by Brenda Novak
“Nothing,” she agreed. The horizon seemed endless. In every direction, water. That their lives depended upon so little amidst the immensity that surrounded them was frightening.
A strong voice rose on the air behind her. “Steady as she goes.”
Others shouted the same words in a relay toward the bow. That everyone worked in such a cooperative manner awed Jeannette. It resulted in a smoothly running frigate despite the complexities and difficulties involved.
She studied the plethora of ropes that crisscrossed above her head. At first they appeared to be little more than a mass of tangles, but a closer look revealed how carefully they were organized. The lines that controlled the position of the sails were tied around belaying pins, which passed through holes in the rail behind the mainmast. Pulling out the pin would instantly release the entire line, enabling the frigate to change the position of her sails quickly and easily.
A man in a spotless blue coat, like Treynor’s, made his way toward them. Jeannette didn’t recognize the officer, but she had no desire to draw attention to herself by hanging about Treynor’s coattails. No doubt he had work to do—and she had a small problem herself.
“Jean, please gather eggs for the cook and take them down to the galley.” Treynor’s eyes rested on the man coming toward them as he spoke. Jeannette knew he wanted her gone, but she had no idea where to find the chickens, the eggs, or the galley.
“Where?” she whispered.
He nodded toward two boats tied to the deck just ahead, covered with canvas to keep out the rain.
As Jeannette drew close to them, she could hear the clucking of chickens. She looked for something to put the eggs in and found a wicker basket hung to one side. Pulling the handle over her arm, she peeled back the canvas cover to reach tentatively into the warm straw, nervous despite the simplicity of her task. This was servant’s work. She had no idea how anyone gathered eggs.
Her efforts met with a squawk and a fluster that caused her to withdraw her hand several times, but she persevered until she realized she was wasting her time. The nests were empty.
She pretended to be busy until the man conversing with Treynor left. Then she said a silent prayer of thanks as she could wait no longer to find a privy.
Approaching the lieutenant from behind, she said, “Lieutenant Treynor, I need to …I need to …you know…”
Treynor twisted around, a familiar, wry grin on his lips. “You need to what?”
“To use the necessary,” she whispered angrily. “Where do I go?”
“Most of the men use a bucket and pitch it over the side.” He laughed at her horrified expression; she would be discovered if she had to rely on such a practice.
“There are private lavatories for the officers farther aft,” he continued. “But stay out of those. Use the heads in the bows, one deck below. The roundhouse offers the privacy you desire, but be careful even there. It is for junior officers.”
She nodded, hoping she would know a roundhouse when she saw it, or the heads, for that matter, and set off.
The eyes of those she passed slipped to her occasionally. Were they wondering if Treynor had exacted any retribution from her for his flogging? Or were they thinking that she looked more like a girl?
Except for the officer’s lavatories Treynor had mentioned, there were only six heads for the entire crew, assuming what she saw was all they had. The walls of this part of the ship were ornately painted in blue and gold with cornices and other decorative woodwork, and a female figurehead thrust proudly out over the water at the bow. Unfortunately, the heads were located out in the open where a gale or wave could carry their users overboard.
No wonder most men used a bucket.
Jeannette came to an abrupt halt as a sailor on the far end, whom she hadn’t noticed before, stood and pulled up his breeches.
So that’s what it looks like. She tried not to appear as startled as she felt. Somehow she’d imagined the male anatomy to be more …she wasn’t sure exactly. More threatening than droopy, perhaps.
Quickly averting her gaze, she tried not to show her embarrassment. But it was difficult to reconcile the shriveled, rather unattractive bit of flesh with what she remembered about Treynor.
The stranger belched and adjusted his privates as Jeannette began to recognize some of the smells she’d noticed while in the hold and so close to the bilge. The slatted floor on which she stood allowed whatever went into the raised wooden seats to drain into the bottom of the ship.
She shuddered and glanced around, searching for the roundhouse. Treynor had said it would offer her a modicum of privacy. She wanted to finish her business and be away before being treated to another view of a man’s penis.
With a nod, the sailor left. She shook her head to rid her mind of what she had just seen, then spotted a round cubicle. Evidently the roundhouse was aptly named. What else could it be?
As she knocked gingerly on the door, Jeannette prayed she’d find it empty. Treynor had said the roundhouse served junior officers; she would be upbraided for using it.
When no sound issued from within, she tried the knob and swung the door open to find two seats inside. Both, to Jeannette’s profound relief, were currently vacant, but the door had no lock. She stood inside, listening for approaching footsteps, too afraid to make her move until necessity forced her to act.
As soon as Jeannette fastened her breeches again, the door flew open and a young, stocky man with raven hair and a pockmarked face blinked at her.
“What’s this? Our little froggy?” he cried. “Get the hell out of here before you get the lashes you deserved yesterday.”
Jeannette ducked her head, hoping to appear as cowed as possible. “Oui, m’sieu.”
“French pig,” he muttered, cuffing her as she passed.
He delivered the blow out of irritation, not true anger, but it clipped Jeannette on the chin just hard enough to upset her balance. She knocked into the door, then staggered back, falling into him.
Snarling a curse, he kicked her leg.
Tears sprang to Jeannette’s eyes as pain exploded just below her knee. “Excusez moi.” She groaned the words, trying to forestall his fist, which drew back to strike her while she was down.
“Next time you’ll know your place, by God,” he swore, and Jeannette cringed as his fist hit her square in the stomach.
The blow made her nauseous. She rolled into a ball and didn’t move or speak again. Her accent provoked him more than finding her in the roundhouse, where she didn’t belong. Vaguely, she wondered how many times he’d hit her before exhausting his desire to hurt.
She covered her head to protect her face, but he didn’t strike again. With a harsh laugh, he shoved her out of his way with one foot. Then he dropped his pants and sat down to relieve himself.
Jeannette heard him above the buzzing in her head. He seemed to take forever.
“That’ll teach ye.” He fastened his pants and straightened his jacket before he strode out, leaving the door hanging ajar.
Gulping the fresh air that came in puffs as the door flapped with the movement of the ship, she tried to drag herself toward the opening. She didn’t think the petty officer had caused any major damage. It was more of a combination—pain, lack of food, and too little sleep—that left her unable to stand.
The pain and dizziness would pass, she assured herself. But the world outside the roundhouse suddenly seemed so hostile and foreign that she let herself curl back into a ball. She would move in a few minutes. She just needed to rest.
How odd that the smell didn’t bother her anymore …
Chapter 11
Treynor’s eyes flicked once again over the deck, searching for Jeannette. She should be back by now. Had she gotten lost?
He forced himself to wait a few more minutes, hoping she’d appear. Following after her might draw unwanted attention. Cunnington watched everything he did, always looking for the slightest indiscretion.
He sauntered to the stern where
the log-line was being towed in the water behind them. The ship’s master counted while sand ran out of the log-glass. He compared the time passed to the number of knots released, calculated the ship’s speed in nautical miles per hour, then recorded it in his daily log book. It was all routine, and Treynor paid little attention. His mind was on Jeannette.
Succumbing to the worry that gnawed at his gut, he pivoted and found the hatch. Something had to have happened. Had she defied him again? Stolen back below? Certainly she wasn’t that foolish. She was stubborn, though. He’d expected her to cry, or show weakness in some way, when he spanked her. But she hadn’t. Perhaps this was part of her revenge.
Two seamen were using the heads when Treynor stepped through the door. As soon as they finished, they saluted, turning their palms toward their faces to hide the black tar-stains on their hands. If they were surprised to see him, they didn’t show it. Officers generally preferred the lavatories, but sometimes convenience dictated a visit to the heads.
Treynor waited until the men left before moving to one of the two roundhouses located on either side of him. The first he found to be empty. For a moment, he thought the second one was, too. But then he heard a moan.
His breath caught as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior and he saw Jeannette crouched against the wall. “What the—”
She sagged to the floor. “I was afraid …you were him.”
“What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
“It seems that some of your friends take—” she swallowed “—more of a proprietary interest in the roundhouse than you thought.” She tried to chuckle but groaned instead.
“Who did this?” He ran his fingers through her thick, dark hair and over her scalp, finding a small knot just above her temple near the cut she’d sustained in the hold, but no fresh blood. And she seemed to have no broken bones.
“I was not in a position to ask his name.”
Her eyes slid shut, and Treynor cursed himself for letting this happen. If he had told the captain about her as he was obliged to do, she would be safely back with her husband by now.
Gently lifting her into his arms, he said, “Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right.”
* * *
Jeannette snuggled deeper into the soft quilts that covered her, dreaming of her childhood. Her mother rocked her and sang softly. The sun streamed in through the window, warming her face. She was full and content. Until the chair seemed to dip, sending her sprawling. Then she jerked awake.
“How do you feel?”
Lieutenant Treynor sat beside her, his lower jaw shadowed with stubble. His shirt was off, revealing a light matting of hair that swirled over a dark, muscular chest, contrasting the white dressings that covered the healing wounds of the lash. The sun in her dream was a lamp on the desk not far away, and her mother’s rocking chair, the lieutenant’s hammock, which swung back and forth with the movements of the frigate.
“Have I been asleep long?” She squinted against the pounding of her head.
Treynor retrieved a bowl from the desk. “All day and most of the night. You started to stir an hour or so ago, so I had Cook prepare something for you to eat. Here, get this down.”
He offered her a bite of a thick, gelatinous substance that tasted like meat.
“What is it?”
“Portable soup. It’s made by boiling down broth so it’s easier to transport.”
She nodded, letting him spoon several bites into her mouth before realizing she was naked beneath the covers of his bed. Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she turned accusing eyes on him. “Where are my clothes?”
“They were filthy. I wasn’t about to put you in my bed with them on.”
“You could have given me others!”
“I still would have had to remove the ones you wore.” He challenged her with a look.
“You were eager for just such an opportunity.”
“I cannot deny I enjoyed it.” His smile slanted toward the wicked. “But I prefer my women to be a bit more responsive when I touch them.”
Jeannette felt a blush rise from her neck. “You touched me?”
He chuckled. “It would have been difficult to undress and bathe you without doing so.”
“You bathed me?” She saw no tub.
An enigmatic smile curved his lips as he picked up a damp cloth and waved it at her.
“Did you touch me more than you had to?”
He leaned closer, his long fingers playing with her hair. “Unfortunately, I was too worried to take advantage of the situation.”
“I don’t believe you.” Jeannette knocked his hand away, and he laughed.
“Then I can’t put your mind at ease. So finish eating, like a good girl.”
“I am not a girl.”
“How well I know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He pressed a hand to his chest in a gesture of innocence, the movement drawing Jeannette’s gaze back to the smooth skin that covered the bulging sinew. She’d been trying not to notice the way the light played against the firm contours of his body, but her eyes had flicked over him repeatedly. “Can’t I make a simple statement?” he asked.
“Nothing is simple with you.” She shifted, trying to get more comfortable by telling herself that the rapid pace of her heart had nothing to do with the sight of Treynor, half-clad, only an arm’s distance away. She remembered the feel of his hands on her body so vividly only because she had never experienced anything like it before.
“You are wrong about that.” He picked up her hand and kissed the tip of each finger. “With me, some things are as simple as they get.”
Treynor’s lips were warm and soft. He made Jeannette gasp when he took her thumb into his mouth and tickled the sensitive pad with his tongue.
She pulled away. “Don’t do that.”
“Why? You like it.”
She gave him a look of impatience. “How do you know?”
“It’s obvious.”
“And do you think I liked the spanking, too?” She struggled to sit up. “Here, give me that. I can feed myself.”
Treynor’s eyes went to her cleavage but he made no move to restrain her until she reached for the spoon. Then he batted her hand away. “Tell me what happened at the roundhouse,” he said, sobering.
Jeannette explained, briefly. She didn’t want to remember the incident. Her head throbbed, and her stomach still felt tender where she’d been hit.
Treynor’s jaw tightened as she related the experience. “Sounds like John Grover. I will see to him.”
Jeannette wondered exactly what he meant by that, but she didn’t question him. He might feel the need to protect her from others, but who was going to protect her from him?
Seemingly preoccupied, he fed her in silence. When she had finished the entire bowl, he set it aside.
“Why did you marry the baron?” he asked suddenly, focusing his blue eyes on her face.
“I had no choice,” she replied.
“You made one when you ran away.”
She blanched. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do.”
Jeannette drew the blankets more tightly around her. “My family needed the benefit of whatever alliance I could make. And the baron didn’t mind that I had a mere pittance of a dowry.”
A look of contempt claimed his features. “So I was right. Your parents sold you to the highest bidder.”
“Do not judge them too harshly,” Jeannette said with a grimace. “My family has been through more than you can ever imagine.”
He seemed unconvinced of the necessity of their actions.
“As you well know, the French are not particularly popular in England at present,” she went on. “I could not expect to catch one of London’s most eligible bachelors.”
“No, but someone within a decade of your own age might not have been asking too much. Your parents should not have given their consent.” He stood and prowled around the ca
bin. “Damned aristocrats think everything revolves around blood and money.”
“Why do you hate us?” she demanded. “You lead a good life. You have the things you need.” She waved her hand at the expensive furnishings in his cabin. “Most of the women in England would consider themselves lucky to be on your arm.”
He gave her a bitter smile. “But not someone like you. A noblewoman would never settle for a bastard.”
Jeannette stared at him without speaking. She hadn’t realized he was illegitimate. What could she say? He was right.
He chuckled. “Never mind. I have no plans to marry, noblewoman or not.”
“You have made that clear. But if you ever change your mind, you might want to let me teach you how to treat a lady.”
Ignoring her remark, Treynor watched her with hooded eyes. “If you wanted the marriage so badly, why did you run from your new husband?”
She stared at the tiny stitches on Treynor’s quilt. “He had a rather creative plan for obtaining an heir.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Jeannette waved his question away. “Only that I won’t go back, ever.”
Treynor sighed. “It’s late. You had better get more sleep.” Retrieving the shirt he’d slung over the back of the chair, he winced as he shrugged into it.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I am the officer of the next watch.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly four in the morning.”
A knock on the door made Jeannette cower beneath the covers, but Treynor cried, “I’m on my way,” without bothering to answer it.
“That was the quartermaster,” he explained. “There is more food here, if you get hungry.” He nodded toward a tray covered by a linen napkin. “Lock the door behind me and whatever you do, don’t go anywhere.”
“Wait,” she said.
Treynor turned back when he reached the door.
“What happened to my dog?”
“You mean Bull?” he said. “The Hawkers have her, and even she’s happy that they’ve changed her name to Bonnie. Is it really your dog?”