The Lady and the Captain (16 page)

Sarah had witnessed the seamen make use of the long neck barrels of the guns this way many times before when they were eating. There was no room aboard for any real tables. The gunnery instruments were kept at the ready next to the cannons, every bit of space on the fighting vessel being economically used.

Plate in hand, she began to sample delicacies that the crew of The Brunswick had not had the pleasure to enjoy while at sea. The fresh fruit, diverse vegetable dishes, and unsalted venison were in particular appreciated by the seamen.

For the moment lowly potatoes, beans, dried foods, and limes were overlooked in favor of summer fruits. Fresh peaches, strawberries, apricots, berries, and plums were treated as exotic, succulent delights. And to the men’s bored and well-salted taste buds, they were pure ambrosia.

Companionably, Robert stood next to her as they ate.

Barrels, crates, and what few chairs aboard the frigate were placed about the top deck to serve as seats for their guests. The seamen stood gallantly about, letting the ladies and children take what few chairs were available.

The moon shone brightly down upon the frigate as water gently lapped against the hull. One of the marines began to play a romantic sea shanty on his accordion. A member of the crew began to sing, and soon others joined in, and before the next stanza was finished, the entire deck was awash with merry voices.

The seamen unashamedly held their wives and sweethearts, playing peek-a-boo games with the numerous babies sitting on their mothers’ laps. Many of the children present were becoming acquainted with their fathers for the first time. Some of the babies had been born while the men were away at sea.

Sarah and Robert sat away from the rest of the party. They looked out over the bulkhead at the romantic moonlit water of the islet in the distance. Their bodies were screened from view of the others. The teasing had ceased. At last they were alone.

She thought back briefly to her first conversation with the handsome first mate, when he’d told her of his life at sea. She thought it was isolating to be the commander in charge of a naval warship. She’d noticed how he’d had to stand alone—how all the men aboard respected and feared him. And she knew Robert could never be completely open about himself with anyone. She’d discovered that as the commanding first mate, he’d always had to make difficult decisions with an air of certainty, which at times she could tell he was far from feeling.

Aye, she decided, to be always in command must be a lonely duty. It was one, she noticed, he’d not been able to share with another. Not even with those with whom he might’ve considered to be his closest friends.

“Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do, Commander, after you capture the murderer?” she asked, biting into a plump strawberry. A little juice dribbled down her chin.

Robert reached out to dab at the juice with his handkerchief. Their hands touched and as he stared down at her lips, she thought he might kiss the trickle of juice away.

She handed him back his handkerchief and the moment passed.

“Oh—um, yes, before all this mayhem started, I had thought to buy myself a place to live somewhere near here. I was going to use my money and buy a cottage with a bit of land to farm,” he said. “I intend one day to have a family.”

A small wrinkle appeared on her brow, but inside, her heart cracked a little. So, he intended to marry.

“I suppose you will be in need of a proper English wife to go with this cottage of yours,” she said, trying to keep the sadness from her voice.

If Lieutenant Smythe wanted to continue up the ranks of the Royal Navy, he would have to have a wife with the proper background and pedigree of respectability. An English lady with a title and a coffer full of shillings would be perfect for such an ambitious young officer.

Aye, she thought sorrowfully, a proper English wife with connections would be able to aid him, introduce him into the inner circles of polite society and help him advance his career. She would host and attend parties with him . . . and in due time bear his children. This esteemed lady would manage his farm while he was away at sea, ordering around the hired hands, selling the produce on market day, and on occasion be trusted to represent him in his absence. That is unless she decided to go to sea with him during times of peace. Aye, she would be a most respected member of society. Sarah envied this unknown woman.

She envisioned this proper English lady with her long aristocratic nose and white powdered hair. She would be a lady of decorum who would have undoubtedly all the manners and lofty airs of one of those brought up in the upper levels of society.

Aye, with his becoming good looks and manner, he could undoubtedly leg-shackle himself to a lady with a rich dowry, she sadly decided. And what would a poor wise woman such as herself have to offer him? Nothing. Not even a shilling. Aye, she could only afford to offer him herself. And no sensible gentleman with any ambition would want only her.

She looked over at him, her thoughts straying to their lovemaking.

She’d only had one glorious night with him, but how would it feel to be loved by him night after night as his wife? She could not help but wonder. Would he, like other seamen who were away from their loved ones for a long period of time, take a mistress? Or would he be true to his wife? Perhaps sending for her as often as he was able?

Maybe he would take an Irish mistress
. . . a small voice whispered inside her mind,
someone like you . . .
maybe he would want an independent lady who would be both his companion as well as his lover?”

However, would she be willing to be second in his life? Would she be content to let herself be available to him only as a source of momentary amusement?

Knowing the answer beforehand, she shook her head . . . she could not.

Robert took her hand in his, distracting her away from her sobering thoughts. He touched the gold ring she wore, moving it around on her finger as if its hidden love charm might rub off on him.

“But my plans might change,” he said aloud. “Maybe she’ll prefer a grand house in town and not want a country farm. Perhaps she’ll have interests of her own such as cooking . . . or healing . . . and not desire to live here in England while I’m away at sea.”

He looked down at her.

“There is a lot I would have to discuss with this lady. Such decisions a gentleman should not make alone.”

He paused, letting his meaning sink in. “By the by, I’d like it if you’d call me Robert. I think it’s high time that you did. That is, if it’s acceptable to you . . . Sarah. I liked hearing your name on my lips last night, my sweet. I would hear it again.”

He brought her hand up to his mouth and gently kissed it. Not content with that he peeled back the edges of her gloved hand, gently nibbling on the tender skin of her wrist.

She stared at him, blinked, almost afraid to breathe lest he should stop.

“I’ll call you as you wish . . . ,” she whispered, trying to focus, a haze of desire fogging her vision. “We are supposed to be betrothed. It would be, um . . . proper, Robert.”

“It would indeed,” he said, and bending towards her placed his other hand behind her back, pulling her closer to him.

He lowered his head and his mouth descended on hers.

It tasted of the fresh salt sea air and the sweets he had consumed during the celebrations. It piqued her hidden desires to be with him again and again. The gentle pressure of his mouth against her own felt oh, so wonderful. She leaned into him, wordlessly asking for more.

He tightened his hold.

It warmed her, making her head swim and all of her senses come alive. To be kissed, like this as a betrothed couple would, in front of all the crew and their families, by the man she had been yearning for these past few weeks, left her heady with happiness. The sobering recognition that he found her as attractive as she did him made her almost giddy.

He must have developed some tender feelings for her. She thought with a flutter of a butterfly in her stomach. And was he referring to her when he spoke of his future wife’s interests? Or was it wishful thinking on her part?

Oh, how she wanted to ask him. Such intimate confidences made her hopeful. She wanted to love again. And be loved.

The gold ring was a constant reminder of her first love. She remembered the moment he’d given it to her. It had been when John Maxwell in his sweet fumbling way, asked her to be his wife.

There had been a purpose behind giving her the ring. And she knew it had nothing to do with a love charm. It was to remind her that she had loved and was capable of being loved in return. Although John was gone, and she grieved his loss, she knew she was able to go on living and feel those wonderful, tender emotions with someone else.

She no longer had to be alone. She did not have to live with only bittersweet memories to warm her. She could be part of the present and feel those heady sensations for another.

As Robert reached for her once more, to embrace her with another tender kiss, she knew in that moment all those wonderful hopes and promises a woman could have for one man. She placed her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her.

She was comforted by the thought that he had grown to care for her. Her feelings were not one sided. Maybe his affection for her would grow into something upon which they could build a future together. Perhaps he would ask her to continue to be by his side after they uncovered the identity of the murderer.

She put her hand on top of his. The ring shone in the moonlight. At that moment she felt safe with him and believed anything was possible between them . . . even love.

*    *    *

Suddenly, they heard a howling cry of feminine grief. It effectively broke the feeling of calm well-being to those celebrating aboard. A young woman cloaked in a long black ermine cloak stood at the top of the ship’s gang-plank.

Robert groaned inwardly. She had arrived.

Several officers of various ages were heard trying to dissuade her from coming aboard. But to no avail . . . she brushed them aside with forceful determination.

The young artist, Fiona Foxworthy, was famous for having tantrums at the slightest provocation. Sensitivity of feeling, an artistic temperament embraced by Lord Byron and his poetic friends, took on an entirely new meaning when the mercurial dancer was near. The young dancer could make an old slattern seem placid by comparison.

Robert grimly remembered a past encounter with one of her hairbrushes. Fiona had thrown it at him after he’d bluntly turned down her offer to become one of her many admirers. He had other plans for his life and his money. The modest investments he’d made, he hoped would carry him through into old age. As a result of maintaining a tight-fist on his earnings, he’d earned the sorry reputation for being a tea-drinking-sober-sides. A man disinterested in wine, women, and song. That wasn’t entirely true, though. There was one woman who had occupied his mind a great deal of late. He looked over at Sarah, who was watching the dancer’s approach with great fascination. Sarah could make a man forget his very own name.

“I must see where my beloved Captain Jackson breathed his last—where he spent his final days . . . ,” wailed the young woman, disregarding the fact that she’d already been told he had died upon a small island off the shores of southern Ireland.

“Step aside,” she said imperiously to one of the young seamen who tried to dissuade her. She placed a hand dramatically across her brow and pushed him away with the other.

“I must commune with the air where he breathed his last words . . . I must touch where my beloved captain once laid his head to rest and be with those who knew him. Yes, I must be allowed to share my grief with all of those who served so valiantly with him!”

The beautiful young lady paused in her tirade. She looked about the top deck, trying to locate one of the ranked officers. It was evident she had come aboard to pay her respects. And she was not to be deterred from her mission.

She was in fact, looking for an officer to take Captain Jackson’s place as her protector. It would be a gentleman who would be as accommodating as her dear departed lover. He would therefore have to be someone who already knew of her whimsically demanding ways, someone who was close to the late captain and felt guilty for having survived . . . aye, someone like the handsome first mate.

She spied the newly appointed Master and Commander Robert Smythe.

Her painted lips pursed into a frown. A comely young woman with long guinea-colored hair had her hand clasped with the first officer’s. This fact Fiona chose to ignore. She had heard rumors about his unconventional match with an Irish wise woman. No matter—she’d already decided upon her target.

“Yoo-hoo . . . Lieutenant Smythe!” Fiona cried, waving her handkerchief.

She effortlessly pulled away from her group of admirers, trailing behind her, and hurried up the steps to the officers’ quarter-deck.

Robert gave a low groan of dismay and muttered a curse under his breath—the sort an officer did not utter in mixed company. But in this case, Sarah excused him. She thought of a few choice words of her own in Irish.

Their perfect evening had come to an abrupt end.

He gently disengaged himself from her and stood to politely greet the new arrival. It was sadly his duty to be kind to Captain Jackson’s mistress in this, her hour of mourning.

“Mistress Foxworthy,” he said as a short way of introduction for Sarah’s benefit. “And this is my betrothed, wise woman Sarah Duncan.”

Ignoring the young woman seated next to him, the dancer threw herself into the master commander’s arms. She began to sob loudly, pushing her pretty face into his wool coat.

“My heart is broken.” She sniffled into his chest. “Completely broken . . .”

Robert tried to gently extricate himself. But she was not to be moved. She clung to him, like a tenacious barnacle with sharp nails.

“He’s gone, Lieutenant—left me all alone!” she cried out. “How could Captain Jackson leave me this way? How could he die, Lieutenant? And how shall I ever be comforted by his loss? I am so utterly alone in this cruel, cruel world. Whatever shall I do?”