by Brenda Novak
“Quel bon bébé,” she cooed, moving closer so Amelia could better see her child.
The other woman’s expression softened. “‘E’s red and shriveled, that’s what ‘e is. But ‘e’s lookin’ for ‘is mum.”
Jeannette held out the infant.
Still skeptical, Amelia looked from her to the child but allowed Jeannette to place him in her arms. “Look at ‘is toes,” she said, marveling over the tiny, perfect features.
“He is hungry, no? Why not feed him?”
Amelia fumbled with her dress, unbuttoning it far enough to reach her breast—and gasped when the babe latched on.
“He knew what he wanted, did he not?” Jeannette asked in the sudden absence of his crying.
“Aye. ‘E did at that.” Amelia’s voice sounded wistful and her eyes filled with wonder.
Doing what she could to clean up, Jeannette hid a smile. Her friend would never be able to refuse the child again.
* * *
As dawn stained the eastern sky a shimmering magenta, Jeannette fell, exhausted, into her hammock. It had been a long night, one that could easily have turned out to be a complete disaster.
As it was, she felt good about seeing Amelia nurse her child. Even after Treynor and the surgeon had arrived, the girl had continued to examine the tiny body, unwrapping the shawl here and there for a peek.
The surgeon provided her with some folded cotton cloth for both mother and child, and charged Treynor with the practical task of commandeering more. Even the aspect of diapering the babe seemed to interest Amelia. The powerful bond between mother and child was already forming.
It had been almost as gratifying to see Treynor’s reaction to Amelia holding her baby. His weary confusion had vanished as his gaze returned to the pair again and again. When he’d noticed Jeannette’s interest, the crooked smile he offered her caused something inside her to twist and yearn.
From there, they’d been occupied moving Amelia and her child to the sick bay, but Jeannette could still feel the warm blush that rose to her face when the lieutenant looked at her. Something in his gaze struck her as personal and full of meaning. But any woman would be flattered by the appreciation in his expression. Lieutenant Treynor was a remarkable man.
Jeannette slept until one of the captain’s servants woke her with a knock. After she unlocked the door, he bid her a polite good morning and carried in a tray for her midday meal.
Still tired, she waited for him to leave with less than her usual good cheer. Her dreams had been plagued by visions of a wedding—her own, evidently, as she was once again wearing the sheer muslin over silk dress she’d worn at the chapel with St. Ives. She didn’t recognize the man with whom she made her vows. He was as old and decrepit as the baron. But she knew it wasn’t a stranger who came to her bed that night. It was Lieutenant Treynor. He thrilled her with the touch and taste of him, with the passion of their love, then disappeared into thin air.
Closing her eyes, she kneaded her forehead until the door closed and she was once again alone. Then she cut into the meat pie and steamed vegetables the captain’s servant had delivered. Because of Cunnington, the Tempest was taking her back to Plymouth. The first lieutenant had baited Treynor into defending her and was now using it against them both.
A card rested next to her plate. Jeannette turned it over and read a brief note from Captain Cruikshank. He wished her well, thanked her for her part in delivering the baby, and informed her that the situation was well in hand—which meant, she surmised, that both mother and baby were being properly cared for.
Perhaps it also indicated that Rulon Jones would be punished. How well he deserved a few lashes! Jeannette wondered if Amelia might still object, but she felt no leniency toward Mr. Jones. Amelia could have lost her life because of him, as well as her baby.
Jeannette chewed her vegetables without really tasting them as her thoughts circled back to her own worries. What would St. Ives do when he had her in his control again? What would her parents do?
A poignant longing to see her family rose up in her, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. They had to be worried about her. No doubt they feared something terrible had happened. And it had. Jeannette had met a man she could love. But she could no sooner have him than the land she had once called home.
She reached up to touch her hair. Would her shorn locks distress her mother? Or would the fact that she had stowed aboard an English frigate overshadow all else? She smiled ruefully at the thought that she was no longer the protected innocent she once had been.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Claiming a headache, Jeannette declined the captain’s invitation to sup at his table. Instead, she remained in her cabin and spent the time pacing and reading, although once the officers convened in the wardroom on the other side of the canvas wall, she couldn’t concentrate on anything except Lieutenant Treynor’s voice. He spoke with the others about the war, the ship, the weather—nothing particularly riveting. Just the sound of his voice was enough to hold her spellbound.
When they finished eating and said their farewells for the night, Jeannette tried to distract herself by reading poetry. The captain had given her a tattered volume by William Cowper, but she had to read each line, even those of her favorites, over and over to grasp the meaning. Her time with Treynor was dwindling to a close. The more minutes that ticked by, the greater Jeannette’s sense of urgency.
Eight bells signaled the hour to retire. The captain’s servant had delivered a light repast for her supper, along with tea, which she had enjoyed. But the food was long gone, and there was nothing to do now except sleep.
Scarcely tired, but depressed enough to climb back into her hammock anyway, Jeannette proceeded to shift and fidget. The lieutenant’s face, with his knowing grin, appeared every time she closed her eyes.
Finally, with a groan of despair, she rose and lit a lamp, determined to muddle through a last bit of Cowper.
There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;
And sinners, plung’d beneath that flood,
Lost all their guilty stains—
A light knock on the door made Jeannette drop her book. Ever mindful of the night Cunnington had visited her outside Treynor’s cabin, she drew the wrap the captain had provided tightly around herself, left the poems where they’d fallen and moved to the portal.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
Lieutenant Treynor’s voice was unmistakable. Fleetingly Jeannette wondered if something was wrong with Amelia or the baby, but deep down she knew he hadn’t come to bear her news of their welfare.
The lock clicked loudly in Jeannette’s ears as her trembling fingers slid back the bolt. Sure enough, when she swung the door open, she found the lieutenant in the hall.
“We dock in Plymouth tomorrow evening.” He watched her as if he could feel her crumbling resolve, as if he offered her one last chance to take what she wanted. A trace of vulnerability in his face revealed how much he craved the same thing.
The light from her lamp threw shadows across his chiseled features, the cleft chin, the square jaw, the high cheekbones, the full lips. Jeannette’s gaze rested on that sensuous mouth. The memory of it slanting across her own was enough to steal her breath.
She moved back, allowing him to enter.
He stepped cautiously past her, as though he longed to touch her yet feared the moment of contact almost as much as she did.
“You weren’t sleeping?” He bent to retrieve the book she’d dropped on the floor.
Jeannette shook her head. “I could not.”
He set the poems on the bureau and turned to face her. “Neither could I. I missed you at dinner.”
“I was able to hear you,” she replied with a shaky smile. “I hung on every word you said.”
Holding her gaze with his own, he closed the distance between them. “Then I was a fool not to have spoken of your beauty.”
“There is stil
l time,” she teased, her tone light.
He gave her a wry smile. “I am no poet, Jeannette. But I could tell you how your eyes turn into pools of amethyst when you want to be kissed, how your lashes lower to your cheeks and you arch toward me…” He ran a finger along her jaw.
The slight touch was enough to make Jeannette’s heart pound. “You should not have come,” she whispered.
“Then tell me to go.” He stared at her for a long moment before his arms went around her. Then he pulled her up against the hard length of him. She could feel the corded muscles of his legs through her thin wrap and nightgown, his perfectly molded shoulders and arms beneath her hands.
His eyelids lowered as his mouth met hers. Softly, gently, his tongue explored the sensitive skin of her lips until she parted them and gave herself up to his kiss.
“Jeannette.” He spoke her name hoarsely but with meaning before his mouth trailed down the column of her throat.
Her fingers found and delved into the thickness of his hair as she clung to him. Soon she could feel nothing except the inexplicable need to know more of Treynor, to touch him everywhere, to taste his salty skin and revel in his manliness. Her body began to tremble beneath his hands, hands that were expert in heightening her pleasure. He molded her to him, letting her feel his desire and the strength of his body as he bent over her.
But somewhere in the back of her mind the memory of every reason not to yield came back to her. “We can’t,” she said.
“But you want this as badly as I do.”
“I won’t deny it,” she admitted. “It’s my family—”
“Do you think I would steal your innocence? The one thing that might protect you from the likes of St. Ives?” He moved his lips to her ear so his next words came as a whisper. “There are other things we can do. Let me teach you.”
She could scarcely breathe. “And what of tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I would want more of the same.”
“But when we reach Plymouth there will be no more tomorrows.”
He tilted her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. “We have now. Or are you unwilling to trust me?”
“I would trust you with my life, but I would be a fool to do so with my virginity,” she said.
A laugh escaped him as he glanced at her hammock, which swung with the movement of the ship, only inches away. “Must you be so wise? Let me stay with you tonight. Let me feel the softness of your body against mine—”
“To circle the flame and hover close would only torment us.”
“I look at it as taking what we can get.”
Jeannette drew a deep breath. Fortunately, he hadn’t mentioned anything of love. She longed to hear him speak some word of it and yet she was relieved, for she feared it would be her undoing. As long as she could convince herself he felt nothing more than a physical attraction to her, she could hold him off. Only because of that, she dared steal one small concession from the fate that awaited her.
Reaching up, she unbuttoned the top part of his coat. He watched her curiously until her hands slipped beneath the cloth to feel his bare skin. Then his eyes slid closed.
“I have never known another man like you,” she whispered, parting the fabric and raising up on tiptoe to press her lips to the hollow of his throat.
The steady thrum of his heart pounded against her lips until it throbbed throughout her body. She turned her cheek to the warmth of him and closed her eyes as he held her close.
“Let me stay,” he begged. “We have only one night.”
“I cannot. Do you think I could then settle for what awaits me at Plymouth?”
Suddenly, Treynor’s face lost all remnants of the roguish grin he’d used to charm her, and his voice took on a somber note. “I don’t know, little Jeannette, which of us will be more hard-pressed to forget the other. Sometimes I highly doubt it will be you.”
His lips brushed hers, quickly but without intent, then he turned to go. But when he opened the door to step into the hall, Lieutenant Cunnington’s voice broke the silence.
From Jeannette’s place in the room, she could see the first lieutenant, dressed as carefully as always, his hand raised as if to knock.
“I thought I might find you here, Lieutenant Treynor,” he said.
Chapter 17
“What is it?” To shield Jeannette from Cunnington’s direct regard and the smug expression on his face, Treynor stepped between them.
“Captain Cruikshank would like to see you in his cabin, immediately,” the other man replied, a victorious smile curling his lips.
Treynor glanced back at Jeannette. Noting her embarrassment, he regretted the impulse that had led him to her quarters. His preoccupation with the baron’s wife might well cost him his career. And, if he wasn’t careful, it could cost her even more.
“If you will excuse me, my lady.” He gave her an apologetic smile.
“Certainly.” She nodded as he bowed and let himself out.
With the door shut behind him, he strode ahead of Cunnington, hoping to avoid conversation.
Predictably, the first lieutenant was not to be put off. “You surprise me, Treynor. I never thought to see you so besotted.”
Treynor paused mid-step. “More of your romantic illusions, Mr. Cunnington?”
“Hardly. Perhaps the others cannot see it, but I know you better than most.”
Treynor picked up his pace. “Not if you think me besotted.”
“You are a fool to involve yourself with Lord St. Ives’s new wife, no matter how tempting you find her,” Cunnington persisted. “There has to be a reason the baroness is willing to waste her favors on a bastard. Is she looking for someone she can use to further her own interests? Perhaps she hopes you will protect her from her husband.”
Cunnington’s dig stung more than usual, but Treynor attempted to shrug it off. “I thought she and I were partners in her escape from the beginning. It was you who told the captain I brought her aboard as my paramour, was it not?”
“Yes, and I will wager I was far closer to the truth than the captain and the others want to believe. If she wasn’t warming your bed before, she is now.”
“Your interest in my well-being is appreciated, Lieutenant, but I am not romantically involved with the baroness. I merely stopped in to thank her for her help with the birth of the stowaway’s child. No doubt you have heard of the event by now—”
“Indeed. But do you think the captain, or the baron, for that matter, will believe such a flimsy excuse when I tell them I found the two of you alone in her cabin?”
Tempted to let the first lieutenant know, in no uncertain terms, that he would defend Jeannette’s honor and his own in every way, Treynor whirled to face him. But such a declaration would only confirm Cunnington’s suspicions. “I doubt the captain will involve himself beyond returning the baroness to her husband. But if you do anything to discredit or harm her—”
“You will …what?” Cunnington looked disgustingly hopeful.
“I will expose you for the meddling fool that you are. Lady St. Ives is still a virgin. And she can prove it if she must.” Treynor walked away, knowing if he stayed another second he’d tear Cunnington apart with his bare hands.
The first lieutenant’s laugh followed him. “Such admirable control, Treynor. Evidently you care far more for the baroness than even I believed. But you will never be able to have her for yourself. You know that, do you not?”
Treynor ignored him.
“She is as far above you as the stars in the sky. And when I tell the baron that it was you who hid her from him, you will be lucky to survive with your post,” Cunnington called after him.
The desire to plunge a fist into Cunnington’s face surged within Treynor. His fingers curled and his jaw clenched but, by sheer dint of will, he kept walking. He cared for the baroness, but he didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He had always held himself aloof from the entanglements of such enslaving emotion.
But almost as soon as
the denial flitted through his mind, another part of his brain retorted with a question: He couldn’t love her, or he couldn’t have her? The line between the two had turned from black to gray. Even Treynor had to admit that.
“You are wrong,” he flung over his shoulder, but he didn’t sound very convincing, even to himself.
“We will see,” Cunnington scoffed. “Soon, we will see.”
* * *
Hours later, the tramp of footsteps going up and down the corridor woke Jeannette from a restless sleep. She could tell, even from her hammock, that something had changed. The sounds of the ship were different, the excess movement unusual. She sat up, trying to determine what time it was and just what such changes might signify.
Her cabin was located on the ship’s gundeck, well above the water line, which allowed some natural light to filter in when the porthole was open. After climbing out of her bed, she reached around the cannon that took up a large portion of the room and swung out the heavy block of wood that covered the gunport.
Dawn had already broken across the water. The sun pierced the hazy, gray clouds that had covered the sky for days and nearly blinded her. She blinked several times in an effort to cut the glare when she saw what looked to be another ship in the distance.
Was it flying the French Republic’s new tricolor, or was that her imagination?
Deep voices rose, loud and charged with expectation. There was more pounding in the corridor. Then someone banged on her door.
She dropped the porthole cover, but before she could don her wrap, a man called through the panel. “M’lady? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid we must come in so we can prepare the cannon. Captain’s orders.”
Then the flag had indeed been a tricolor….
“I must dress,” she called back and forced herself to move despite the fear clawing at her gut. Pulling on the gown the captain had loaned her from his daughter’s wardrobe, she grimaced at the memory of Cunnington finding Treynor in her cabin only a few hours earlier. But she had even worse things to worry about now, so she shoved the memory away and opened the panel to see five men and one boy waiting in the hall.