Where Fiona and her father met her, the former wagging her body in joy, the latter stalking forward like a lion tracking down a tabby. His hands dropped onto her shoulders, and he spoke to her in a tone too low for anyone else to hear. That it was a severe scolding Phoebe didn’t doubt. Mel paled, and her lower lip protruded, quivering.
“You don’t think he’ll hurt her, do you?” Belinda moved up beside Phoebe, puffing a little with exertion.
“No.” Phoebe turned to Watt. “Why did you do that?”
Watt laughed. “We’ve done it before. She was a wee bit higher up, but I could have managed it.”
“Or gotten her killed.” Phoebe slammed her fists onto her hips and braced her legs to keep her balance. “If I ever catch you taunting the child like that again, I’ll—I’ll—”
“Blacken his other eye?” Rafe turned from Mel, who slipped along the rail as though avoiding everyone. “I think you had best leave the crew’s discipline to me.”
But he hadn’t disciplined Watt after the attempted mutiny. From the smirk on Watt’s face, he expected Rafe would do nothing to him this time either.
“We should go below and make sure she’s not upset,” Belinda said.
“No, leave her be.” Rafe tucked a hand under Phoebe’s and Belinda’s elbows. “Come sit down and enjoy what mild weather we have left to us. I have duties to attend to.”
“I need to rest.” Belinda placed a hand on her belly.
“Are you feeling all right?” Phoebe sprang to Belinda’s side and slipped her arm around the younger woman. “Any pain? Any—”
“Hush.” Face reddening, Belinda clapped her hand over Phoebe’s mouth. “Just because you have no sense of decency doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“Sense of decency? There’s nothing—” Phoebe sighed. “Of course.”
She caught Rafe’s glance and a glint in his eyes akin to amusement before he nodded and strode away.
“Let’s go down to the cabin. I’m going to examine you,” Phoebe said. “It’s ridiculous for you to have dragged me to sea and then refuse to let me near you.”
“You’re here only to deliver the baby, should it become necessary,” Belinda insisted. “I don’t like being examined.”
“And I don’t like surprises like what might meet me when you go into your confinement if I don’t know your condition ahead of time. Now, come below and lie on the bunk, or I’ll ask you a lot of intimate questions on the deck here.”
“You wouldn’t.” Belinda’s color reversed to pallor.
“I would.”
“No wonder none of the ladies in Loudoun County would let you tend them.”
“It’s the ones no one calls ladies I wanted to tend anyway.” Phoebe clasped Belinda’s hand in both of hers. “Endure this for the sake of the baby, if nothing else. Possibly George’s heir.”
“Well, all right.” Head down as though she were heading to her own hanging, Belinda shuffled aft. In the cabin, she threw her cloak over a chair, then perched on the bunk.
“Lie down.”
Phoebe washed her hands while Belinda flounced onto the bunk. Back at Belinda’s side, Phoebe drew a sheet over Belinda to protect her modesty and made the examination she should have done weeks earlier. She followed all the procedures Tabitha had taught her. She ran through her experiences and lessons in her head, being without her books. She ignored Belinda’s complaints about discomfort, embarrassment, and unnecessary invasion of her privacy.
When complete, Phoebe washed her hands again and slumped on the window seat. “You lied to me, Belinda, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Belinda struggled to a sitting position and rested her hands on her belly, emphasizing its size. “I told you right away I was increasing.”
“You said four or five months. Then you said—” Phoebe took several deep breaths to keep herself from shouting. “Then you said seven. But that was a lie too, wasn’t it? You were closer to eight months along when we set sail. That was two and a half weeks ago, and now I think you’re closer to your time.”
“Well, you’re not that experienced—”
“Belinda!” Phoebe did shout this time. She sprang up from the window seat and leaned over her sister-in-law, her hands braced on the bulkhead behind her. “You’ve got to be honest with me about this. It could be a matter of life and death for you and the baby. I need to know if it’s true labor or the false pains some women feel. Do you not understand?”
Belinda burst into tears. “I think the whole ship understands. And now he’ll put me ashore and I won’t be able to help George and—”
“Put you ashore?” Phoebe sank onto the bunk beside Belinda and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “My dear girl, there is no shore out here. You’re going to have this baby either in England, if nothing holds us back, or in this very cabin.”
“I think,” Belinda said, clutching her belly, “it’s going to be in this cabin.”
12
“Captain?” Watt called from the quarterdeck. “You’d best come.”
Rafe glanced up from amidships, where he’d taken to pacing so he wouldn’t draw Phoebe’s attention. The sails, close-hauled for nighttime travel, remained in good trim. The sea swished beneath the hull in gentle swells, and not a cloud marred the sky. Below, the men either slept or engaged in quiet activity, and on deck, a few others either stood watch or strolled about for exercise like their captain. One man crouched near the bow light reading a book.
Watt wasn’t calling Rafe to the quarterdeck because of trouble with the vessel.
Gut tightening with suspicion as to where the trouble lay, Rafe headed aft. The scream reached him before he’d strode a dozen feet. He halted for a beat, then sprinted for the companionway.
The scream rose from the stern cabin. Something was wrong with Phoebe. She’d hurt herself after all. She was having a fit. She—
He slammed his hand against the door handle and shoved the portal open just as a glass soared toward his head. He ducked. The glass swooped past him, whispering through his hair on its trajectory, and smashed against the ladder.
Another shriek rose in the confined place, a banshee wail of rage or frustration. Rafe straightened as best he could beneath the low deck beams and flung himself across the cabin in time to grasp Belinda Chapman’s wrist before she threw a glass jar of some red preserves at Watt, who now filled the doorway.
“Stop it,” Rafe commanded. “You stop this nonsense right now.”
“I can’t.” She tugged against his hold and kicked her slippered foot against his shin. “I’ll go mad if I don’t do something.”
“You’ve done more than enough.” Rafe removed the jar of preserves from her fingers and tossed it to Watt.
He caught it, dropped it into one of the capacious pockets of his coat, and otherwise remained motionless in the doorway.
Belinda smacked her other fist against Rafe’s chin, not hard enough to even move his head more than half an inch to one side. “You can’t hold me. I know that’s wrong, even if you are going to rescue my husband. Phoebe, make him let me go.”
“I don’t think he should let you go,” Phoebe said. “You’re a danger to yourself and your baby right now.”
She stood just out of Rafe’s line of sight unless he turned his gaze away from Belinda, something he wasn’t willing to do, but the widow’s honeyed cream voice slid over him like warm silk on tender skin. Every hair on his arms stood on end, a reminder as to why he had been taking drastic and often inconvenient steps to be somewhere else on the brig from wherever she happened to reside.
Belinda punched Rafe again, and he caught hold of that wrist too. She clenched her teeth and growled like an angry kitten.
In the doorway, Watt snickered. Rafe shot his crewman a glare and caught hold of Phoebe from the corner of one eye. The pull to turn around and gaze upon her grew powerful within him.
Belinda began to cry.
Behind Rafe, the door clicked shut, Watt runni
ng away from feminine tears. Rafe braced himself against the lure, the heart-softening heat of a woman’s tears—and failed. He released Belinda and stepped back. “What’s amiss then, lass?”
“Everything.” Sagging onto a chair, Belinda covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I am as ugly as a porpoise. I don’t think we’ll ever get George free. And my midwife is incompetent, and I’m sure she’ll kill my baby.”
Phoebe sucked in her breath. If anyone should be throwing things, it should be her, not Mrs. Chapman. But Phoebe remained quiet and calm and still out of his sight unless he turned.
He turned. He couldn’t stop himself. “What happened?” he asked Phoebe.
“A lack of understanding of her own condition and a lack of trust in my ability.” Her voice remained steady, her face expressionless. Her hands shook at her waist.
“I understand enough to know that I’m going to have this baby soon, and she won’t help me.” Belinda’s wail rang loudly enough to be heard all the way back to Bermuda.
Rafe clamped his hands against his thighs to stop himself from clamping them over his ears as he continued to address Phoebe. “False pains?”
“I have examined her and have every reason—” She broke off and narrowed her eyes. “What would you know of that?”
“I am a father. That plagued . . . Davina often near—you are not telling me she’s further along than we thought, are you?”
“I wish I weren’t.” Phoebe glanced at Belinda. “Captain Rafe knows of these false spasms in the belly that make you think you’re entering your confinement. So I am not making this up to—to get even with you.”
Belinda turned to him with big, dark eyes like drowned pansies. “So it’s true? I have to go through this for weeks, not just hours?”
“Aye, that seems the way of it.” He took one of her hands in both of his. “Why do you not go to your bed and rest? I’ll send for some tea.”
“The galley fires are doused for the night,” Phoebe pointed out.
“Then we’ll light them again. She needs to drink. I do not think water from the butts will do.”
“It tastes foul.” Belinda had ceased weeping and now merely sulked, her lower lip protruding and the corners of her mouth turned down. “Will Mel come read to me?”
“I can read to you,” Phoebe said. “No need to disturb the girl.”
Bless her. She wouldn’t be wanting to leave the cabin, following him onto the deck, drawing him further into wanting and enjoying her companionship.
“I like the way Mel talks better.” One hand to her swollen belly, Belinda pushed herself to her feet with the other hand braced on the table and staggered toward the bed.
Rafe slipped his hand beneath her elbow and steadied her to the bunk. “And here I’ve been thinking—” Realizing he was about to compliment Phoebe’s voice, he clamped his teeth together. “Mel is likely in her bed for the night.”
Except she wasn’t. Not a quarter of a minute after he uttered those words, his daughter burst into the cabin, hair tangled and eyes wide, Fiona clutched in her arms. “Is Mrs. Chapman all right?”
“Quite.” Rafe eased the lady onto the bunk and patted her shoulder as though she were a child younger than Mel. “She had a wee bit of an upset.”
And someone needed to clean up the broken glass.
“I’ll fetch her some tea.” Before anyone could naysay her, Mel darted off again.
“I believe I’ll go with her.” Phoebe followed at a slightly more sedate pace, her back straight, her head held high.
“I don’t know what I was thinking bringing her along.” Belinda snatched up a pillow and clutched it to her chest. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Aye, I’m thinking she does. She delivered twins in Bermuda, and the mither was doing well. That takes skill. But if you prefer, we can get you a different midwife when we reach England, should the necessity arise.”
“That’s the trouble.” Belinda began to weep again. “I think it’ll be too late.”
“God, do please help me.” The heartfelt plea for assistance slipped out unbidden. He ran his tongue over his lips, half expecting to taste the bitterness of mold, so long had the time been since those words had spilled from his mouth.
Phoebe influencing his thoughts again, talking about God and help and relying on Him, all through that night when he’d have killed James Brock in cold blood—or gotten killed first—if she hadn’t intervened.
He backed to the door. “We’ll manage just fine if it is.”
Without God.
“Get yourself tucked into bed, and Mel and Ph—Mrs. Lee will be along in a trice.”
He left the cabin and started up the companionway. Glass tinkled beneath his feet, and he stooped to gather it. He couldn’t keep running away from Phoebe, neglecting duties simply to avoid her presence. Like now. He needed to clean up the glass before someone ran through in bare feet. Calling someone else just wasn’t right. The men would begin to think Rafe considered himself above such menial duties, when he never had been in the past.
He wasn’t in the present. He simply wished to end the visceral reaction he had to nearness to Phoebe. It was unwholesome and certainly unholy. She was a good woman, a decent woman. He would never dishonor her, even if she would do so herself, which she would not. Her faith sustained her, gave her courage and backbone, but she’d fallen for him. He’d read it in her eyes earlier when he picked her up off the deck, the wonder, the softness, the light of joy. He’d suspected that night she insisted on coming ashore with him, and his body yearned toward it, another chance to love and be loved.
And he pushed it away. He pushed it away every time he looked at her, heard her voice, wished for someone to talk to. She pulled him away from his mission, the only way he knew to give Davina rest and ease his conscience. No female must interfere with his plan, if it meant he avoided Phoebe for another two or three weeks.
But the glass needed to go.
He stooped and began to gather up the shards. Fortunately, Belinda had thrown a goblet of no great worth. It was well suited to shipboard life—solid and thick. The sturdiness of the glass made cleaning it up easier. Few slivers clung to the wood of the ladder. He could be done and gone before Phoebe and Mel returned.
He collected the glass in his kerchief and carried it onto the deck to toss into the sea. Then he returned to the quarterdeck, watching, listening, waiting to hear her voice. Three more weeks of this would be torture. The last two had nearly driven him to the bottle of rum he kept for purely medicinal purposes like numbing a man’s senses before an amputation.
Laughing at himself, he crossed to the wheel to give the helmsman a rest. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he may as well let someone else do so.
“Is all well, sir?” the man asked. “Watt called me to take over here, then went below.”
“All is well.” Rafe caught a whiff of smoke. “They’ve gone to restart the galley fire for some tea for Mrs. Chapman. Is all well here?”
The sailor—Hazelwood?—hesitated a full minute before saying, “Aye, sir, I believe so now.”
“Which means?” Rafe pinned the man with his eyes.
Hazelwood moved from foot to foot, shifting his broad shoulders to keep his balance. “Now that you keep Sam Riggs and Tommy Jones locked up at night. Riggs is pure trouble, he is, and leads the rest along with talk of our own riches.”
“You too?” Rafe didn’t recall if Hazelwood had been with the would-be mutineers and had chosen not to make inquiries.
Hazelwood shrugged. “Do I have to answer that, sir?”
“No.” Rafe laughed.
Hazelwood stood still. “I have six brothers and sisters who are counting on me making some money. I thought that’s what a privateer is for.”
“So it is, and you’ll have your opportunity soon, I promise. Meanwhile, you have food and a place of shelter and wages coming to you. Now get to your hammock before you admit to too much.”
“Aye, sir.�
� The youth saluted and plodded from the deck, shoulders slumped as though he bore a burden.
Rafe took that possible burden into consideration. If another ringleader arose from the ranks, they would mutiny and go after a prize. If they did, he would have to step in and lead them. None of the men knew how to lead a fight. Watt thought he did, thought his years in the British Navy had prepared him, but the Navy had rid themselves of his incompetence, and only Rafe’s loyalty to familial duty kept him aboard. Most of the other men were too green to war. The ones who weren’t would remain loyal to Rafe and not fight if he didn’t. For all their sakes, he would have to fight, and he was tired of war, as much as it had served his purpose with prize money restoring his family’s fortunes and then some.
“No battles, please.” He gazed into the binnacle light but didn’t know for certain to whom he spoke. “Not with the ladies aboard. And Mel . . .”
He shuddered to think of harm coming to his daughter because of his actions. Dear, mischievous Mel, all he had left—
“Please protect my daughter.”
A hand landed on his arm, as light as thistledown, burning like molten glass. He started and glanced to the owner of the touch. The binnacle light had robbed his night vision and he blinked, but he didn’t need his sight to know Phoebe stood beside him. Her jasmine scent, her stillness wrapped around him.
He removed one hand from the wheel with the intention of removing her fingers from his sleeve. Instead, he pressed her hand against his forearm and held her near him. Too weary from too many sleepless nights, he carried no strength for pushing her away.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Whoever watches out for sailors and fools.”
She laughed low in her throat. “You mean God? Were you praying, Captain Rafe Docherty?”
“It wouldn’t matter if I were. He stopped listening to me a long time ago.”
“Stopped listening, or did you stop talking?”
“I stopped talking when He didn’t save my wife.”
Heart's Safe Passage Page 17
