“Hmm,” the girl said, looking around, then she gave the captain a pointed up and down perusal. “I had rather expected a pirate ship to be larger.”
Had she just insulted his ship, his person, or both? Will wanted to laugh. Given the girl’s own lack of charms, he doubted she wanted to start that battle.
Keeping a tight rein on his expressions, he offered her his arm and said, “Shall we go below? My cook is putting the finishing touches on a meal you are sure to enjoy. While we wait, perhaps you would care for a glass of sherry?”
“Oh, that would be delightful,” she cooed. Instead of resting her hand on the arm he proffered, she slid her dainty fingers between his arm and torso, latched on to his bicep and squeezed. Apparently, she hadn’t finished assessing him. “Do excuse me, Captain, but I’m afraid I’ve still not got my sea legs.”
Will looked down at her oval face, and forced a polite smile on his unwilling lips. After more than a month at sea, she most certainly would either have her sea legs or be dead from nausea. At the very least, her ample curves wouldn’t be quite so well-rounded.
He also couldn’t help but notice that the way she clung to him forced her generous breasts upward and to their best advantage. Her stays already pressed her breasts so far upward that they threatened to spill out over the top of her bodice. He only hoped her barely restrained flesh would wait until he had her out of sight.
With the girl clinging to him and tittering like a sparrow, Will’s irritation intensified. It would be a long night, but at least he could look forward to the pleasure of watching Amanda while she served their supper. He immersed himself in the thought of having her near until the sound of the girl’s voice melted away, and his impatience eased.
Chapter Sixteen
Amanda set a steaming tureen of turtle soup on the table. Later, she would have to admit she had outdone herself with dinner, but right now, she was too amazed at the transformation that had taken place to pay much heed to the visiting officers’ keen interest in the succulent aromas wafting from the stone tureen.
She had been stunned to learn a dining room existed on the ship. Actually, it didn’t normally. The Amanda was too small to have a permanent dining room, but like many ships refitted for battle, certain walls were removable. From somewhere the crew had produced a large, mahogany dining table, a linen tablecloth edged with lace, and china decorated with delicate blue flowers inlaid with a silver filigree. She wondered if the captain had borrowed the finery from his English guests.
Captain Stoakes had told her she could cook whatever she pleased. There were plenty of chickens on board, and her sense of humor got the best of her. While she had to improvise a bit with the ingredients, she made a passable coq au vin for his guests.
She hoped serving a well-known French dish to English guests didn’t go against the privateer’s code, but with the chicken simmering in the pot, it was too late to turn back. Perhaps no one would notice the subtle jab at English pride. But, whether or not they caught it, these were Captain Stoakes’s guests, and she really had no right to be rude. She would make up for her thoughtlessness by serving a fabulous desert.
Maybe a crème brulee? Amanda cringed. Apparently, her dark sense of humor went even deeper than she knew.
Now, she and Cookie brought out one perfectly prepared, although somewhat improvised, dish after another, and she watched their guests attack each with gusto.
The captain’s table seated eight that evening; Captain Stoakes, Buck Smythe, Doctor Miller, and four of the officers of the captured merchantman, including the captain whom she had seen earlier and his ship’s surgeon. To Captain’s Stoakes left, a woman of stunning beauty hung on his every word, and when she could manage it, his person. Amanda couldn’t help but stare, both at the girl’s beauty and her boldness.
Seated next to the captain’s tall, powerful frame, she appeared almost fairy-like, something to be seen yet not quite believed. She had dark blue eyes set in porcelain skin. Her rosebud lips smiled demurely at everything the captain said, and she often cast sideways glances at him from beneath her long dark lashes. Unlike her own complexion, this woman had no freckles and certainly no sun-bronzing. Amanda raised her hand and trailed her fingertips across her wind-roughened cheek to settle for a moment on her chapped lips. She let the hand drop.
Tearing her gaze from the woman’s face, she ladled the soup into elegant, sculpted soup bowls then handed them to Cookie so he could set them before the guests. She was no one’s idea of a beauty, and never would be, so what did she care? Still, the graceful appeal of this woman made her all the more conscious of her own shortcomings.
Amanda served the last of the soup, enraptured by the woman’s voice. She said very little to anyone but the captain, but when she spoke to him, her soft English accent tinkled like little bells. Dimples danced in her cheeks whenever she laughed at something the captain said. In Amanda’s opinion, she laughed more often than necessary, since the captain said little that could be taken to be humorous.
Eavesdropping on their discussion, Amanda discovered Miss Violet Bowersley was really no more than a girl despite her sophisticated, elegant demeanor. She explained to the captain, in animated detail, how her father ordered her delivered from her home in England to her rich uncle’s plantation in North Carolina. For once, the girl’s voice trailed off, giving Amanda the impression more lay behind the story than the girl wished to share. Pain flickered in her dark eyes, only to be replaced by hard determination.
“Have you ever been away from England, Miss Bowersley?” the captain asked in a somewhat stiff but polite voice.
“I have not, sir,” she replied. “Can you imagine how frightening it is for me to be so far from home on my first trip abroad? I had imagined my father would allow me to visit the continent, but instead he sends me to America where I shall have much to learn about living with savages.”
Savages? Was her uncle an Indian, Amanda wondered. Did Indians own plantations?
“I assure you America is much more civilized than your English friends have led you to believe, Miss Bowersley,” the captain said.
“I should love to know what the country is like. Are there shops?” Hope shone in her wide blue eyes.
“You should visit the—” Buck started to say.
“Shops for dresses, and hats, and gloves and all the necessities a woman of breeding simply must have?” Miss Bowersley asked, cutting Buck off without so much as a glance in his direction.
Amanda shot a sympathetic look toward her shipmate, surprised Miss Bowersley didn’t welcome his attentions. He was handsome with a refined manner. He dressed even better than the captain, preferring velvet to wool and rich colors like forest green and mauve. Despite being aboard ship for months at a time, his shirts and neck stock were always crisp and immaculate. Amanda often wondered if he didn’t perhaps have a new set of freshly laundered shirts delivered each time they called at port. Surely, he was the type of man who would catch a young girl’s fancy.
Buck smiled at Amanda as though sharing a private joke.
“Yes. America has towns and even a few cities filled with shops much like those you’d find in England,” the captain replied, treating Miss Bowersley’s question as though it were more than mere prattle.
Amanda thought it rather silly, but then she had never been to England. Perhaps their cities and towns were much different.
“What do people do for entertainment? Do they go to teas? Are there parties?” Miss Bowersley asked, her voice rising in pitch with each question.
“My wife loves to—” the doctor started to say.
“Do they have balls and soirées?”
This time, the girl’s eyes shifted to the doctor, a look of unveiled irritation flitting over her face before she donned her beguiling mask again.
“I suppose some do,” the captain replied.
Amanda caught the knowing glance the doctor cast in Buck’s direction. Buck didn’t acknowledge it, but he dabbed at his lips wi
th his linen napkin, a familiar devilish sparkle shining in his eyes.
Amanda’s jaw dropped and she snapped it shut. The two men weren’t besotted with their female guest any more than the captain. They were simply playing a game to see if either could distract the girl from her intended victim; a game they were both losing.
Amanda picked up a carafe of wine to fill the glass that sat empty before the English captain. He seemed determined to drink an entire bottle by himself, and with her desire to stay in the room and watch their guests, Amanda stood at the ready.
The English captain hadn’t once tried to join the conversation, and neither had his men. Instead, they attacked each new dish with relish, smiling their appreciation at her with greasy lips, while leaving Captain Stoakes to fend for himself in the face of Miss Bowersley’s unrelenting attention.
“Do the Continental officers look as handsome in their uniforms as the English officers?”
Amanda choked, jostling the carafe she held and spilling a crimson drop on the snowy white tablecloth. Captain Stoakes shot her a silencing glance, and she quickly looked down.
But really! How on earth did Miss Bowersley expect the captain to answer that question?
Luckily for him, she didn’t seem to require a response. She continued on, describing in a breathy voice how divine the English officers looked in full dress uniform.
She must be talking about the military officers, Amanda decided. She took up her post in the corner of the room and watched the merchantman’s officers greedily wolf down another serving of coq au vin. The occasional drop of brown sauce stained the ruffles around their sleeves. Still, she couldn’t help but feel generous toward them. Miss Bowersley had probably been quite a lot to endure during their voyage from England, and Amanda admired their ability to suffer in silence.
Captain Stoakes withstood it all in stoic silence too. He continued to answer questions when propriety demanded it, and when Miss Bowersley stopped chattering long enough to allow it. He was neither rude nor expansive in his responses, but when he finished speaking, his lips never failed to return to a thin slash above his squared chin.
“Captain Stoakes,” Miss Bowersley asked after an expansive but futile line of questioning concerning the latest fashions in America, “do you have any women on your ship? Perhaps even a wife tucked away somewhere?”
For a moment, time stood still and silence filled the small chamber. Amanda froze, her hand holding the carafe over the crystal glass of one of the English officers. A small cough from Buck snapped her out of her reverie in time to avoid overfilling the glass.
“No, Miss Bowersley, I do not,” the captain replied.
Miss Bowersley cocked her pretty, oval face in innocent surprise. “Why ever not? I would imagine your voyages are long, and the addition of female companionship would be most welcome.”
Miss Bowersley’s bottom lip jutted out in a small pout that Amanda assumed the girl intended to be charming. The hard set of the captain’s jaw and suggested he didn’t find it so.
Amanda poured wine into the glasses of the men at the table, even those that were nearly full. She could feel the captain’s tension from across the room, but she could no more leave the room than she could leave the ship. Miss Bowersley had asked the unthinkable, yet Amanda would sooner die than miss the captain’s answer.
When the glasses could hold no more, Amanda stood, holding the carafe at the foot of the table, and stared at a knot in the planked wall on the opposite side of the room just over the captain’s head.
“Women do not belong on ships, Miss Bowersley.” The air in the small chamber grew thick with tension.
The others at the table stopped eating. The English commander had the boldness to look at the captain, but his officers studied the remnants of the meal before them.
Amanda’s heart beat so hard in her chest that the carafe in her hand twitched to its rhythm. She placed it on the sideboard before it gave away her distress.
“Perhaps not American women,” Miss Bowersley said, oblivious to the mood of those about her. “With some of them you would hardly notice that a woman was aboard, would you? I’ve heard they can be so coarse!”
She looked around at her male companions, seeking confirmation. None of the men would meet her gaze. Then her dark, speculative eyes fell on Amanda.
Amanda swallowed the lump in her throat. Could Miss Bowersley see what the men could not?
“I assure you, I would know if there was a woman on my ship,” Captain Stoakes replied, drawing her attention back to him.
“I suppose a man like you would.” She took another sip of wine and regarded him with an intense gaze over the rim of her glass. “Have you ever had a woman on your ship, Captain? I don’t mean for the entire voyage, but perhaps for…a shorter length of time?”
Miss Bowersley’s voice caught on her words, and her deep blue eyes were bright and shiny. Amanda decided she would watch the speed at which she refilled the girl’s wine glass from now on, for her own sake and the captain’s.
Amanda risked a glance at the captain’s face, marveling at his ability to keep his composure. She could feel the strain, see it in the muscle that twitched along his jaw when he cut into a chicken thigh with his fork and knife. The captain brought a piece to his mouth and chewed with slow deliberation, focusing his gaze on his food, his wine, his other guests, anywhere but Miss Bowersley.
Miss Bowersley, on the other hand, watched the captain take another bite of chicken with unabashed interest. When the captain dabbed at his lips, she leaned forward. With each stroke of the napkin, her long, tapered fingers twitched as though she wished to handle the task for him.
Amanda relaxed. The girl only had eyes for the captain, and for all she cared, Amanda was just a servant. Despite her impertinent comments about American women, the fool had no idea one stood not five feet from her.
When the meal drew to a close, Amanda cleared away the last of the dishes and prepared to bring out coffee and dessert.
Captain Stoakes laid a hand on her arm and stopped her. “Adam, you really outdid yourself tonight. Supper was superb.”
“Here, here!” the other officers in the room raised their glasses and echoed the captain’s praise.
Amanda returned their smiles, relieved that no one appeared offended by her choice of a French dish for a main course. She nodded and reached for the bottle of Port sitting on the sideboard.
“Here, boy,” Miss Bowersley said, her voice sharp. “I don’t care for Port, but I’ve been ignored, and my wine glass has been allowed to sit empty.”
If you hadn’t drained it in one gulp the last time I filled it, it wouldn’t be empty now. Amanda bit back the retort, and set the Port bottle back on the side table. She brought the carafe to the crystal wine glass Miss Bowersley held aloft.
Amanda filled her glass, this time right up to the rim, while Miss Bowersley puckered her lips and managed to look down her nose at Amanda, despite being seated.
Amanda’s hand shook a bit when she set the bottle back on the side table.
“Captain, I wonder if you might let this boy go with me to North Carolina? I’m sure Uncle Theodore has a cook, but it is probably one of those Negro women brought in from the fields. I’ve heard their cooking is dreadful, and you can never be sure exactly what you are eating.” She sighed. “But I suppose they do their best to learn our ways, and they can’t help it if they aren’t able.”
For a moment, Amanda remained focused on Miss Bowersley’s thoughtless words. Having been raised in Maryland, she had been exposed to slavery, but her family had never owned any. Their farm was too small to profit by it, but her father had also felt it wrong for one man to own another. The whole idea had never sat well with her either. Apparently, Miss Bowersley considered it an inconvenience, for herself if not for the slave. Any charity she felt toward the girl faded.
Then the meaning behind the words sank in, and her mind raced. Would the captain seize the opportunity to get rid of her? Afte
r all, if Miss Bowersley’s uncle had the wealth she claimed, he could give her a job and assume responsibility for her. She would no longer be a member of the crew and, therefore, no longer Captain Stoakes’ responsibility. Whether she chose to stay with Miss Bowersley or leave her employ would be up to Amanda, but Captain Stoakes would be free to wash his hands of her.
She couldn’t leave the ship, she just couldn’t! She needed more time. Time to prove her worth to the captain. Time to prove she could be as valuable as any man. Time to prove he needed her. The blood rushed to Amanda’s head, and the world around her took on a tinny sound. Boys didn’t swoon, did they? She clung to the thought like a life raft to avoid losing control of her senses.
Amanda caught the captain’s eye for a moment, but he looked away.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow Adam to go with you.” He laid his napkin across his plate. “He is indispensable to me.”
Chapter Seventeen
With Miss Bowersley clinging to his arm once again, Captain Stoakes escorted his guests to the upper deck and called for the transport boat to take them back to their ship. Amanda wondered if Miss Bowersley could walk under her own accord. If the captain let her go, would she weave her way over to the side of the ship and topple over?
The image, although delightful, could not have raised Amanda’s sprits any higher. The captain had called her “indispensable.” Had he meant it?
Perhaps he had been so put off by the way Miss Bowersley made the request to take Adam with her to North Carolina that he hadn’t been inclined to be accommodating.
Regardless of whether he had been sincere or not, he had made it clear she would not be sent with Miss Bowersley to her uncle’s plantation. And the more she had thought about it while she and Cookie cleared the dishes and poured more wine, the more she doubted he would dump her off on an English captain. After all, he wouldn’t want her feeding the enemy, would he?
Despite the few moments of tension, Amanda had never been so entertained, and she hated to see the evening end. Their guests, for she no longer thought of them as prisoners, were so unlike any of the people she knew. Prior to life on the Amanda, her circle of friends and acquaintances didn’t extend much beyond farmers, local merchants and their families. None of the Amanda’s crew, even those with telltale British accents, were as uniquely alien as the officers of the merchantman and the girl.
Caution to the Wind (American Heroes) Page 17
