Sally Wentworth - The Sea Master

by Sally Wentworth

  Michelle glared at him indignantly; who the hell did he think he was, giving her orders like that? But her stomach was making noises and the thought of food drew her like a magnet. Going into the bathroom she looked in the mirror and grimaced. She saw what .he meant; her mascara was still smudged round her eyes and there were streaks of tar on her cheek which must have come from the river. Her hair, too, was a tangled, dishevelled mess.

  Getting her face clean was easy, but she didn't know what to do about her hair until she realised that a leather toilet case had been put in the built-in cupboard. Michelle felt no compunction about using the brush and comb she found inside it; if the man wanted her to be tidy then he would have to Supply the means. Her underwear was dry enough to put on now, but even so she instinctively wrapped the bathrobe tighter round herself as she padded bare' foot out to the galley.

  The owner was already there. What was it the French Customs man had called him? Yes, Farringdon, that was it He was making coffee, the smell of which almost made Michelle drool. She'd never felt so hungry in her life. He looked round as she came in and his eyes widened in surprise.

  'Quite a transformation! You look about ten years younger. Just how old are you, anyway?'

  'I 'ave nine… twenty-four years, m'sieur,' Michelle amended hastily, thinking that the older she made herself out to be the better. She looked at

  the partly cut long French loaf lying on the worktop and her mouth watered. 'May I?' She gestured towards it. '

  'Go ahead.' He poured out two mugs of coffee and carried them to the nearby table, sitting down and watching her while she hacked off a large chunk of bread and spread it thickly with the butter and smoked ham left beside the loaf.

  Michelle sat down opposite him, aware of him watching her, but so hungry that she completely ignored him until she'd eaten her sandwich and drunk her coffee. Then she sat back, licking her lips, and found his dark grey eyes watching her with a slightly amused look in their depths.

  'Feeling better?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, th—merci, m'sieur.'

  'Good.' He had been sitting back in his seat, smoking a cigarette, but now he stubbed it out and leant forward, the amusement in his eyes replaced by a coo! intentness. 'So now you've got some explaining to do, young lady. Just how did you get on my boat, and why?'

  A chill of nervousness ran through her and Michelle stammered a little as she answered, 'It—it was at Calais, m'sieur.' Fervently she wished she'd had more time to work out some story to tell him, some reason for her to have boarded his boat in broad daylight that he would believe. As it was, all she could think of was to stick near the truth. 'I—I had been to a party; on another boat, you understand? And I fell into the ri… the sea, and the tide carried me to your boat. I called but no one came, so I…'

  'Just a minute,' he interrupted her brusquely. 'This party—when did it start?'

  Michelle wrinkled her forehead, desperately frying to work it out, then her brow cleared; the truth would do again. 'On the sixteenth, m'sieur. It was a long party, you understand? It went on all night and the next day. It was daylight when I fell in the water.'

  'What was the name of the boat?'

  A blank look came into her face. 'I—I do not know. I went to it with some other people.'

  He nodded, apparently accepting the statement, and Michelle gave an inner sigh of relief.

  'How did you fall in?'

  'I am afraid I was a little—how do you say it? a little tipsy and ...'

  'Drunk,' he interrupted laconically.

  Michelle glared at him. 'A little tipsy,' she repeated firmly, 'and I tripped over a rope.'

  'And no one heard you cry for help?'

  'No. No one. I was very frightened. I thought I would drown, m'sieur, But then I came near your boat and I caught hold of the rope and pulled myself up on board.' She smiled-at him, enjoying herself now. 'It was most fortunate, was it not?'

  'Oh, most,' Farringdon agreed sardonically. 'And I suppose that by now your friends will have reported you missing?'

  'Oh, no,' Michelle told him blithely. 'I didn't really know anyone Acre. It was not open party, anyone could go. No one will miss me.'

  The dark eyes narrowed again. 'I see. It's strange, I didn't hear the noise of a party on any of the boats anchored near mine.'

  'It was not so noisy then, m'sieur. And the boat was some distance from yours.'

  'Really? You were lucky, then. When no one on the boat saw you go in, and no one—even with all the shipping in Calais harbour—saw you in the

  water, and that evening dress that you have hanging in the cabin weighing you down; why, you were extremely lucky not to have drowned. '

  'Mais oui, m'sieur.'

  Pleased that he was accepting her story so readily, Michelle hadn't noticed the coldness that had entered his voice until he suddenly shot out a hand, gripped her wrist where it lay on the table, and bit out, 'What's your name?'

  'Mich…' She faltered in her automatic response, suddenly aware that that was the last thing she wanted him to know.

  But he was watching her keenly, his eyes alert and penetrating. 'Go on,' he commanded curtly, 'Mich…Michelle?'

  Slowly, nervously, she nodded, trying hard not to let her hand shake in his grasp.

  'Michelle… what?'

  A name from her old French textbooks at school came providentially to mind. 'Monet,' she answered. 'Michelle Monet' She tried to look him in the face as she said it, but his eyes were boring into hers and she flushed and looked away.

  Immediately the grip on her wrist tightened. Silkily he said, 'That was a very amusing story, mademoiselle, but now I think we'll have the truth.'

  Alarmed, she tried to brazen it out, 'I 'ave told you the truth, m'sieur. Every word is… Oh!' She broke off as he slowly and deliberately began to twist her wrist. 'M'sieur, you are 'urting me! D— don't! Stop it!' But he didn't take any notice, just continued to twist until she was on her feet, crying out and trying vainly to prise his fingers off her wrist. 'Stop it, d'you hear me? Let me go!' She was yelling now, the French accent completely forgotten.

  Suddenly he did let ,go a sardonic curve to his mouth as Michelle stood and rubbed her sore wrist. 'You beast! How dare you hurt me like that? Just because I got on your rotten…' She broke off, aware of what she was saying and the way he was looking at her. 'Oh!'

  'Quite. And now that we've got rid of the phoney accent maybe we can have the true story.'

  Slowly she sat down again, looking at him resentfully. 'How did you know?'

  'You spoke to me in the night when you were ill, and although it was only a few words they certainly weren't in French. If you hadn't known you were on an English boat you would have spoken in French.'

  'Oh.' She looked at him nervously, wondering what to tell him.

  'I'm waiting,' he reminded her drily.

  'Well,' frantically she tried to think of something, 'what I told you was partly true. I—I had been to a party.' Inspiration suddenly came. 'In Calais. I'd gone over there for the weekend. I was with a man, and I was going to spend the night with him,' she added brazenly, trying to ignore the swift, speculative look he gave her. 'But—well, he got drunk and—and offensive, and I changed my mind. We had a row when I wouldn't sleep with him and he locked me out of the hotel room so that I couldn't change or get my things. I slept on a chair in the corridor all night and waited till the next morning, but he must have been out cold, because he didn't open the door when I banged on it.'

  She hesitated and gave the boat owner a quick look under her lashes, but he was still watching-her narrowly and she plunged on, 'Well, then it got embarrassing. People were starting to get up and I didn't want to be found there, so I walked down to the harbour. I had some idea of getting a lift back to England in one of the cars going over on the ferry, but I didn't have any money or my passport or anything, so no one would take me. But then I met a local boy who said there were a lot of English boats in the harbour, so he rowed me out here and I sne
aked on board.'

  'You saw me leave the boat?'

  Uneasily she nodded, not knowing what to say for the best

  'So you intended to stew away—to stay hidden until we got back to England?'

  'Yes. I—I'm sorry.' She opened her eyes wide and looked at him appealingly, something she'd often seen her mother do. But she couldn't have been doing it right, because it seemed to have entirely the wrong effect on this man.

  'You're sorry,' he sneered derisively. 'And I suppose you expect me to just accept your apology and turn round and take you back to London? Well, it isn't quite as simple as that. I left France in an all-fired hurry because I've already left it to the last minute to keep an appointment in the West Indies. My crewman went sick and I was trying to find a replacement, but in the end had to sail without one. Now, by having to turn round and take you back I'm going to lose at least two days, probably three by the time I've got it all sorted out and refuelled. Legally, I suppose I ought to take you back to Calais where I found you and dump you back into their laps.'

  Michelle looked at him cautiously, resenting being referred to almost as an unwanted parcel but aware that he had given her an opening. 'You don't, have to go back to London—or Calais—on my account.'

  His head came up sharply. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  She tried to shrug offhandedly, 'My time's my own. I wouldn't mind a trip to the West Indies. And you said you heeded some help on the boat. Why don't I take the place of your crewman?'

  The grey eyes had narrowed, were regarding her searchingly. 'Are you serious?'

  'Yes. Why not?' Michelle tried to make her voice sound confident, but her heart was pumping loudly, in her chest.

  'Do you know anything about sailing?' 'Of course,' she lied. 'I've been on boats before.'

  'Really? Then you'll know what a spring is?' Michelle raised her eyebrows. What a stupid question. 'Of course I know what a spring is. It's a piece of metal shaped like a spiral.'

  'And a warp?'

  She looked at him suspiciously. 'It's a bit of wood that's bent out of shape-isn't it?' she-added hesitantly.

  He looked at her contemptuously. 'Well, now we both know that you know absolutely nothing about boating. A warp is the name we use for a rope and a spring is when we tie the warps diagonally from the boat to the bank or another boat to prevent them hitting. As crew you'd be absolutely useless. I'd be doing myself a favour to put you on the nearest point of land.'

  'Oh, no, please. I know I could help, really I could. I could keep the boat clean and I could…' she sought for something that sounded remotely 1 nautical, 'I could swab the decks,' she managed triumphantly. His mouth twisted in wry amusement. 'Can you cook?'

  'Oh, yes,' she agreed, much too fervently.

  'Which probably means that that's a lie too and you can't even boil an egg.' Farringdon leaned back in his chair and regarded her through the smoke of his cigarette for a few moments while Michelle sat and fidgeted uneasily under his scrutiny. Abruptly he asked, 'What about your family, won't they have something to say about you going to America?'

  'I haven't any family,' Michelle answered with bitter conviction. 'No one close enough to care if I go away for a while.'

  'Are you running away from something or someone?'

  Michelle's eyes widened in some surprise and she shook her head. 'No.' It hadn't occurred to her that that was what she was doing.

  'Are you sure?' he demanded grimly.

  Her chin came up. 'Quite sure.'

  'What about your passport, I suppose your—er— boyfriend still has that?'

  'What?' For a moment she was disconcerted, then remembered dial she was supposed to have been with a man in Calais. 'Oh, yes. Well, that's no problem. I can send a telegram when we get to the West Indies asking him to send it on to me.'

  'You have his address?'

  She looked at him defiantly. 'Yes.'

  He frowned and drew hard on his cigarette so that the end glowed red. 'Are you telling me the truth?'

  Michelle put her hands under the table and crossed her fingers. 'Yes, of course I am.'

  'If I wasn't so short of time I'd have no hesitation whatsoever in taking you back and handing you over, but as it is…' He continued to frown at her while Michelle waited in trepidation. 'As it is,' he repeated, his eyes running over her, 'I really don't have the time to spare. And you might be able to provide some creature comforts at that.'

  He ground out his cigarette, the decision made. 'All right, I'll take you along. You can radio to your boy-friend for your passport over the boat's radio.' He stood up. 'What's your real name? I never heard anything so phoney as Michelle Monet in my life. So what were you really going to say?'

  Michelle looked at him in annoyance, but said 'It's Mitchell.' Adding, 'June Mitchell,' after a quick look at a calendar on the wall for inspiration.

  'Now that I believe,' He stood up and looked down at her. 'AH right, June Mitchell, you've got yourself a job. Welcome aboard the Ethos,' he added sardonically, his tone far from welcoming. 'You can start by cleaning the place up.'

  He went to go on deck again, but Michelle called after him. 'Wait! You haven't told me your name yet.'

  He paused and looked back. 'So I haven't. It's Guy Farringdon.'

  For a moment their- eyes met and held, then Michelle gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and he turned and ran lightly up the steps.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As soon as he'd gone, Michelle dived across the galley to cut herself another sandwich and pour out a second cup of coffee. Even as she did so she heard the engine "open out and the boat seemed to surge forward. Guy Farringdon making up for the time he'd lost while he was talking to her, she supposed. Fleetingly she wondered what appointment he could be making for in the West Indies that was so important, and which particular island, but she wasn't really worried; just glad that she had got her own way and would be out of touch for a few days. Long enough to put a scare into her parents and make them take some notice of her when she reappeared. For a while she was afraid that she would feel sick again once the boat started moving, but it sailed smoothly over the sea, hardly rocking or rolling at all, and Michelle realised that it had only been the storm that had made it so unstable. She began to feel better and more cheerful by the minute and to look around her, taking in her new surroundings. The galley was beautifully equipped with a large upright deep-freeze cabinet as well as a refrigerator, both well stocked with food, and there was also a small washing machine and tumble dryer on top of one another near the sink. The cupboards, when she opened them, contained a large quantity of food and drink and there was a range of new-looking cooking utensils under the cooker. Everything one would need, in fact, for a fairly long voyage. And the boat, plus everything in it, looked brand new. Could this be some sort of maiden voyage Guy Farringdon was making? she wondered.

  As instructed, she put away the rest of the food and then wiped down the working surfaces, rolling her sleeves up to stop them getting in the way. The bathrobe was much too big, reaching well down towards her feet, and went almost twice round her slim figure. She hoped that her new boss had some other clothes she could wear, because the certainly didn't want to spend the whole voyage dressed in this.

  When she'd finished, she stood uncertainty, wondering .what to do, but the sunshine streaming through the windows beckoned and she made her way up the steps to the large, airy saloon and then through a door on to the deck. Funny, she must have come through this way when she'd boarded the boat in London, but she couldn't remember a thing about it; she must have been far drunker than she'd realised.

  As soon as she stepped into the open the breeze caught her hair and blew it about her head, whipping too at the skirts of the bathrobe and blowing them up round her hips. Pushing her hair out of her eyes with one hand and holding her skirts down with the other, she looked around for Farringdon but couldn't see him, then noticed a ladder with four steps leading up to the roof of the saloon. Gingerly she held on to th
e rails and climbed the steps. Guy Farringdon was seated in a swivel seat in front of at control panel with the wheel in his hands, steering the boat across the open sea. The wind was stronger up here and she found it difficult to hold the bathrobe down and keep her hair out of her eyes at the same time. She began to cross the few feet towards him, but just then the boat slapped into a waveband

  tilted to one side so that Michelle had to make a grab for the rail, the robe blowing open up to her waist.

  Pushing her hair out of the way, she saw that Guy Farringdon was looking at her legs, his mouth twisted in appreciative amusement. Angrily she pulled the robe back into place and said coldly, 'I need some clothes.'

  He grinned openly. 'So I see.' Turning, he did something to the levers on the control panel and then let go the wheel. 'Okay, let's see if I can find you something.'

  He got out of the seat and went to go past her, but Michelle said nervously, 'What about the boat? Won't it go the wrong way with no one to steer it?'

  An exasperated took came into the grey, eyes. 'It's on auto-pilot. How else did you expect me to get across the Atlantic single-handed?' he demanded .impatiently..'I have to sleep some time.'

  'I—I don't know. I didn't think about it.'

  The exasperated look gave way to one of slight contempt, but he didn't say anything, just led the way down the ladder again and back through the boat to the single cabin at the front where she'd spent her first night. There was a big holdall on the floor there now, not yet unpacked, which he picked up and put on the bunk while he sorted through it.

  'Here, try these.' He pulled out a navy blue sweater and a white tee-shirt, then a pair of denim jeans.

  Michelle held the jeans against her. They were about a foot too long and the waist was several sizes too big. 'I'm going to need a belt.'

  He fished in the bag again and gave her a narrow brown leather one. 'That will be too big as well. Put it round your waist and I'll mark it and punch a couple more holes in.'