Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “Are you all right?” she said, focusing on the dried blood on his temple and pushing back his hair to determine the extent of the injury. His eyes were closed and she wasn’t sure he had heard her. “Are you awake?”

  “My head hurts like the devil himself is—” He opened one eye in a pained squint and his voice faded. “I’m afraid I—may—not—”

  As his eye closed and his head drooped, she felt his hands and realized he was even colder than she was. The spare canvas stacked around them was too stiff and heavy to provide any warmth. Her main petticoat was wet on one side, but it was all she had. She had Jims turn his head, then raised her skirt and slipped out of the heavy muslin to wrap Rafe in the dry part. Thank heaven his feet weren’t wet.

  Still, it wasn’t long before he began to shiver, and she knew she would have to do more. They needed blankets. She called out to that Fosse fellow again and again without raising him or anyone else.

  “When I gets shivers,” Jims said, rubbing his own thin arms, “Ma climbs under th’ blanket wi’ me.”

  “Body heat.” Her smile felt weak as she nodded. Together, they dragged Rafe over to lie on the stacked canvas and she climbed up and curled onto her side around him. She rubbed his arms and shoulders and pressed her body tightly against his, sharing with him what warmth she still retained. When she looked up Jims was sitting on the edge of the canvas, hugging himself and looking miserable. She sat up, took off her jacket, and held it out to him. “Put this on.”

  He shook his head, but when she insisted he did put it on and wrapped his arms around his middle with a small sigh of relief.

  “Thanks, miz.”

  After a while Rafe’s shivering eased and she felt his body respond with rising warmth that eased her own bone-deep chill. Fatigue set in and she closed her eyes, giving herself over to it until she sensed movement.

  She raised her head to look around and found Jims, struggling to squeeze through the bars of their cell.

  “Jims! What are you doing? We’re on a ship—you can’t escape.”

  She sat up in alarm as the boy twisted and shoved his rail-thin body outside their prison. “Where are you going? Can you even swim?”

  He stood, pulled her jacket tight around him, and pressed a finger to his lips to gesture for silence. A heartbeat later he had disappeared into the darkness and the stacks of crates and barrels that filled the hold of the ship. What was the boy doing? And what would happen to him when the Clarion’s crew caught him?

  “Be careful, Jims,” she said on a prayer. “Heaven watch over you.”

  She checked Rafe, feeling his head and hands. He seemed warmer and she sank back beside him. She was exhausted. Sometime later she awakened to find her head on his shoulder and her arm curled tightly over his chest. He lay on his back, watching her.

  “This is a surprise,” he said, his voice husky . . . or maybe just dry. If only they had some water.

  “You were shivering. Body warmth was all I had to help you.”

  He looked down at the petticoat wrapping his shoulders and belly.

  “I see you managed to take your clothes off again.”

  “Only one petticoat. And in a good cause.”

  “So, saving me is a good cause?”

  “In the present circumstances.” She gazed into his eyes and felt a strange arousal in her deepest core. It probably wasn’t wise to continue this conversation in such close proximity, but the sensation was too interesting not to explore. “I called again and again for that Fosse fellow, hoping to get blankets and some water, but he didn’t come and you were so cold . . . I . . . had to do something.”

  “Most charitable of you. Perhaps I can repay you someday.”

  “You already have,” she said, her voice now oddly resonant. “I was cold and miserable, too. I shared my warmth, you shared yours.”

  “You didn’t find such contact objectionable?” He glanced at her arm, which was still wrapped around his ribs.

  “The chill may have affected my judgment.”

  His smile, at such close range, was mesmerizing. Her gaze slid to his lips as she wondered . . .

  Apparently he was wondering the same thing.

  He leaned to touch hers lips with his. It felt like an invitation to exploration, and after a moment something inside her relaxed. She responded with the same gentle curiosity, tilting her head and absorbing every nuance of that contact. A flow of something more complicated than warmth began between them, and when the kiss ended she had the odd feeling of that connection lingering.

  She drew back her arm and opened her eyes to his surprisingly sober expression. It jolted her. Had she done something wrong? She was not exactly experienced at this kissing business.

  He swallowed hard, then drew back a telling inch or two, which brought heat to her cheeks.

  She would not blush.

  “We have to do something,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. “We’re being held for a ransom my father will never pay.”

  It took a moment for her to quell her disappointment at the change in him and right her thoughts. “You mean he would truly refuse to pay the tariffs and crew to free us?”

  “They’re no longer just a crew; they’re outlaws. Abducting us, no matter how dire their situation or noble their intentions, has made them criminals. My father is more likely to set the law on them than part with hard-earned coin.”

  It was a sobering thought, accompanied by the realization that they could be held on the ship for a long time . . . unless the harbor constables intervened. Would they try to board the ship to rescue two people, even ones from prominent families?

  She sat up, grateful for something to take her mind from the awkwardness of their differing responses to that kiss. He obviously didn’t think it quite up to par.

  “Talk to them,” she said, “the way you did to the protesters outside the harbormaster’s office.”

  “It didn’t work then. What makes you think it would work now?” He pushed up onto an elbow and rubbed his face.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps if you say that we understand their grievances and that if they let us go, we will . . . will . . . personally pay the tariffs and wages and won’t press charges against them.”

  He sat up slowly and she scooted back, watching him wrestle with both the pain in his head and their predicament. He searched her face and looked as if he were struggling to summon words.

  “The minute my father receives a ransom demand, he will shut down the Townsend accounts. He can’t abide being forced into anything—certainly not by those he considers ‘underlings.’ What about you? Would you happen to have a spare thousand pounds just moldering about?”

  “A thousand pounds?” She was staggered by the sum.

  “I don’t know the entire inventory. Captains have some discretion as to what additional freight they bring on board when there is room. It could be closer to two thousand.”

  “Two thousand pounds?” She swallowed hard.

  Truth be told, she had no idea how much money she had. There seemed to be sufficient funds for dresses, hats, and seaside holidays, but she was always careful not to test the limits of her good fortune.

  She did have an inheritance from her mother that was managed by trustees. She had asked her father about it when she turned eighteen and was told that her grandfather had entailed it on her mother and the entailment stood for her as well. Could it be made available to her? Even if it could be, how could she explain the situation and convince the trustees of her need for it while being held against her will on a ship in London’s harbor?

  “We’re in dire straits, I’m afraid,” she said, frowning.

  “What money I have is in the hands of trustees at the Bank of England. I can’t imagine them handing over a few thousand pounds to meet the demands of a merchantman’s crew that’s gone rogue.”

  Footsteps drew their attention. Fosse was back with an armful of blankets. The tall, stringy fellow he called Gus accompanied him, bea
ring a wooden box that clinked as if there were glass bottles inside. Fosse unlocked the cell door and ordered them to stay back as the pair entered. They unloaded the blankets on a nearby stack of canvas and set the box on the floor.

  “Miz, yer to come with me,” he declared, beckoning to her. “Captain says you’re to stay in th’ first mate’s cabin.”

  She stared at the man for a moment, surprised by this abrupt change in accommodations. She turned to help Rafe up, and Fosse added, “Not him, miz. Just you. He’s to stay here.” He looked around, scowling. “Where’s the boy?”

  Rafe looked at her in surprise, too. Apparently he hadn’t realized Jims had been brought below with them.

  “I have no idea. I was tending to Mr. Townsend and must have fallen asleep. When I woke up he was gone.”

  “How’d th’ little sod escape?” tall, skinny Gus demanded, stepping to the door to glare into the gloomy hold outside.

  “Blackbeard’s bollocks—Morgan’ll be sore.” Fosse paused to look them over and make a quick calculation. “He can’t have got far. We’ll find ’im. An’ when we do . . .” He tried to usher Lauren to the door without touching her. “On yer way, miz. We ain’t got all day.”

  “I’m not going anywhere by myself. I am Mr. Townsend’s intended wife and I won’t be separated from him. He’s been grievously injured. If I am given better accommodations, he must be also.” She watched the pair exchange doubtful glances and continued. “There will be the devil to pay if the Clarion’s owner learns his son was mistreated in your care. You have not even provided us with water or food in how many hours?”

  As if on cue, Rafe rose and staggered slightly. The bruises on his face and dried blood on his temple reinforced her claim of injury.

  She purposefully met Fosse’s gaze, and the earnest please, please, please in her thoughts must have shone in her eyes. He looked down and shifted his feet.

  “Aww-right,” he said reluctantly, giving tall Gus an elbow and pointing to the wooden box on the floor. “We’ll take ye both up.” He pulled an old flintlock pistol from the back of his waist and cocked it. “Ye’d best try nothin.’ ”

  Good as gold, they were, as they climbed two sets of stairs and found themselves admitted to a small, smelly cabin fitted with a narrow bunk, shelves built into the wall, a dusty washbasin, and linen that probably hadn’t been changed through several of the Clarion’s voyages. She went straight to the small window and threw it open, only to find the smells of the harbor not much of an improvement.

  “Here—whaddaya think yer doin’?” Fosse rushed to shut the crusty window and wave his pistol at her . . . which she saw in the better light was badly rusted.

  “It smells in here.” She straightened, unintimidated, and adopted Aunt Amanda’s most emphatic manner. “We need water to drink, fresh air, and clean linen. You need to air that mattress. Bring me a broom, some clean cloths, vinegar, and water for cleaning.” She turned to Gus. “If you would be so good as to put the medicine box on the washstand and find us a chair or two . . .”

  * * *

  Rafe watched her take charge as if she’d been born royal. This was a side of her he hadn’t imagined, considering her charitable convictions and tender mercies toward the less fortunate. Damn if she didn’t have the makings of a dowager duchess inside that nubile frame.

  It wasn’t long before Gus and a cabin boy they called “Little Rob” returned with a broom, an armload of linen, pails of water, vinegar, and, of all things, a feather duster.

  Under her direction the pair set about cleaning the cabin, airing the mattress, and scrubbing the floor. To Rafe’s surprise, she seized the feather duster and cleaned the shelves herself, muttering that a Mrs. Beeton would not approve and examining the books belonging to the former occupant. Afterward she hiked her skirts and climbed up on the bunk to wipe down the shiplap walls and take down the lantern for cleaning. Two chairs were provided, and a Delft porcelain washbasin and pitcher and toweling identified as the late captain’s soon appeared. After he leaned out the window and determined there were no viable escape possibilities, Fosse grudgingly allowed them to keep the portal open to freshen the air.

  As they worked, Lauren asked questions about their recent voyage, their cargo, and the short-lived mutiny that had sent some of the crew over the side. Little Rob, no more than nine years old, seemed fascinated by her and answered every question with more information than was strictly necessary. But when she asked about the boy who came aboard with them—if he’d been found—Little Rob reddened, glanced at Gus, and disavowed any knowledge of Jims. She smiled and asked him to keep an eye out and let her know when he was found. He relaxed and nodded.

  Rafe found himself watching her perfect posture, the simple grace of her movements, the smiles that made Little Rob and pole-thin Gus’s ears redden. Like them, he watched her every expression, for every nuance of acceptance and approval from her. It should have worried him, this deepening fascination with her. But truth be told, he’d never met or even imagined a woman who would, could do the things she did. Everything about her was unexpected, including her self-possession while being abducted and held against her will. Most women would be swooning, weeping, or at the least wringing their hands.

  Not Miss Alcott, Angel of the River and the Streets. She ripped off her petticoat and wrapped it and herself around him to warm him. Then she demanded—and received—better treatment for them both.

  When she spread a blanket over the bare wooden bunk and directed him to lie down and rest, he was so unsteady on his feet that he complied. She searched the box of medicinals and came up with a tincture that she said should help the ache in his head. Even added to the hot tea provided by Gus, it was barely palatable. But she insisted, so he downed it all. A bowl of soup and a mug of ale settled his stomach.

  As the medicine took effect, he fell into a restless sleep that gradually deepened.

  When he awoke Gus and Little Rob had finished and withdrawn, and the cabin was fully dark. She had draped her petticoat over one chair near the window to dry and pulled up the other chair beside the bunk, which she now leaned against with her head on her arms on the mattress beside him, breathing softly, slowly. She had fallen asleep, too, and for a while he just watched her sleep. After a while she must have sensed his attention. She stirred and sat up, putting a hand to her lower back and stretching up with a wince.

  He closed his eyes, but she had already caught that he was awake. “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’ll recover.” He opened his eyes again. “The medicine worked. My head is feeling better.”

  “Good. Don’t go back to sleep.” She rubbed her face. “We have things to do.”

  “And how do you suggest I stay awake?”

  “By helping me plan our escape.”

  He groaned and raised his head to glance at the locked cabin door.

  “I am not up for another round of head-cracking just yet.” He sighed and then rolled up onto an elbow to study her. “Here’s an idea . . . why don’t you try charming them into releasing us?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I doubt Acting Captain Morgan is susceptible to any enticement that doesn’t involve money.”

  “You underestimate your powers of persuasion. You seemed to mesmerize Gus and the boy.”

  She pulled out one of the drawers beneath the bunk and propped her feet on it. “I was merely being pleasant, hoping to elicit a similar response in return.” She cut him a glance. “It doesn’t always work.”

  The implication struck.

  “Who doesn’t it work on?” From her mood, he felt he knew.

  She turned to look directly at him. “You.”

  He frowned, though the effort caused his face to hurt.

  “When were you pleasant to me?”

  She scowled. “I was more than pleasant when I sacrificed my petticoat to keep you warm. You didn’t even bother to say ‘thank you.’”

  “I didn’t?” He glimpsed a more personal pique behind her upra
ised chin. “Horrible of me. I thought perhaps the kiss said it all. May not have been up to my usual standard. I’ll try to do better next time.”

  “Next time?” She seemed genuinely unsettled by the prospect.

  “We are betrothed,” he said. “It’s not uncommon for engaged couples to show affection.”

  “That blow to the head left you addled,” she said, her color rising.

  “While in captivity we could make good use of the time.” He gave a wicked half smile. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of practice.”

  Eleven

  “You are without a doubt the most conceited, ill-mannered man I have ever had the misfortune to—”

  “Kiss?” He smiled, as if pleased to have roused her pride. “Who do you compare me to, Miss Alcott? How many men have you kissed?”

  “None of your business, Mr. Townsend.” Why was he talking about kisses when he—hadn’t disliked their kiss after all.

  “It may become my business if we are forced to”—his handsome eyes searched her defenses—“make our association permanent.”

  “If we are trapped into marriage, you mean?” She straightened up and crossed her arms. “If it comes to that, you will have to answer for your own qualifications. Taking pleasure does not assure that one can give it.”

  He sat up, staring at her in surprise, as the sound of a bell clanging came through the open window, growing steadily louder.

  “What is that?” She shot to her feet and rushed to the window to search the dark harbor for the source of the sound. She heard him slide from the bunk and sensed he was joining her, though she refused to look.

  “A fireboat,” he muttered, pointing to a small, steam-powered vessel weaving furiously between dark hulks of anchored ships toward a plume of smoke at the far end of the docking berths.

  “Fireboat?” She stretched out the window to see better. “A boat is on fire?”

  “Not necessarily.” He pushed his head out the window, blocking her direct view. “The fireboats pump water to put out warehouse fires along the docks, as well as any boats that catch fire.”

  “I never thought about a boat catching fire. Does that happen often?”