

  “I said, cara, my heart is yours.”

  The gold flecks in her sapphire eyes glittered with unspoken emotion.

  “And you love me.”

  A statement, not a question. Straightforward as always.

  “Aye, I do.”

  Achingly, crushingly so.

  Curse him for seven kinds of fool. The words he’d said in his head, in his heart, hundreds of times whispered forth. Three syllables that could change the course of his life forever.

  “And you want to marry me.”

  God, was there ever a woman like her?

  Hadn’t he just vowed to do what was best for Blaike, to let her go?

  “I do. More than I can express with mortal words.”

  The
door rattled, announcing either his much anticipated bathwater, or the poor fellow who drew the short straw and was obligated to see M’Lady Lottie above deck.

  Bestowing a beatific smile upon him, Blaike clasped her hands before her.

  “Oliver. What are you waiting for? Ask me to marry you.”

  If only he could.

  Even bruised and swollen, she was the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen.

  “I . . .” How could he devastate her? This most precious treasure?

  Brows drawn taut, she cocked her head and drew near him again.

  “Is it because I haven’t told you I love you, too?”

  She laid her palm on his lapel.

  “You must know I do, of course. So very, wonderfully much. And for such a long time.” She gave a tinkling, self-conscious laugh, and dropped her gaze to the floor for a second. “I have, I think, since I first saw you striding across that ballroom looking very much like a dashing buccaneer. You rescued me that night, too.”

  Standing on her toes, she brushed her mouth against his, and electricity jolted to his bone’s marrow.

  It took every bit of self-control and dogged determination not to enfold her in his embrace, tie his chivalry and noble intentions to the ship’s anchor, then toss them to the bottom of the Atlantic’s depths for all time.

  “My answer would be yes. As soon as feasible.” Her eyes lit up impossibly more, her exuberant smile exposing her neat white teeth. “Can you marry us? I’m not sure if that’s permitted, but wouldn’t it be a marvelous surprise for my family?”

  Loathing himself for what he was about to do—what he must do—even though carving his heart from his chest with a dagger would hurt less, Oliver grasped her upper arms. With all the tenderness he could husband, he set her from him.

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, Blaike.”

  He firmed his hands briefly, conveying his earnestness.

  “Not now. Not ever.”

  Shock mixed with utter anguish ravished her features.

  “But why?” she managed, devastation now causing the glistening in her eyes that a mere instant ago had held such joy. “I know you love me. I’ve seen the way you look at me, and you said so in your sleep. And I love you. Utterly and profoundly.”