Her shipmates descended the stairs in a steady stream of blood, bodily fluid and broken limbs. Some hobbled to a table under their own power; others had to be carried. Alternately sewing, setting and comforting when that was all she could do, Amanda didn’t give even a passing thought to what the captain would think when he found his quarters empty.
****
The first thing Will noticed was the gaping hole in the wall where an uncommonly well-aimed English cannonball had found its mark. The shot left a breach about the size of a man, surrounded by shattered planks. Beyond, lay nothing but open air and a choppy sea.
“Amanda?” His voice echoed off the walls of the empty room.
Only the soft whoosh of waves and the distant trill of an albatross answered his call.
His gaze swept the room, and he fully expected to see what remained of her bloody, mangled body. Splinters covered his desk, his chair, and his bed, but no blood, no mangled corpse, no dead Amanda.
His heart tightened as though squeezed by a giant fist. If not in his quarters, where could she be?
Clinging to the jagged edge of his wounded ship, Will squeezed broad shoulders past ragged planks. A tight fit for him, Amanda’s small frame could slip through without effort. He looked past the tips of his blood-spattered boots to the white-capped crests licking at darkened planks just a few feet below. Could she have become disoriented by the blast and fallen in? Or perhaps her sense of self-preservation had driven her to madness, the opening her only means of escape. The door, after all, had been locked.
He scanned the sea, hoping to catch sight of a small head bobbing on the waves. Hope dwindled with each passing second, surpassed by reason and what Will knew to be true. Whether disoriented or mad, for surely she would never have slipped through the rent in the wall on purpose, more than five minutes in the cold, choppy Atlantic would be enough to overcome the strength and will of the sturdiest man, let alone a fragile woman.
God! He brought his palm to his mouth. He had sought to keep her safe by locking her in his quarters. Had he gotten her killed?
Death was a constant companion in war. Will had witnessed his share of death, come close to experiencing it himself on many occasions. However, for Will, and probably for most men, attention to duty and the constant call to action offered the antidote to fear. Amanda didn’t have the soul of a fighter, or the strength of a man, but she had performed her duties well even if she weren’t an official member of his crew. As much as any man aboard, she had earned the right to go to her station and not simply wait for death with nothing more to do than contemplate her own fate.
Even before he reached the open deck, he had decided to let her out, but the Amanda had drawn within enemy range. Too much time had been wasted to turn around and release her. He would send someone below as soon as a man could be spared. That moment never came.
Now she was gone.
A torrent of emotions swamped Will—remorse, dread, fear, and an overwhelming sense of loss that bore down on him like a hurricane. He drew back into his quarters and leaned against the wall. His legs folded beneath him, too weak to hold the weight of his emptiness and the loss in his heart.
“She’s gone.” Will stumbled into Doctor Miller’s quarters some time later.
It might have been an hour or it might have been a day. He would never know how long he remained propped against the wall of his empty quarters, as lost to time as Amanda was to him. Even now, the world about him, his ship, his men, the doctor seemed unreal. Trying to focus on the wavering forms was like trying to seize the remnants of a dying dream.
He teetered and grasped a support beam just in time to keep from toppling forward. Through vision that had grown blurry, he saw the doctor’s face. Confusion mixed with concern puckered the brow above his nose. The doctor helped him to a chair, then turned and spoke to someone standing nearby. The words were garbled as though they traveled through water before reaching Will’s ears.
A moment later, Doctor Miller tried to hand him a glass half-filled with a tawny liquid. Will reached for it, but he had little strength left. He only managed to raise his arm a few inches before the energy left him and his arm fell to hang limply at his side.
A warm hand curled his fingers around the glass. Then the hand moved the glass closer until Will could smell the buttery warmth of the liquid. He gazed into the glass for several seconds, then downed it in one gulp. The last of his strength spent, he let his hand fall to his side. The glass dropped from his limp fingers and rolled into a corner, a casualty of the battle raging in the captain’s soul.
Will’s hazy world wobbled for a moment then stilled. Then it wobbled again.
He wanted to lash out at whatever tormented force would not allow him to slip into a mindless oblivion. He longed for the dark emptiness that would ease the crushing pressure around his heart.
Once more, the room swam in front of his eyes, but this time he registered a slight force against his shoulder. Will tried to raise his hand to swat it away, but found he lacked the strength. Mustering what little remained, he managed to turn his head.
Will stared at the hand lying on his shoulder—small, delicate and soft. It was attached to a thin arm, smooth skin sprinkled with almost invisible soft blonde hair. That arm disappeared beneath a grimy sleeve. His gaze drifted upwards, small shoulders, blonde curls and a face that looked familiar, yet somehow out of place. Where had he seen that face? His head throbbed, as though his brain resisted the effort he forced upon it.
The pulse at the base of a delicate throat beat fast. Green eyes regarded him with concern. Lips the color of rosebuds puckered and opened, forming sounds he could not comprehend.
The words were garbled and far away, as if they came from under the waves. He struggled to make sense of them. Was this soft creature a sea imp come to take him to his eternal rest at the ocean’s bottom?
The lips moved again.
Those lips. He remembered those lips, the way they melted under his own, the way they opened up to him, the way they willingly gave him what he sought.
“Amanda!’ Will jumped from his chair and pulled her slight form against him. “I thought I had lost you,” he breathed against her ear.
He released her, only to entwine his fingers in her curls and draw her closer. After he had kissed just about every inch of her face, including the tip of her nose, his lips found hers.
This time he kissed her as though he had been trapped under water and she were air, hard, greedy kisses that left her little opportunity to pull away. Amanda started when his tongue darted into her mouth to tease her own, but she soon matched his actions, pouring life back into him with each stroke.
Doctor Miller cleared his throat. “If you are done manhandling my assistant, she still has work to do.”
Chapter Ten
The laughter of men skylarking in the rigging filtered through the planks above Will’s head, dissolving the residue of grief left behind after the deaths of so many of his crew.
From the shouts of the men, he guessed a competition had begun. The younger, more agile boys and even a few of the men would race to the pinnacle of the main mast then slide down the backstay. The first to plant his feet firmly on deck would be the winner.
A cheer rose, a sound of joy and of healing.
Last week’s battle had been hard won. Those killed were good men and valued crewmembers, and Will couldn’t shake the idea that had they served under a better captain, they might still be alive. Writing letters to their families had been difficult enough. Those who spent their days working side by side with the fallen men would grieve their loss even more.
Though the loss of crew always left him adrift, his fear of losing Amanda had left him grasping at his surroundings, in sudden want of something solid to hold on to. Worse, his fear, an immobilizing emotion he hadn’t felt in years, left him questioning his fitness for command.
He could still taste panic in his throat when he glanced at the pine boards that covered the openi
ng to his own private hell. Bull had promised the last of the repairs would be complete on the morrow once the carpenter had finished more vital parts of the ship like mast and rail.
Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
Will set his elbows on his blotter, entwined his fingers and rested his forehead against them. Did other men question his suitability to captain a ship? He never had. In all his years commanding the Amanda and serving on ships before her he had never once questioned his capacity for courage or the prerequisite self-control. Now he wondered whether that unshakable belief hadn’t been blind ignorance.
He could hardly be faulted for a sense of relief at finding Amanda alive, but his loss of control, kissing her like that in front of a roomful of injured men, evidenced the depth of her influence on him. Luckily, the promise of an extra share of rum had been enough to earn the silence of those who had witnessed his indiscretion.
However, Amanda’s near loss and his uncensored reaction reminded him of an undeniable truth. He had proven himself as human as any man. For however long he allowed her to remain aboard ship, he endangered her life and the lives of his men.
Whenever she was near, her soft scent and the memory of her sweet lips drove away all else but his need for her. He found himself reflecting on what it would be like to have her beneath him, her legs wrapped around him in sweet surrender. He yearned to discover what type of body she concealed beneath her tight woolen bindings and shapeless clothes.
Fingers digging into the arms of his chair, Will turned away.
That he would never know. He could not jeopardize her safety, no matter how much he enjoyed her charms. He would not jeopardize his crew with a bemused captain. His wall would be repaired tomorrow even if he had to do it himself. Then, he would make plans to return Amanda to Baltimore so he could return to being the captain his men needed him to be.
Shouts sounded from above, and Will rose to join the men. Perhaps their joy would be strong enough to chase away his doubts.
He climbed the stairs, his mood lifting with each step.
Who had inspired such enthusiasm in his tired crew? Had young James overcome his fear of heights to challenge one of the older boys? Or perhaps a wager had been cast among the more seasoned hands to see which were still able enough to compete.
“Bet he never makes it to the top!” Roger’s rough growl rose above the other voices. “His lunch will be rainin’ down on all of us before he reaches the yardarm.”
Will averted his eyes from the men tossing coins, tobacco pouches and other personal effects into a pile. Had his been a ship of the Navy, he would have been forced to take action. But even as captain of a mere privateer, it would not do well for him to be seen encouraging wagers.
Skylarking in the rigging on the other hand… Will shielded his eyes from the midday sun to search the sky for the competitors. Fun for the lads, this kind of activity also turned boys into sailors. After all, a boy who feared heights or couldn’t climb the ropes, whether to take his turn at the watch or to work the sails, would be of little use on a ship.
Far above the deck, a lone figure clung to the ropes. The boy raised a cautious foot and planted it on the next level. A raucous cheer went up from the men. More coins clanked as they were added to the pile.
“That’s it, my boy. Just a little further.” Will clenched his fists, remembering the first time he had clung to the ropes, the deck spinning below him, his stomach spinning within.
The lad froze like a fly caught in a spider’s web. The late morning sun outlined his pitiful plight.
“C’mon, you’re almost there,” Bull bellowed. “You’ll never be a real sailor if ya can’t make it to the watch platform! Get your arse moving!”
The boy looked down then turned a resolute gaze toward the platform. Buck clapped Bull on the shoulder, and the two men exchanged grins.
“Captain Stoakes,” Buck said, catching sight of Will over Bull’s grizzled curls. “Shall I call the men to attention?” Laughter resonated in his voice.
“No, that’s all right. Let them have their fun.” Will squinted against the glare, trying to make out the identity of the sailor with the wobbly legs inching his way along the ropes.
It couldn’t be James. The lad’s short, stout bearing would make the ropes bend and groan under his weight. Besides James had yet to make it more than three rungs off the deck. Doubtless, he never would. This boy had climbed so high the sun haloed his darkened silhouette, showing long limbs and a lanky frame. Definitely not James.
Will scanned the deck with an inquiring gaze. Nate’s simian build made him the ideal climber, and he spent more time on the watch platform than on deck. However, having proven himself long ago, he would not have warranted the crowd nor the pile of coins and tobacco. It couldn’t be Nate anyway, for he stood at the foot of the mast, one long-fingered hand resting on the wood, eyes turned skyward, jaw agape.
The lithe, little sailor set his foot on the platform and pulled himself up. Another cheer, louder than the first, rose from the deck. He turned and looked down at his mates. Will’s breath caught in his throat when the boy gave a victory pump with his fist that threatened to knock him off the platform. At the last second, he latched onto one of the ropes with his other hand.
Will scanned the sailors laughing at the boy. Among the seasoned old tars stood several ship’s boys, clinging to each other like barnacles. He mentally ticked off the names in the registry. James stood by the bulwark, freckled face red from his exuberant cheering-on of his mate. The twins, Randall and Fredrick, tow-headed boys of about nine, clung to the tails of James’ coat. Neil stood behind them. Nate, the oldest and almost a man, stood apart, gawking from the foot of the mast.
A sickening wave caught Will’s stomach and the deck spun for a moment. “Bull.”
“Yes, sir.” Bull joined his captain, still chuckling. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Who is the brave lad up there?” Captain Stoakes kept his voice even.
Bull stroked his chin. “Well, sir, I’m not sure I’d be calling him a brave lad exactly, but that’s Adam.”
“A…dam?” Will choked.
“Yes, sir,” Bull confirmed, his gray eyes filled with an almost fatherly pride. “It’s his first time making it that far. Next time, mark my words, we’ll have him out on the yardarm.”
“Whose idea was it for Adam to climb the rigging?” Will asked.
“Oh, he was all for it,” Bull said, deaf to the tightness in his captain’s tone. “I have to say, he surprised me with the request, him being so…soft and all. Maybe he decided it was about time he became a real sailor.”
“He is my personal cook and the doctor’s assistant,” Will said between gritted teeth. “He has no need to learn to climb the rigging.”
Bull’s bushy eyebrows rose as one. “Adam said he had served your noon meal and you wouldn’t be needin’ him till supper. ’Sides, Captain.” He gave Will a conspiratorial grin. “If he falls, ya still have Cookie.”
Falls? The deck heaved again. One misstep and they’d be scraping Amanda off the planks as if she were no more than a casualty of battle.
The vein in Will’s forehead pulsed; he wondered that Bull didn’t see it. Had he done so, he would surely have beaten a fast retreat. Yet Bull stood next to him, gawking at Amanda, a grin of almost sadistic delight on his wizened face.
“Adam is unfit to serve on deck,” Will said, his jaw even tighter than before.
“Unfit? Captain, he’s hardly been on the ship a full two months. Came aboard same day as young Jimmy.” He waved a gnarled hand toward the red-faced boy staring upward with unmasked adoration at his more accomplished shipmate. “In fact, Adam’s better than Jimmy at most things, and I don’t see you telling me that lad’s unfit.”
“James can’t cook,” Will said.
“I see.” Bull gave a small chuckle more insolent than any verbal reply ever could be.
“The moment Adam sets one foot on the deck, I want to see him in
my quarters,” Will growled.
“In your quarters. Aye, Captain.” Bull turned away, his grin wider than ever.
Will pivoted on his heel before he succumbed to the temptation to strangle his crew master.
****
By the time a timid knock sounded on Will’s door, his world had slowed to a near normal rotation and the knot in his stomach had loosened—at least enough to allow him to breathe. He had also had time to rehearse the discussion to come a dozen times.
It had been days since he had spoken to Amanda, other than a few polite words when she brought him his meals. “Please” and “thank you” hardly sufficed for the type of conversation he needed to have with his would-be cabin boy, but it had been all he could manage. The sight of her robbed him of the ability to form more than the simplest of thoughts. He lived in a state of almost constant apprehension should his crew start to notice her undeniably feminine attributes.
In truth, he hadn’t known what to say anyway. If she were any other crewmember, he would have taken her to task for defying his orders regardless of how misguided. He had been wrong to confine her, but even when wrong, a captain expected to be obeyed. A crew who questioned a captain’s orders was not an effective fighting force.
But Amanda was not a member of his crew, and the time had come to explain where she fit into the small world that was his ship. She must be made to understand that her position was temporary and at his discretion.
The knock came again, louder this time. Will steeled himself for the first waves of desire.
“Come in,” he said, rising to his feet.
Amanda ducked inside the door and stood at attention.
Will shook his head at her appearance, bare feet, grimy shirt, frayed canvas trousers. A stray blonde curl peeked from beneath a wool cap so old it gave no hint to its original color. A line of soot accented one cheekbone. He never met a woman so content to look like a common street urchin. He never met a street urchin more beguiling.
Caution to the Wind (American Heroes) Page 10
