Georgana's Secret (Proper Romance)

by Arlem Hawks

  So many had been wounded. So many were still sick. Étienne worked tirelessly as though he wasn’t serving his country’s enemy. She had seen no hesitation when he treated Peyton or her father.

  Her father.

  Georgana ran for the captain’s cabin. How selfish to have forgotten his plight. She threw open the door to find him hunched over the table, face in his lone hand. A carafe and cup sat at his elbow.

  “Are you well?” She flew to his side. The drink was only lemon water. Where had the brandy gone? “I am so very sorry, I completely—”

  “How is Peyton?” he asked, raising his head.

  Georgana tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

  “You loved him, little one,” her father said quietly.

  Her chin trembled. Yes, she loved him. More than she realized. Watching him cling to life, while she stood helpless by his side, had sapped away what little strength she had left. She dropped to her knees, face crumpling as the weight of the morning plummeted onto her weary shoulders. Her father’s uninjured arm wound around her, and she buried her face into his coat as sobs racked through her. He hadn’t embraced her in so long. Not since Mama’s death. Her tears fell onto his coat and rolled down the blue wool.

  “He was a good man,” Papa said. “A good lieutenant.” A priceless friend.

  At a knock on the door, Georgana pulled away and wiped at the wetness of her father’s coat. Moyle entered, hat in hand. “All is in readiness, sir.”

  Her father nodded. “What of the repairs?”

  “I have two of the carpenter’s mates at work now, and the crew running the pump. The worst of it is under control, and the rest of the repairs can be made on the way.”

  “Congratulations, Commander.” Papa moved as though to shake Moyle’s hand, then flinched and pulled what was left of his right arm back in.

  Commander? It seemed Moyle was to take the Intelligence. With her father wounded and Peyton at death’s door, that left Jarvis running the Deborah. She held her stomach.

  “We wish to leave after the burials.” Moyle picked at a spot on his hat. “Will you come above, sir?”

  Her father’s head moved slowly back and forth. “Please lead it, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Moyle’s face remained impassive.

  When he left, Papa rose and dragged himself toward his cot. Georgana hopped up to help. “Do you not think you should attend?” she asked. She could only imagine his suffering, yet the crew needed his presence.

  He paused. His eyes closed for only a moment before he continued to his bed. Shoulders slumped, she helped him remove his shoes and lie back. Then she closed the curtains.

  The chaplain’s unsteady voice floated down through the hatchway. Despite her struggle to stand, she ducked from the room and made for the upper deck to watch the fourteen burials—thirteen from battle, one from fever.

  Jarvis stood unmovable, an image of strength beside the less-composed chaplain. He had brushed the debris from his lieutenant’s uniform. Just the right amount of grief and determination showed in his lowered brows to commend him to every man on deck.

  He’d take advantage of this situation, this power. If her father did not find the will to keep going, he would have to deal with consequences beyond just Jarvis’s insubordination. But Papa would rally. She knew it. He just needed time.

  Each time they lowered a man into the sea, Peyton’s pallid face shimmered before her full eyes. She pulled her coat tightly around her, wishing for the warmth of a friendly touch. The only men on this ship who cared whether she lived or died lay below, one in despair and the other in a battle for his life.

  Back in the captain’s cabin, she sat against the wall and leaned her head back. She hadn’t the strength to hang her hammock. The floor would have to do.

  “Has there been any change?” Georgana asked the loblolly boy at the door of Peyton’s cabin. An hour or two of sleep hadn’t done much to refresh her spirits.

  “Not a great deal, but if he wakes, you’re to get Monsieur immediately.” He blinked as though just waking from sleep himself. She wanted to be angry with William for not keeping watch, but she couldn’t blame him. What man on this ship didn’t look asleep on his feet?

  She nodded and changed places with the boy, then closed the door after him. Grandmother’s screech at the impropriety of the situation filled her ears for barely a second before Georgana threw the recollection out. She had no room for the woman today. Not in here.

  She sank down onto the stool beside Peyton’s cot and reached for his hand. It still felt cool.

  Perhaps he needed another blanket. She stood again and went to his sea chest. A bloodied shirt, waistcoat, and jacket sat on top with his holstered pistol. After checking the gun wasn’t loaded, she gathered them in her arms, then laid them neatly on the floor. The jagged tears where the shard of wood had gouged him made her stomach turn. If scraps from one of these garments remained in the wound, infection would set in with certainty. She pulled her eyes away from the gaping rips and fished a key from the pocket of his coat.

  Her fingers wound along the carved “DP” just below the lock before she fit the key and opened the lid.

  She wasn’t prepared for the scent of lime to overwhelm her. Her eyes, dry and itchy from weeping, smarted. Several slices of dried lime, strung together on a ribbon, sat atop his clothes. She reverently lifted the little garland and brought it to her nose. Brilliant sunsets and impossibly blue water swirled through her memory until she pulled the limes away.

  Georgana tried not to disturb anything as she searched for a blanket. When she finally found one, she carefully removed it from between clothes and books. For all her efforts, the blanket pulled a few folded pieces of paper out with it. They fell open on the floor.

  She hugged the blanket to her chest, willing some of her warmth to flow into it. If only she could do more. The weave had taken in the dizzying smell of the lime garland. She knelt and draped the covering over him, then tucked his chilled hands beneath it. Her chin settled onto the side of the cot near his head. Hesitantly she smoothed his hair back from his face. “Sleep well, my love.” She couldn’t hear her own voice over the creak of the ship.

  How humiliating if he should wake at that moment to find George Taylor saying such things. She would give anything for that embarrassment.

  Georgana returned to the trunk to set it to rights. She scooped up the papers. Letters, it seemed. Her eyes trailed down the page before she could think of the invasion of his privacy.

  My dearest mother,

  I pray this finds you in good health if not good spirits. Life is never certain in the navy, and perhaps it is this fact that makes life so much sweeter for one such as I, who cannot tear himself away from the sea. I know such notions have never been a comfort to you who must remain behind, constant and patient. Have I ever thanked you for the support you’ve given your Dominic these fourteen years? I think to every day.

  Georgana’s hand covered her mouth. She shouldn’t read this—and yet she couldn’t look away.

  You sent me to sea in July with a mission, and I am pleased to report I have succeeded.

  A mission? She held the page closer.

  I have found Georgana Woodall.

  She whirled around to stare at Peyton’s sleeping form, her mouth going dry. He had been searching for her? Images from the Trafalgar dinner came back. The odd looks. He did know.

  I can say for myself that she is well, though I worry what will become of her when she returns to England. I have not spoken to her or her father of this, but I wonder if you might open your doors to her. She is a quiet young lady of great courage, and I think

  The words didn’t continue. With quivering hands, she pulled the second page forward.

  Only three words marked the top: My darling Georgana.

  Not Georgiana. Not some distant, bewitching lover. Just Georgana—a foolish girl pretending to be a cabin boy.

  She covered her face with her arms to stifle
her crying. He knew. Peyton knew, and he’d played along with her and her father’s game. His eyes had twinkled in merriment as he sang of the dear lass. As he sang of her.

  Dare she believe it? Her heart raced faster, and she was at once in despair and elation. If he died tonight, she might have discovered this without the opportunity to see his face.

  She put everything back as it should be in his trunk and set the stained clothes on top. Tomorrow she would clean them with her father’s uniform. The pistol would need cleaning as well. If only she could wash the effects of this terrible day from their owners’ battered bodies.

  Georgana collapsed to the deck at Peyton’s side and listened to his soft breathing. As long as that sound continued, there was hope. Hope that he would once more smile and that she could return it knowing he saw her for who she really was. Her hand crept under the blanket to grasp his.

  Sometime later, the door opened behind her. No doubt it was Étienne to send her back to her father. She didn’t turn around. Grandmother’s voice scolded her to do her duty, to return and care for her flesh and blood. She miserably argued that Papa would be there in the morning to care for. Peyton might not.

  The thunk of wood on wood brought her head up. A square plate piled with hot beef, vegetables, and ship’s biscuits sat on the stool.

  “You should eat.” It wasn’t Étienne. Fitz sat beside her and settled his own plate onto his lap. He did not look at her. He only watched his food.

  She didn’t know if she’d be able to swallow through the tightness in her throat that rose at Fitz’s thoughtful act. She took the plate from the stool. It wasn’t the fare she was used to at the captain’s table, but it warmed her as nothing had since last night. That seemed an age ago.

  They ate in silence. Georgana hardly tasted the food. Fitz took her plate when she’d finished as much as she could. Then he squeezed her shoulder, as she’d done to him after Locke’s death.

  “Don’t let Jarvis catch you,” she said as he turned to go.

  He threw her a smirk, then stole out of the officers’ quarters, leaving Georgana with a clearer mind and thankful heart.

  Chapter 31

  Georgana sighed as the wind played through the shorn ends of her hair. Its tender strokes sent tingles along her scalp. Was this what Peyton loved about the ocean breeze?

  Something hard tapped her face as she rocked with the motion of the ship. Not hard enough to hurt—just hard enough to irritate her. What a way to ruin a liberating moment on deck.

  Her back groaned, and she forced her eyes open as one hand fell from her knees and rapped against the deck. She wasn’t standing on the forecastle at all. No sea, no sky. Just the gentle wind through the open cabin window.

  Something yellow blocked her view of the dark room. Her eyelids fluttered closed. She hadn’t set up her hammock again. That was it. Her stiff body protested another sleep on the floor of the captain’s cabin, but she ignored it and leaned into whatever insisted on tapping the side of her head. She could afford a few more minutes’ rest before tending to her father and Peyton.

  Dominic Peyton. She whispered the name, enjoying the taste of it. Bright, strong. Like limes.

  Dominic. It suited him.

  The fingers of the wind caught a lock of hair and smoothed it behind her ear. A breezy caress wandered from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, spreading the magic of its touch.

  Her heart beat lighter than it had since before the battle.

  The fatigue had nearly crushed her yesterday. She couldn’t even remember slogging back to the captain’s quarters after checking on Peyton during the first watch.

  Her hand slid across the wood grains along the deck and froze. Those were not the smooth tiles of the captain’s cabin. They were planks.

  The wind continued threading itself through her short hair. Her hand flashed up to her head, catching the warm fingers, halting their progress. She hadn’t returned to her father’s cabin in the night. Canvas from a hanging cot gently bumped against her face as it swayed.

  Her eyes flew open to a bandage, yellow in the wardroom’s light coming through the door. The cloth was wrapped around a bare arm, which reached over the edge of the cot.

  Dominic.

  Georgana twisted to her knees to see into the cot. She met half-open eyes reflecting the dim light and a weary grin. His hand cupped her cheek, and she held it there with her own.

  “Georgana.” The whispered word scratched through his throat, so different from the silky voice that had sung to her in a crowded wardroom. Yet she’d never heard a sound more beautiful.

  With a sob, she pressed a kiss to his wrist. His pulse thrummed, weak but steady, against her lips. Warmth had returned to his skin, warmth that spread from her cheek to her heart despite the coolness of the lower deck.

  “Oh, Dominic, I thought I’d lost you,” she breathed. His thumb traced the tears down her face. The tingling sensation that wove through her hair now continued over her arms. She’d imagined so many times how it would feel to have him look at her in that gentle way. The dream had fallen utterly short of the reality.

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and her face flamed. She hadn’t meant to let the name slip out. It had sat too long on the tip of her tongue.

  “How long have you known?” She brushed at her tears.

  He pulled her hand in and laid it over his heart. His chest lifted in a regular cadence beneath her palm. Only a blanket separated their touch. She gulped in the lime-scented air.

  “Since the mail ship arrived in Antigua. My mother included your name in her letter, and . . .” He coughed against the roughness of his throat.

  Georgana grabbed a tin of grog and helped raise his head to drink. “Rest. We can talk when you’ve regained strength.” She nearly placed a kiss on his brow as he drank, but she held it back. Already she had displayed her affection in no uncertain terms. She glanced toward the wardroom. It remained empty.

  Dominic sank back. Stubble dotted his face. His eyelids began to droop.

  Uncertain if he’d fallen back asleep, Georgana kept her voice low. “I’m going to fetch Étienne.”

  His eyes flickered open, and he reached for her fingers. “No. Stay. Please.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “He wanted to know the moment you woke. And I need to see to my father. I will return as soon as I can.”

  But he didn’t let go. His eyes begged her to stay. She’d never seen him this pleading, this vulnerable.

  She brushed her lips across the tips of his fingers, then lowered his hand back to the cot. “Rest.” After one last look, smiling at his attempts to keep his eyes open, she sped from the cabin. Could the sailors she passed see the glow she held in? Surely it shone clear as day from her face.

  Georgana hurtled down the ladder to the orlop deck to retrieve the surgeon.

  Peyton was back. Peyton was alive. And Peyton wanted her.

  Dominic lay still at the sound of footsteps at the door. They sounded too heavy to be Georgana’s. Pretending to sleep wasn’t difficult. He could hardly move his limbs. Just grabbing for her hand had taken all his energy. And his left side throbbed, though the pain wasn’t as crushing as it had been on deck.

  The battle. His brain muddled through the hazy memories. They’d won, but at what cost?

  “I would suggest that you not concentrate so hard at this moment, Lieutenant.” The gravelly French accent gave away his visitor. “Your duty is to rest.”

  Dominic cracked one eye open. The surgeon wore a tired smile. He checked Dominic’s pulse, then pulled aside the bandage wrapped around his torso. Dominic winced at his inspection. Though careful and brief, the movement sent stabs of pain shooting between his ribs.

  “You, my friend, are a fortunate man.” Étienne resettled the bandage.

  Dominic’s brow rose, but he didn’t waste breath on asking what the Frenchman meant.

  “Your friend Mr. Taylor.” Étienne’s eyes flicked to his. “We had all but given you up for de
ad, but his pleas to help you brought to mind a solution I had heard of but never practiced.”

  Georgana. He hadn’t been able to see much of her face in the darkness when she awoke, but the elation in her quavering voice had been enough to thrill his heart.

  “That boy has been at your side any moment he can. Whatever you did to inspire his loyalty, it saved your life.”

  Was it only loyalty? The stroke of her lips on his wrist suggested otherwise. Darling Georgana. How he wanted her back at his side.

  “How is the captain?” he whispered, closing his eyes again.

  “As well as can be expected. Men mourn the loss of their independence with wounds such as his. It can take much time to accustom oneself to such a change.” Étienne cleared his throat. “You, sir, will stay in bed until I deem you well. This wound is significant, and I still fear for your health. You are not one to sit quietly, but perhaps I can enlist the aid of your little friend, Mr. Taylor, to help convince you.”

  Yes, Dominic was ready to do anything Georgana asked of him just now. He didn’t hear the remainder of the surgeon’s instructions as he drifted into unconsciousness with her sea-green eyes running through his foggy mind.

  Georgana burst into the captain’s cabin, nearly upsetting the breakfast tray. Pale light came through the window. Her father was already sitting up in his cot, curtains pulled back.

  “George, what is it? You looked flushed.” Shadows covered Papa’s face. “Is it Peyton?”

  “He’s awake.” Dishes clanked together as she tried to walk steadily to the table. She set down the food and hurried to help her father from his cot.

  He grunted at her assistance but did not pull away. His shirtsleeve hung limp at his side. Georgana retrieved his banyan and draped it around his shoulders. She ushered him to the table.