by Lara Temple
‘What was school like?’ Cleo took the opportunity to ask.
‘Rafe was very instrumental in making sure I survived my first two years in school.’
‘I was also two years older and a head taller. It was no great effort to keep those damned bullies at bay.’
Captain Chris’s smile twisted a little.
‘It cost you a beating by the headmaster.’
‘Only once. It was well worth it to see Barnsley and Greaves waist deep in the mud.’
‘What happened?’ Cleo demanded.
‘Curious, Cleo-Pat?’ Rafe grinned and Chris leaned his elbows on the table and told a tale which had Cleo laughing so hard she spilled her wine.
Rafe took her glass from her.
‘Here, you may laugh at me all you wish, but I won’t condone the waste of Chris’s precious nectar.’
Cleo dabbed at a spot of wine on her dress with a napkin.
‘I cannot afford to spill it either. This dress might be years out of fashion, but it is my most respectable one and I shall be needing it when I present myself to Mr Fulton, the editor of the Gazette.’
‘What a pity I didn’t know previously,’ Chris said. ‘We sold a dozen bolts of Chinese silk to a merchant in Alexandria. There was the most amazing embroidered orange silk that would have suited you perfectly, Cleopatra.’
‘Stop flirting, you bacon-fed knave,’ Rafe growled.
‘Rafe! That is from Henry the Fourth! Oh, very good!’ Cleo commended, taking back her glass.
‘It’s all your fault. Between the two of you quoting that mawkish pap at each other morning to night I’m surprised I’m not dreaming in Shakespearean blather. I’m only glad Chris doesn’t share your fascination with mummies.’
Captain Chris raised his brows.
‘Mummies?’
‘You know, dead bodies wrapped in sheets.’
‘I know what mummies are, Greybeard. Are you interested in mummies, Miss Osbourne? How wonderfully ghoulish.’
‘My father was interested in them and only because they fetched a good price. Just before he disappeared he sent a shipment of three dozen mummies to a Mr Pettifer in London, who apparently unwraps them in front of an audience.’
‘Ah. Pettifer.’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes. He’s well named, that petty scoundrel. Opened what he calls a “Hall of Wonders” on Piccadilly. I don’t advise you follow up on the acquaintance.’
‘But I must. He is always late in payment and it is usually not until he wishes for Father to procure him something else that he pays his bill. I plan to demand he honour his debt when I reach London. Besides, if Dash did indeed succeed in leaving Egypt already, then Mr Pettifer might know where he is. Dash mentioned Pettifer’s connections in the antiquarian world might prove useful.’
‘If it is antiquarian connections he needs, I’ll introduce him to John Soane. He is a close acquaintance of my aunt’s and I often procure objects of interest for him. In fact, my aunt is an excellent person for you to meet. In fact, I think...’
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, but whatever thoughts were being conjured in his mind were interrupted by Benja’s appearance.
‘Wind is changing, Capitán.’
‘Hold that thought, Cleopatra. I shall return anon...’
He left the cabin, taking the carefree atmosphere with him.
Of late, each time she found herself alone with Rafe she had to rearrange herself, like the moment after stumbling on a perfectly straight road. He also appeared to find these moments a strain because he would usually hurry to make a remark, but this time it was she who rushed to fill the void.
‘It is very kind of Captain Chris to offer his assistance, but I have imposed on him enough. He needn’t go out of his way on my account.’
‘Since he is certain to visit his aunt when we reach London, he will hardly be going out of his way.’
‘You know what I mean. I cannot continue to hang on your coattails. When we reach London I must make my own way.’
‘Oh, God, not that again. You have the rest of your life to make your own way, Cleo. But right now you haven’t the tools to do so.’
‘We must agree to differ on that head, Mr Grey.’
‘If there is any phrase I dislike more than that, I cannot recall it at the moment. No, we will not agree to differ. This is a very simple issue, Cleo. Do you honestly believe I will deposit you on the dockside and go about my business? What the devil do you think I am?’
‘The stubbornest man of my acquaintance, sir. You make me sound as if I will wander about the docks like a stray lamb just waiting for the first scoundrel to fleece me. I am neither an imbecile nor reckless.’
‘I think you qualify for both those epithets if you refuse a perfectly reasonable offer of assistance.’
‘I have already accepted a great deal of assistance from you. I cannot be forever hanging about your neck, like those fictional swooning damsels you so deride.’
He flushed.
‘I never lumped you in that category. For pity’s sake, you are the least susceptible female I have yet come across.’
‘Somehow that does not sound very complimentary.’
‘I was making a point.’
‘That I am case-hardened and bull-headed. I should fare just fine on the London docks, then.’
‘Don’t twist my words, Pat. What great scheme of the heavens might be upset if you surrender your vaunted independence for a brief moment and accept our help? Is there some Greek curse that will be unleashed? Is the fate of civilisations at stake? Or is it simply your wish to give me more sleepless nights than you have already?’
She pushed back her chair and went to the windows and stared into the darkness. The waves were slow inky swells that rose and fell like the breath of a sleeping, slimy beast. In the distance she thought she could just see the glimmer of a light—perhaps another ship or even the shores of Portugal.
Soon, all too soon, she would be returning to a country where she knew no one. Why not accept Rafe and Captain Chris’s help?
Not because of a Greek curse, but something far more mundane. She knew Rafe. He would not be able to walk away without making absolutely certain she was safe. It was simply the way he was. Her insistence on independence was rubbing on his conscience and his peace of mind... She almost smiled as the wheel finally settled into the groove.
How petty of her. She did want him to worry, she did not wish to be put away, score settled, like his past assignments. She wanted him awake at night, worrying about her fate. She wanted him thinking of her.
Petty and unfair.
She rubbed her eyes and returned to her chair.
‘I’m too tired to argue with you, Rafe. Can we not resolve this later?’
‘No. I refuse to have this argument with you in the middle of a dockyard, which is precisely what will happen if we don’t resolve this now. The sooner you come to terms with it the better. We will be in London in a matter of days, Cleo.’
‘I know that. Stop growling at me!’
‘What are you two arguing about now?’ Captain Chris asked as he re-entered, bearing a tray of cakes. ‘On second thought, don’t tell me. I might have to take sides and hurt the big lug’s feelings. These will make you both feel better. Benja prepared it especially for you, sweet Viola. He is clearly smitten, which shows excellent taste on his part.’
‘Is senility setting in, Chris? Her name is Cleo, not Viola.’
Chris settled into his chair and took one of the cakes himself.
‘If you’d minded your lessons with the same assiduity as you spent trying to escape school, Rafe, you might realise it is perfectly apt.’
‘Oh, God, not Shakespeare again.’
‘Yes, philistine.’
‘Which one was Viola? The one wh
o lived in the forest dressed like a shepherd and made men run rings around each other?’
‘That was Rosalind and I do not do that,’ Cleo objected. ‘Though I am flattered by the comparison—Rosalind is a fine heroine. Captain Chris was referring to Viola from Twelfth Night. She also dressed like a boy and is mistaken for her brother, but the resemblance in our tales ends there.’
Cleo considered the cakes and took a generous slice. She’d eaten better since boarding the Hesperus than she had in years. Any more of this and she’d be bursting out of her few dresses.
‘Oh, there’s more to her story, I think. A very resilient young woman, Viola. She thinks she has lost everything, but rather than abandon hope and bemoan her fate she takes on the guise of Cesario, becomes page to the Duke of Orsino, falls in love with him and, though he is a blind fool for most of the play, she ends up marrying him.’
Rafe grunted and crossed his arms as well.
‘Sounds like the plot of a third-rate Haymarket play. No wonder I cannot remember it.’
‘I agree it is not one of my favourites,’ Cleo admitted, giving in to temptation and taking a second slice. ‘I found Viola’s devotion to Orsino rather tiring and his adoration of Olivia even more annoying.’
‘The two of you haven’t a sentimental bone between you.’ Chris laughed. ‘I find other parallels, though. There is the fact that Viola disguises herself as Cesario which, of course, is quite apt, given Caesar was Cleopatra’s lover. And then Orsino means bear in Italian. You have a fascination for names, don’t you, Rafe? I thought you might find that curious.’
‘Do you mean because of the “bourn” in Osbourne, Captain Chris?’ Cleo asked, perplexed by the exchange between the two men. This clearly touched on something that lay between them.
‘There is that, too.’ Chris nodded. ‘I applaud all things symmetrical.’
‘You are lucky you’re pretty, Popinjay, because you are about as amusing as an arse boil,’ Rafe snapped.
‘We can’t all be endowed with your ample measure of charm, Grey Bear... I mean Grey Beard.’
‘Don’t you have a ship to sail?’
Captain Chris laughed and stood.
‘I do. And a storm to beat if we’re lucky.’
Cleo glanced worriedly towards the windows. She’d seen no signs of storm clouds in the dark sky.
‘Another storm?’
‘A big one this time. Past the straits the sea is a different beast altogether. It will either speed us towards the Channel or make fish feed of us all. I’d better go ensure the former. I’d hate to follow literary parallels and have my Viola cast ashore in an untimely manner. Unless, of course, you find your Orsino in said manner.’ He winked at her and left.
‘Addle-pate,’ Rafe muttered.
‘What on earth was that about?’
‘I neither know nor care. As for you—until you know your way about London you will accept whatever position Chris can conjure out of his family’s ample hat.’
‘Have a piece of cake, Greybeard. It might sweeten you up.’
‘I’m serious, Cleo.’ His tone softened. ‘I need to know you will be safe. I would say you owe me that. Think of it as a way to erase your debt.’
‘By owing you more?’
‘By granting me peace of mind. I’m not asking that you commit yourself to a nunnery. Merely meet with Chris’s aunt so she can see if there is some position she can secure for you. If her suggestions do not appeal to you, you are free to reject them. Would that be so terrible? You are not signing over your soul, you know.’
She looked down at Benja’s cake. She’d already given Rafe a large portion of her soul. What difference would it make whether she agreed? Whether Dash survived or not—her life as she had known it was over.
‘I’m sorry, Pat.’
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She hated how he could sometimes see right through her. He rarely called her Pat any longer, except to tease her, but he wasn’t teasing her now. Soon he would no longer call her that, or call her anything at all.
‘Pat is gone, Mr Grey. Henceforth I am Miss Osbourne. Whoever she is.’
‘You’ll find your way again. You have that...gift,’ he said, but his voice was strained as if he was trying to convince himself.
‘I might, but I don’t particularly wish to.’
‘I can sympathise with that. Life is not very considerate of our wishes, is it?’
‘No. What do you wish for, Rafe?’
He turned his glass in his hand, watching the light from the lamps dig deep into the purple. His expression didn’t change, but she could feel him slip away again. When he looked up and smiled she knew he’d marked the boundary between them once again.
‘Oh, I’m easy. Good food, good wine, good company. At the moment I am lucky to have all three. What else would I need?’
Me, said the treacherous little voice inside her. She took a third slice of the cake and stood.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, rising as well.
‘To find Twelfth Night among the Captain’s books. Perhaps I shall learn something useful.’
Chapter Sixteen
She would have done better to have read The Tempest.
At first she’d thought it was the Captain’s wonderful wine that was making the room roll so alarmingly. But she doubted it would account for the ship behaving more like a barrel rolling downhill than a sea-going vessel.
She managed to change into her nightshift and lie down, only to find herself dumped summarily on the floor as the ship tipped on its side.
There were times when hammocks were definitely preferable to bunks, she thought as she grabbed the shelves, spreading her legs wide to battle the roll and pitch. She could feel and hear the waves lashing at the hull, the desperate creak and wail of wood being strained to its last fibre.
Then the worst happened. She could feel the ship rising, straining and shuddering as it was lifted up. She knew it could not last, any moment the laws of nature would have their way with them. When the inevitable drop came, it took the ship, but not her stomach. The latter lurched up into her chest only to be thrown down again as the ship tipped over on its side.
Any moment now and the Captain’s prediction about them becoming a treat for the fish might very well come to pass. She clung to the polished wood, her heart slamming far faster and more brutally than the shrieks of wind and raging waves.
But her mind was amazingly quiet and clear. All she could think was—she did not want to die and she did not want Rafe to die.
She wanted him here, with her.
The door slammed open and something between a squawk and a shriek burst from her, but it wasn’t the ship being torn apart. Rafe stood braced in the doorway as the ship rolled back. His hair and face were slick with rain and the coat he was shrugging off fell with a wet thump to the floor.
I’ve conjured him, she thought. Her relief was so great it took quite a bit of restraint and common sense not to abandon her grip and throw herself at him precisely like a Haymarket heroine.
The ship gave another mighty effort to shake her off. She lost her hold on the shelf, but managed to grab one of the solid chairs that was grinding sluggishly back and forth across the floor, dragging her as she clung to it.
Rafe came towards her, using the shelves as anchors.
‘Stop dancing like a drunken goat and sit down.’
‘I am trying! It’s impossible to stay still.’
She was beginning to feel queasy. She couldn’t remember suffering from seasickness before, but there was a first time for everything. Her first relief at his entry was dissipating fast. It was bad enough she must look like a fright in the oversized nightshirt; casting up her accounts in front of him would add injury to injury.
‘I am perfectly fine. Go away,’ she said, trying not to sound desper
ate.
‘No. Not while you’re rolling around like a billiard ball.’
‘I’ll sit down.’ She aimed for the seat and promptly fell to the floor as the boat went the other way. The blow to her bottom was so sharp she lost her breath and sat gasping.
He helped her to her feet, planting his feet wide against the roll.
‘Come, sit.’
‘I think I am safer on the floor.’
He laughed, tucking her against him.
‘You’ll roll around the floor like a loose cannon, Queenie. Come.’
To her surprise he sat at the end of the bed and propped his boots against the cupboard. Before she could understand what he was doing he used the roll of the ship to pull her off her feet and on to his lap. His arm curved about her waist, his hand on her hip, flexing as he held her through the particularly enthusiastic roll.
‘See? Nice and snug. We roll with the ship, rather than try to battle it. You can’t win that one, sweetheart.’ His voice was a rumbling purr against her side and his breath warm on her temple.
His warmth radiated through the thin, damp cotton of their shirts and her hands began tingling at the memory of sliding her hands over his chest in the bathhouse. How his muscles had hardened under her touch, bunching and flexing in that strange dance of invitation and rejection. Her hand was so close to his waist, a simple tug could separate shirt from trouser and...
The ship gave another leap and dip and she grabbed at his shirt.
‘Ouch. Watch your nails, hellion.’
‘You’ve been stabbed more times than a roast ham. I hardly think my nails will have an impact on you.’
‘God, you’d be surprised.’ There was a laugh in his voice, but also a rawness, and she leaned back a little to look at him.
He was half smiling, but there was tension there and demons in his eyes.
She released his shirt, gently rubbing the spot she’d abused, still watching him.
His pupils widened, turning storm into thundery dusk, and under her thigh she felt him harden. It was definite, immediate, and so was her response.
