Heart's Safe Passage (9 page)

“I never—” Her cheeks turned from rose to cherry, and her hands flew to her face.

The brig slid into the trough of a wave. Without support, without the strength of leg muscles that seasoned sailors possessed, she lost her balance.

Rafe caught her beneath her elbows and held her until she steadied and the deck grew reasonably level again. She stood too close to him, close enough for him to smell the lavender soap, close enough that strands of her disheveled hair blew into his face like silk threads, close enough that a scar as fine as her golden locks glinted silver in the sunlight from her right temple to her ear. He raised one hand, tempted to trace the path.

He reached out and grasped the quarter rail. “You’d best hold on to something when you’re standing. A midwife with a broken arm would be of no use.”

“No, no use.” She sounded breathless and kept her hands on her cheeks. “I’m so careful not to hurt my hands most of the time.”

“Then stay careful with these.” He drew one of her hands away from her face and curled her fingers around the rail. Slowly he pulled his hand away and shoved it into the pocket of his boat cloak. “You’ll need to keep them safe, though we should not need your services on this voyage, no?”

“Yes, we may.” She huffed out a breath, and her color returned to normal. “Belinda is only two months from her time, she tells me.”

“Tells you? You cannot tell? I do not mean to be indelicate, but you are her midwife, are you not?”

“Not. I mean—” She compressed her lips. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity to examine her.”

“I see.”

He saw too much. His gut twisted with the notion of Belinda Chapman going into labor at the moment he needed her, or worse, while they were still at sea.

“Which is another reason why I was so desperate to get you turned back to Virginia,” Mrs. Lee added.

“Aye, so this is why you wished to speak to me? If so, the answer is no. We are nearly sixty miles from the coast, and I am not turning back, especially not in broad daylight. So if that is all you are needing, I have my work to do.” He gestured to the men aloft, setting the studding and royals to gain every advantage of wind they could. At the last drop of the log line, they’d been making ten knots. He wanted eleven or even twelve while the wind lay in their favor. Too many of the men stood around in groups of three and four, heads close, faces intent. They needed more direction than they were getting with Jordy entertaining Mrs. Chapman.

And, Rafe hoped, questioning her over her loyalty to the mission.

He started past Phoebe Lee, intending to pick up the speaking trumpet and call orders.

She caught hold of his arm. “No, please, it’s not.” She gazed up at him with eyes so green he longed for land, for the sight and texture of moss that rich hue.

His mouth went dry, making his voice harsh. “What is it then?”

“I want to apologize.” Her own words rasped as though she too spoke from a parched throat. “No, I wish to ask your forgiveness for—for last night. I was desperate. We’re traitors now, or could be seen as such, and I lost my head a bit. But it doesn’t make an excuse for what I did. So please forgive me.”

He stared at her this time, but with narrowed eyes, scanning her face for signs she played some game with him. Her gaze remained open and clear, meeting and holding his eyes without blinking.

And something peculiar occurred inside him, a prickling, a plucking in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, and no words emerged. He shook his head, walked to the binnacle, and stared at the compass without registering in which direction they sailed.

“Something wrong, sir?” Derrick asked in his deep, musical voice.

“No, nothing.”

A flash of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention to Mrs. Lee. She’d stalked down the ladder to the main deck, her head held high, her hair streaming out behind her like a banner. Mrs. Chapman and Jordy sat in the shelter of an awning the latter had rigged for the ladies so they could enjoy the fresh air without burning their skin, and Mrs. Lee stomped toward them.

So he’d lied about nothing being wrong. Of course there was. He’d just wounded her spirit. Her indignation radiated from her like that dreadful lavender scent, striking him, clinging to him.

“’Tis I who should be asking the forgiveness,” he murmured too softly for the helmsman to hear.

If he spoke the truth, he should go after her. He picked up the speaking trumpet instead and crossed to the center of the deck. “Get you moving with those royals. I’ll be sending up the ladies if you cannot move any faster.”

Laughter drifted to the deck like autumn leaves, and the men moved faster, dropping the sail sixty feet above the deck, drawing the sheets taut so the wind caught the canvas. The
Davina
skimmed over the next wave, light and swift.

Rafe turned the speaking trumpet forward. “Jordy, drop the log line, if you can tear yourself from the ladies.”

Jordy said something that brightened Mrs. Chapman’s pretty face, bowed to Mrs. Lee, then strode to the bow.

Rafe turned his attention back to the ladies. Mrs. Chapman, young and plump and more courageous than people gave her credit for, Rafe figured, clutched Phoebe Lee’s hand and talked, her lips moving swiftly, her dark eyes hidden behind thick lashes. The latter perched on the edge of her chair as though prepared to bolt at a moment’s notice. He should go talk to her, explain—something. Mel’s reason for being aboard, why he couldn’t talk to her about forgiveness, how he wanted to at least be cordial on this voyage.

He set his foot on the quarter ladder as a shout dropped from the crosstrees to the deck like a stone. “Deck there. Sail off the larboard quarter.”

Rafe sprinted for the side, caught hold of the shrouds, and began to climb the ratlines. In seconds, he squeezed onto the crosstrees and snatched the glass from the lookout.

“Couldn’t see a flag, sir,” the youth said. “She looks fast.”

She did indeed. In less than a minute, her topgallant sails grew visible over the horizon, along with her flag.

Stars and stripes.

“Keep an eye on her, lad.” Rafe leaped to a backstay and slid to the deck, shouting orders before his feet struck wood. “Alter course two points to starboard.”

Derrick stared at him. “Don’t you mean larboard, sir?”

“I mean starboard.” He caught up the speaking trumpet again. “Clew the royals and topgallants.”

That would make them less visible over the horizon.

Except no one moved. The brig maintained the same course of northeast by north, a course that would sail them across the American ship’s bow if they maintained their current route and the men in the rigging didn’t touch a single line.

“That was an order.” Rafe addressed Derrick in a slow, calm tone. “If you wish to remain here, you will obey.”

“Aye, sir.” Derrick began to turn the wheel.

The men up top remained still, lounging across the yards as though enjoying a picnic. Others began to saunter toward the guns on the main deck.

Jordy had warned him. The men begged for a fight.

Rafe took a deep breath to calm himself before he shouted something to the men he would regret. “She isn’t worth it. We want fat French merchants, not emaciated Americans.”

The men near the guns looked thoughtful. One man in the shrouds turned toward the nearest sheet.

“And we have ladies on board to protect.” Rafe pressed his momentary advantage before someone pointed out that, after twenty years of war, the French grew emaciated. The Americans seemed to be the ones growing plump—off of the British. “We have a duty to protect these weaker vessels.”

Beneath the canopy, Mrs. Lee spun to face him. To glare at him, no doubt.

His lips twitched, and he continued, “We cannot risk their safety.”

“Then no prizes while we have them aboard?” Ludlow, a young man who’d just joined up, asked from near the quarter ladder.

Rafe acknowledged the youth. “No, but they won’t be here for long.”

Mrs. Lee took a step aft, lost her balance, and grasped a shroud for support.

“Lookout, what’s the status of the enemy?”

“Dropped down from the horizon, sir,” came the faint response.

Good. He could breathe again.

“Must be slow,” Derrick said from the helm. “Would have been easy pickings.”

“If she was worth the effort.”

“Might be slow because she’s heavy laden.”

“Might be.” Rafe spoke into the trumpet again. “I said clew up the royals.”

They went up, slowly, but the men obeying the command mattered more than speed—speed the
Davina
lost. It was a calculated risk—making themselves less visible and losing speed, or maintaining the speed and drawing every American in pursuit of a prize swooping down upon them. American vessels tended to fly across the water. For one to be slow meant a heavy cargo indeed, or perhaps they’d been damaged. Either way, they were lost now. One battle averted. Only three thousand miles of ocean or so to sail through without encountering another enemy privateer, merchantman, or, worst of all, French or American Navy ship.

Surely he’d lost his reason to think he could manage this voyage. Even if he had, he was committed now with the two ladies aboard.

He replaced the speaking trumpet on the binnacle and nodded to Derrick. “Return to the original course.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I’ll send Jordy up to replace you in half an hour.” Rafe looked down at the main deck for his second in command.

Jordy had returned to the ladies. He stood too close to Mrs. Lee, with a forefinger pointed at her nose as though scolding her. Yet all three of them laughed.

No, four of them. Jordy shifted, and Mel, Fiona in her arms, appeared in the group, apparently having finished her chores and chosen to join the ladies instead of him.

A knot formed in his middle. Mel always sought him out when she was free to do so. She was only on board because she claimed to abhor the school for young ladies in which he’d placed her—the fourth school that had failed to hold her. Yet now she chose to join the females aboard. And the night before, she’d begged him to let her serve the ladies.

He needed to face the truth. Mel was growing up. Her disguise grew thinner with each passing month. Mrs. Lee had noticed Melvina’s sex within minutes. The enemy could too, should a battle go poorly, and then—

He couldn’t think of that. The visions of what could happen to her sprang from memories, not imagination.

Another reason to avoid fighting on this, his last voyage.

Avoid fighting with American or French vessels. Spats with Mrs. Lee he couldn’t avoid, no doubt. They needed to finish their earlier conversation. No, not needed—should. She deserved a response. An explanation for why he walked away? No, a response was all that was necessary. She was an appendage to Mrs. Chapman, nothing more, and in that deserved no explanations, only courtesy.

He leaped to the main deck and strode forward to join the ladies, his daughter in trousers like a sansculotte French rebel, the other two in light muslin gowns that would have them freezing if not for Mrs. Lee looking rather fetching in his extra boat cloak and Mrs. Chapman in her own cloak of impractical blue velvet.

It was a sight he would never witness again, once his sailing days ended. Part of him warmed. Most of him trembled with an apprehension he hadn’t experienced since his second battle.

The warmed part of him carried him to Mel’s side first. He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Chores done?”

“Aye, they’re done, and more. I was offering the ladies a look at our books.”

“I was asking if such a thing as a Bible could be found aboard.” Mrs. Lee cast her sister-in-law an annoyed glance. “She didn’t think to pack anything but my midwife bag when she let your men abduct me.”

“We have a Bible aboard.” Rafe refused to acknowledge the barb. “Mel’s, but she’ll let you borrow it.”

“We used to have two,” Mel said, “but Captain Rafe—”

“Go fetch it,” Rafe broke in. “I’ll take them down to unlock the chest with the rest of the reading materials.”

“What happened to the other Bible?” Mrs. Lee asked as they made their way aft to the cabins.

“It got wet.” He descended the companionway ladder, then turned to lend Mrs. Chapman a hand. Above, Mrs. Lee remained on deck, one hand on the bulkhead, her face as pale as Caribbean sand.

“I—I’d rather stay up here. The air down there—” She spun on her heel and fled.

“She never has been a sailor, bless her heart,” Mrs. Chapman murmured. “I do wish I could have found someone else to join me, but no hired woman would be as loyal as Phoebe. Why, she’s so loyal to my brother, she went off to become a midwife rather than marry again.”

Loyal to Gideon Lee? More like guilty for the manner of his death, if tavern rumors were to be believed. No doubt becoming a healer bringing life into the world alleviated her guilt.

And right now, she was paying for her choices in another way.

“Go make yourself comfortable, madam,” Rafe told Mrs. Chapman. “I’ll return in a moment.”

“Where are you going?” Her lower lip protruded slightly. “I don’t like being alone.”

“Few people do, and right now Mrs. Lee should not be, I’m thinking.” Rafe took the steps of the ladder two at a time and glanced around for the other lady.

She didn’t appear on the main deck. He asked a sailor scrubbing the deck if he’d seen her.

“Aye, sir.” The man gestured with the gnarled hand holding the holystone. “Behind the cutter, casting up her accounts.”

Rafe made his way around the cutter lashed to the deck and found Phoebe Lee kneeling on the deck, her face against the damp gunwale, her shoulders shaking. He crouched beside her. “’Tis naught to weep about.”

“I’m not weeping. I don’t weep, cry, or snivel.” Another shudder ran through her. “I also don’t get ill. I’ve been ill only once before in my life.” She looked up at him with her big eyes dark and red-rimmed. “If this continues, I’ll be dead before we reach England.”

“It does get better, I promise. But we’ll be in Bermuda in two days or so if the wind holds. We can take some time there for you to recover a bit and . . . er . . . examine Mrs. Chapman to see if she’s fit to sail further.”