Shipwrecked with the Captain

by Diane Gaston

  At the centre was always Lucien. It was his presence that made her secure, like an anchor secured a boat. As the days wore on, his face became shadowed with a beard making him look as swarthy as a pirate. The Captain and the other men wore beards as well, though none as dark and dashing as Lucien’s.

  She watched him help haul in the nets and load the fish into the hold. She silently prayed for his safety when he climbed the tall mast to untangle the rigging.

  At night the blackness of the cabin reminded her, though, that most of her life she could not remember. It helped that Lucien was near. He stirred within her a yearning she did not quite understand, a desire to feel the strength of his arms around her, the warmth of his breath, the beating of his heart, as she had on the raft.

  Some of her dreams were of him, of his bare skin against her bare skin and his lips against hers. What did it mean that she dreamt so? It made her blush to think of it.

  Of being so intimate with him.

  Other dreams were no more than jumbled images that slipped from her mind by morning. She much preferred the days of toil and people she recalled from day to day.

  * * *

  By the third week, the boat’s hold was filled with fish and the Captain set sail to Ireland, a place she knew about, but of which she had no memory. The wind would carry them to port this very day.

  She donned her mended dress with Lucien’s help and folded the clothes the fishermen had lent her. ‘I will miss these,’ she said to Lucien. ‘They are ever so much more comfortable than wearing this dress and stays.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m glad to be out of mine.’

  His were soiled and smelled of fish and sweat.

  She took his borrowed clothes from his hand and folded them with the others. No doubt some fisherman’s wife would be laundering them soon.

  She tied the ribbon around her plait and remembered how he’d torn it from his neckcloth for her. How nice it was to have memories.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I will miss this boat.’ She blinked them away. ‘I suppose because it is so familiar now. I do not know what happens next.’

  He gazed at her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You’ve endured a shipwreck and three weeks on a fishing boat; you will be up to whatever comes next.’

  She was not so certain. ‘You are right. I must buck up, mustn’t I?’

  She would not tell him what she feared even more than the unknown was losing him, but she’d been enough of a burden to him already. He had a life to pursue, a new ship, plans he’d talked about with her, this next phase in his life.

  From above them they heard a voice cry, ‘Land, ho!’

  His face appeared strained. ‘We should go up on deck.’

  She nodded and picked up the reticule that seemed to be her only possession.

  They made their way to the deck and stood at the railing. A narrow line on the horizon slowly formed into land.

  ‘Where will we sail into?’ Claire’s heart beat faster. Would she remember anything once they landed?

  ‘Bray,’ he responded.

  ‘A fishing village, is it not?’

  ‘You know it?’ His brows rose.

  She gazed at the land, now rising green. ‘I know of it, but I do not know why.’

  She had asked him many things about his life over the last three weeks, because, of course, she knew nothing of her own life, but she’d never asked him what would happen when they reached shore. That was as black to her as the night, as black as her past. As long as they were on the boat she’d been content to avoid the topic.

  ‘You will travel to London, I expect. For your new ship.’ She watched the shore coming ever closer, not daring to look at him for fear she’d crumble. ‘Will you catch another packet from Dublin?’

  He would leave her and be as distant and unattainable as her past.

  He paused before answering. ‘I will see you safe to your brother, first.’

  She swallowed. ‘No, Lucien. I have troubled you enough. I am certain I can manage.’ Somehow.

  * * *

  ‘I will see you safe to your brother,’ Lucien repeated. ‘I’ll not leave you on your own.’

  Lucien had no desire to meet the present Earl of Keneagle, but he could not simply leave Lady Rebecca to fend for herself. True, she could mail her own letter to her brother and arrange her own transportation to his estate, but how difficult would it be for her to not even know if a man standing before her was her brother or someone else?

  ‘We will travel together to Dublin and contact your brother from there,’ he said to her. ‘I will be able to draw funds from the bank there as well.’ He’d dealt with a Dublin bank to transfer funds to his uncles. ‘We should be able to purchase whatever we need, as well.’

  She lifted her reticule. ‘I have some money. Perhaps I have other funds to repay you.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am well able to afford whatever we need.’ What else did he need his money for?

  He leaned his arms on the railing.

  ‘We are getting closer to land,’ she said in a shaky voice.

  * * *

  Soon enough the ketch was moored at a dock and they were saying goodbye to Captain Molloy and his men. To Lucien’s surprise, Lady Rebecca hugged each man who, after three weeks, like him, was rather reeking of sweat and fish.

  Captain Molloy pointed. ‘Walk to the top of that street and you’ll find the inn. My cousin runs the place, Niall Molloy, so give him my name and he will see to your needs.’

  Lucien shook the Captain’s hand. ‘We owe you a great debt of gratitude.’

  The man looked abashed. ‘Aw, ’twas nothing. You more than earned your keep. The lady, too, poor bhean.’

  Still, Captain Molloy and his men would each receive a generous gift from Lucien as soon as it could be arranged.

  He climbed off the boat and on to the dock, turning back to help Rebecca disembark. She jumped the gap and landed in his arms. She felt too good in his arms.

  She found her footing and turned back to say a final goodbye.

  He offered his arm. ‘Your legs may take time to get used to land.’

  ‘I will miss the crew.’ She allowed him to steady her as they walked away from the dock up the street.

  On the small boat, they were rarely not in someone’s company.

  ‘At least you will have a room of your own in the inn,’ Lucien reassured her.

  She sighed. ‘It will seem strange after the fishing boat.’

  They found the inn and entered its public rooms, seeking out the innkeeper who was serving ale to several men seated at tables.

  ‘Niall Molloy?’ Lucien asked.

  ‘That I am,’ he answered.

  ‘We are off your cousin’s boat,’ Lucien told him. ‘Rescued at sea from the wreck of the Dun Aengus.’

  The man’s bushy red eyebrows rose. ‘From the Dun Aengus? We heard news of it. Finn picked you up? Is that not a jest? My cousin. Imagine. How long before Finn rescued you?’

  ‘The second day,’ Lucien replied.

  ‘I imagine that was time enough.’ He wiped his hands.

  Lady Rebecca broke in. ‘Can you tell us about the shipwreck. Did—did many die?’

  The innkeeper lowered his head. ‘All but a handful, reports say. Maybe a dozen survived, as I recall it.’ He smiled. ‘A dozen plus the two of you.’

  Her face pinched in pain.

  ‘Well, sad it is, but the sea giveth and the sea taketh away.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You need a room? What else may I do for you?’

  ‘Two rooms,’ Lucien said. ‘But, for now, a good meal.’

  The man laughed. ‘Finn’s food not the best, eh? I guarantee we will show him up.’

  He gestured for them to sit at a table separate from the other diners and quickly served them large tankards of al
e and mutton stew.

  The other men seated there did not hide their curious glances.

  ‘Am I not presentable?’ Rebecca asked. ‘They keep looking at me.’

  Lucien turned and glared at the other patrons and they quickly averted their gazes. ‘Presentable enough. They probably are not accustomed to seeing a lady here.’

  She looked up, her eyes questioning. ‘Should I not be here, then? If I do not belong here?’

  He must remember that much would be new to her. ‘You can certainly be here.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because I am happy to be eating so well.’

  So well? Compared to the last three weeks, perhaps, but surely this food was as beneath her as the simple fare on the fishing boat.

  She dipped her spoon into her stew and lowered her eyes. ‘They are staring again.’

  He shrugged. ‘More likely, then, it is your beauty that attracts them.’

  Her eyes flew up and were filled with anxiety. ‘My beauty?’

  ‘You are a beauty,’ he said. ‘Did you not know that?’

  She blushed. ‘I—I have not seen a mirror since—since the shipwreck. I do not know what I look like.’ She dropped her spoon and lifted her hands to her face.

  The innkeeper entered the room. ‘Stop acting the maggot, fellas. Leave the lady alone.’

  ‘No harm in lookin’,’ one of the men grumbled.

  ‘Yeah?’ the innkeeper said. ‘I’ll give ye a knuckle supper if ye do not stop.’

  Rebecca lowered her gaze again. ‘I am causing commotion.’

  Her distress disarmed him. ‘It is mere banter. Do not pay it any mind.’

  Lucien tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew. She took careful spoonfuls, as if made self-conscious for being an object of attention.

  It had never occurred to him that she would not know what she looked like. Was it possible she had no memory of her appearance?

  She placed her spoon on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

  He put down his piece of bread. ‘Would you like to see your room now?’

  She’d want to be away from the staring eyes. Or where she could look in a mirror.

  She set her chin determinedly. ‘Yes.’

  He called the innkeeper over.

  ‘My wife will take you to the rooms,’ the innkeeper said.

  A kindly faced woman with hair as red as her husband’s met them in the hall. ‘I am Mrs Molloy, I am. My husband told me you were in a shipwreck and Finn saved you. Finn is a good man.’

  ‘A very good man, ma’am,’ Lucien agreed.

  She took them up a flight of stairs to two rooms side by side. She opened the doors to both of them and gave them the keys.

  * * *

  Claire noticed right away there was a mirror above a bureau.

  ‘Shall I come and help you undress when the time comes?’ Mrs Molloy asked.

  Claire forced her gaze away from the mirror. ‘That would be very kind.’

  ‘Anything else we can do for you?’ the woman asked.

  Claire responded. ‘I can think of nothing—’

  Lucien interrupted her. ‘Baths? May we arrange baths?’

  Mrs Molloy smiled. ‘To be sure you’ll be wanting baths after what you’ve been through. Would you want your clothes laundered, as well?’

  ‘I am not certain they are salvageable,’ Lucien said.

  ‘We’ll just have to find you something else to wear, won’t we?’ She patted his arm and left.

  Claire could not take her eyes off the mirror, but she hesitated.

  Lucien took her by the arm. ‘Delay never helps.’ He walked her over to the mirror and stood her directly in front of it.

  His grip gave her courage. She lifted her head and looked in the mirror.

  ‘What do you see?’ he asked.

  She laughed in relief. ‘I see me! I feared I would see a stranger, but I look like me. Same brown hair, same eyes, same nose that is unfashionable, same lips. I look like me.’

  Was she a beauty? If so, she disliked the stares of men.

  Except for Lucien. That he thought her beautiful made her feel warm all over.

  His reflection was behind hers, his expression unreadable. He was so very handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair and beard dark as the night, eyes as brown and alert as a fox’s.

  Alert as a fox’s. Where had that thought come from? She inhaled a quick breath. Had she remembered him?

  She opened her mouth to tell him she might have had a memory, but shut it again. How could she explain it was all about him?

  Instead she turned to face him. ‘Brilliant of you to ask for baths, Lucien. A bath will seem like heaven.’

  She remembered how pleasant it was to lie in a warm bath, to rub soap against her skin and to feel clean again.

  She just could not remember a time or place before this when she’d taken a bath.

  The bath was in a room close to the kitchen, so the hauling of water would not be too onerous for the maids and the water would remain hot. Lucien allowed Lady Rebecca to go first and he went in search of Mr Molloy, mostly to distract himself from thinking of her naked in the tub, stroking her skin with soap.

  ‘Molloy,’ he said, finding him back in the public rooms. ‘I need your assistance. We have nothing. Where can I purchase necessities?’ He had some coins that had remained in his pockets, sufficient to buy what they needed.

  ‘You’ll be wanting Brady’s store.’ The innkeeper directed him to the place.

  He purchased a razor and comb for himself, toothbrushes for them both, a hairbrush and hairpins for Rebecca. And ribbons.

  Mrs Molloy made good her promise to find them clothes.

  * * *

  By the time the sun had set, the last vestiges of the sea were washed away and clean clothes replaced ones ruined by salt water.

  ‘It feels wonderful,’ Rebecca said. ‘I wonder if I have ever had a bath that felt as glorious or clothes that felt as good against my skin.’

  He could agree. He was glad to be rid of his beard and the only clothes that would feel more right to him would be his uniform.

  They returned to the public rooms to dine. The rooms were more crowded than before, with both men and women sharing food and drink, but the people were warm and welcoming. Their story of surviving the shipwreck had spread and they spent the meal answering questions about the event.

  Lady Rebecca, so at ease among these simple villagers, surprised him at every turn. When had he known any aristocratic lady like her? Even his mother, who merely aspired to the aristocracy, looked down her nose at those she perceived as inferior. Of course, Lady Rebecca did not remember being of high birth. That must explain it.

  They were treated to endless tankards of ale and the inn’s brew was particularly hoppy and refreshing. All the voices in the room grew louder as the night wore on, but Lucien could hear Rebecca’s laugh above the din.

  A lovely sound, one he remembered from the packet. So she had been the lady with the captivating laugh. She swayed and caught herself by leaning against a table.

  Lucien came to her side. ‘It is time to retire, my lady.’

  She nodded with a grateful look and coloured with the hum of approval that followed in their wake.

  ‘I feel so unsteady,’ she said as they entered the hall and started up the stairs.

  ‘It is the ale.’ He kept a firm hold on her.

  ‘It was quite delicious ale, was it not?’ She reached for the banister. ‘I wonder if I liked ale before, because I quite like it now.’

  ‘I noticed, my lady.’

  She stopped on the stairs. ‘It feels so odd for you to call me “my lady.”’

  ‘Because you do not remember,’ he said.

  ‘I do not like it.’ She leaned against him and ti
pped her head up to look him in the face. ‘It makes me different from everyone else.’

  ‘That is not so bad a thing,’ he reassured.

  ‘I suppose I am different.’ She kept staring into his eyes. ‘I have no memory.’

  ‘Even so, you have done well in every situation you’ve encountered,’ he told her.

  ‘Have I?’ She smiled and swayed closer to him, tantalisingly close.

  He took a bracing breath and eased her away. ‘It is time you were abed.’

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted.

  God help him.

  He clasped her arm. ‘Come.’

  After a few steps, she leaned against him again, but he managed to walk her to her room without taking her in his arms and pressing his lips against hers.

  He took her key and opened the door. ‘I’ll send Mrs Molloy to assist you.’

  She put her arms around him and pulled him inside the room. ‘You could assist me, Lucien. Like before.’

  His head dipped down and she reached up and brushed her lips against his.

  God help him.

  Before he lost all control, he gripped her upper arms and eased her away. ‘No.’

  She put her hands to her temples. ‘Did I just kiss you? Forgive me, Lucien. I cannot imagine why I acted that way. I am not so scandalous, I would hope.’

  ‘You merely had too much ale.’ That did not explain his desire, though.

  ‘Perhaps I am scandalous.’ She sat on the bed. ‘Then it would do no harm for me to kiss you again, would it?’ She half-reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows.

  Was she trifling with him now? He’d once been propositioned by a countess looking for a new plaything. He’d easily turned down that woman. It was proving more difficult to resist Lady Rebecca.

  ‘Perhaps you are virtuous,’ he countered, ‘and need to preserve your reputation.’

  She sat up. ‘You are correct, of course.’ Her enticing hazel eyes looked up at him, shining like exotic jewels.

  He turned and walked to the doorway. ‘I will send for Mrs Molloy.’