Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  Sir Thomas looked uneasy. “I have already given you my word. There is no need for any …unpleasantness.”

  “Very well.” With a grunt, Percy pulled away and turned to pace—stiffly—on the expensive rug.

  “Just because your first wife bore you no children does not mean you were at fault,” Villard said. “Perhaps she was barren.”

  Percy faced his friend. He’d once thought the same thing, had blamed Elsie for everything—until years of bedding young servants, peasant women, prostitutes, and the wives of several friends hadn’t yielded him a single illegitimate child either. “It wasn’t Elsie.”

  “But if this goes on much longer, our plan might not work. I mean—”

  Percy swiped the glass from Thomas’s hand, sending it crashing into the hearth. “It will work! The babe shall have the finest blood in all of England! And,” he added, looking at it from a practical perspective, “no one will know who the father is, even the sires, which will protect my property from any future claims—”

  A rap at the door halted Percy’s tirade. “Damn you,” he muttered, afraid Harripen, his butler, might have overheard. “What is it?” he called out.

  Harripen entered, followed closely by Ralston Moore, the baron’s solicitor.

  “Moore, you were to meet us when we arrived,” Percy growled. “Where have you been?”

  “I came as soon as I could.” Noticing the broken glass on the floor, he raised a questioning eyebrow, but Percy ignored it.

  “Tell me you had good reason to be detained.”

  A smile crinkled the corners of the solicitor’s eyes. “I believe I know where your wife is hiding, sir.”

  Percy’s heart skipped a beat. “Where?”

  Moore reached into his pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. Wearing the same self-satisfied smile, he handed it to Percy.

  Percy loosened the drawstrings and gazed inside, only to find a few long tresses of dark hair. “What is this?”

  “Your lady’s hair, I believe.”

  “What?” Percy felt a moment’s confusion. “Where is the rest of her?”

  “She may be aboard the Tempest, after all. One of my men found this in an alley behind a tavern where the sailors slept—” he paused for what Percy suspected was dramatic effect “—along with your wife’s torn garments.”

  “What are you saying? That Jeannette has been ravished by sailors?”

  “Let us hope not,” Sir Thomas said, “or any brat she bears will certainly not have the finest blood in all of England.”

  Moore continued before Percy could respond to the snide comment. “I believe your wife stole aboard the Tempest, milord, just as we originally suspected. Only she did it dressed as a boy. I have spoken to a sailor who claims his clothes were stolen that night.”

  “But I sent a letter to the frigate! They searched for her and found nothing.”

  “That does not mean she wasn’t there.”

  St. Ives fingered the silky tresses of his wife’s hair. “The Tempest was bound for London, was it not?”

  “It was, yes—until it received orders to join the blockade along the French coast,” Moore explained.

  “Which would explain why my wife never showed up to meet her family.”

  He gave a decisive nod. “Indeed.”

  Percy felt hope rise inside him. “Well, we are not without recourse. There are those at the Admiralty who owe me a favor or two.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ralston Moore bowed deeply, and Percy turned to Sir Thomas.

  “It is only a matter of time now,” he promised.

  * * *

  Not wanting to explain her bath in Treynor’s quarters, Jeannette skulked in the corridor outside the captain’s cabin until her hair dried. Though the air was so cold she could see her breath, she doubted the weather was entirely to blame for the shivering that beset her. She had no idea how the taciturn old captain would receive the revelation of her identity. But she had to inform him. She dared not spend another night with Treynor.

  Gathering her nerve, she knocked, and Captain Cruikshank bellowed for her to come in.

  Jeannette’s trepidation grew as she turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The windows behind the captain glowed with the orange hue of sunset as he glanced up from where he sat at a wide, wooden table. A journal lay open before him, a pair of spectacles rested low on his nose, and he held a quill pen in his left hand. A look of expectation claimed his features as he recognized her, but he didn’t immediately stand.

  “What is it?” His gaze ranged over her short hair before systematically working its way down her body. Then his eyes jerked up to her face.

  In her haste, she had left her hat and coat in Treynor’s cabin, and the swell of her breasts was clearly visible beneath the white cotton of her shirt.

  “God’s teeth!” He came to his feet. “You are a woman!”

  Jeannette cringed at the explosion. “Yes, sir.”

  His jaw worked several times before any sound emerged. When he finally spoke, his voice deepened almost to a roar. “Dammit! For once in his life, Cunnington was right. Who are you?”

  Outside the drummer was beating to quarters. The rush of feet as all hands reported to their various stations for the officers’ inspections wound Jeannette’s nerves tighter with every thump. She swallowed hard. “I am the Baroness St. Ives. And I am afraid I have made a terrible erreur.” She smiled sweetly in hopes of softening his heart. “I thought to escape my unwanted marriage by stealing aboard your vessel and only now do I realize how foolish that decision was.”

  “Indeed, madam.” He dropped his pen, then toppled the ink when he tried to keep the quill from marking the page covered by his crooked script. Grumbling another curse, he quickly righted the jar, but had only his hands to dam the black puddle he’d created as he sent another disbelieving glance her way.

  Jeannette crossed the room to offer him the use of her shirtsleeve. “Certainly a little ink can do no damage to this.”

  He jerked his head toward the cabinets that ran the length of the wall beneath the windows. “Under that bench is a towel.”

  Jeannette found it and mopped up the ink. While she worked, the captain watched her, glowering from beneath the ledge of his prominent brow and mumbling a string of expletives while shaking his head.

  “Excuse my language, madam. I assure you it is a product of my intense surprise.”

  “You have every right to be angry, sir.” Jeannette held the stained cloth away from her body until he took it, wiped his hands, and dropped it onto the ruined pages of the journal. The sorrow in his countenance made her unsure which distressed him more: the loss of his journal or the appearance of a baroness on board his frigate.

  “What now?” he asked. “If we turn back it could compromise the blockade. If we stay, your husband will be after my head for endangering your life. I cannot imagine whatever possessed you, but you have placed me in a very difficult position, madam!”

  “Indeed, Captain.” Head bowed, Jeannette kept her gaze fastened to the floor. “I can only apologize for my impulsive act—and beg your forbearance.”

  With a scowl, he began to pace. “You came aboard with Lieutenant Treynor. Did he assist you in this ruse?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no, monsieur. I misled your lieutenant and the others with my charade. I am dreadfully sorry.”

  He considered her reply. “It is not often Treynor is fooled by anyone. How long has he known?”

  “He does not know even now, sir.” She lied, hoping to protect Treynor as he had protected her. “I thought it best to come directly to you.”

  “A wise decision, but one I wish you would have made long ago.” He scratched his head and paced some more. “Why were you so desperate to flee?”

  Unwilling to reveal the embarrassing truth, Jeannette told him something closer to what he might believe. “It was an arranged marriage. I was in love with another.” She was thinking of an old beau, Lèfevre Campaigne, a
s she spoke, but she realized that, in reality, she had never felt anything beyond friendship for the kind, serious Lèfevre.

  “I see.” He rubbed his chin. “And how do you view your situation now?”

  “I suppose you could say I have come to my senses, monsieur.” Until we reach another port—any port—and I am able to disappear again…

  “A taste of the world has taught you much, no doubt.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Well, then. I have invited my officers to join me in a late supper. We will address this issue more fully then. For now, I will have one of my servants prepare a bath for you and get you some decent clothes. My daughters have come aboard upon occasion. I believe we can find you a gown that fits as well as a private cabin. It might take some shifting around but we’ll manage.”

  Trying to appear properly cowed, Jeannette nodded. This man held her future in his hands. If he chose to keep his position in the blockade, days, weeks, even months could pass, possibly giving her the opportunity to disembark at a port far from Plymouth.

  But if Cruikshank took her back to St. Ives, she would know no more of freedom.

  * * *

  The wardroom was rather elegantly appointed with a black- and-white checked floor, rich paneling, and a long solid dining table. Seats for ten surrounded the table. Two small chests, providing a flat top for games, waited to the side, along with several more chairs.

  Jeannette had plenty of time to study the furnishings as she walked the floor in her newly acquired slippers, waiting for the captain and his officers to arrive.

  Already a handful of servants were busy bringing a variety of dishes to the table. Jeannette was hungry, but could take no interest in the food, despite the tantalizing aromas that drifted from the covered plates. She was thinking about Amelia, wondering how the girl fared.

  She would find a way to visit her as soon as supper ended….

  Self-consciously smoothing the green watered silk of her gown, Jeannette turned toward the silvered mirror that hung on one wall. She was finally dressed as befitted a lady, but she scarcely recognized herself. With a pair of scissors and a much smaller mirror, she’d managed to improve the state of her hair until it curled softly to her head, making her eyes look larger and more violet than ever. But the sun had tanned her face. Fortunately she’d been used to being outdoors already or she would have burnt.

  She considered her lips, and for a moment, remembered the velvety feel of Treynor’s mouth against them. Closing her eyes, she experienced again his sinewy arms as they encircled her—

  “The captain says ‘e’ll be with ye right away, milady.”

  Startled out of her thoughts, she found a boy, no older than ten or eleven, standing behind her. “Merci.”

  He hesitated, then bobbed forward in a little bow. His awkward gallantry made her smile, but as soon as he ran off she glanced back toward the mirror, the last vestiges of Treynor’s embrace still hanging on the fringes of her mind. Would the lieutenant find her attractive in her borrowed finery?

  Jeannette shrugged and turned away. She normally wasn’t one to worry about her appearance. What Treynor thought didn’t matter anyway, she told herself, and tried hard to believe it. Her family had probably reached London by now. Or they soon would. She had to figure out a way to get there herself—if Cruikshank didn’t take her back to the baron first.

  “Lady St. Ives.” The captain had entered the room, freshly shaved and garbed for supper. He bowed to kiss her hand, then the long sword that dangled from his hip swung in its scabbard as he stood to one side and introduced the officers who came behind him. “I believe you know Lieutenant Cunnington.”

  Except for the enigmatic smile on his face, Cunnington behaved as though they were being introduced for the first time. He bowed deeply, kissing her hand just as the captain had done.

  “A pleasure, my lady,” he said, all traces of harshness replaced by a humble, solicitous manner. “My parents attended your wedding, I believe.”

  “Did they?” Jeannette’s skin crawled beneath his touch.

  “You might remember them. My father is the Viscount Lounsbury, my mother Lady Eleanor. They are very good friends of your husband’s.”

  Jeannette marked his emphasis, but smiled for the sake of propriety. “Then they are friends of mine,” she lied, but pulled her hand away. She had no wish to abuse the captain’s hospitality, but wanted to dispense with Cunnington as soon as possible. Treynor had entered the room, and she couldn’t keep her gaze from gliding over the handsome spectacle he made.

  Dressed like the other officers, in a blue-and-gold uniform, white waistcoat, and knee-length breeches, Treynor wore his clothes with an ease that most men lacked. His coat tapered in from his broad shoulders to hug his narrow waist and lean hips. His stockings revealed the muscular cut of his calves. His tanned face and honey-colored hair contrasted nicely with the blue of his eyes, making Jeannette wonder if she would ever meet another man who appealed to her half as much.

  Following her gaze, the captain drew Treynor to her side, chuckling as he slapped him on the back. “Did you ever dream we would find such a jewel lurking beneath your servant’s rags?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with appreciation. “Come, let me introduce the two of you.”

  Jeannette’s breath caught as Treynor took her hand. The warmth of his fingers traveled up her arm with lightning speed, quickening her pulse.

  “Treynor, this is Lady St. Ives. My lady, Lieutenant Crawford Treynor.”

  Their eyes met and held, then Treynor’s gaze dipped to her low decolletage, which revealed much of the soft, curving flesh of her breasts. Jeannette’s nipples hardened in response, tingling beneath his regard almost as though his hands, and not his gaze, caressed them.

  “You are a vision, my lady.” He gave her a roué’s smile, as if he was aware of the immediate change in her body. Then, with a bow, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “I could go days without a meal if only I were allowed to feast upon your beauty.”

  “Merci, Lieutenant.” Supremely self-conscious, she noted the close regard of Cunnington, who still looked on. “You are most kind, considering that I have put you and the rest of the crew in a most difficult position.”

  “Lieutenant Treynor is not a man to hold a grudge.” Cunnington’s tone was smooth, but edged with a subtle hint of malice.

  His smile never wavering, Treynor’s eyes flicked to the first lieutenant. “Not if I can get even instead.” He looked back at Jeannette. “My charge for being duped is no less than a dance or two this evening.”

  A fifer had entered the room. Seating himself in the corner, he began to play.

  Jeannette enjoyed music and felt a momentary thrill at the prospect of being swept across the floor in Treynor’s arms. She acquiesced with a slight nod. Certainly she couldn’t be tempted beyond the bounds of propriety inside a room full of people.

  “Avec plaisir, Lieutenant,” she said and turned her attention to the officer awaiting an introduction behind him.

  The captain introduced the third and fourth lieutenants and the warrant officers, beginning with the master, John Borrows, whom Jeannette had seen upon occasion.

  She greeted Mr. Borrows, then Bosun Hawker, who winked before bowing over her hand. “Not many ‘ighborn ladies would brave goin’ ter sea on a frigate,” he said. “Ye ‘ave pluck, I’ll give ye that.”

  At the moment, Jeannette felt anything but courageous. Her knees knocked at the thought of facing St. Ives again, but she prayed she wouldn’t have to. “I must thank you for all your kindness to me. And please, give my regards to Mrs. Hawker.”

  “Indeed I will. An’ I still think ye’d make a right smart bosun.”

  “Perhaps you will lend me your pipe sometime.”

  He chuckled and turned away, allowing Cruikshank to finish the introductions. After Jeannette exchanged a few words with the carpenter, surgeon, and purser, the captain escorted her to the seat on his right.

  The ot
hers gathered around the long table, which was now laden with food. Lieutenant Cunnington sat directly across from Jeannette, Lieutenant Treynor next to him, and the others in order of descending rank until the purser, Roddie Gillman, took his place on her other side.

  The captain sampled the wine, then nodded, ordering the servants to fill the goblets.

  Remembering her earlier experience with the rum, Jeannette was careful to drink sparingly. The light, fruity flavor of the wine was certainly not the same quality that had once stocked her parents’ cellars, but at least it didn’t taste slimy and brackish, like the ship’s water.

  “My lady, I was hoping you might regale us with the happier occurrences at home these days,” Cruikshank said. “We get little news, as I am sure you can imagine. When we are in port, we hear mostly of the war.”

  The servants removed the covers from the hot dishes in the center of the table, and the aroma of lamb, veal, and various meat pies wafted to Jeannette’s nostrils in a small puff of steam.

  While one of the captain’s lads ladled food onto her plate, she said, “I am afraid I can tell you little. I was in Liskeard for the past several weeks, and nothing amusing happened there.”

  “Which leads me to the subject that has been uppermost in my mind. Perhaps we should address it now and be done with it.”

  The hubbub died down when he clinked his crystal glass with his knife and raised his voice so that those at the opposite end of the table could better hear him. “I have been hard-pressed, gentlemen, trying to decide whether or not we should immediately return the baroness to Plymouth. I am mindful of our duty, and the coming grain convoy from America, but a frigate is an unsafe place for a woman. Not only that but the baron is, no doubt, eager to see his wife return home.”

  Jeannette’s heart sank. She’d been expecting such a conversation but certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.

  The captain’s gaze circled the table. “I would hear your opinions on the matter, if you please.”