by Kris Tualla
Nicolas opened their tiny window and pushed the cloak overboard. “Better?”
She nodded. “Yes! But leave the window open for a bit, would you?”
Dinner was served at seven bells. With no maid, Sydney and Nicolas were forced to bring Kirstie with them to the table. Thankfully, her sun-kissed curls and intent blue-gray eyes charmed the women, who in turn fought over the chance to hold the cheerful toddler. She ate anything they offered her, though at times her face scrunched into a comic critique of a particular dish.
“Do I know you?” one man blurted, drawing everyone’s attention, particularly Nicolas’s. “I’ve seen you before!”
“Perhaps,” Nicolas said casually.
“What is your name, sir, if I might be so bold?” The man’s face took on a suspicious tint.
“Nick Reidar,” he answered without a pause, exaggerating his American accent. “And this is my wife, Siobhan.”
Sydney leaned over and whispered to Stefan, aborting any comments forthcoming from the boy. His eyes twinkled at her words. He was eager to play along with the adults’ game.
The man continued to stare at Nicolas, who met his perusal with calm disinterest. “And you are?”
“Donovan Jansen.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
“You are not from Norway.”
“No, Mister Jansen. We are returning home to America.”
“Lord Jansen.”
Nicolas tipped his head. “I beg your pardon, sir. Might you pass the potatoes?”
When the meal was complete, Nicolas leaned back in his chair and scratched his chest. “I believe I will join these gentlemen on the deck for cigars.”
Sydney stood. “And I shall see the children to bed.” She lifted a sleepy Kirstie from her neighbor’s lap. “Come along, Stefan.”
Stefan’s chin was an inch from the tabletop, his cheeks propped between two fists. Drooping eyelids lifted at his spoken name, and his eyes rolled a little. “But I’m not sleepy,” he protested.
“I know, but I need your help with your sister.” Sydney held out one hand. “Come, please.”
Stefan submitted to a face wash and hair comb before slumping on the edge of the bed. Sydney tucked Kirstie next to the wall.
“Lie here, Stefan, so she doesn’t roll off the bed.” Sydney patted his pillow. “I'll come back in a few minutes and check on Kirstie.”
She kissed the children, lowered the wick on a hanging lamp, and closed the door behind her. After going to the privy at the head of the ship, she returned to the cabin. Both children were soundly asleep, unmoved from where she left them.
***
In his desperation to hold onto her, Nicolas curled himself over her. Lying on her back, Sydney rolled into a ball; her knees brushed her shoulders and her arms circled his ribs. She rested her forehead against his throat. He owned every part of her. And she loved him for it.
Their joining was energetic, silent. Sydney pressed her lips hard; the only sounds escaping were rhythmic breaths through flared nostrils as Nicolas drove home, deep inside her. She ground herself against him as blessed spasms twisted her body without mercy.
He pressed his face into her hair and quaked. The temblor of his release shook them both. Panting, he did not move, but stayed over her, resting on elbows and knees.
His breath warmed her scalp. “I could not have lived if I lost you.”
“We played a dangerous game,” Sydney whispered.
“That we did.”
“Do you believe we have won out?” She thrummed her fingertips over his skin.
He rolled onto his back, his long legs protruding off the end of the bunk. “I… do.”
“Why did you hesitate?” Sydney propped on her elbow. “Is aught amiss?”
Nicolas shrugged. “I felt I was being followed. It’s probably my imagination, especially after Lord Jansen thought he knew me.”
“Was it when you came to the dock?”
“No. Here.”
“On the ship?”
He nodded; she felt it, more than saw it, in the dark cabin. “Who would follow you? And why?”
“There are reasons.”
“Nick?”
He reached for her. She rested her cheek on the coarse, curly pillow of his chest. He tangled his fingers in her hair. “Trust me, min presang.”
“Do you not trust me?”
“Of course I do. But I don’t have anything specific to tell you. Yet.”
Sydney sighed heavily and closed her eyes, adjusting her position. She faintly heard the snort and blow of Nicolas’s first snore as her own body succumbed to satiated exhaustion.
Chapter Thirty
May 7, 1821
Shipboard
Christiania to London
The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
Nicolas stood at the bow of the ship and stared at the clouds lurking over Scotland. He could not see Scotland, the curve of the earth hid her from view. But he knew she was there.
Just as he knew he was being watched.
Nicolas shaded his eyes with his palm and slid them to the side, looking past his elbow. Crewmen went about their business and paid him no heed.
He strolled over to a coil of rope and lowered himself onto it. He stretched his arms and crossed them behind his head. From his recumbent position, he feigned sleep and watched for unexpected movement through slitted lids.
The seasoned hunter was patient. It took the better part of an hour, but his prey made a fatal move. A dark head appeared around the edge of a canon, then jerked back. Nicolas could not see the face, but he marked the hiding spot.
With a languorous stretch, Nicolas stood. He sauntered toward the canon.
No one was there.
No matter. He had the scent. Tracking was the easy part. Nicolas strolled amidships, and climbed down the ladder in search of lunch.
***
“Mamma, are ghosts real?”
Sydney, folding a laundered diaper, turned and looked at Stefan. His blue eyes, under lowered brows, peered intently over the top of the book he held propped on the desk. “Some people believe so. Is that what you are reading about?”
He shook his head and laid the book down. “What do you believe, Mamma?”
“I’m not sure. I have never seen a ghost, so I don’t feel qualified to pass judgment.” Sydney tucked the folded diaper into a drawer and picked up another one. They spoke softly so as not to awaken Kirstie, napping soundly with her thumb dangling from her slack mouth.
Stefan crumpled his lips and rested his forehead in his hand. “Well, if ghosts are real, could they be on a ship?”
Sydney paused, then resumed her movements, hoping Stefan did not notice. “Why do you ask? Have you seen a ghost?”
“No.” He sounded disappointed. “But when we go eat and come back, my stuff is moved.”
“Moved?” Sydney tried to sound casual, though her heart stepped up its cadence. Her glance flitted through the cabin. “Is anything missing?”
Stefan shrugged. “I don’t know.” The cabin door swung open.
“There you are! Anyone hungry?” Nicolas’s deep voice bounced off the walls.
“Shhh!” Sydney pressed her finger to her lips and nodded her head toward the bed. Kirstie stirred and sucked her thumb purposefully for a few seconds, then went slack again with a soft sigh. “Stefan, go with your father. I shall be along soon,” she whispered.
Stefan nodded and closed his book. He followed his father out the door and as it closed she heard him ask, “Pappa, are ghosts real?”
***
“What do you make of it?” Sydney asked Nicolas as they washed for dinner.
“Something is afoot and there is no question about it.” Nicolas lowered his voice. “I am being watched, of that I am now quite certain.”
“Has someone been in this cabin as well?” Sydney looked around and tried to memorize each item’s position.
“I haven’t noticed. But then, I wasn�
��t sensible of the possibility.”
“What will you do?”
“Lay a trap. As any decent hunter would do.” Nicolas’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Too bad I threw out that cloak.”
Sydney shot him a look.
“Well, if not for the smell,” he qualified. Nicolas tapped his knuckle on his chin. “So what then? Get him to follow me? Or lure him to Stefan’s room.”
“I would highly prefer that you get him to follow you,” Sydney stated with authority. “I don’t want to disrupt the children any more than we already have.”
“You make a good point,” Nicolas agreed. “After dinner tonight, I will go on deck to smoke a cigar. I shall spend some time in the head for good measure. I might as well kill two birds with the one pebble, eh?”
Sydney smiled.
“Then, when I stroll around in the dark, I shall see if my ‘ghost’ follows.”
“Will you be armed?” Sydney’s eyes fell to the hunting dirk on the desk.
“I always am.” Nicolas tucked the weapon into his waistband under his frock coat. He offered his arm. “Are we ready?”
After dinner, Sydney took the children while Nicolas commented rather loudly that he would be on deck. He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat as his exclamation point. He lit it with one of the oil lamps and casually climbed to the upper deck.
The ship cleft through the waves, peeling back ragged white edges as they slipped silently through the darkening water. Pale orange faded to pink and bled into the purpling sky—as dark as it would get. Nicolas breathed deeply of the clean, salty air. He blew cigar smoke into the breeze. His every nerve was primed, waiting.
When he finished the cigar, he tossed the end into the water, watching the glowing ash arc gracefully until it disappeared into the North Sea. There was no sign of his ghost thus far. Nicolas opened the gate that led to the privy seat at the bow of the ship. Unfastening his flies, he pushed his breeches to his knees and settled on the wooden ledge. The wind that filled the sails and pushed the ship forward pushed any offensive odor forward as well.
After a suitable time, Nicolas stood and reassembled his clothing. A movement drew his surreptitious attention. He felt for his dirk and moved it forward. He climbed away from the bowsprit and through the privacy gate.
Thin silver feathers tickled the rising moon as they passed her on the wind. Nicolas welcomed the added light, his eyes adjusting and roving. There was no sign of any human occupation at the moment, so he ambled along the port side of the ship, the side the moon illuminated.
He stopped and turned suddenly. Nothing. He continued his walk. He turned again, this time catching a shadow. Ahead of him was a shed-like structure housing one of the ship’s wheels. He walked past it, paused, turned, and walked to the other side.
The shadow followed. Nicolas pressed against the painted clapboard and held his breath. A thin figure ventured around the corner. Nicolas’s meat-hook of a hand shot out and looped around the culprit’s neck.
“A-H-H-H-H-H!” his captive screamed. He squirmed like a dervish, all elbows and knees and over-large clothing. “Let me GO!” he screamed in Norse, his voice cracking under the weight of puberty.
“Leif?” Nicolas loosened his grasp, incredulous. “Is that you?”
“L-let g-go of m-me!” his Norse sputtered as he tried to contain his sobs.
“I shall let go of you, son, if you will calm down and tell me what the devil you are doing on this ship!” Nicolas growled.
Leif stilled then, panting and trembling. The whites of his eyes glowed in the moonlight, making his thin cheeks look even more gaunt. He hitched up his pants and crossed his arms in an attempt to look forbidding.
“I won’t go back.”
Nicolas snorted. “Before we discuss that, how did you get here?”
Leif shrugged, his voice challenging. “It was not so hard.”
“Perhaps I should be asking you why you are here.”
At that, what little composure Leif feigned, abandoned him. His lower lip scrunched and jerked down at the corners, his brow compressed and balls of saltwater splashed down his cheeks. He gasped. Grunting sobs, which should have emanated from a much stouter body, were startlingly loud in the night. Leif’s shoulders shook with such force that Nicolas thought the boy’s bony body might sustain damage. He gathered the adolescent boy in his arms and held him tight against his chest.
“There you go, son. Just let it out. You are safe here.” Nicolas had no idea if what he said was in any way appropriate for the moment, but felt Leif’s skinny arms wrap around his waist in response. He patted Leif’s back and let him cry.
Eventually, only spastic gasps and sniffles were left of the torrent.
“Can we talk now, son?” Nicolas loosened his grasp.
Leif nodded and stepped back. He wiped his cheeks on one sleeve, his nose on the other. Nicolas led him to a corner of the deck and they sat on the coil of rope. Nicolas regarded the young stable boy, trying to discern what prompted him to stowaway.
“You snuck onto the ship.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why?”
Leif stared at his own feet as they curled and tucked under his trousers. “Tomas told me you were leaving.”
“Yes, I asked him to,” Nicolas said.
“Tomas said no one else in the castle knew.”
“They didn’t. It was a secret. But I didn’t feel right about taking Stefan away without letting you know. You and he are such good friends.”
Nicolas had to strain to hear Leif’s next words. “I did not follow Stefan, Sir.”
“No?”
Leif shook his head, eyes still on his feet. “I followed you.”
“Me?” Nicolas startled.
“Don’t be angry, Sir.” Leif’s lean face lifted and his eyes—black as tar in the moonlight—burned into Nicolas’s.
Nicolas recognized the boy’s desperation. “I’m not angry, Leif. But I still don’t know why.”
Leif’s struggle for composure resurfaced. “I wanted to leave… The grooms, they…” He sniffed and wiped again with the sleeve. “Well, since my mother died, no one has paid me much mind.”
Nicolas’s stomach clenched.
Leif shook his head, awestruck eyes never leaving Nicolas’s. “But you, Sir, you treated me like somebody. You talked to me. You taught me things and gave me a sword. You took me to the Storting. You gave them my drawings!” His visage darkened. “I never… well, I just couldn’t think of how, I mean, what it would be like if you left.”
He paused. “I believed you would be king, and everything would turn out.”
“I see.”
“So when Tomas told me you were leaving, I decided to follow you.”
Nicolas rubbed his mouth. “You know you took quite a risk? Do you know what they do with stowaways if they are caught?”
Leif jumped to his feet. One finger curled out from his fist, and he jabbed it at Nicolas. “I will throw myself overboard before I let them send me back! I swear it on my mother’s grave!”
Nicolas spread open palms in front of his chest. “No one will send you back. I promise.” Leif dropped his fist and his shoulders relaxed. “But had you given any thought to where you will live? Or how?”
Leif jammed his fists into his trousers, suddenly shy. He nodded.
“Can you tell me, son?” Nicolas prodded.
“I expect I could stay in London. I am not afraid to work. I know horses pretty well. Unless, maybe…” His voice trailed off and he faced the deck planks.
“Leif?”
He drew a deep breath, held it, and then loosed his dream in an avalanche.
“Unless-I-could-go-with-you-all-the-way-to-Missouri-in-America-and-work-for-you-there.” Face down, he ventured a look at Nicolas from under his brows.
Nicolas leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He narrowed his eyes and considered what to do next.
“Have you any money to make your way in London?” he asked
, curious.
Leif nodded and lifted one pant leg. Tied to his calf was a jeweled dagger. Nicolas sucked a surprised breath. Even in the moonlight, it glinted with inner fire.
“Might I have a closer look?”
Leif hesitated, and then untied the weapon. He handed it to Nicolas with caution. “It’s sharp.”
Nicolas turned it over in his hand. He recognized it. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it behind a sideboard in the Great Hall. Early in the morning on the day you left. We left.” Leif grimaced. “Are you going to keep it?”
“I am for now. But you will get it back.”
“When?” Leif looked as though he was going to throw up.
“When you need it.” Nicolas wrapped the blade in his handkerchief.
“When we get to London?”
“What will you do with it there?” Nicolas stood and tucked the dagger by his dirk.
“Pry the jewels out and sell them.” Leif’s eyes were on Nicolas’s waistband. “Or sell the whole thing.”
Nicolas laid his hand on Leif’s shoulder. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”
Leif lifted his chin and looked into Nicolas’s eyes with such longing and desperation, that Nicolas had to swallow hard before he could speak. “When you work for me in Missouri, I will see you housed, fed and decently clothed.”
For a space, Leif just stared at him. “Sir?”
“But you will have to learn English.”
Leif nodded, stunned.
“And I expect you to go to school. You can do your chores in the early mornings and late afternoons. And your schoolwork after dinner.” The corner of Nicolas’s mouth curved. “Will you accept my terms?”
Leif straightened and stuck out a shaking, knobby hand. “Um, yes. Sir. I do.”
Nicolas took it and shook it. “Then we are agreed.”
“Th-thank you, Sir.”
“So, where have you been sleeping?”
“Down in the bottom of the ship. By your statues.”
“Really?” Nicolas looked at him with interest. “Is it quiet down there?”
“Like a tomb.” Leif shuddered. “A tomb with rats.”
