The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2 (5 page)

Her words sounded almost strangled, but another second in this confined place would pull her into the past, and this time she might not escape. Siphoning a breath, she unlatched the door. "I won't be long, Mrs. Narvel."

"It's Clara, and do be careful. I'll take care of the little one till you get back."

Jonas always slept long, like he was afraid of missing tomorrow's allotment. "Thank you. He'll be no trouble for you. And you won't miss me."

Closing the door, Precious filled her lungs again. The cedar of the wood and the salt in the air already felt good, cleansing. Easing her way, with just moonlight as her guide, she found the ladder that led to the deck. Her eyes adjusted well to the night. They always had, more so now when she needed to see evil coming her way.

For a few seconds, she put her hand on the rung. It didn't bite. It didn't latch hold of her, or scream for someone to catch her. She took another quick breath. Everything would be all right.

Cinching up her muslin robe, she raised her head to the purpled bits of sky above. The peace of it called to her. If she stayed in the shadows, all would be well. Slowly, she took hold of the springy wood again and eased her way up. This part of the deck was empty. Maybe all the men Mrs. Narvel warned of were tucked into their hammocks, too. Feeling more confident, Precious pushed to the railing.
 

The water gleamed, reflecting distant stars. Hints of scarlet peaked within ribbons of ebony. The sky was beautiful. A new shiver, one of excitement, traveled up her arms.
 

But beyond, a good forty feet, was a wall of ebony. Nothing could be seen beyond it. She reached out a hand and tried to measure it between her thumb and index finger, but how could she size infinity?

"Miss Jewell?”
 

The heavy voice sent a different vibration through her. She startled and clutched the rail.

"Miss Jewell, do you remember my orders? Woman, what am I going to do with you?"

 
Another emotion filled her, a mix of vexation and a desire to defend herself from being caught doing something naughty. She spun around.
 

Lord Welling stood a few paces away, shaking his head at her. His white shirt was open, exposing a few tuffs of black hair. His simple dark breeches blended into the night, silhouetting his thick form. There was a power about him now that she hadn't seen in London. Maybe it was hidden under the fancy ties and jackets.
 

Closing the distance between them, he folded his arms. "I thought I told you not to come out of your cabin. Did I not make it clear? Did I need to specify timeframes?"

He stood too close. Even in the onyx night, the stars and the lantern light in his hand made his eyes wide, deep blue, and menacing.

Willing her knees to still, she had to keep reminding herself that a servant didn't get whipped like an enslaved person, and, for all Lord Welling's bluster, he'd never tried to take a branch to her. She lifted her chin. "It's stuffy down there. I didn't think it'd hurt nothing. You're selfish for keeping it from me."

Dimple popping, he pounded his skull. "Mouse, scurry back to your quarters before you’re caught by a very large rat."

His eyes were clear, untainted by alcohol. Why did that worry her? Could she handle him, sharp, with all his mind working?
 

Well, she'd try. She could stand up for her opinions just like Palmers or any other worker did. With a hand on her hip, she sharpened her tone. "Rats don't go after mice. If you'd ever spent time in fields, you'd know that."

"Hungry rats will devour anything." His head went sidelong as his gaze raked over her. "Barefoot, you'd make an easy meal. A charming one, but an easy one."

She refused to let her hand move to the belt of her robe. Something about letting him know his warnings trembled her bones didn't seem right. Instead, she pivoted back toward the ocean. "I'm not done getting air. I'll be deck-side at luncheon."

Chuckling, he plodded closer. "Jewell, you're no coward. I’ll give you that."

She hid a sigh of relief in a deep taste of salted air. "The breeze feels so good. And the night sky, I miss a night's sky."

"Well, let's hope the red goes away before dawn.
Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds."

She swiveled and looked at his face; clean-shaven, speaking of mystical things, with his hair full out lifting in the wind. He was handsome if you like the sort, but he was full of nonsense, speaking nonsense.

A wave crashed against the hull, making her almost reach for him to steady herself. Forcing her hand to her side, she straightened her shoulders. Even if it got rocky, she'd stand her ground a little longer, just to prove her point.

"I can tell by the cross look on your face that you are not partial to Shakespeare. Then try this one. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morn, sailor be warned."

The wind picked up her mobcap and set it sailing. He lunged and caught it, tucking it in his waistband. "You've had enough wind, Jewell. Let me escort you back below." He lifted his palm to her.

With braids dropping, curling to her neck, she stared at him, not wanting to move, not wanting to go back to the cabin. A small portion of her mind wanted him to speak more nonsense, to calm the edge in her spirit. "I haven't seen you drinking. We can smell rum from our room."

"No, ma'am, not out here in the open ocean." He trudged to thick wood rail and clasped it in his big hands. "No, God has control out here, and I need to be able to hear Him. Can't do that cast to the winds."

Now he spewed a different set of nonsense. Precious didn't think the baron was religious. She squinted at him and looked out at the wall of blackness surrounding the ship. "I don't understand."

"Oh, Jewell, I learned the hard way long ago about being too cocky, too full of my own power out here on the seas. That's wrong. God can strike at any moment, and you can lose everything if you're not paying attention."

There was a sadness, a grieving music, to his tone, and it made her unhappy, pulling at her heart. She shook her head to clear it, and just stood near him, breathing in and out, looking at waves.

"You've had enough, my dear. I have to finish my rounds." He pivoted and took three long steps away. "Jewell, let me take you to your cabin."

"Why do you call me ‘Jewell’?"

He lowered his well-muscled arm. "It's what we British do. Addressing by a surname is a sign of respect for one's heritage."

The boat rocked, the waves hitting below, shoving the boat like one of Jonas’s blocks. It made her reach backward and clutch the rail.
 

He extended his arm again. “Time for play is done, Jewell. You need to go below. The next few hours of ocean are going to be bumpy.

"I don't have a surname. Precious Jewell is my only name."

His clear eyes sharpened, and he stepped even closer. His palm went to her chin, gently, lifting and angling it in the moonlight. "Jewell's not a family name? Then who is your father?"
 

Stiffening, she stepped away from him. Now the railing pressed into her back, preventing escape. "I think I am ready to go below, but I can get there myself. Can I have my cap?"

"Mouse, I thought you had courage. You're going to let me continually frighten you." His chuckles, his patronizing laughter, burnt her ears. "I suppose that what's to be expected from a mouse.”

The ocean pushed her forward, flinging her into him. He caught her and held her close. She could feel his heart thudding through her muslin nightgown. She pressed on his chest, but he didn't let go.

"Precious Jewell," huskiness set in his voice, "it's getting rough out here."

Tucking a braid from her eye, he released her. His breathing seemed labored, like he struggled for air. "Come along, Miss Precious." He rubbed at his brow, then clasped her arm and dragged her a bit. “You are going back to your cabin now. Work harder at listening. One of my crew might have found you out here, dressed in just muslin.”

She couldn't take him forcing her to move any more than she could hearing him laughing at her, always sounding as if his thoughts were faster than hers. Anger pumping in her veins, she spun free of his arm.

But the ship shuttered.
 

Her feet went one way, her body the other. In an instant, she was dangling over the rail.

Gareth heard her cry, and his heart plugged up his throat. The poor girl was out of his reach. "Hold on, Precious."

Running, he caught her fingers but the sweat on hands made her smooth skin slick. Grasping at her robe, he tried to pull her to him, but the crazed women fought him, punching at his arms.
 

“Don't touch me! You can't touch me!”

She was panicked, and would fall. He’d have to manhandle her to bring back to safety. "I'm not trying to see your skivvy; I'm trying to save your life."

Her feet slipped against the hull as she tried to climb back. "Don't touch me again!”

Her pretty eyes were so wide they looked like they’d pop. She wasn't all there, couldn't grasp the danger.

He lowered his voice. "Woman, you have to trust me. Let me pull you into my arms."

Her countenance was blank. She probably couldn't hear a word he said, but if he didn't act soon, she fall into the bottomless ocean. "Woman, I coming for you now."

When his hands sought her shoulders, he felt her wriggle free. The crazy girl fell into the ocean. "Blasted woman, Precious!"

She bobbed in the waves as they towed her away.

Running to the back of the boat, he scooped up a large bundle of rope and secured it to a belaying pin. Tying it about his waist, he climbed upon the bulwark, with boots planting on the smooth cap-rail. "Man overboard! Man overboard!"

He spied Precious struggling in the waves, head bobbing in and out of the water. The sound of men's boots pounded behind him. "For Port Elizabeth!" The chant flew from his the top of his lungs as he leapt into the purple darkness.
 

He swam leeward, offset slightly to the right of the foolish girl. At least a minute of hard kicking and pushing against the waves set him to within a yard of her. "Precious, clasp my hand; this time like you want it."

She didn't answer. Her motion had slowed. The cold water probably drained her life away.

The iciness of it awoke any part of him that might've thought this was a dream gone wrong. "I'm not losing you, Precious."

Paddling harder, he closed the distance between them, aiming for the waterlogged mass of grey muslin. Where was her head? "Dear Lord, don't take my mouse, too."

As if she heard him, she popped up and caught a mouthful of air, arms flailing.
 

Good, Precious still had fight in her.

Now he wasn't taking any chances. He'd already lost too much by guessing people's strength. "Precious, it’s me, Welling. Can you hear me?"

"Yes." The voice sounded small and tired and the urge to wrap her up in his strength ripped through him.

Battling against the ocean he revered, he got closer. "Do as I say."

His mouse didn't answer. Her head had sunk below the waves. The moving water pushed her away. He’d have one chance before the rope would snap him back to the boat.

He dove behind her and latched a hold of her back. She looked slight, but the fear in her could grab hold of him and drag them both to their deaths. He tightened his grip, his hands clasping under her bosom. "I've got you, Precious. Let me save you."

Her head nodded, and he felt her body relax and curve into his.
 

"You got him, Captain?"

"Yes!" Gareth responded, and kept Precious locked against his chest.
 

The rope about him tightened, cutting into the scar running the course of him, but he'd endure the sting of the old wound now that he had his mouse. The crew towed in their lifeline, bringing them back to the boat.
 

"Thank you, Lord." Precious didn't leave him. He hadn't guessed wrong about how to save her.

The stubborn woman stayed very still and quiet within his embrace. She hadn't fainted, but she probably wouldn't fully revive until he lifted her back on board.

Yet the questions in his brain wouldn't quiet. "Why, Precious? Why wouldn't you let me help you?"

Her teeth chattered. "I'm letting you help me now."

Did she want to jump? Was this a suicide? No, that couldn't be it, but there was something that chained her in fear. Only the pull of death had overcome it.
 

Almost near the hull, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Woman, at least you waited for me to be sober this time before you frightened me out of my wits. I'll be good and drunk if you're going to keep this up on shore."

"Sorry."

His heartbeat slowed as his men raised them out of the water. Holding her tightly, he breathed into her drenched hair that had swelled to her ears, exposing a long beautiful neck. His lips brushed the salty skin at the nape. "I know. I’m glad I got to you, too."

Precious couldn't get warm. Unlike London's rain, the ocean was cold like a thawing winter puddle. Shaking uncontrollably, water dripping from her nightgown, she burrowed into the warm, masculine arms draping about her. Her left arm felt as if it had fallen off. It burned in its socket.
 

Lord Welling held her tightly as he climbed over the rail and jumped with a thud onto the deck. "See, I got you. You're safe."

His whisper kissed her ear, and she shook even more.

Lord Welling set Precious down by his boots. "You're a little cold, but you'll be alright."

Quivering as much from the cold trapped in her gown as from the touch of the man who'd now rescued her twice, she didn't know what to say. She mostly surely would've died this time, not just on the inside.
 

No more breathing in and out.