Scandal's Daughter (5 page)

Angrily she knocked on the door. He opened it a slit and peered out.

“Oh, it’s you. I’ve taken the apricots out of my cheeks—ate them, actually—so you’d better come in.”

“Certainly not. You’re not really a eunuch.”

“My dear Miss Courtenay,” he said with infuriating indulgence, “do stop imagining I have designs upon your virtue. Even if I wished to assault you, this padding would put paid to the notion, believe me. It’s excessively wearisome and I want to take it off as soon as may be.”

“Then I can’t possibly come in. But you must not take it off yet. No one will believe you’re seasick while we are tied up at the dock—and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She explained Captain Vasiliadis’s request for her not to mingle with the crew. “So you cannot stay in your cabin during the voyage.”

“When I don’t turn up, they’ll soon notice something is wrong and come to find out. It won’t hurt you to do without a meal or two,” he added callously.

Cordelia felt tears fill her eyes. Biting her lip she turned away, suddenly very tired and frightened. For three weeks of plans and preparations, she had not allowed herself to dwell on the perils of the long journey ahead. Now she was utterly dependent on an unknown Greek sea-captain and an unkind English vagabond, the chances of reaching England safely seemed shockingly slight.

She went into her cabin, set down the lantern, and subsided onto the cushioned mattress which took up nearly half the floor. Burying her face in her hands, she huddled there, willing herself not to cry.

“Miss Courtenay.” James Preston had come in without knocking, but she was too miserable to reprove him. “I’m sorry, that was unforgivably facetious of me.”

“G-go away.”

“Here, take this.” He thrust a handkerchief into her hands.

“I d-don’t need it. C-crying solves no diffic-culties.”

“No, but it may relieve your feelings. We do have difficulties, don’t we? We must put our heads together to solve them instead of sniping at each other. May I sit down?” Without waiting for permission, he lowered himself cautiously onto the mattress. “Dash it,” he groaned, “sitting is even more awkward than walking with all this extra avoirdupois. I’m afraid I’m decidedly doubtful whether I can carry it off in broad daylight on the deck of a swaying ship.”

Cordelia instinctively moved a little away from him, but she said, subdued, “We had best not risk it then.”

“Never fear, I shan’t let you starve. I’ll fetch your dinner tonight and bring you something from the basket for the morning. I’m sure our good captain will come to speak to you by midday. If not I must just gird up my loins and stumble to the galley with a napkin held across my mouth, making the problem perfectly obvious.”

She gave him a faint smile, unable to confess it was not the meals she cared about but his mockery. After all, he had already apologized.

“Cheer up,” he said. “We shall contrive somehow. You have shown yourself remarkably courageous and pragmatic. Don’t despair now. I’ll be back shortly.”

He hung up her lantern from a hook in the ceiling and went out.

Courageous and pragmatic? Cordelia sighed. At least he found something in her to approve, even if she was not the sort of female he admired. Which was, of course, precisely the situation to be hoped for. She did not want any man to desire her, let alone a good-for-nothing rogue like James Preston.

He returned with a tray. “Smells good,” he said, setting out a jug, two tin cups, bread, and two bowls on the low table hinged to one wall. “Come and eat.”

As Cordelia rose from the divan-bed, he took an armful of cushions and stacked them in two piles by the table.

“You can’t eat here,” she said.

“If anyone notices, which is unlikely, they’ll just think I’m waiting on you.”

“But...” She was too tired to argue about propriety. “Oh very well.”

The bowls contained a delicious stew of fresh fish, carrots, and leeks cooked with olive oil, garlic, and lemon. Despite Preston’s unwelcome presence, Cordelia enjoyed it until she recognized the fish as mullet. Reminded of her mother’s accident, she pushed the bowl away.

“Not hungry after all?”

“I have had all I want, thank you.”

“Then do you mind if I finish it? I’m still ravenous and I’m going to be on short commons for several days.”

She watched as he tipped the remains from her bowl into his, scooping out the last drop of sauce with a piece of bread. Really, the man had no manners at all. How could she have taken him for a gentleman? He ate as if he were half-starved.

Catching her disgusted look, he grimaced. “Sorry. As I told you, I’ve been away from civilization for too long, and I’m not the sort to dress for dinner in a jungle clearing. I’ll leave you in peace.” He piled everything on the tray and departed with a terse “Good night.”

Cordelia barred the door behind him, put out the lantern, and went to bed.

* * * *

The cries of the muezzins woke James next morning. Devil take ‘em, he’d never get used to the din. He could have done with another several hours of sleep.

Where the deuce was he? He blinked up at the low ceiling, felt the gentle up and down motion, and remembered. On board ship, Athens bound. Thank heaven, he would never again be wakened by the call to prayer.

Then he remembered his travelling companion and pulled a wry face. When Uncle Aaron told him about Miss Courtenay, she had sounded like...well, like the answer to a prayer. A young woman, the daughter of a lady of less than perfect morals, setting out alone on a journey of a thousand miles—not only could she provide the key to his escape, they might have a bit of fun together on the way. Uncle Aaron had helped her because he was sorry for her, but also because Lady Courtenay had been so friendly and amiable in his dealings with her. How could James have guessed the daughter would turn out to be a censorious, narrow-minded prude?

He had half a mind to attempt to seduce her, just to extinguish her holier-than-thou air.

From the near-dark outside came the slap of bare feet on the deck, the creak of ropes and the rattle of windlasses, mingling with the sailors’ shouts and the screeching of seagulls. Captain Vasiliadis was as eager to depart as his passengers. James wondered how much Miss Courtenay had paid him to accept the risk of offending the pasha.

She had not said a word about his share of travelling expenses. He had borrowed money from Uncle Aaron, as little as he thought could get him to England if he were frugal, but he’d prefer to keep it for emergencies as long as she was willing to fund him. He’d pay her back when they reached home.

If she trusted him, on which he was not prepared to wager a China orange against all Lombard Street.

A China orange—he was hungry again. Sitting up, he delved into the basket. He had forgotten to take her anything from it last night, but missing breakfast would not hurt her, though he was truly sorry he had said so. As he ate, he wondered what she’d look like if she lost a bit of weight.

The
Amphitrite
slid away from the quay. Out into the choppy waters of the Golden Horn she sailed on the dawn breeze, down to the Bosporus, and out into the Sea of Marmara. She began to pitch and roll, not hard, almost playfully.

James did not feel like playing. In fact, he felt distinctly queasy. His stomach rediscovered what his mind had kindly concealed from him since last time: until his body adjusted he was going to be deucedly uncomfortable. For a day or two, he was not going to have to pretend to be seasick.

* * * *

“Your servant is ill, Kyria.” The captain sounded unsuspicious. Cordelia had heard retching and a few groans next door and she was afraid Preston was rather overacting. “I have brought your breakfast,” Captain Vasiliadis continued. “I’ll set it down outside the door. When you are finished, just put the tray out, and...and anything else you wish to be rid of.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She had been wondering what on earth to do with the tin chamberpot, covered fortunately.

After eating her breakfast, she read for a while. She had brought her “new” poetry anthology, despite its tattered state, because its contents were still delightfully unfamiliar. Later, veiled, she sallied forth up the ladder onto the poop deck, glad to be wearing her Turkish trousers for the climb.

By then Istanbul was no more than a cloud on the horizon. A chapter in her life had closed—no, an entire volume. Surely the next volume must be an improvement. From now on she was no longer an appendage of a fallen woman, shamed by her mother’s shameful behaviour. This journey was but the brief prologue to a new life as the respectable daughter of Sir Hamilton Courtenay, Baronet.

If only she did not miss Mama so much. If only James Preston were a real friend to whom she could talk, instead of an unrepentant villain, guilty of some nameless crime.

The day was too fine for vain regrets. The blue waters sparkled in the sun and seabirds wheeled and cried above as the
Amphitrite
forged westward, her sails billowing in the stiff breeze.

When she climbed back down to the main deck, Cordelia hesitated outside Preston’s door as a particularly dolorous moan met her ear. It sounded most realistic, though unnecessary—maybe he had taken her footsteps for those of a sailor. She would have liked to talk to him, criminal or not. Would a genuine Turkish lady venture into her eunuch’s quarters to enquire after his well-being?

Unlikely. Sighing, she went on to the confinement of her own cramped cabin.

By dawn the next morning the ship was approaching the Dardanelles. Cordelia went up on deck for a while, but as the straits narrowed the great fortifications on either side reminded her unpleasantly of the power of the enemies she and Preston were fleeing. Though Istanbul lay a hundred miles behind and more, they were still well within reach.

With a shiver, she returned to her cabin and her poetry. She was beginning to grow tired of her own company, as well as heartily tired of the fish stew which turned up yet again for luncheon. At least it had not been made with mullet after the first night.

Perhaps after dark she’d slip next door and beg a handful of dried apricots, except that the wretch was bound to laugh at her and make rude comments. He might even take advantage of her entering his cabin, whatever he said about his intentions. As Mama’s experience had taught her, men only wanted one thing.

Chapter 6

That evening they reached Cape Helles and emerged into the Aegean. Once on the open sea, the
Amphitrite
settled into a regular motion as she climbed and descended the waves. Cordelia went up for a last view of the Turkish mainland, fading away behind them in the east. Three islands added to the charm of the scene, a small one to the south and two larger, one to the north and one ahead, its hills silhouetted against the sunset.

Leaning back against the rail she watched the play of colours in the western sky. Rosy pink swiftly changed to burnt orange with streaks of pale yellow and green, and the first star appeared. Then, to her surprise and annoyance, James Preston joined her.

“You are supposed to be playing seasick,” she reminded him sharply.

“I am seasick.”

She regarded him more closely. Though smoothly shaven, otherwise he looked dreadful, pale and shaky, with dark circles under his eyes. His turban was wound crookedly around his black felt cap and his girdle was coming undone.

“Then what are you doing out here?”

“I should say I was seasick. Have you no compassion for my sufferings?”

“Yes, of course,” said Cordelia, slightly abashed. “But it can’t be so very bad.”

“Ha! Have you never been seasick? Woman, you know not whereof you speak. For the past two days I’ve been praying for a quick death. However, my stomach seems to have settled a trifle at last, though I can’t say I’m feeling in plump currant. I absolutely had to have some fresh air.”

“Well, no one comes up here so I daresay you are safe enough for now. They will have seen you, though. They’ll expect to you be up and about after this.”

“Not after watching me stagger and stumble on the way up. I shall stagger and stumble back down to my cabin and no one will be surprised if I don’t appear again. I must say, I feel better already.”

“There is some colour in your cheeks. I—”

“Hush a minute.” He gazed up at the lookout high above in the crow’s nest on the mainmast, who was shouting something in Greek. Then he turned to stare back at the receding mouth of the Dardanelles. “Damnation, they’re after us!”

“What? Who? I don’t see anything.”

“They are not visible from down here yet. The lookout says a naval vessel is signalling for us to heave to.”

Cordelia peered up through the gathering dusk at the sailor on high with his spyglass. “How do you know?” she asked, hoping Preston was wrong.

“I speak Greek. Here comes our good captain, in high fidgets by the look of him.”

Captain Vasiliadis’s broad, swarthy face was agitated. “Kyria, alas, navy ship follows, orders we stop. For Greek to defy Turks is not good.”

Her hands clenched, nails biting into the palms, Cordelia asked as calmly as she could, “Can you not outrun them?”

He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Impossible. Navy ships are fast, sail more close to wind.”

“But it’s nearly dark. Pretend you did not see their signal. Without a man with a glass up the mast, you would not have, would you? Surely at night we can evade them.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But they know we go to Piraeus. They will sail ahead and wait.”

Feeling helpless, she glanced at Preston. As he started to speak, an idea struck her and she interrupted. It was best for all concerned if Captain Vasiliadis continued to think him a eunuch servant. Time enough for him to intervene if the captain rejected her proposal.

“Suppose we don’t sail straight towards Athens. Suppose you change course under cover of darkness and take us somewhere else. Then when they finally catch up with you, you can deny all knowledge of us.”

“I don’t know, Kyria—”

“Please,” she begged. “They cannot possibly be certain we...I am aboard the
Amphitrite
. Of course, I will pay you for your lost time.”