The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  “That’s a’right, dear. I know ‘ow you hate losin’ your freedom.”

  Emeline drew a breath of the stale, muggy air and rubbed the moisture from the back of her neck. “I hate this deception. Especially lying to the captain. Why, every day he seems more and more attached to me.”

  “That’s a good thing, if you ask me.” Hannah unbuttoned the top of her neck-high bodice and began fanning herself with an old cloth.

  “Have you gone mad? He looks at me as a long-lost daughter. I am the worst sort of person to trifle so with the sentiments of a lonely man. God must be so displeased.” Which would explain why their situation only seemed to grow worse.

  “This is war, my dear. The closer the captain gets to you, the more ‘e will trust you, and we need some good information soon.” Rising, Hannah moved to the cot, lifted the straw mattress, and pulled out a cloth. She carefully unwrapped it and lifted it toward Emeline. A sharp chisel lying among the folds reflected a twinkle of mischief in Hannah’s brown eyes.

  “What?” Emeline could only stare at it. “Where did you get that?”

  “One of the sailors repairin’ the mast on deck put it down while ‘e went to ladle some water for a drink.”

  “You stole it?”

  “More like borrowed.” Hannah winked, but then she stumbled slightly and rubbed her eyes.

  Emeline poured a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to her. “I know what you’re up to. You intend to give it to Robert to cut through his chains.”

  “Tonight. It might take ‘im a day or two. By then, it would be good to ‘ave some information what he can report to the American forces.” Taking a sip of water, she lifted brows toward Emeline.

  “And you expect me to provide that?”

  “You’re the only one what can.”

  “Isn’t it bad enough I’m lying and deceiving and spying on people who are kind to me? And now you want me to steal information?” Emeline fluffed out her skirts and plopped into the chair. “My father would die of shame.”

  Hannah wrapped up the chisel and stuffed it under the mattress again. “Your father would be proud.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He would say”—she lowered her voice and added a bit of pretense for effect—” ‘Ladies don’t engage in such devious and dangerous behavior.’ ” She sighed. “Besides, doesn’t the Bible say we are supposed to be submissive?”

  “To God, absolutely. To our ‘usbands, within reason. But not to our enemies.” The deck tilted and Hannah grabbed the table for support. “Posh! Why is it so bloomin’ hot in ‘ere?”

  Emeline frowned. “Even if I should acquire some valuable information, how will he ever be able to sneak overboard?”

  Hannah sank to the bed and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Are you all right?” Emeline knelt before her. “Your face is flushed.”

  “Jist ‘ot and tired, I’m sure.” She caught her breath and stared at Emeline. “It’ll ‘ave to be before dawn when they send the prisoners up on deck to do the ‘olystoning. The marines are usually so sleepy they won’t notice ‘is chains missing in the middle of the rest. It would be an easy thing for ‘im to slip quietly over the side.”

  Emeline wasn’t sure about that. From what she’d seen, the marines were quite attentive.

  “So’s all we need is for you to glean some important information from the captain.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Emeline laughed. Yet, if she admitted it, being a spy sounded rather exciting. It was the deceiving part she hated. “I’m definitely going to hell.”

  Hannah chuckled. “I doubt that very much, dear.”

  “Then why am I always forced to do the wrong thing?”

  “I can’t say, ‘cept perhaps your idea of the right thing an’ God’s might be a bit different. ‘Sides, why shouldn’t women lead excitin’ lives? God ain’t no respecter of persons, race, or gender, an’ ‘e’s created us for a life of adventure, not boredom. Look at me!”

  True. Hannah had led a fascinating life. As a young girl, she’d helped her family defend their home in Boston from the British during the Revolutionary War. After she’d married Abner Keate when she was seventeen, she’d traveled with him, first on a merchant ship then on a privateer. She’d been to five different countries and seen things Emeline could only dream of. “You are an exception, my dear friend. Much more is expected of someone of my station.”

  “Bah on all stations! Ain’t no need for ‘em in America.”

  Emeline wished that were true. “Perhaps I am too rebellious at heart, and I always will be.”

  “We are all rebellious at heart, dear. That’s why Jesus ‘ad to die to pay the price for us. But followin’ a bunch of rules don’t make you righteous in God’s eyes. Knowin’ ‘is Son does. An’ havin’ ‘is Spirit inside you.” She pointed at Emeline’s chest. “Don’t it say in God’s Holy Word, ‘Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty’?”

  Emeline had never heard that before. “But that doesn’t mean we should do bad things like lie and steal and cheat.”

  “Of course not!” Hannah coughed. “God sets us free to follow ‘im. Before we knew ‘im, we was slaves to evil and wickedness. Now we can partake in all the adventures ‘e has planned for us.”

  Emeline rubbed her tired eyes. “I don’t understand how we can be free yet have to follow rules at the same time. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It will, dear, someday.” Leaning over, Hannah coughed again, this time more violently.

  Emeline poured more water from the pitcher into her mug and handed it to her. “Are you ill, my friend?”

  “Jist a bit of a cough. I’ll be fine. But I fear I’ll miss our afternoon walk. I need to lie down for a while.”

  “Of course.” Emeline helped her lie back on the cot and felt her forehead. No fever. Good. “I’ll go without you and return to check on you later.”

  No sooner had Emeline closed the door than her heart began thrashing in her chest at the thought of what she must soon do. Sneaking out at night from her father’s house, painting instead of doing her chores, attending the Independence Day parade alone against her father’s wishes—those were simple things. But spying for her country on an enemy ship? As fun as it sounded, it could get her hanged. Along with Hannah and the rest of the crew of the Charlotte. How could she even entertain the thought for one minute?

  But she was entertaining it; God help her, she was. She could almost see her father’s face, red and lined with anger … the fear streaking across his eyes at the danger she was putting herself in, the fury at her foolishness.

  She would pray and seek guidance. Yes, that was what proper ladies did, didn’t they? And if God had set her free, as Hannah had said, He would surely answer her, despite her many failings.

  Making her way down the wobbling companionway, she silently appealed to God for wisdom. She continued praying as she mounted the ladder onto the deck. But once she emerged, a blast of hot wind swept her petitions away before she could feel any peace that God had heard her requests.

  As if sensing her discomfort—and longing to increase it—the sun moved from behind a cloud and speared her with rays as hot as branding irons. She quickly ducked into the shadows of the quarterdeck and waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the light.

  A line of sailors to her right, under the command of Master Tempe, hauled on a rope that led to a yard above. One man sat on a barrel sewing up a hole in a sailcloth. A carpenter repaired the bulwark to her left. Above her from the quarterdeck, commands from the officers fired down upon the crew, keeping them attending their duties. Marines in their bright red uniforms with muskets in hand stood as stiff as masts along the railing. She felt sorry for them in this hot sun and wondered if the captain ever allowed the men to jump in the bay to cool off. Most likely not.

  Shouts from the sails lured her gaze to the tops, and shielding her eyes from the sun, she spotted a sailor, stripped to his waist, balancing on the top yard as if he were born a m
onkey. Beneath him, two other sailors were holding something.

  She felt eyes upon her and lowered her gaze to see Lieutenant Dimsmore addressing a group of marines. He’d apologized for his behavior the day after the incident, but since then, he’d kept his distance. For which she was glad. Though now, he smiled her way and started toward her.

  Thankfully, Lieutenant Camp appeared at her side.

  “I see you are without escort today, Miss Baratt.”

  Dimsmore spun around but not before she saw a scowl on his face.

  Wind blasted over them as Emeline balanced on the teetering deck. “Hannah is not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. But no doubt with your healing expertise, she’ll be on her feet in no time.” Ben’s blue eyes flashed with approval as he gave her a genuine smile.

  “You’re kind to say so, but in truth I fear I don’t know much about doctoring at all.”

  “I beg to disagree with you, miss. And so would our injured sailors. You are a godsend to this crew. We are most fortunate that you are loyal to Britain.”

  Laughter from above drew her gaze again—familiar laughter—and she glanced behind her on the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Masters was not there. Shielding her eyes, she stared once again at the man who was balancing on the top yard as the ship rocked and heaved through the blue waters of the bay. There was no rope about him and nothing much for him to cling to, save a few lines and the mast. Yet he stood there, wavering in and out of her sight, as nonchalant as if he were standing on firm ground.

  “Is that—?” she asked.

  “It is.” Ben followed her gaze and smiled.

  “La! What in the blazes is he doing?”

  “Small repairs to the fly block.”

  Gripping the mast, Owen stood tall and gazed over the Chesapeake as if he were merely glancing out a window. Yet every time the ship leapt over a wave, every time the wind stuffed into a sail and jerked the mast, he dipped behind sails and lines out of her view. “Surely there are other, lesser-ranked sailors who could attend such a dangerous task.”

  “Indeed. As I have told him repeatedly. In truth, miss, he quite enjoys it.”

  “Foolish man. He could fall and die.”

  “I believe that’s exactly why he enjoys it.” Lieutenant Camp smiled. “A bit of a wild card, Owen is, I mean Lieutenant Masters. The opposite of our captain, I’d say. But the men adore him. And despite the antics, the captain admires him as well. He can always count on Owen to volunteer for the most dangerous missions.”

  “So I have heard during your dinner conversations.” Emeline was as daring as the next person—much to her father’s chagrin—but there was a difference between adventure and stupidity. Then why couldn’t she pull her eyes off this particular stupid man—a mixture of fear, admiration, and disgust causing her to squirm? The ship lurched again, but this time, Owen slipped from the yard.

  Gasping, she inadvertently grabbed Lieutenant Camp’s arm.

  She felt him tense beneath her touch, ready to give some order, but then Owen swung himself seemingly without effort onto a yard.

  “He’s a fool,” she spat out.

  “Some would say so.”

  “Not you?” She dropped her gaze to Lieutenant Camp. The man had such a pleasant demeanor, she could well imagine him sitting in an English parlor having tea. Blond hair streaked lighter by the sun crowned a handsome, kind face. “You are his friend.”

  “He’s a good man, Miss Baratt. He merely needs someone to temper his talents toward a more productive path.”

  “I doubt there is such a man.”

  “No, but there is God.”

  Emeline merely nodded, for she knew firsthand that God was good at tempering. If He wasn’t, she’d be painting landscapes in the French countryside, not imprisoned on a British warship. However, it was good to know that there was at least one British officer besides Captain Blackwell who was a godly man.

  Several sailors on deck began clapping, and she glanced aloft to see Owen making his way down the shrouds. Finally he gripped the backstay and slid down to the deck with more pomp than was necessary, bowing before their cheers.

  Grabbing his shirt, coat, and hat from a post where he’d left them, he sauntered toward Emeline and Ben, that ever-present annoying grin on his lips.

  Yet it wasn’t his smile she was looking at, but rather the flex of every muscle rounding his chest and arms as he moved, like a cougar on the hunt. Oh my. And his stomach—ripples of iron and steel, tanned bronze by the sun. A flush swamped her, and she dropped her gaze to the deck.

  She really was going to hell.

  He halted before them, showering her with the scent of sweat, the sea, and man. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t look up. How embarrassing! Yet staring at his bare feet, her embarrassment only rose. Fie, two of her feet could fit in one of his.

  Ben chuckled.

  A finger beneath her chin forced her gaze up to Lieutenant Masters. “Something interesting on the deck, miss?”

  His hazel eyes shifted from Ben to her, and she thought she saw a spark of jealousy. But that couldn’t be.

  “Always have to make an entrance, don’t you?” Ben clapped him on the back. “Better get dressed before the captain comes above.”

  Yes, please, please get dressed! Emeline gazed over the bay, the distant land, the bulwarks …

  “Reef courses!” A shout echoed down from above. “Watch your luff!”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Ben slipped on his hat and left.

  Why didn’t Lieutenant Masters follow him? Why was he still here? And staring at her—with those intense eyes, his dark hair blowing in wild abandon about him. “Done entertaining your adoring sycophants?” she said curtly.

  “Sycophants?” He laughed, wiped his forehead with his shirt, and glanced behind him at the men who’d gone back to their tasks. “I merely provide a diversion in their otherwise monotonous day.” He leaned toward her. “I could go aloft again and show you some things that would make you squirm with delight, Miss Baratt, if it pleases you.”

  “It does not. Nor would it please most proper ladies. Running around half nak—unclad.” She couldn’t even say the word. “Behaving the pompous buffoon, risking your life for no purpose other than your own enjoyment and to gain the admiration of men more foolish than you, is no way to live your life, sir. One of these days, you will end that life prematurely, and then what have you gained?”

  A sour taste filled her mouth as she realized she sounded just like her father.

  His smile remained as his gaze assessed her, at first with curiosity, perhaps a little amusement, but then it narrowed as he flung his shirt over his head. “And what would a traitor know of being a proper lady?”

  A knife cut deep into her heart. Without thinking, she raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist. Tight at first. But then he slid his fingers to her palm and turned it over to place a kiss upon it. The horror! In the heat, she’d forgotten her gloves.

  She tugged it back just as blood dripped from his hand onto the deck.

  “You’re hurt!” Emeline flipped over his hands. Jagged bloody trails of raw skin traveled across his palms to his fingers.

  He snagged them from her grip. “It’s nothing.”

  “Of course it is. I should tend to those immediately.” Even as she said it, she wondered why she was being kind to such a brute.

  “I’ve had worse.” One brow rose. “But I appreciate your concern.”

  “It’s my job to be—”

  He took her hand again and this time successfully placed a gentle kiss on her fingers—bare fingers. A pleasant heat blossomed within her.

  “I bid you adieu, miss.” And off he dropped down a hatch.

  Leaving Emeline in such a whirlwind of emotions, she could make no sense of any of them.

  CHAPTER 10

  Here you go, Mr. Ganston. Take a spoonful twice a day for a week and you should start feeling better.” Emeline handed the sailor the to
nic, and he gave her a toothless grin. The poor man had spent his entire life at sea, and he resembled more an old piece of rope than a man. But at least he hadn’t tried to flirt with her like the other men she’d seen that day.

  An endless line of them, in fact—two cases of sunburn, one heat exhaustion, three deep cuts, one sprained ankle, nausea, one case of scurvy, and one high fever. She’d done her best to care for them with the herbs and tinctures available to her, but she felt so inadequate to the task.

  Except of course, when she could tell a sailor was feigning an illness just to see her … to tell her how comely she was and to ask for her company on a stroll about the deck.

  Fie! As if she didn’t have real patients to attend. Thank goodness for the marine standing guard a few feet away or she believed some of the men would have taken liberties.

  Rising, she balanced over the shifting deck and began gathering bloody rags and instruments—knives, syringes, needles and twine, forceps, and splints. The mad swoosh of the sea filled the air, drowning out snores from the gun room. Between caring for the sailors and checking on Hannah—who had somehow caught a cold—Emeline had missed supper in the captain’s cabin. Just as well. She had no desire to listen to the men ramble on about boring naval tactics and how they were going to defeat America. Nor did she wish to see Lieutenant Masters. Not after their confusing encounter earlier that day. The man was a paradox. One minute he seemed to be flirting with her, the next despising her. His friend Ben Camp was much more agreeable. And godly. Not that she intended to acquaint herself further with either of them.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, she moved to the table, collected the vials of herbal tinctures she had used—rosemary, mint, comfrey, sage, and angelica—and returned them to the cabinet. A moan drew her gaze to the hammock which contained the last patient from the battle that had brought her here. Had it been two weeks already? All the rest of the injured had recovered, save Mr. Thornhill, a middle-aged British seaman who continually complained of debilitating stomach pains. Yet she could find nothing wrong with him, making her suspect he preferred resting below rather than returning to the grueling work above. She would mention it to the captain on the morrow.