[GOD08] The Lost Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘I concede you may have point there. She was not bathing,’ said Kit. ‘She was swimming. With purpose. Away from Raven.’

  Gunner nodded. ‘But there is nothing out there save those rocks. Even if she reached them, what would have been the point?’

  ‘The rocks are not quite the only thing out there.’ Kit’s gaze shifted pointedly to the horizon and the small dark shape of the pirate ship that followed.

  ‘You cannot seriously be suggesting that she was trying to escape us to wait for them.’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything.’

  ‘But you are thinking.’

  ‘I am always thinking, Gunner.’

  ‘And what are you thinking?’

  ‘I am thinking we need to discover a little more about Mrs Medhurst and her presence upon Coyote.’

  * * *

  When Kate woke the next morning she thought for a minute that she was aboard Coyote heading back to Tallaholm and Ben and Bea, and her heart lifted with the prospect of seeing those two little faces again and hugging her children to her. But before her eyes even opened to see the truth, the sound of English voices faint and up on deck brought her crashing back down to the reality of where she was and what had happened. She remembered it all with a sudden blinding panic: Coyote and Tobias and North; and the shark; and that North had saved her life by risking his own.

  Yesterday seemed like a dream. She might not have believed it had truly happened at all were it not for the ache in her body and the prickle of pain in her side every time she breathed; a dream in which she could not get the image of him appearing in the ocean between her and the shark out of her mind. What kind of man jumped into the water beside a ten-foot shark to rescue a woman he did not know? Not any kind of man that Kate had ever met.

  She thought of the way he had pulled her to safety with no concern for himself. She thought of how she had clung to him, in a way she had never been with any other man save Wendell during their lovemaking. But most of all she thought of the gentleness of his fingers stroking the sodden strand of hair away from her cheek. Such a small but significant gesture that made her squeeze her eyes closed in embarrassment and guilt. She thought of Wendell and the memory reminded her that she hated the English and she hated North. She had to remember. Always. She could not afford to let herself soften to him. Because of Wendell and because of who she was.

  Yesterday had been an aberration caused by the shock of the shark...and the rescue. This morning she was back to her usual strong self. She was Le Voile. With images of Wendell, little Ben and baby Bea in her mind, she hardened her resolve.

  On the hook of the cabin door hung her black dress, her newly dried shift with its faint bloodstain and her pocket. The sight suddenly reminded her of the rest of what she normally wore. Her heart missed a beat. Throwing back the bedcover, and unmindful of her nakedness or the way her newly scabbed side protested, she sprang from the bed and got down on her knees to check her hiding place under the cot, but the holstered weapons were still there just as she had left them. With a sigh of relief she sat down on the bed. And thought.

  North was not stupid. He was going to ask questions. About what she was doing in the water. And the thought frightened her. But one of the best forms of defence was attack and so Kate had no intention of just sitting here waiting meekly for the interrogation.

  On the washstand in the corner, someone had sat a fresh pitcher of water, brandy and some fresh dressings. Kate wasted no more time. The dressings Gunner had applied had stuck to the dried clotted blood. She eased the mired dressings from her side using the water and dabbed the fresh flow of blood with the brandy, ignoring the sting of it. The wound made wearing her holsters an impossibility. Much as she would have felt more comfortable with them in place she left them where they were. Then, she quickly dressed, tying her pocket in place beneath her skirt, and fixing her hair the best she could with her fingers and the few pins that remained. She stood there, looking into the small peering glass fixed to the wall, for a few moments longer. Calming herself, waxing her courage and determination, readying herself. One final deep breath and she went to face North.

  * * *

  ‘Come in.’ Kit did not raise his eyes from the open ledger before him when the knock sounded at the door. He was expecting Jones the Purser with a list of the supplies needed. It was the silence that alerted him to the fact that it was not Jones that stood before him. He marginally shifted his gaze and caught sight of a pair of feminine bare feet peeping from beneath the hem of the black dress he had hung on the back of Kate Medhurst’s cabin door.

  ‘Mrs Medhurst.’ He set his pen down, rose to his feet and bowed, as if they were in a polite sitting room of one of London’s ton. ‘Take a seat, please.’ He waited until she lowered herself on to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk before resuming his own seat. ‘I did not think you would be recovered enough to be out of bed today.’

  ‘I am very well recovered, thank you, sir.’ Following yesterday’s lapse, her armour was back in place. Her head was held high with that slight underlying hostility that was always there for him. There was the same expression in her clear grey eyes, politeness flecked with strength and defiance, wariness and dislike.

  Most women would have still been abed, waiting for Gunner to dress their wounds. Kate Medhurst had not waited for Gunner...or for him and his questions. The grazes on her hands were the only visible evidence of what she had endured the previous day.

  ‘How are your hands?’

  ‘Healing.’ She held out her hands before her, palms up for him to see, a gesture of revealing herself to him, a clever tactic given that he suspected that, aside from yesterday, Kate Medhurst had revealed nothing of the truth of herself.

  ‘And the rest?’ His eyes held hers.

  ‘The same.’ She did not look away.

  He let the silence stretch, let that slight tension that buzzed between them build, until she glanced away with a small cynical smile.

  ‘I came to thank you,’ she said, taking control of the situation and looking at him once again.

  ‘For what?’ He leaned back in his chair, watching her.

  She raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated quizzing. ‘For rescuing me.’

  ‘Is that what I did?’ he said softly. Rescuing her...or preventing the escape of a prisoner.

  The ambiguity of the words threw her off kilter for the tiniest moment. He could see it in the frisson of doubt and fear that snaked in those cool, unruffled eyes of hers, before she masked it.

  ‘How else would you describe it, Captain?’ she asked.

  ‘A lunchtime swim,’ he said.

  Despite herself she smiled at that and averted her gaze with a tiny disbelieving shake of her head.

  He smiled, too. And then hit her with the question. ‘What were you doing in the water, Mrs Medhurst?’ His voice was soft, but the words were sharp.

  Her eyes returned to his. The hint of a smile still played around her lips. ‘Swimming. At lunchtime.’

  ‘As I suspected,’ he said.

  They looked at one another, the amusement masking so much more beneath.

  ‘Tell me about Kate Medhurst.’

  ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘How she came to be aboard Coyote.’

  ‘In what way do women normally found upon privateer or pirate vessels come to be there?’ she countered.

  ‘Were you abducted?’

  ‘Abduction is a delicate question for any woman.’

  She was good. ‘As is the question of allegiance, I suppose.’

  ‘I do not know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘I am sure that you do.’

  She said nothing. Just looked at him with that calm unruffled confidence that hid everything of what was true or untrue about her.

  �
��Where are you from, Mrs Medhurst?’

  ‘Louisiana, America.’ She said it with defensive pride, wielding it like a weapon. ‘And you?’

  ‘London, England.’

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his answer.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that I am not your favourite person?’ he asked.

  ‘Delusions of persecution?’ she suggested, and arched one delicate eyebrow.

  He laughed at that. And she smiled, but the tension was still there simmering beneath the surface between them.

  ‘I don’t expect you can take me home to Louisiana,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Too dangerous for you?’ she taunted.

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘So, Captain North,’ she said in a soft voice that belied the steel in her eyes, ‘what are you planning to do with me?’

  ‘We are for Antigua to replenish our water and stores before our journey to England. There is a British naval base there, they will arrange your transport home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave a single nod of her head.

  The conversation had been conducted on her terms. Now she terminated it at will. ‘If you will excuse me, sir...’ She rose to her feet.

  And as manners dictated he did the same. He waited until she reached the door and her fingers had touched to the handle before he spoke again. ‘I had presumed you would be happy to travel with us to Antigua. Is that the case?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’ he asked.

  The quiet words hung in the air between them.

  Her eyes held his a moment longer and the tension seemed to intensify and rustle between them. About unanswered questions, implications and the physicality of yesterday.

  ‘Good day, Captain North.’

  ‘Good day, Mrs Medhurst.’ Her bare feet were silent upon the floor. The door closed with a click behind her.

  He stood where he was, his eyes fixed on the closed door. In his mind he was seeing the one moment when Kate Medhurst had let her mask fall, in the ocean faced with death. Then there had been nothing of poise or polish or clever tricks. Only a pair of dove-grey eyes that had ignited desires he thought long suppressed. Eyes that made him remember too well the press of her half-naked body against his and the soft feel of her, and the scent of her in his nose. Eyes that were almost enough to make a man forget the vow he had sworn...as if he ever could.

  He sat back down at the desk and, picking up his pen, curbed the route his thoughts were taking. He wanted her, he acknowledged. But he could not have her, not even were she not hiding something from him. Not even if she were available and she wanted him, too. He thought of that vow, forged in blood and sweat and tears.

  A knock sounded at the door, pulling him from the darkness of the memory. This time it was Jones, and Kit was glad of it.

  Kate Medhurst was not being entirely truthful. But whatever it was she was hiding, she and it need have no bearing on his returning La Voile to London.

  * * *

  The afternoon was as beautiful as the morning. Every day was beautiful around this area, except when hurricane season came. Kate did not have to feign that she appreciated the view as she stood at the stern, watching the crystal-clear green waves and the intense warm blue of the sky so expansive and huge...and the distant speck of a ship against its horizon.

  North was on the quarterdeck, issuing commands to his men. Her muscles were still tense, her blood still rushing, her skinned palms still clammy from their confrontation in his cabin that morning. Part of her wanted to stay hidden below decks in her cabin, not wanting to face him, but Kate knew she could not do that. Coyote was coming. So she stood on the deck, brazening it out, watching Sunny Jim struggle to catch them, and breathed a sigh of relief that Gunner seemed to be right about Raven having the superior speed.

  As she watched she thought of North’s cabin, a cabin that she would have mistaken for that of an ordinary seaman had it not been for its larger space. Everything in it was functional. There were no crystal decanters of brandy on fancy-worked dining tables, no china plates or ornamentation, no crystal-dropped chandelier as she had expected. Everything was Spartan, functional, austere as the man himself. He did not seem given to indulgences or luxuries. Maybe that was why the men liked him. Or maybe they were just afraid of him. She slid a glance at where he stood with his men, seeing the respect on their listening faces, before returning her gaze to Coyote.

  There was no tread of footsteps to warn her of his approach, nothing save the shiver that rippled down the length of her spine as North came to stand by her side, his body mirroring her own stance, his gaze sweeping out over the ocean.

  ‘Enjoying the view, Mrs Medhurst?’ The Englishness of his accent, cool and deep and dark as chocolate, sent a tingle rippling out over her skin.

  ‘Indeed I am, Captain North.’ And she was, now that there seemed little danger of Coyote catching Raven.

  Those dark eyes shifted to look directly into hers. Watchful, appraising, making her feel as though he could see through all of her defences, all of her lies, making her remember who he was, and who she was, making her shiver with awareness that his focus was all on her.

  She glanced down, suddenly afraid that he could see the secrets she was hiding, her eyes fixing on his feet that were now as bare as her own and the rest of his crew’s. Her mother always said you could tell a lot about a man by his feet. North’s were much bigger feet than hers, tanned and unmistakably masculine, with long straight toes and nails that were white and short and clean. Strong-looking feet, grounded and sure as the rest of him. Their feet standing so close together, and bare, looked too intimate, as if they had just climbed from bed. The thought shocked her.

  She swiftly raised her eyes and found him still watching her. He smiled, not the arctic smile, or the cynical one, but one that told her he knew something of the direction of her thoughts and shared them. Swallows soared and swooped inside her stomach and her cheeks burned hot. Kate was horrified at her reaction. And North knew it, damn him, for the smile became bigger.

  With an angry frosty demeanour she turned her attention back to the horizon and focused her thoughts on Wendell and his sweet kind nature: her husband, her lover, the only man for her. She thought of what men like North had done to him and the weakness was gone. Touching the thin gold wedding band she still wore upon her finger, turning it round and round, she drew strength from it and did not look at North again.

  The two of them stood in silence, contemplating the view, watching Coyote.

  She hoped that he would leave, go back to the work he was normally so busy with, but North showed no sign of moving.

  The scene was beautiful and peaceful, but as they stood there seemingly both relaxed it was anything but ease that hummed between them; or maybe the tension was just all in herself.

  ‘She makes for interesting watching,’ he said eventually, his gaze not moving from where it was fixed on Coyote.

  ‘I wasn’t watching her in particular,’ she lied.

  ‘No? My mistake. Pardon me.’ He flicked a glance at Kate.

  ‘Have you identified her yet?’

  ‘We have.’

  Her eyes met his.

  ‘La Voile’s pirates.’ He paused. ‘They are following us.’ He waited for her reaction.

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Why indeed?’

  She kept her nerve. ‘Vengeance? Or maybe to reclaim their captain’s body.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed, and shifted his gaze to Coyote.

  ‘But they will not catch us, will they? Not with Raven’s superior speed. I mean...we are quite safe from them...are we not?’

  ‘Oh, rest assured we are safe.’ He smiled at her, the small cool dangerous smile. ‘But Coyo
te is not.’

  She felt the cold wind of fear blow through her bones. ‘What do you mean, sir?’ She worked hard to appear cool, calm and collected.

  He glanced pointedly at Raven’s sails. Her gaze followed his and she saw to her horror that they were reducing the sail. Raven’s speed was already dropping.

  Her heart missed a beat. Her stomach dropped to meet her shoes.

  ‘You intend to let them catch us!’ She stared at him, feeling the horror of what that meant snake through her.

  ‘Not entirely. Just to let them get within range of our guns.’

  ‘Why?’ she whispered.

  ‘Raven is fast, but not fast enough that Coyote will not fathom our direction to Antigua. Better a confrontation out here under our terms than risk her stealing upon us at anchor in the night.’

  ‘She would not...’ Antigua was a British naval base, filled with warships that Coyote normally avoided. But given the situation she was not sure that North was not right.

  ‘Not when we have finished, she will not,’ he said grimly.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. When she looked again at the distant horizon Coyote was already a little larger. She kept her gaze on her ship rather than look at him, so that he would not see the truth in her eyes.

  It took all of her willpower to stand there beside him, watching her men creep slowly closer to their doom, and betray nothing of the feelings of dread and fear, impotence and anger that were pounding through her blood. Instinctively, her hands went to her skirt, reaching for the weapons that were not there. Instead, she forced them to relax by her sides.

  Glancing across at North’s profile, she saw that he watched Coyote with cool, relaxed stillness. Only his dark hair rippled in the wind.

  ‘What is the range of your guns?’ she asked, her heart beating fast with the hope that she had overestimated Raven’s range of fire.

  ‘Our eighteen pounders have an effective penetrating range of five hundred and fifty yards,’ he answered without looking round.

  Far greater than the two hundred and eighty yards that Coyote’s six-pounders could manage. She felt sick. Her mind was thrashing, seeking any possible way to stop the impending slaughter. But short of putting a gun to North’s head... Her gaze dropped to the large scabbard that hung against his leg, and the leather holster above it...with the pistol cradled within. It was a much larger weapon than her own, but she could manage it all the same...if it was loaded. She glanced up to find his gaze was no longer on Coyote, but on her.