“Or be hankering after a mither.” Rafe sighed. “I should see if I have any female connections who’ll consider taking her under their wings.”
Jordy joined Rafe at the quarter rail but leaned his hips against it so he faced the younger man. “Or find yourself a wife once you end this nonsense of yours and settle.”
“I had a wife.” Rafe didn’t look at the master sailor half again his age—his mentor, his friend. “I won’t put myself through that pain again.”
“’Tis only the losing them that’s the painful part. But you love again and forget—”
Rafe flung up a hand in a staying gesture. “Not this again. I know you’ve found another wife, one you seem happy enough to leave to seek your fortune, but losing Davina the way I did . . .” He gave his head an emphatic shake. “No more wives for me.”
“I’m not seeking my fortune.” Jordy removed his tobacco pouch from his pocket and began to toss it from hand to hand. “Aye, I’ve won one, or near as like, but you ken I am here to protect you.”
“I do not need your protection.”
The argument was old, nearly rehearsed.
“Someone has to watch your back,” Jordy pointed out.
“I have Watt and Derrick.”
Jordy snorted. “I’d watch my back around Watt if I were you, and Derrick is more likely to pray for your soul than lift a sword to protect you.” Jordy inhaled the aroma of the tobacco. “Not that praying for your soul is not good.”
“A waste of time.”
“Prayer is never a waste of time, lad.”
“I no longer have a soul.”
“You have life. You have a soul, and God still wants it.”
Jordy was too good a friend, too loyal a companion for Rafe to lash out at him over the sermon. He simply said nothing.
Jordy’s craggy face stretched into somber lines. “You need to give this up, Rafe.” His tone matched his countenance. “You’ve gone too far bringing the ladies aboard. Mel was bad enough—”
“Stubble it, Jordy,” Rafe lashed out. “We have gone through this, and you went to get Mrs. Chapman too.”
“Aye, so Watt wouldn’t go alone.”
“Because Watt is so untrustworthy?” Rafe snorted.
Jordy sighed. “Aye, lad, he’s untrustworthy. You would think you kent that from long ago.”
“My mither trusted him, and I can’t shun everyone.”
Unbidden, Rafe’s gaze strayed to Phoebe Lee. A few golden hairs fluttered from beneath her hat, along with a spill of blue ribbons. Her muslin gown drifted around her, giving her a grace of movement though she stood still. That she was beautiful even a blind man could see. That she attracted him even he admitted to himself. She tempted him, urging him to touch her smooth hand, her soft cheek, her lips. Especially her lips. He’d come seconds from kissing her the night before last.
It wouldn’t do, allowing himself to care enough to make such a personal contact. Too often he’d observed how women interfered with a man’s judgment. And he needed all his faculties intact now, not focused on a lady who liked him a wee bit when she should have despised him, would despise him if she knew what he planned.
He spoke his thoughts aloud. “I can’t afford to care.”
“I presume we are not discussing Watt McKay now?”
Rafe started. “Nay, I will not discuss Watt. What happened in the past is gone. I have forgiven him that.”
“But not James Brock? If you’d forgive—”
“I won’t discuss my retaliation against James Brock in the same breath as my set-to with Watt thirteen years ago. They are not the same.”
“Forgiveness is forgiveness—nay, lad, do not push me off the rail. I ken you are not interested, but God has done such a work in my heart, I want to share.”
“Derrick’s doing.” Rafe gritted his teeth. “I should have left him in Edinburgh.”
“He wouldn’t have stayed any more than Mel did.” Jordy glanced behind him to the three females, four counting Fiona cavorting at their feet, her bow bouncing between her ears. “Ah, the lovely widow has your attention. I thought as much the other night. Not a female to trifle with.” He rubbed his belly.
“I have no intention of trifling with her. What kind of a roué do you think I am? But—” Rafe clamped his teeth on the next words.
Too often through his thirty-two years of life, all of which he’d known Jordy McPherson, he had said too much to the older man. Jordy knew most of Rafe’s secrets, alas. Yet if anyone could be trusted, it was the family retainer. And Rafe did need to trust someone. Being completely alone had never suited him. So he tolerated the lectures, the admonitions, the sermonizing, for in the end Jordy would do what Rafe wanted because he had served the Dochertys of Edinburgh, as his ancestors had for generations.
“Mrs. Lee is the sort of woman a man marries,” Rafe said aloud, more to convince himself than Jordy. “Even if her past isn’t pure.”
“No one’s is.” Jordy grinned, showing a gap between his front teeth. “But you could still do worse for a bride.”
“No more brides.” He repeated it like an automaton making the same motion due to a broken spring. “Never.”
“Do you fear ’twill turn you from your course?”
“Nothing will turn me from my course.”
“Aye, I thought as much.” Jordy gazed past Rafe’s shoulder.
Rafe turned his head to see what held his supercargo’s attention. Past two fat merchantmen, the American schooner gleamed with the grace of a racehorse.
“They do build beautiful vessels,” Rafe said.
“Aye, and fast.” Jordy squinted toward the schooner. “That one left the Chesapeake half a day after us and arrived half a day before us.”
“What are you saying?” Rafe turned to Jordy. “Do they have aught to do with us?”
“They might.” Jordy sighed. “I may as well tell you, Rafe. James Brock is aboard that schooner.”
“Impossible.” Rafe gripped the rail until his knuckles gleamed in the sunshine. “I’ve tried to run him to earth for nine years.”
And to think those years could end in victory here, without the voyage to free George Chapman, without keeping Phoebe Lee against her will, without risking his daughter’s life further. His heart began to pound a marching beat in his chest. His lungs tightened. Before his eyes, he saw another kind of vessel—a small, quiet boat, a narrow deck, men with savage blades and cruel spirits.
“Nay, ’tis no coincidence, I’m thinking.” Jordy drew his graying brows together over a beaky nose. “I’m thinking George Chapman betrayed you from his prison hulk.”
“And instead of running from me, Brock has decided to run after me while pretending to be a diplomat.” Rafe spoke through gritted teeth, sending pain shooting through his skull. “Still a lying, cheating—”
He broke off. He and Jordy had drawn the ladies’ attention. They turned toward the quarterdeck, faces tilted upward so that the sunlight spilled beneath their hat brims and glowed on their faces, so lovely, so sweet, so alive.
Mel ran aft and charged up the ladder. “What’s wrong, Captain Rafe?”
“Nothing to concern you, little one.” He brushed his hand across her mop of hair, glowing like a ruby in the brilliant light.
But it did concern her. Brock could use Mel as Rafe intended to use Brock’s best henchman and his wife.
“I’m just thinking perhaps you ought to stay aboard until tomorrow.”
“Oh no.” Mel’s lower lip protruded and her eyes glistened. “I want to go ashore and get my hair cut nice and help Mrs. Chapman buy some ribbons and Mrs. Lee buy some fabric, and we need stores and—”
“Hush.” Rafe laid a finger across her lips. “You can go tomorrow. Today—” He rested a hand on her shoulder and gave her part of the truth. “There are bad men ashore I’d rather you didn’t encounter.”
“There are always bad men ashore. I always manage to avoid them.” She clutched his hand. “Please . . . Papa?�
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Rafe’s heart twisted, melted just a little at her use of Papa instead of Captain Rafe. But he shook his head. “This man is different. ’Tis . . . personal.”
Mel’s eyes widened. “Did you take his ship or something?”
“Nay, lass, and enough questions. You go tell the ladies they may go ashore tomorrow.”
If he wasn’t dead. Well, if he were, they’d need to go ashore to get help from the Navy.
“Scoot.” He tapped her shoulder.
With a sigh, Mel stalked off, head down, ragged ends of her hair swinging.
“Coward,” Jordy murmured.
“Aye, that I am. ’Tis the privilege of being the captain—I do not have to deliver the bad news.”
On the main deck, the ladies drooped at Mel’s tidings. Mrs. Lee cast him a glance that should have withered him despite the distance between them. She would never accept that it was for her own good.
“I’ll be going ashore now,” Rafe announced. “Call the men to take me.”
Jordy didn’t move. The harbor seemed unnaturally silent for a busy port in the middle of the afternoon. No one shouted orders, no drums rolled. Timbers didn’t creak in the near-calm winds. The scene seemed more like pantomime than port.
Then Jordy straightened from his lounging position with a clatter of boots on the deck. “You cannot. Brock is here under a flag of truce. If you challenge him, you will find yourself locked up in irons in a trice.”
“Not if my meeting with Brock is private.”
“It won’t be. He’s no fool to have eluded you for all these years.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Rafe, lad—aye, I ken you’re my captain and I’m to address you with respect, but I’ve kent you since you were christened, and I’d be doing your sainted parents no favors if I did not try to talk you out of this course of action yet again.”
“Good, you’ve tried. And they’re sainted instead of living happily in Edinburgh because of that man.” Not waiting for Jordy to give in or concede, Rafe leaped to the deck and strode aft, shouting for the men to return to the cutter. It still bobbed alongside the Davina. Rafe grabbed the mooring line and climbed down the rope to the boat’s deck. The two-man crew followed—Watt and Derrick.
“Cast off,” Rafe called to the brig’s deck.
He expected Jordy, Mel, or one of the other men. Instead, Mrs. Lee grasped the line and leaned over the rail. “Why are you keeping us aboard?”
A sudden tumult of shouts from one of the merchantmen nearly drowned out her words. Pretending not to hear her at all, Rafe glanced toward the nearby vessel. Two men in tight coats better suited to a London drawing room than the deck of a brigantine struggled to get a longboat over the gunwale and into the water.
“Why?” Phoebe Lee shouted down to him.
He couldn’t pretend not to hear that time. “I cannot say, madam.” Rafe looked up at her and wanted to tell her—something.
If she’d been angry, pleading, petulant, he would have cut the line and sailed off to the wharf. But she looked confused, frustrated, a little sad. He understood confusion, frustration, and, above all, sadness.
“If my mission is successful, I’ll see to it you find a way home from here.”
The men had the boat in the water—capsized.
“And George Chapman?” Mrs. Lee pressed. “Will you leave him to rot in the hulk after your promise to Belinda?”
He should, if the American had betrayed him. But he kept his word.
“Unless I’m unable, I’ll see him free,” he reassured her. “I simply will not need Mrs. Chapman’s assistance.”
A woman had joined the men on deck. She wore a cloak too heavy for the climate and doubled over as though in pain.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Lee’s face tightened. “And if you are unable?”
He curled one corner of his lips upward. “I have not said this to anyone for a ver’ long time, but perhaps you can pray for me, if you’re a praying lady.”
“If I’m—” She winced as though he’d shoved an elbow into her diaphragm. “I should have been praying for you all along.” With that, she turned away from the rail and trudged back to Mrs. Chapman.
As much queasiness as he’d ever felt in twenty-foot seas ravaged Rafe’s body. He folded his arms across his middle and glanced at Derrick. “Cut the line. We can’t continue to waste—”
The cries and confusion from the merchantman rose like a fast-moving storm. The two men ran to the starboard rail, shouting and waving at Rafe. The woman followed them for two steps, then doubled over with a scream.
Phoebe charged to the rail and leaned so far over she nearly toppled into the harbor. “Go help them. Go.”
The directive proved unnecessary. The cutter was already headed for the merchantman, single sail sending the small craft skimming over the water despite the light breeze. Shouts rang across the water, words indistinct, the tone of panic clear from the gentlemen aboard the brigantine. The woman had vanished from sight.
“What’s wrong?” Belinda slipped up beside Phoebe, Mel at her heels.
“I don’t know for sure.” Phoebe kept her voice neutral, her words careful. She guessed what was wrong. She hoped she was right. Already plans formed in her head.
“Captain Rafe is going aboard.” Mel pointed to the other vessel.
Belinda caught hold of the girl’s hand. “Pointing is rude.”
“Then how are you supposed to know where I mean?”
“You may nod your head in that direction or gesture.” Belinda sounded like her mother, prim and tight-lipped.
Phoebe tried not to laugh as she kept her gaze on the other ship, the cutter, Rafe Docherty. Surely he needed her. Surely he would return to her . . .
Someone called out. Even over the intervening space of water and through other harbor noises of boatmen and ship clatter, Phoebe recognized the voice—Docherty had commanded his men to do something.
Return. The cutter turned away from the merchantman and headed back to the Davina. Waiting, Phoebe held her breath, praying one word. Please, please, please.
The cutter bumped lightly against the brig’s hull. “Mrs. Lee,” Watt called to her, “Captain Rafe wants you.”
“Thank you, Lord.” Phoebe knotted her shawl to keep it from slipping off into the water and kilted up her skirt. Undignified or not, showing stocking ankles or not, she intended to descend the easy way rather than wait for a chair to be rigged to lower her to the other boat like a net full of fish.
“Can I go too?” Mel asked.
“May I,” Phoebe and Belinda chorused.
Mel sighed. “I want to go.”
“Nay, lass, you stay aboard with Mrs. Chapman,” Watt said. “’Tis no place for a girl.”
“If you wait just a minute, ma’am,” Derrick addressed Phoebe, “I’ll fetch you a chair.”
“No thank you.” Phoebe grasped the rope and, eyes closed, clambered over the rail.
“Phoebe, you can’t,” Belinda cried.
“It’s better than the chair.” Mel laid a steadying hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “The chair twists and turns and makes a body ill.”
“I’ve had more than enough of that.” Phoebe managed a smile, pushed away from the side of the brig, and slid more than climbed to the swaying deck of the cutter.
Derrick caught her in hands the size of dinner plates and eased the last few feet of her descent. “You shouldn’t have done that, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m here now.” Phoebe took a long breath to steady herself. “Let us go. The woman is in her lying-in, I presume?”
A ruddy hue rose under Derrick’s dark skin. “Yes, ma’am. Captain Rafe said you was the best person to come help. Of course, Captain, he’s—”
“Cast off,” Watt barked from the tiller.
Derrick grumbled something and tugged on the line.
Phoebe grasped the low rail and leaned toward the merchantman as though they needed to travel a far journey and her motion made them
sail faster. The distance vanished in moments, the ships close enough she could have swum through the calm waters. Before she could speculate on the woman’s condition or make any plans for her next bid for freedom, they reached the brigantine, where a chair already waited for her.
Mel was right—climbing a rope was better. Phoebe arrived on the merchantman’s deck feeling sick and shaken from the spinning on the way up.
Docherty grasped her elbows and steadied her. “Are you a’right?”
“No, but I will be.” She managed a smile.
“There’s a good lass. Mrs. Torren is needing a steady hand.” He smiled back at her. No, not smiled. He never smiled; he turned up one corner of his mouth in a softening of its usual grim line.
His fine mouth with its firm, full lips relaxed, and something inside Phoebe tightened, twisted, shivered through her. If she could get him to smile all the way . . .
She wouldn’t be in his company long enough to think of that, of how else those lips could soften—
She jerked away from him. “Mrs. Torren?”
“Aye, one of the passengers. Her husband and his uncle are alone here on the brigantine while the crew fetches supplies and gets orders from their naval escort.” Docherty reclaimed one of Phoebe’s elbows and began to walk with her toward the aft companionway. “She’s come to her time early.”
“Oh dear.” Phoebe shivered for an entirely different reason, her mind skimming to an incident with Tabitha when a patient went into her travail early. It had ended in tragedy. “How—how early?”
“She does not ken. I dare say she’s no more than sixteen.” His hand tightened on Phoebe’s arm. “I do not like to think that this could be Mel in four years.”
“Mel will have more sense.”
“A tongue as tart as a green apple, I see. But let us hope ’tis true. Here we go.” He ushered Phoebe down the steep steps and into a cramped but expensively appointed cabin complete with velvet curtains over the porthole.
A bunk filled most of the space. On the fine linen sheets lay a young woman barely older than a child, not much larger than Mel. Her pale hair spread out on the pillow like a silvery-gold cloud, and terror filled her wide brown eyes. As Phoebe stepped over the coaming, the girl clutched at her swollen belly and screamed.
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