To Love a Rogue

by Valerie Sherwood

  “Excellent,” he said, and shrugging into his coat, he proffered her his arm. “You will astonish all comers!”

  Lorraine took his arm. “Do you really think so?” She looked up at him anxiously. “I do want your ship’s officers to approve of me.”

  Raile hid his amusement as he escorted this wonder from the cabin onto the deck. “There is little fear that they will not,” he murmured. “Indeed they will be overjoyed that you have at last decided to honor them with your presence.”

  “Oh . . . you mean they have expected me to dine with them?” she said, a little unnerved.

  “Rather let us say they hoped you would,” he amended gravely, swinging open the door of the officers’ mess and escorting her inside.

  Lorraine had steeled herself for this moment, for they were standing about talking—and to a man they turned and gaped at the sight of her. Their combined gaze seemed to focus on the gold embroidered fleur-de-lis on her bodice.

  “Begorra, if it isn’t Jocko’s coffin cloth!” cried Derry Cork, his green eyes bulging.

  Lorraine winced. It had been too much to hope that the cloth would not be recognized, but she had hoped that no one would say anything! It was a tricky moment and she drew in her breath, afraid they would laugh at her. Or perhaps disapprove. And she found herself suddenly very much desiring to win the approval of these men.

  She need not have worried. Raile carried the day with aplomb.

  “Aye, Jocko’s,” he agreed. “But ye’ll agree with me, gentleman, that Jocko would never have looked half so good in it!”

  A roar of laughter greeted his remark and a general flurry of friendly comment. Before it had ended, their glasses were filled and André L’Estraille had lifted his in the air.

  “To the gorgeous demoiselle in her fleur-de-lis gown!” he cried, his sparkling amber eyes devouring the sight of her. “To the Lady of the Lilies—French in gown and French at heart!”

  “To the English flower,” corrected one of the English officers with a reproving look at this impudent Frenchman.

  “To the lassie with eyes as blue as heather,” intoned MacTavish surprisingly in his deep bass voice.

  “To a brave colleen!” boomed Derry Cork, striking his fist upon the table for emphasis.

  “To the jufvrouw with hair paler than the Rheingold!” joined in Jakob Heist, waving his glass.

  “To the American beauty,” said Raile softly, his gray eyes glinting across the rim of his glass. “Found on Rhode Island’s shores. . . .”

  “To la belle Lorraine! May her skies always be as blue as her gown!” the doctor insisted.

  Amid a masculine chorus of “Aye!” Lorraine found herself blushing.

  Finally Raile stopped them with, “Enough of toasting! A man must eat and we’ll all be too drunk to do it if we don’t take our eyes off the lass!”

  Lorraine gave him a relieved smile of thanks for ending the toasts. He met her gaze squarely, lifting his glass to her in a mock salute.

  Lorraine felt her color rising and quickly addressed herself to her food, scarcely looking up until the meal was half over.

  She paid little attention to Derry Cork, who had managed to wedge himself in beside her when she sat down; she only edged slightly away from him when he got too close.

  Across the table she saw Raile observing Derry with a stern eye. The Irishman seemed not to notice. She turned away to respond to a rather stiff compliment from the Englishman on her right.

  Derry Cork was making some sly comment about her being so brave a colleen, would she not care to go and help him fire off one of his guns? Ah, she could shoot the waves to pieces, she could! And it was not so difficult to fire a piece—indeed she could watch him and then have a go at it herself.

  Lorraine was saved from responding to the idea of her personally firing one of the ship’s brass cannon when Raile’s voice cut in from across the table. “We’ll not be firing the guns for Mistress Lorraine’s edification, Derry. There’s no need to announce our presence on these seas to those who haven’t yet seen us.”

  “Is there no way to test your bravery then, colleen?” Derry Cork teased her. He sighed and, draining his blackjack tankard, set it down too near the edge of the table, where his arm promptly knocked it off onto the floor.

  Lorraine saw the tankard falling and pulled away, hoping her lovely new skirts would not be stained. Derry had dived to the floor, scurrying to regain his tankard. As he rose and banged the tankard back upon the table with his left hand, Lorraine had the eerie feeling of a tug at her garter and having her skirts dragged up a little. Something touched her bare skin and she jumped. She was about to turn and give Derry Cork an indignant look for reaching under her dress, when she realized that what she felt was not a man’s fingers giving her leg a surreptitious caress, but something furry, little claws—and then abruptly as her skirts shifted, sharp little teeth brushing her bare thigh.

  Lord, a rat must have run up her skirts! With a scream, she staggered backward and, throwing her skirts up into the air, tried to rid herself of the thing. She screamed again as the little creature’s furry body thumped against her leg.

  Hardly had Lorraine opened her mouth to shriek than Raile had knocked over his chair in his haste to come around the table. Every member of the company had surged to his feet by now and Derry Cork was leaning on the table laughing uproariously.

  Peering down below her raised skirts as she pivoted, Lorraine saw to her horror that the rat’s tail had been forced under her garter—no wonder she could not rid herself of the creature, it was attached to her!

  She whirled about, kicking her leg outward to rid herself of the small beast while the company watched appreciatively as her pretty legs seemed to appear and disappear beneath her skirts, but Raile, after one look at the dead rat, reached down in exasperation and tore it free.

  “Damn you, Derry, any more of your tricks and I’ll—”

  “I but wanted to test the courage of your brave colleen!” gasped Derry between guffaws.

  “Let’s test yours instead!” Raile’s hard fist collided with Derry Cork’s jaw with a force that sent the big Irishman sprawling into the corner with a surprised look on his face.

  “Ah, now, Cap’n!” cried Cork, aggrieved. He scrambled nimbly to his feet as his wrathful captain bore down upon him. “I meant the little colleen no harm—ye know that!”

  Raile came to a stop and his teeth came together with an audible snap. “You try me sorely,” he muttered, and turned abruptly to Lorraine, whose skirts were decently lowered now. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” But she was shaking all the same.

  “Allow me to escort you to your cabin,” he said, and formally offered her his arm.

  Lorraine took the arm thankfully and let him bear her away.

  She was still trembling when they reached the cabin, and she turned upon him defiantly. “I’m not going to be set upon and made sport of!” Her voice shook. “I had enough of that at the Light Horse Tavern!”

  Raile gave her a look of sympathy. He reached out an arm to give her a commiserating pat but she flinched away from it. He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Derry meant you no harm, lass. He’s a rough fellow, a prankster by nature, but now that I’ve stretched him across the floor for it, he’ll mend his ways where you’re concerned.”

  “I should hope so!” Lorraine shuddered, for she could still feel the touch of the rat’s fur and the sudden contact with his sharp little teeth.

  “I knew it would be difficult having a woman aboard,” muttered Raile.

  “Yes!” She was almost in tears. “For you’ve no control of your men!” she flung at him. “In a proper ship, this would never have happened!”

  A baffled look crossed his strong countenance. “I swear to you, lass, that the next man who gives you offense will cross blades with me!” He patted his sword’s basket hilt meaningfully.

  That was not what she wanted—more fighting. She wanted to be treated as a l
ady.

  “I will never sit down at table with Derry Cork again!” she declared bitterly.

  “Ah, but you must,” Raile’s voice was steely. “For you must not let him think you’re afraid of him. He takes a small boy’s pleasure in practical jokes and you must not become the butt of them, for I’ve no wish to kill him.”

  She looked up. “Kill him?” she faltered.

  “Just so. I’ll seat you between myself and our ship’s doctor next time. L’Estraille knows how to behave toward a lady. I promise you, you won’t find any more dead rats up your skirts.”

  Lorraine tried not to show how shocked she was. The easy violence of this way of life appalled her, and yet Raile was only defending her, as he saw it. She told herself she must be very careful not to precipitate trouble; she did not want anyone’s death on her conscience!

  “They’re rough men, lass, but most of them have the sense to recognize a lady when they see one. Derry’s a bit slow, but by now he’ll have learned—the others will be having a word with him.”

  She looked up uneasily. “Fighting?”

  He shrugged. “Discussing it,” he said shortly. He gave her a wry look. “Perhaps they are teaching him manners—and saving me the trouble.”

  Lorraine sniffed.

  The next morning found Derry Cork still fingering his jaw and casting sidewise glances at his captain. Raile ignored him, escorting his lady about the deck with much ceremony. Lorraine went along docilely enough. She understood that Raile was—by example—explaining her status on this vessel and demonstrating how a lady should be treated.

  She resisted the idea of dining with the officers the next night but Raile was firm. “My officers have planned something for you,” he explained. And in answer to her wary look, “Something you’ll like.”

  Still, even leaning on Raile’s arm and trying to look as if nothing could disturb her, it took some courage to go in to dinner and face them all again.

  The faces ranged about her were grave and courteous. Anxious to please. Raile made a point of seating Lorraine between himself and the ship’s doctor. Derry Cork was subdued and conversation was strained. MacTavish finally broke the ice.

  “D’you dance, lassie?” he asked bluntly.

  Lorraine gave him an astonished look. If he had asked her if she used warpaint to color her cheeks blue, she could not have been more surprised.

  “Yes ... I dance,” she answered tentatively.

  “I have only my pipes,” sighed the Scotsman. “And whether you and the laddie here”—he nodded at Raile—“can tread a measure to them on a swaying deck. I’ll not be knowing. But I’ve a mind to play my pipes for a while this evening.”

  “That . . . would be wonderful,” said Lorraine, round-eyed.

  Raile was smiling at her. “I’m a bit rusty, but I’ll lead you out upon the floor,” he told her gallantly.

  “I claim the honor of the second dance!” cried the Frenchman exuberantly. “I’ll teach you all the latest steps they’re dancing in Paris!”

  She guessed that in their way they were trying to make amends for the fright she had been given at the table the night before.

  Around her the company relaxed and talk became general. Cook had outdone himself. One of the crew had caught several enormous fish today and one was brought in roasted whole on a pewter charger of such size that Johnny Sears, who served it, grinning, seemed to sag under his burden.

  There was a round of applause at sight of the fish and they all fell to, drinking and laughing and eating the catch of the day along with flavourful Indian porridge and the more usual onions and beans and mellow golden cheese. Lorraine relaxed too, laughing at the French doctor’s witticisms. To her surprise, she found herself enjoying the company of these men, listening to wild tales (told with some exaggeration for her benefit) of their exploits in exotic places. Before the meal was over, she too was chiming in, repeating stories she had heard in Rhode Island of wild escapes from Indian encampments and other frontier adventures.

  Raile, she observed, was smiling at her.

  Lorraine had never thought to play hostess to men like these, dangerous men culled from the corners of the earth. But if rough men were to be her portion, she would learn to master them too!

  “Mistress Lorraine,” Raile said. “It is time for dancing.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh . . . yes, of course.”

  Out upon the deck they went and MacTavish tuned up his bagpipes. Lorraine thought the noise quite hideous, wheezing and howling. But as the ship’s company, who had gathered silently about in the background, began to stamp their feet in time, she came alive to the spirit of the music, which had echoed off the crags and down the glens of Scotland, calling the Scots to frolic and to war.

  Raile took Lorraine’s hand and led her out “upon the floor” while his lounging officers watched. He taught her a spirited highland fling and she was quite breathless when André L’Estraille stepped forward, gave her a wondrously deep bow, and called out to MacTavish to “Pipe us something with a French sound to it!”

  MacTavish tried his best. His wailing efforts on the wheezing pipes sounded distinctly strange and would have made Paris shudder, but it was French steps nonetheless that the ship’s French doctor taught her to dance to the wailing music of the bagpipes. Lorraine found herself moving with natural grace beneath the Frenchman’s expert tutelage. They danced twice more so that she could “conquer the steps,” as he airily put it, and then she was claimed by the agile ruddy-faced Dutchman, Jakob Heist, who whirled her about, and in turn by the other officers.

  When she finally waved them away, breathless, and Raile murmured in her ear, “You’ll not need my protection now, lass—you’ve won them for yourself,” Lorraine felt ridiculously proud of her accomplishment.

  That night, after they had retired to his cabin, Raile rummaged in his sea chest, tossing things out upon the floor until he found a small gold locket on a delicate gold chain.

  “A medal for valor,” he said with a grin, handing it to her. “It took some courage to cavort about the deck to MacTavish’s pipes, but you took it all in good part and made friends tonight, lass.”

  She felt close to him suddenly, as if she had known him always, and her hand shook a little as she took the locket.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  He was smiling at her in an intimate way and when he moved to clasp the locket around her neck she jumped at his touch.

  “Oh, did I catch your hair in the clasp?” he asked, noting her sudden start.

  “No,” she replied in a smothered voice. She was sure his next move would be to kiss her, for she could feel his breath against her neck—and she did not want him to. Searching for a way to divert him, her gaze fell upon an object that had rolled out from the tumble of things Raile had left on the floor as he searched the contents of the chest for the locket.

  “What are you doing with that?” she asked, pulling quickly away from him.

  “With what? Oh, this?” He followed her gaze, reached down, and picked up the object. It appeared to be some sort of root, hard and translucent. “This is ginseng.” He proffered it for her inspection but she shook her head and refused to take it from his hand. “Have you never seen ginseng before?”

  “I have indeed,” she said in a tight voice.

  He looked down at the piece of root in his hand, held it up, and sniffed. “Very aromatic. This ginseng belonged to Jocko. He’d given it to me for safekeeping and I’ve never known what to do with it.”

  “I’d get rid of it,” she said with a sudden vehemence. “I’d throw it overboard!”

  Raile’s dark brows lifted. “Expensive food for fishes,” he murmured. “And why would you do that, lass?” He was looking at her curiously.

  It was all tied in with her mother’s dying—but Lorraine didn’t intend to tell Raile that. She might break into tears! Still, the unbidden memories flooded back. . . .

  Somehow her mother had got hold of some money. F
rom England, she had said vaguely, a small bequest from a distant relative who had died. It was in the spring after a snowy winter—and it was to prove to be the last winter of Araminta London’s life.

  Lorraine had been there when Araminta had offered the money to Jonas. “There,” she had told him with a sigh. “Now we can pay our debts.”

  Jonas had made a strangled sound in his throat, and Lorraine guessed that his pride was hurt that he could not pay his own debts. But he took the money without a word and stalked out. He had come back excitedly some hours later, and Araminta, who was darning stockings, looked up and at his expression dropped her thimble.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “What have you done, Jonas?”

  “You must have made our creditors happy, at least,” said Lorraine cheerfully. She was hoping there’d be enough money left over for a new dress.

  “Well . . . not just yet,” he admitted. “They’ll have to wait awhile longer. You see, there was this wonderful opportunity—”

  “What do you mean, Jonas?” Araminta’s voice cut in, grown suddenly shrill with apprehension.

  His chest expanded. “I’ve invested the money in a venture,” he told them grandly, and now Araminta, aghast, could see that he had been drinking as well. “I’ve packed off enough ginseng to China in the care of Benjamin Nicholls to make us rich. It will pay back a hundredfold on the investment, Nicholls is sure of it!”

  “Oh God!” moaned her mother, and her face dropped into her hands as if she could bear no more.

  After that Araminta’s heath went downhill fast; her gallant heart was failing at last. Jonas was seldom home. He spent most of his time at taverns, drinking. And so Lorraine found herself alone the night her mother died. She would never forget Araminta’s last disjointed words.