Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “Once in a while,” he answered, craning his neck to see where the smoke originated. “The Docklands are full of decrepit old warehouses—disasters waiting to happen. They’re crowded against the river’s edge and the Metropolitan Fire Brigade has a devil of a time getting to them. So it’s up to the fireboats to pump water from the harbor to see those blazes don’t spread.”

  “But it could be a ship?” she asked, assailed by competing thoughts as she tried to see past him.

  Half of her mind was focused on the fire situation and whatever about it suddenly seemed important. The other half was reeling from awareness of his closeness and the sensations that were making her breath quicken and heart race. She could feel heat radiating from him as he crowded into the window beside her and once again felt the surprising hardness of his arm and shoulder pressed against her. His hair was mussed and there was a hint of beard shadow on his jaw. He smelled like musk with a hint of sandalwood and something piquant she wanted more of but couldn’t name.

  He must have felt her gaze, for he turned slowly toward her.

  She looked up into his darkening eyes and felt a rising curiosity that had to be satisfied. Without another thought, she grabbed his shirtfront with both hands, hauled him against her, and pressed her lips to his.

  This was no tentative exploration, no impulsive expression of curiosity. This was desire for whatever pleasures a thorough kiss could provide. As her lips pressed his, sensation trickled along her nerves . . . through her face and down her throat. Her skin tingled in a way that made her catch her breath briefly. It felt like her body—bone and sinew—was hungry for contact with his big, solid frame.

  She sank into his arms and into a kiss deeper and more pleasurable than she had ever imagined. She parted her lips as his tongue traced them and soon was returning that teasing flicker of sensation. Her whole body reacted, some parts softening and others tightening with expectation. She wrapped her arms around his ribs and pressed against his length . . . a reaction as natural as breathing and unstoppable as a sneeze.

  A new, sensual awareness filled her as his lips wandered from hers, over her cheek, down her throat. She held her breath. His kisses, wherever placed, were just as potent. She traced his back and shoulders, exploring, drinking in sensations, then slid her fingers up his neck and into his hair. Every texture was fascinating, and exploring them somehow heightened the pleasure of his kisses.

  She scarcely heard the metallic scrape of the key in the lock and staggered slightly when he released her.

  “Brought yer supper.” Fosse’s voice and the light of his lantern jarred her back to ordinary time. She squinted, disoriented. It was as if she’d been startled awake in the depths of a vivid dream. She stepped back against the wall for support as cabin boy Little Rob carried bowls of stew to the washstand and the old seaman hung his lantern overhead.

  “What is happening?” Rafe asked, investigating the food. “Have you sent word to my father?”

  “Capt’n Morgan sent a message ashore.” Fosse’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked from Rafe to her. She had to keep herself from covering her kiss-reddened lips. “Ain’t heard nothin’ back.” He paused a moment. “I’ll be bringin’ the mattress back shortly.”

  “Any word on the boy Jims?” she asked.

  “Slippery little bugger. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’im.” With that, Fosse and Little Rob exited and locked the door behind them, leaving a prickly bit of tension mingling with the aroma of stew in the air. She stayed where she was, waiting for strength to fully return to her legs. He picked up a bowl and carried it to her.

  “I believe you’re hungry.”

  When she looked up he wore a knowing half smile that brought fading color back to her face. She straightened, making herself look up.

  “So I am,” she said. “And this actually smells palatable.”

  “Townsend Imports hires the best cooks we can find for our ships. It’s the way we keep crews.”

  “Really? That is clever of you.”

  “We know our business, Miss Alcott.”

  “Lauren,” she offered. “It seems silly to insist on formalities now that we’re prisoners together.”

  “Lauren.” His gaze drifted over her. “Whatever we Townsends do, we do well.” She had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about imports and commerce. Blasted man.

  She took the bowl and headed for the chair beside the bunk. He retrieved his own bowl and took a seat on the bunk.

  “I’ve been thinking about our situation,” she said between spoonfuls of surprisingly good beef stew. Tucked into the side of the bowl was a thick slice of dense bread that had soaked up the gravy. She nibbled it and paused to let the flavors fill her head and calm her chaotic thoughts.

  She looked up to find him watching her intently. Did he think she’d lost her wits, or that she’d just proved herself a shameless hussy? She was afraid to give him time to consider either.

  “You know, if you’re correct about your father’s refusal to pay, we’ll have to do something ourselves. And soon.” She forced herself to consider the snatches of information she had garnered about their situation. “This could get out of hand quickly.”

  * * *

  Rafe lowered his gaze and blinked. He was scrambling for mental footing here. He took another giant spoonful of stew and chewed. One minute she was reducing him to a pile of cinders with her lips and the next she was talking about escape plans and resolving this mess without open warfare. How could the woman change so completely from one minute to the next? She switched from passion to reason as easily as flipping a coin.

  He shook himself, trying to jolt his faculties back to functioning, and realized his headache was gone. A moment later he managed to put together a coherent thought.

  “I don’t know if you noticed,“ he said, “but there were men on the decks of nearby ships, watching the protests of the dock workers and even cheering them on. Some have been sitting in the harbor much longer than the Clarion. If the harbor police or Coastguard are called in to board this ship, they could ignite a wholesale battle for control of the harbor.”

  She nodded, raking her teeth across her lip as she thought.

  “By now your father has received their ultimatum.” She paused, considering what action might counter an assault on the ship. “I don’t suppose we could get a message to him, asking him to delay any action from the harbor police until we can find a way to escape?”

  “And just how do you propose we do that? Bribe the cabin boy?”

  She straightened, put her half-finished dinner aside, and looked at him with delight. “Rafe Townsend, you’re brilliant.”

  “I am?” He was both puzzled and annoyingly pleased. “You realize that is the first compliment you’ve ever given me?”

  “You’re not exactly one to hand out plaudits yourself,” she said, turning toward the bookshelf and searching the spines of the books she had dusted earlier. “Here.” She pulled a tall, thin volume and opened it to scan the contents. “Exactly what a boy growing up at sea would like.”

  “What?” He came off the bunk to peer into the book with her.

  “Tales of the sea,” she said. “Stories of heroic captains and valiant crews. Great tempests and deadly perils. Foreign lands and exotic ways.”

  His jaw dropped.

  “You propose to read him into cooperation?”

  “There isn’t a boy born who can resist a good yarn.” She looked up at him. “I bet even you are susceptible, being a lover of the sea.”

  “Oh no.” He straightened and glowered. “Not me.”

  “But you were a navy man—a midshipman at the Academy.”

  “Were being the operative word. I am not—” He broke off that thought and raised his chin. “And if we were able to get a message to my father or yours, what then? How do you plan to defuse this standoff and get us out of here without mayhem?”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she said with determination.

>   “Because we’re so good at putting our heads together?” He looked straight into the golden rings in her eyes and was seized by the urge to pull her against him and demonstrate. The color rising in her cheeks said she sensed his double meaning, and he could have sworn she was suppressing a smile.

  “That is yet to be seen, but I have reason to hope.”

  * * *

  Quiet settled over the ship as the crew’s daily duties were done and the evening meal was finished. Music from a harmonica floated in the window, and when the mattress was returned and made up, Lauren began reading a story to Rafe and invited Little Rob to stay and listen. Surprised, he climbed onto a chair between her and the bunk, curiosity glowing in his eyes. He had heard plenty of sailors’ stories, he said. The crew told tales as they smoked their pipes of an evening.

  But the story Lauren read was something different . . . a story of pirates taking a prize and sailing to a special island in the Caribbean. There was treasure, betrayal, and heroic action enough to light the boy’s eyes with desire for an adventure of his own. Sensing the time was right, she asked if he had seen the sights of London . . . if he ever went ashore. He said there was a provisions boat that went at dawn to avoid the Customs patrols and once in a while they took him along. She looked sad for a moment as she spoke of her fear that her family would be frantic over her disappearance. Little Rob sank fully under her spell.

  “I got a ma. I miss her, too.”

  She looked at him, seeing in his face a genuine longing.

  Just then the door flew open and Acting Captain Morgan barged in to order Little Rob out of the cabin and cuffed his ear. Then he scoured his former quarters and its inmates with a glare of suspicion. Lauren gasped when he snatched the book from her hands.

  “Don’t think you’ll be charming my crew into helping you. You’re going nowhere until we see the tariffs paid and our pay chest delivered.” He strode to the shelves and filled his arms with the books. “You’ll not be needing these. You’re not on holiday here.”

  He charged out with the books and barked an order for Gus to lock the door and keep watch to see no one went in or out of the cabin. The last thing Lauren saw as the door closed was the cabin boy peeking ruefully around Gus’s dolorous form.

  She turned to Rafe with a breath of relief. “There goes our plan.”

  “Miserable bastard,” he said, scowling at the door. “When this is over that is the one man I want to see charged.” His face and voice both darkened. “Now I’ll never know how that pirate story came out.”

  When it struck Lauren couldn’t help laughing. A minute later Rafe joined her, and she couldn’t help thinking that his laugh was unexpectedly lovely to hear.

  * * *

  The kitchen door of Alcott House stood open to the evening air, and Barnaby Pinkum waited behind the metal bins for one of the manservants to exit with the kitchen leavings. It took a while, but a man he recognized by the name of Rupert exited with a huge pile of leftover food. Barnaby sprung up and gave him a shock.

  “What’re you doin’ here?” the fellow demanded.

  “Rupert, right? Say, is that roast chicken?” He gestured to the great platter the man held. “I’ll give ye a sixpence for the rest of that bird.”

  Rupert glowered, looked over his shoulder at the darkened kitchen, and then nodded. When the bird was wrapped in newspaper and in Barnaby’s possession, he had one more offer to make.

  “There’s another waitin’ for th’ answer to a question.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothing bad about the Alcotts,” the man said firmly.

  “Ain’t askin’ ye to.” Barnaby grinned “Just want to know if Miss Alcott is home tonight. Did she and her man come back this evening?”

  The fellow studied both him and the question as Barnaby bit into a chicken leg and watched for a response.

  “She ain’t home,” the fellow finally said. “Went off with Mr. Townsend this mornin’ and ain’t come home. Missed dinner, an’ Miz Perrix and Mr. Alcott were worried off their feed. Then Old Man Townsend came—boilin’ mad.” The man was warming to his tale. Like most house servants, he was eager to talk about the goings-on in the family they served. “Him an’ Mr. Alcott and Miz Perrix talked in the drawin’ room wi’ the doors closed. Miz Perrix come out in tears and went straight upstairs. The master sent for brandy and him an’ Townsend talked longer.”

  “And she still hasn’t come home?”

  The man shook his head. “Miz Perrix’s in a state.” Barnaby flipped Rupert a second sixpence and headed for the park across the street to finish his supper and have a think. Later he hitched rides on the rear of cabs and made the rounds of taverns that catered to dock workers and sailors. There was dismal talk of the day’s rout, but nothing about his angel.

  Now on the same rooftop he had perched on during the protest, he wiped his hands on his shirt and pulled the Angel’s hat from his rucksack. He sat holding it for a time, staring at the lights of ships in the harbor.

  She was out there somewhere. Likely with Townsend. He pulled out a candle lamp and notepad and set to work on the piece he owed The Examiner in the morning. Her whereabouts were going to have to remain a mystery.

  Well, why not? Readers loved a good mystery. The Angel and her fiancé had come to help quell the riot; Townsend made a valiant effort and was beaten for it. The Angel of the Streets had gone to his aid and disappeared. Had she been taken during the riot?

  Barnaby wrote for an hour straight, then sat back to look over his work and rub his hands together with unabashed pleasure.

  This could light a fire in the troubled Docklands.

  Twelve

  “The laws of salvage?” Rafe scowled, thinking he was hearing things. “How the devil do you know about those?”

  “I read. A lot.”

  He lay on the floor in the darkened cabin, having insisted he felt fine so she would take the bunk. They had vermin-free blankets and feather pillows secreted from the old captain’s cabin. Strangely, the darkness around him seemed filled with her.

  “I just wondered what would happen if a ship caught fire and the cargo was tossed overboard.”

  “Well, the law says that the ship must be in clear danger of sinking for the right of salvage to apply. And why would anyone think a ship in a harbor was sinking?”

  “Just asking.” She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “The Clarion has an iron hull, right?”

  “She does. She has a coal-fired engine for the paddle wheel, and triple masts and sails for ocean-going. She’s a transition ship, actually . . . halfway between sail and steam. Screws and propellers are the thing now. More efficient, and they take up less space—more room for cargo. That was what I was investigating at Upton Hall. I want to gradually refit our ships with them. We have to stay competitive. The company with the fastest ships gets commodities to the market first and sets the price.”

  “Refitting sounds expensive.”

  “It will be,” he said. “But we have to do it if we mean to survive in international trade. If Townsend Imports doesn’t make it, there will be hundreds of men out of work on three continents.”

  She nodded, then fell silent for a time. “Are you still awake?” she finally said.

  “Afraid so,” he answered, trying not to think of the reasons for it. Spending the night with her in a locked cabin had worked its way to the top of the list. She had kissed him with such passion earlier, leaving no doubt that she wanted a response from him. Not only did she rouse a response, she’d left him wanting more. He should be alarmed by his pleasure at her physical interest in him, but for some reason he couldn’t summon a shred of concern. Kissing her was different from any experience he’d had with a woman. It was all-consuming and utterly . . . satisfying.

  “How long until dawn, do you think?” she asked.

  “Hard to say. A couple of hours perhaps.”

  “So about four o’clock?”

  He could somehow feel her mind working.


  Moments later she sat up and started taking down her hair . . . only to freeze at the sound of a key in the lock. She slid to her feet. and a moment later he was standing beside her, staring at the opening door.

  A small, crouched figure crept inside from the darkened passage. The moment the door closed behind him, Rafe lunged for the intruder.

  “Aaaay—”

  He clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth and dragged his wriggling form to the window, where the light was somewhat better.

  “Jims?” Lauren gasped as she hurried to them. The boy slowed at the sound of his name and then quit struggling. She knelt and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where have you been? I was so worried.”

  When Rafe released him, she pulled him into a hug and he buried his face in her shoulder. “I been lookin’ for you an’ the mister.” He took a shuddering breath of relief. “I thought ye was gone.”

  She looked up at Rafe, who was leaning a shoulder against the window. Setting Jims back to look him over, she decided he was none the worse for wear.

  “We wouldn’t leave without you. You’re all right?”

  “Yeah.” He straightened with a confidence that wasn’t entirely convincing. “I crawled all over th’ ship an’ watched an’ listened. The men—they ain’t good with ye bein’ held prizner. They jaw a lot . . . an’ they don’t like that capt’n feller much.”

  “A reasonable bunch, then,” Rafe said, giving the boy a nod.

  “How did you get in here?” Lauren asked. “The door was locked.”

  “That other lad—he caught me snitching food from th’ galley, and because I was s’posed to be a prizner anyway, I talked ’im into coppin’ the keys and lettin’ me in.”

  “So you’ve had something to eat?” she asked. When he nodded the tension in her shoulders eased. “You’ve had quite an adventure.”

  “I saw all kinds o’ stuff in that big hole with th’ barrels and crates.” His eyes widened. “The barrels is sealed up tight, but there was a couple o’ wood crates I got open. They got bales, too, an’ big bolts o’ cloth an’ wood chests wi’ drawers that smell real good.”