Читать книгу Safe in the Earl's Arms - Liz Tyner, Liz Tyner - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Warrington worked the davit, listening to the creak as it lifted the longboat to be secured on deck. He mustn’t keep thinking of her. This would be a bad time to get himself injured.

Taking one last look at the shore, he memorised the sight. If the fates were with him, he’d never see Melos again.

And if he had his way, he’d keep alive until they reached England. He had no sailor’s wish to be buried at sea. When he died, he wished to be boxed and put into a properly marked location.

He could understand fascination with sailing. The challenge of it. Men stood on rigging as comfortably as they stood on land.

Now the sailors unfurled the foremast sail, working from the middle, out to the side, and it dropped more softly than a lady’s skirt.

When the sun set the magic of the sea came out. In the night, the sails stiffened in the wind and the waters whispered a mesmerising sound. To stand on deck, with the blackness reflecting the heavens and the ship racing across the surface, a sailor could feel as if he were flying in an otherworldly vessel.

The moon rose well overhead and Warrington heard the bell, which signalled midnight and the end of the watch.

‘Well, old man...’ Warrington heard his brother’s voice ‘...I suppose you should go examine the trinket you’ve stored in your cabin.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’ Warrington watched Ben. ‘I’m not a man given to speed, but more to quality.’

‘It’s what we all say,’ Ben muttered, looking into the darkness at the rigging, and then patted the mast. ‘But I prefer to let the women boast about me.’ Ben called out, walking away, ‘And if you need instruction, return to me and I’ll explain how the deed is properly done.’

Warrington stopped, turned back, Ben’s form outlined in the moonlight. ‘Little brother, I see the error now. You’ve thought all along it is to be done properly, while the women most enjoy an improper tumble.’

Ben turned, waving Warrington on his way. ‘Get along, old man. Talk does not get the job done.’

When Warrington opened the door to the cabin, he noticed the lantern light flickering in the room. He looked to the bed. Empty. She sat in the chair backed against the wall, a bucket hooked at her feet by her heels, and looked up at him, her face ghostlike in the light.

‘I have lost...’ her voice followed the movement of the ship ‘...most food...’ another gentle sway of the boat forward, and her chin dipped over the pot ‘...I have eaten in the past year.’ The ship moved with the rocking motion of the sea and the breezes pushing them forward. She glared at him, but the look seemed more pitiful than angered. ‘No one told me...a ship would float so rough...trying to turn my insides...outside.’

‘You get used to it.’ He hung his cap on a peg. ‘About the time we hit land.’

She groaned.

Turning, he reached into the cabinet to move the brandy bottle aside and take out a cloth bag about the size of his hand. ‘Comfits. Don’t tell the men I have these. Wouldn’t want them to think me weak.’

He reached the bag to her, but she waved it away. He didn’t move back, but kept his hand firm.

‘I had some made with ginger. A servant I have, a former seaman, swears it helps when a man is at sea and his stomach refuses to settle into the ship. Just let it rest on your tongue.’

She frowned, but took the parcel, opened it and pulled out one of the orbs. She put it in her mouth and kept the bag clasped in her hand.

‘Since you’re not using the berth...’ he said, reaching to remove his coat and place it on the remaining peg, and over her shawl.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, thumping the wall behind her. ‘I can’t lie down. My feet keep moving higher than my head.’

‘Interesting.’

He usually sat in the chair to remove his boots, but no matter. Perching just on the edge of the berth and letting the bottom of the cabinet above him press against his shoulders, he tugged off his boots. Then he lifted them by the tops and pressed them into the railed opening beneath him so they’d not slide while he slept. He took off his waistcoat and stored it. Slipping his shirt from the trousers, his hand stopped when he looked again at her face. Her lashes rested against her cheeks. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and skin showed the same colour as the sails in moonlight.

For a moment he stared, torn between letting her alone and a need to brush tendrils back from her face.

He shook himself from his fascination and reached to the water pitcher, lodged in place and filled by the cabin boy earlier in the day. Warrington took the flannel lying inside the small raised edge, which kept it from sliding to the floor as the boat moved. He dampened the cloth and stepped beside her, putting it to her forehead. She held the compress in place. Their fingers touched, but she didn’t seem aware he was even in the room.

‘Try to think of something pleasant.’ He spoke to her, and in response her lips tightened. ‘Sing to yourself—some peaceful tune,’ he instructed. ‘It might help.’

‘Are the seas always rough?’ she asked.

He couldn’t tell her this was calm. ‘You get used to it.’

She nodded. ‘I hope.’

Her parcel lay beside her. He took it and her gaze flicked to him.

‘The rock can’t slide around. Might break or cause one of us to fall.’ He knelt at his bunk, trying to keep from brushing against her, and well aware that she pushed herself to the other side of the small room. He tucked the arm away carefully, knowing she watched every movement. Still kneeling, he looked across at her. ‘The light needs out.’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘In the dark, the room moves faster.’

He frowned. ‘You cannot fall asleep with the lantern lit.’

‘I am not sleeping.’

Warrington stood and undid the top fastening of his shirt, then snapped the garment over his head, putting it on the remaining peg.

He pulled open the covers and slid between them. He turned his head and she looked forward, her gaze locked on the wall.

‘Would you speak of something soothing?’ she asked.

He stared at her. ‘I’m going to sleep.’

‘Say anything. Anything to take my mind off my stomach and the treacherous waters. Talk about your home. Your mother. A dog. Anything. Please.’

‘I remember a tale of a young child eaten by wolves on a winter’s night. What of it?’

‘Nothing with food in it—please,’ she mumbled.

He studied her face. The pallor only made her lashes seem longer. He decided he didn’t need sleep as badly as he thought.

‘Ben, the captain, is my brother. This is his first sailing on a ship he is captain of—but he was born with the taste for sea life in his blood.’ He stared into the wood above his head. ‘I’ve another brother, Dane, who is looking after things at home while we’re away. And a sister, Adelphinia—named after a batty aunt, who even refuses to answer to the full name. We call my sister Adele, which she much prefers over Phinny.’ He stopped. ‘Perhaps from our telling her the horses called her when they whinnied.’ His voice softened. ‘She thinks brothers are a curse.’

He looked at Melina. If the sound of his voice eased her, then the rise and fall of her breasts eased him. The little mark on her might be a scar.

‘Keep talking,’ she said.

He gave a grunt of complaint, but continued. ‘I like Hoby boots, on firm land. I like to be able to look out my window and see oak trees. Solid trees on solid ground. I like my horse, Chesapeake, and I hated leaving him behind. I’m never getting this far from him again. He’ll probably wish to bite me or throw me when I get home.’

‘You miss...your horse?’ She slid the flannel from her cheek.

‘Ches—’ He shut his eyes. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking to leave him.’

‘There is no person you miss?

‘For—’ His voice rose, but he stopped himself. He remembered his home. He’d not wanted to speak of family. ‘I have a son. And there’s his sister. She’s younger.’

He thought of Jacob, the morning after Cassandra’s funeral. At first light, the boy had darted into War’s room and bounded upon the bed with a question or two about death, then a concern about cat’s ears.

Silence and darkness around him, he spoke again. ‘My wife died a year or more ago. I’ve not forgiven her. I’ve not forgiven her for anything.’

She didn’t speak.

He didn’t want the sombre mood surrounding him so many times to engulf him again.

He turned his head back to her. ‘Chesapeake enjoys the same journeys as I do. You can jest and call him any name you wish and he doesn’t care. Chesapeake’s a good mount. His sire and dam—he inherited the best of both. Father’s size. Mother’s grace.’ The shadows in his world jostled him, taking his mind from the horse. Even though he knew he didn’t lie, he left out so much.

She daubed the cloth at her face. ‘I already miss my sisters.’

‘Women are different.’

‘Yes. But you have your brother nearby.’

He grunted his displeasure. ‘I intended him to tell you that you could not sail with us.’

‘I know.’ She patted her cheek with the cloth and stared at him. ‘No wonder you don’t talk of missing anyone but your children. You’ve no heart.’

‘Chesapeake would disagree.’

‘A horse.’ She near snorted, and if she only knew—she’d sounded a bit like Chesapeake. He wanted to tell her, but when he saw the paleness of her face he changed his mind.

‘A fine chestnut. You’d never get him willingly on a ship.’

‘So he’s exypnos—clever.’

‘Very.’

‘How did you come to be on the vessel?’ she asked, holding the comfits and flannel in one hand.

‘My brother convinced me to invest in something he could captain. We both own half.’ Warrington let himself settle into a more comfortable place. She needed to snuff the light so he could rest. ‘Ben can make having fleas sound like a lark.’

‘Should I expect fleas on this journey, as well?’

‘Not unless you get too close to the men.’

He saw her lashes sweep up as she checked to see if he jested. Let her guess. ‘You’ll have to put out the light,’ he reminded. ‘We’ve had one fire too many already.’

‘In a moment.’

Her head was against the wall. Graciously long neck. A delicious amount of skin creamy beneath it.

‘What is that mark at your breast?’ he asked.

Without looking, she reached to the colouration, running a fingertip along the skin, tracing the outline.

His gaze locked on her fingers.

‘I was born with a smudge and it seems smaller than it used to. My sisters have the mark, too, but none of ours is in the same place or shape. I think of it as an hourglass—to remind me to be useful because there is only so much time.’

‘Reminds me of...’ he paused and looked again ‘...two horses’ hooves close together.’

Again, she moved her fingers briefly to the mark and then stood, using both hands to brace herself against the table. She edged herself around the furniture and then doused the light, putting them in darkness.

‘How did you pry yourself from Chesapeake to get on a ship?’ she said, her fumbling movements leading her to the chair.

‘I hoped to see different sights and learn about the Turks, but mostly I’ve seen water not fit to drink, heard jests not worth repeating and eaten food with no appeal at all. I think this ship has no rats because they starved.’

He heard the slop bucket slide as the ship moved and pushed himself from the bed. ‘I’ll empty the pot for you—otherwise one of us might put a foot in it before morning.’ And he didn’t intend to sleep with the smell.

Not having illumination didn’t concern him. The walls were so close he could feel his way for what he needed. He slipped out through the door, his feet bare, and walked to the side, tossing the contents downwind. When he returned, he opened the small door to slip the pail back inside the cabinet.

‘I would like to keep that nearby,’ she murmured, stopping him.

He put it on the floor at her feet, and he saw the shadow of her pulling the bucket close so she could hook it again between her shoes.

‘Take the bed,’ he instructed, standing above her. He would have to pull together something so he’d have a place to sleep.

‘No,’ she insisted, moving her head. ‘I’m best here.’

‘Wake me if you change your mind.’ He reached to the bunk, took the pillow and then pushed it her direction. ‘At least put this behind your head.’

After she held the pillow, he took his shirt, rolled it and tucked it in the berth.

He slid back into the sleeping space. ‘My brother needs to get sailing out of his veins, return home and start a life there.’

‘You can’t fault him. The boat is his Chesapeake.’

‘Well, he’ll have to convince me we’ll find gold, silver and mountains of apple tarts to get me on board again.’

He could hear her silence. It wasn’t only that she was quiet—she was immobile. Not moving. Then she spoke. ‘Treasures convince people to risk much.’