Emeline screamed.
Her face jerked upward, and she bit her lip. Pain filled her mouth. She shook her head as the surgery came into view around her. Robert lay facedown on the cot beside her chair, his back covered with the bloody strips she’d just applied for the third time since his flogging.
The ship rolled over a wave, sending water sloshing against the hull. Emeline rubbed her eyes, but they still felt as heavy as if all the cares of the world sat upon them. She glanced at her hands, fully expecting them to be covered in blood, but she remembered cleaning them before she’d sat down beside Robert.
Snores rumbled across the room, and she glanced at the lantern where barely a flicker remained from the depleted oil. How long had she slept?
Sounds filtered down from above. Footsteps pounded on the deck. Shouts and huzzahs. A fiddle. Standing, she started to clean up the mess she’d made, trying to ignore whatever was happening above, but the cheering only increased. What was going on? Since Hannah was locked below, Emeline had limited her time on deck, and she especially did not go above at night, but her curiosity overcame her fears.
A warm breeze fingered through her hair as she took the last step above. Myriad stars spread across the night sky as the ship gently rocked in the bay. It had to be past midnight. Then why all the mayhem? Normally most of the sailors would be asleep below, or if they were above, they’d be attending duties in an organized fashion. Instead, they were singing and dancing to fiddle music and shouting huzzahs and pointing to something off the port side of the ship.
Off in the distance, above the jagged line of trees, a red-and-orange glow consumed the night sky … almost as if the sun were just about to rise. But that couldn’t be. This was in the west, not the east. Above the ethereal glow, gray smoke plumed the sky. What? Instantly Emeline’s stomach shriveled into a knot. Washington, DC.
Couldn’t be. She spotted Lieutenant Masters standing at the railing and made her way toward him, weaving in between celebrating sailors. Not that she wanted to speak to the man, but at least he would tell her what was happening. Besides, her legs were about to give out and she needed the support of the bulwarks.
No sooner did she reach the lieutenant than Captain Blackwell’s voice bellowed behind her, bringing the clamor to instant silence. She turned to see him march past the wheel and grip the quarterdeck railing.
“Men, though I have not received confirmation, it appears our forces have captured the American capital and burned it to the ground.”
This brought further cheers and jeers.
“An extra ration of rum for all!” he shouted then turned to say something to Lieutenant Camp beside him.
The cheers grew even louder.
Emeline faced the bay, doing her best to keep her rage in check. Even so, tears filled her eyes as she stared at the horrid sight. She closed them, forcing back the dampness as she gripped the railing for support.
“Are you well, Miss Baratt?” Lieutenant Masters’s voice bade her open her eyes and lift her chin.
“Quite,” she responded as curtly as she could. But when her gaze met his, she saw agony stretching across his eyes and creating furrows in his brow. He stared back at the fire. No. She must be wrong. It was far too dark to make out his expression.
“Why are you two not celebrating?” Dimsmore’s nasally voice assaulted her from behind. He leaned on the railing beside her and assessed her and Masters as if he were judge and jury.
Emeline gave a tight smile. “The revelry jarred me from a deep sleep, Lieutenant. I fear I am still not fully awake.”
“And you, Masters? You seem out of sorts, even distraught I would say.” His sarcastic tone grated. “Alarmed to see your nation’s capital city taken so easily?”
Emeline wanted to punch the man, to unleash her fury on this sniveling Brit. But proper ladies didn’t do such things.
Owen laughed and shook his head. “It is not my nation, nor my capital. In truth, I am most pleased to see it fall, for this means the war is soon at an end.” He moved from beside Emeline and slapped Dimsmore on the back. Perhaps a bit too hard, for the man coughed and staggered.
“Now, about that celebrating. I could use a drink.” Owen all but dragged the man away, but Emeline didn’t miss the suspicious glance Dimsmore gave her over his shoulder.
Turning back to face the bay, she dropped her head. A tear slid down her cheek, and she batted it away, trying to get ahold of her emotions.
Dimsmore clearly suspected her loyalties, Washington had fallen, and her country was about to be overrun by British tyrants. “Oh Lord, help us. Help us, please.”
No sooner had she whispered the words than, without warning, rain as thick as hail began pounding on them from above, dousing the revelry and sending the sailors belowdecks.
Emeline followed in their wake and slammed the door of her cabin, happy to be alone, desperate to be off this ship, even if it meant standing arm in arm with her defeated countrymen.
After removing her gown and stockings and laying them across her chair to dry, she fell into a fitful sleep full of nightmares she didn’t care to remember.
During her waking moments, lightning lit her cabin in ghoulish shadows while thunder shook the timbers and rain pelted above. Slamming her pillow atop her head, she cried like she’d never cried before and must have fallen asleep sometime before dawn.
Pain jabbed her shoulder. Someone or something shoved her into the bulkhead. She forced her eyes open just as her body rolled in the other direction and hit the edge of the cot.
Ouch! She sprang up and gripped the post. The deck teetered. The sea slammed against the hull like a battering ram. Rain hit the deck above like grapeshot.
Gray light shrouded her cabin. What time was it?
With great difficulty, Emeline donned her gown, stockings, and shoes, flung open the door, and stumbled up the companionway.
A blast of wind flung pellets of rain at her, stinging her and nearly shoving her backward. She made a dash for the capstan and clung to it as she struggled to remain upright and reach the starboard railing. Her fingers gripped the slick wood. Squinting, she stared over the churning waters of the bay. Lightning lit the scene in an eerie gray, revealing waves as high as the railing rolling toward them. A chill shivered down the length of her body.
Perhaps she’d get struck by lightning. A fitting punishment for her crimes.
“You shouldn’t be above!” Lieutenant Masters suddenly appeared beside her, rain dribbling off the tip of his cocked hat.
Wiping her eyes, she glanced up at him. “I shouldn’t do many things, Lieutenant!”
“I insist you go below at once!”
She could not. She would not go below with the death and blood and loneliness.
Sailors in slick coats stared at them curiously.
She backed away from him. “Leave me be. For once, just leave me be.”
She’d had enough of this ship and these British ghouls. Enough! All she wanted to do was stand there and allow the rain to wash away the blood, the wind to blast away the horror of this war, and her prayers to wash the guilt and shame from her soul.
“I insist.” He grabbed her arm and tugged, but she snagged it back and retreated. The man towered over her, looking more like a sea monster in his oily jacket with rain spilling off the tips of his saturated hair. If he forced her, she didn’t stand a chance. But she would not go below. Not yet.
He clutched her arm again, this time putting his other hand around her waist, and started to hoist her up on his shoulder. No! She shoved his hand away and jerked backward. The deck canted, and she gripped the railing, looking for a way of escape. To her left, the crisscross of ropes that made up the ratlines rattled in the wind.
God help me. I know I’m rebellious. Gripping them, she hoisted herself up and faced the lieutenant. “Stay away, or I swear I’ll climb up and you’ll have to answer to the captain for my fate.” The wind whipped the ropes to and fro. She tightened her fingers on the wet twine
and held fast.
“You’re mad, woman. Completely and utterly mad!” The lieutenant’s voice roared above the storm, but he remained in place. “Get down here at once!”
The ship lurched to port then swung to larboard. Wind flapped the lieutenant’s slick coat. A wall of water crashed over him, puddling around his feet before fleeing out the scuppers. Nevertheless, his boots kept their grip on the deck. “Please, Miss Baratt. Please come down.”
The man had never said please to her. Ever. Nor had he used such a conciliatory tone. And yes, she should come down. Be an obedient and proper lady and go to her cabin. But whenever she sat within its tight walls, all she could see was Robert’s curdled back and the flames of her capital burning to the ground.
And she couldn’t go. Not now. Tears seared her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, joining with the drops of rain lashing her skin. She couldn’t go. “Let me stay a moment, please.” She returned his pleading tone, but he shook his head.
“I can’t do that.”
Turning, she gripped the saturated ropes above her and began her ascent.
“Hang it all! What are you doing, woman?” Lieutenant Masters tore off his hat and began climbing after her.
“Go away! Leave me be!”
“You’re mad!”
“Yes I am. Now go away!”
He reached her in no time and covered her with his body—in effect, shielding her from wind and rain. His hair whipped about his face, stinging her cheeks. Rain dripped from his chin onto her shoulder. “You will come down this minute or I will carry you down over my shoulder.” His deep voice reverberated in her ear.
A gust of wind came out of nowhere, and the ship tilted to starboard, dipping them over the water. Lieutenant Masters lost his grip. His feet flung out from under him. He hung on with one hand.
Emeline’s heart turned to ice. She reached out for him and grabbed his coat to try to bring him back.
The ship bucked over another wave, and the last thing she heard was a groan of despair as they both plunged into the sea.
CHAPTER 14
Owen could not believe the woman had done this to him. Not until he struck the cold water and was instantly assailed by salty waves buffeting him from all sides. The worst part was that he sensed another body next to his—a flailing body whose skirts wrapped around his legs, restricting his movements. Panic coursed through his veins. Had the foolish woman also fallen in?
Hang it all!
The sea rushed about him, pushing him this way and that like a band of ruffians. His lungs ached for air. He grabbed a handful of skirts and drew the woman toward him, then kicked his legs free and swam for the surface.
He broke first and gulped in air, then yanked her up beside him. Her head popped above the water, arms thrashing until they clutched him in a death grip. She heaved in air before a terrified shriek emerged from her lips.
“Hold on. Hold on. Calm yourself. I’ve got you!” Owen glanced around and found the ship just twenty feet away.
But the woman continued to struggle. She clawed at his chest, neck, head, trying to heave herself from the sea. A wave struck them, forcing them beneath the water again.
When Owen surfaced, they were farther from the ship. No! Seizing Miss Baratt, he crushed her against him and attempted to paddle back to the ship even as he heard someone shout, “Man overboard!”
Lightning flung white spears to the sea. Two ropes appeared over the railing, dangling to the water. Thunder followed with a reverberating roar.
Miss Baratt gulped for air and screamed.
Owen prided himself on being a strong swimmer, but he’d never attempted it in a storm with an oversized flopping fish strapped to his side.
“Kick your feet!” he shouted at her.
She merely wrapped her legs around his as if he were a buoy.
More lightning coated the scene in a deathly silver. Thunder bellowed out a warning. But the ship was closer, thank God. Saltwater filled his mouth, and he spit it out, gasping for air. Waves slapped his face. The woman gripped his shirt, his hair, her body trembling.
Several minutes passed. He fought the waves and the lady. Seawater spilled into his stomach. Still he paddled. His muscles burned. His lungs heaved. Finally, the dark hull rose before him. He reached for one of the ropes, but a wave knocked him back. Growling, he paddled forward with all his strength. There, he gripped the sodden line. After several attempts, and with great difficulty, he tied it around Miss Baratt’s waist. Clutching it, he braced his shoes against the hull and signaled for the men above to pull them up.
For such a tiny thing, the woman weighed as much as a cannon in her wet clothes. With her eyes closed and her lips quivering, nothing but whimpers emerged from her mouth the entire way up.
For a moment, Owen actually felt pity for her. Storms didn’t bother him. In fact, he loved them. This one in the bay was hardly a full-fledged sea storm.
But to the poor woman, it must seem like a typhoon.
Sailors reached and hauled her over the bulwarks. She landed like a dead fish on the deck. No, not dead. She rose like a drowned leviathan just as Owen swung his legs over the side. And she was just as frightening.
“You almost killed me, you bumbling oaf!”
“I almost killed you!?” Lieutenant Masters snorted as he nudged Emeline into her cabin. He entered behind her before she had the chance to slam the door in his face.
Which she fully intended to do.
She backed away from him. “I was trying to save you.”
“Save me?” He gave a sordid chuckle and placed two blankets on the cot. “You’re the one who pushed me!”
Emeline glanced down at her sodden attire. Water dripped from the hem of her gown onto the deck and trickled from strands of her hair that had fallen to her waist. “Why would I push you into the sea and then jump in after you? Clearly you lost your balance and grabbed me to bring me with you.”
His brows rose over a sardonic grin. “I never lose my balance, miss. I had everything under control until you shoved against me.”
Emeline grimaced. The man was handsome, she’d give him that, with his coat missing, his wet shirt plastered to his firm chest, water dripping from his hair hanging around his chin, and those hazel eyes of his sparking in anger … or was it playfulness?
“I didn’t— Oh, fie.” Grabbing her wet skirts, she sank onto her chair and sighed. If she kept her anger at the forefront, perhaps panic would not set in. She felt for her mother’s locket around her neck and breathed a sigh when her fingers gripped the cold silver. She’d nearly drowned! The thought sent shivers through her that had naught to do with her wet attire. She would have drowned if not for this man standing before her. But she didn’t want to thank him. She didn’t want to owe him anything. He was the enemy.
And the enemy had just burned her capital to the ground.
“What is it you want, Lieutenant? It’s been a rather long couple of days.”
“Long?” He chuckled. “Is that what you call nearly drowning?” When she didn’t respond, he released a sigh. “Merely to bring you these blankets.”
“Well, you have done so. Now you may leave.” She began playing with a saturated strand of hair hanging in her lap.
He didn’t leave. Instead, he chuckled again.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You look like a drowned pelican.”
“Oh, do I?” She rose and met his gaze head-on. “And you look like a wet … a wet …”—Greek god, if she were to admit it as he raked back the hair from his face—“pirate!” she finally hissed, stomping her foot at the annoying grin on his lips. But then an odd thing occurred. She started laughing. A low rumble at first, but then it emerged rather loud and uncontrollably. The lieutenant joined in. They carried on for several minutes, staring at each other and gripping their bellies until they both swiped tears from their eyes and gasped for air.
There was something spiritual about laughter that banished all ill feelings b
etween two people. At least for a moment. And in that moment, Emeline felt a connection to this man that extended far beyond a physical attraction.
He certainly could have left her in the sea and no one would have blamed him, especially since it was her fault he had fallen. But he had risked himself for her. Why? When she found so little honor among these British.
And now the way he was looking at her—with an intensity that both alarmed and thrilled her. She’d never reacted this way to any man.
He tore his gaze from her, as if he too felt the pull between them. “I checked on your patient when I was fetching the blankets. You did a good job. He will heal nicely.”
Her mood suddenly soured. “I did all I could.”
“Why would you do that for an enemy?”
“Why do you give extra rations to your enemies?” she countered, obviously catching him off guard, as shock flashed across his face. Then a gleam of approval appeared in those daring eyes of his, and he stepped toward her. Water continued to drip from both of them onto the deck, but Emeline didn’t care. Her heart sped up as he closed the distance between them. He lifted his hand, hesitated, then slid a finger down her cheek.
Why, she couldn’t say, but the sensation it caused was more than pleasurable. Another sin for which God would surely punish her.
Then as if her skin burned his fingers, he yanked back his hand, turned, and darted out the door. She went to close it but not before Lieutenant Dimsmore passed by in the hall, offering her a sly smile.
Five days later with Robert mending as well as could be expected and no further encounters with Lieutenant Masters, Emeline was putting the finishing touches on the captain’s portrait as he sat in his usual pose on the stern window ledge. They conversed about various topics, none of which included battle plans or tactics, and despite the fact he was her enemy, Emeline still found the man’s company enjoyable. Though he was as rigid in rules as her father, he also bent those rules slightly for the sake of mercy.
For one thing, he admired her painting and did not consider it unbefitting for a lady to charge for her work. For another, he had allowed Emeline to visit Hannah in the hold and bring her extra rations and comforts. Something she was sure was not normally permitted with British prisoners.
The Liberty Bride Page 12