Natalya (10 page)

St. James nodded slowly. "Is that possible?"

* * *

"Good God, it's Captain St. James!" The first lieutenant of the
Essex
leaned over the quarterdeck rail and stared in disbelief at the dilapidated fishing boat. "Is that you, sir?"

"Yes, Harrington, it is I," Grey shouted.

The young man turned around, calling, "Captain, come immediately! It's Captain St. James!"

Moments later the plump face of Grey's old friend George Bumblethorpe appeared high above the water. Resplendent in his red and white uniform, Bumblethorpe gaped at the sight of his fellow captain in the Royal Navy. He could smell the old fishing boat from the quarterdeck, and a pale, shabby-looking St. James stood in the middle of that dubious vessel flanked by a grimy old man and a girl in baggy breeches. After a moment Bumblethorpe regained his voice and exclaimed, "God's eyes, man, let's bring you aboard!"

Grey laughed. "Old boy, I thought you'd never ask!"

Before he and Natalya were transferred into a longboat that could be hoisted up, Grey turned and gave the old fisherman a handful of coins. "You have my sincere gratitude, m'sieur."

Oiseau grinned, revealing a gap in front where several of his teeth were missing. "I was glad to help." He held out a folded pamphlet and said enigmatically, "Chateaubriand speaks for me as well."

Natalya was feeling exceedingly dazed, thanks to Oiseau's calvados and the turmoil of the past several days. By the time they reached the
Essex's
quarterdeck and George Bumblethorpe bent over her hand during their introduction, she found that she had difficulty focusing. British seamen seemed to swarm around them and to leer at her from the masts.

"Grey?" She reached for his arm. "I believe I may be going to faint...." With that, her knees gave way and she slumped to the deck.

Chapter 7

March 31, 1814

"She isn't ill, is she? Or injured?" Captain Bumblethorpe peered anxiously at the lovely young woman who lay across his cabin bunk, unconscious.

"I doubt it," Grey replied. "I think that a mixture of exhaustion and the excitement of our narrow escape from St. Malo are to blame." He added wryly, "I doubt there's cause for alarm, however. I'll wager that she'll be fully restored to good health after a few hours' sleep."

"I daresay you could use a bit of that yourself, my dear chap. Sorry I can't offer you better accommodations, but as you know, my cabin is the only oasis of privacy on board." He patted the younger man's back with a beefy hand. "I hope Miss Beauvisage isn't the sort of chit who carries on about propriety...?" Bumblethorpe ventured.

"We'll worry about appearances in London," Grey replied wearily, sitting down at the captain's desk to remove his boots. "In the meantime, I'm exhausted."

"Never fear. I'm the soul of discretion," Bumblethorpe assured him. "Do carry on, old boy, and sleep if you can. We'll be more than happy to ferry you across the Channel. This blockading nonsense can be frightfully boring, particularly as we all know that the war is virtually ended. In any case, the regent will probably thank me personally for delivering you safely back to British soil. Might even get a medal! I heard a rumor or two that you were dead."

"That's cheering." Grey yawned, hoping Bumblethorpe would take the hint. "D'you suppose they'll be glad I'm not?"

The captain laughed heartily. "You've always had a ready wit!"

"It will doubtless improve with sleep...."

"Right, then... I'll leave you alone. You're certain you don't want food first?"

"I'm too tired to eat just yet." Grey looked longingly at the bunk, then smiled at Bumblethorpe, who was backing out into the gangway. "My thanks, George. You're a splendid host."

"Sleep well, old boy."

When the paneled mahogany door closed at last, Grey leaned back in the captain's chair and sighed deeply. His body felt leaden and his eyes burned with fatigue, but he needed a few moments to reflect before he could surrender to sleep.

He stared at Natalya. Now that they were safely out of France, he no longer needed her help, but he had made promises to Nicholai Beauvisage that he meant to honor. Very soon, he would see England for the first time in four years. He ached for his homeland. The prospect of being reunited with friends and family, of revisiting familiar haunts, was almost more than he could fathom. How difficult it was to realize that freedom was his again!

Yet he could not forget Natalya during his homecoming. She was his responsibility, and a prickly one at that. Perhaps she'd spend her time writing while he investigated possibilities for her passage to America—and caught up on his own life.

Yes, his own life.... What of Francesca? he mused dispassionately. Would she still be at Hartford House, waiting dutifully for him, or were the rumors he'd heard true?

He almost hoped for the worst: hoped that Francesca had left him and that he'd be able to make a new beginning unencumbered by marriage to a woman he didn't love....

"Please, don't," Natalya whimpered. She looked kittenish to him with her long-lashed eyes that tilted upward at the corners and that tangle of honey-colored curls. Seeing the way her little hands suddenly balled into fists as she slept, Grey felt his heart soften, and he went to her.

She was curled on her side, her bottom pushed against the paneled bulkhead. The boy's costume she wore made her look both comical and endearing, Grey thought as he lowered himself tentatively onto the bunk next to her. Sensing his nearness, she reached toward him. Then, the instant her cheek found his chest, her features softened and she sighed.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "We're both safe."

He found those words strangely comforting. Cradling Natalya in his arms, he allowed his eyes to close. Almost immediately sleep overtook him and drew him under.

* * *

"Devil take it, Auteuil, you're mad!"

Natalya's heart jumped, her eyes flew open, and she would have cried out if her mouth hadn't been pressed to Grey St. James's shoulder. Totally disoriented, she struggled to get her bearings. Gradually she realized that she and Grey were alone and that he was talking in his sleep. But where were they? The rocking of their bed and the
swooshing
sound of water against creaking walls suggested a ship. Vaguely she remembered coming on board the British schooner in St. Malo Harbor. It was difficult to sort out dreams from reality.

Her head throbbed, her mouth tasted like cotton, and her stomach rumbled; she was on the verge of nausea. Through the narrow transom above the bunk, a soft, rosy-amber shaft of sunlight slanted in. Was it still early morning, or was twilight already stealing around them?

Natalya was rather disconcerted to realize how comforted she was by Grey's presence. She was unused to leaning on a man, and it went against her principles, but this adventure seemed far removed somehow from her
real
life.

"No!" he shouted suddenly, and his long, lean body jerked against hers.

Natalya wrapped her arm around his back and patted gently, feeling the sharpness of his shoulder blades. "It's all right, Grey," she whispered. "You're only dreaming."

His eyes opened, so piercing as they stared into hers that a shiver ran through her body. "Dreaming," he repeated, his voice thick with sleep. "Of course."

She looked at the angry scar across his hand. Was a souvenir from Auteuil? Just then, they both seemed to become aware of their intimately entwined limbs and disengaged hastily. Grey pushed himself up against the pillows, rubbed his eyes with long fingers, then studied Natalya with a slight, mysterious smile that made her blush.

"What amuses you?" she demanded, Auteuil and the scar flying from her thoughts. "You may as well know that I can't remember a blessed thing since we boarded this ship, so if I did something horrendously embarrassing, I'd appreciate it if you would make me aware of my... lapse."

"I find it interesting that you assume this sudden onset of amnesia must be a result of wicked misbehavior on your part," Grey remarked, laughing. "I know I shouldn't tease you, and I apologize. You've had a devil of a time and deserve only my gratitude and highest praise. You're an extraordinary woman, Natalya."

She digested his kind words, then narrowed her eyes.
"And...?"

"What do you mean?" Grey ran a negligent hand through his hair and lounged against the pillows.

"There's nothing else? Nothing I should know about?"

"If you are concerned that you may have climbed the mainmast, wantonly displayed your admittedly display-worthy charms, and then recited poetry for the entertainment of the crew..." He paused, eyes twinkling, as Natalya waited with an expression of mingled suspicion and alarm. "You may rest easy. You were not nearly that diverting. Moments after you had been deposited on the
Essex's
quarterdeck, you fainted. It wasn't your finest moment, but I hardly think that you need feel ashamed."

"I thought you'd decided not to tease me," Natalya said, with a trace of petulance, then declared, "I vow, I'll never touch calvados again!"

"I imagine that some food might lift your spirits—and mine," Grey said. The sight of her brightening face gave him an odd sort of pang in the middle of his chest. She was looking enchanting, sitting on Bumblethorpe's bunk in her voluminous white shirt and old man's breeches. Her face had a warm, winsome appeal accentuated by her unexpected, incandescent smiles. Her honey-gold hair was a disheveled mass that framed her delicate face and tumbled riotously down her back. Obviously Natalya's beauty was even more apparent in the absence of artifice. Grey decided that it was fortunate for him she was so advanced in years. An unmarried woman of twenty-six could only be a spinster or a worldly mistress. He might find her attractive, but nothing could come of it.

Still... it was difficult not to think about the other, more intimate discoveries he had made about Natalya when he had cuddled her in his arms in sleep. In spite of all she'd been through, she smelled as if she'd just had a bath scented with meadowsweet. And there had been the warm, firm pressure of her breasts against his chest... Upon awakening, he had had to suppress an unconscious urge to open her shirt and nestle between the pale, warm curves—

"I'm utterly famished!" she announced suddenly, scrambling off the bunk to pace across the cabin. "What time is it? How long will it be until we arrive in England? And where will we land?"

Rather disgusted with himself for his mental lapse into lechery, Grey sat up and reached for his boots. "I'll go above and see what we might eat." Pulling on the second boot, he stood up. "And I would guess that it's about sunset, which means that we ought to be nearing the English coast. I'll have to ask Captain Bumblethorpe where he intends to put us off the
Essex
."

Natalya watched Grey reach the passageway. In the soft glow of twilight, he was looking handsome and rested. When he glanced back over one broad shoulder and gave her an unexpected smile before exiting, she was shocked to feel herself shiver all over.

* * *

"What are you reading?" Natalya asked as she took another bite of tangy cheddar cheese and tore off a fifth generous chunk of baguette.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to speak with your mouth full?" Grey had finished his plate of bread, cheese, apples, and smoked salmon. Now he sipped a glass of fine Grenache wine and perused the booklet Oiseau had pressed into his hands when they'd said farewell on the fishing boat.

"Didn't
your
mother teach you that it's criminally rude to
read
when sharing a meal with someone else?" Natalya countered.

"Touché." He held up the pamphlet for her to see. "It's quite extraordinary. Chateaubriand has just published this review of Napoleon's offenses, called
Des Buonaparte et des Bourbons."'

"I'm not surprised," she replied, with studied nonchalance. "Today is the fifth anniversary of the execution of Rene Chateaubriand's brother, Armand. Do you know the story?"

"Vaguely. Refresh my memory." Each time he was reminded of her intellect, Grey felt a twinge of surprise.

"In 1809, Armand was arrested for sending dispatches from the emigre Bourbon princes to their agents in France. Rene wrote to Napoleon and asked for mercy for his brother, to no avail."

Grey began to nod. "Yes, I remember. Armand Chateaubriand was tried, found guilty, and then shot, wasn't he?"

"Yes! Rene recounted the episode to us when he visited Chateau du Soleil last year, and the memory of his face, his voice, will never leave me. He said that Armand was killed on Good Friday, and that he himself arrived just a few moments after the shots were fired. He found his brother lying dead, his skull shattered, and... as he put it, 'a butcher's dog licking up his blood and his brains.' "

"I heard from prison that Chateaubriand had been in seclusion these past five years, writing quietly, but by no means forgetting what Bonaparte did—not only to his brother, but to France," said Grey.