Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  He grinned in understanding. “I think you would look very well in red.”

  “Is Antigua our next stop?”

  Ford nodded. “It’s a bit too close to St. Kitts for comfort but I’ve a packet of letters to deliver for Lord Robinson. We will remain off shore while a few of my men and I row into port and deliver the packet. We’ll set sail as soon as we’re back.”

  “But not before purchasing a red dress.”

  He laughed and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Definitely not before.”

  “How long until we arrive in Antigua?”

  Ford glanced over her head and catching her shoulders in his palms, turned her around and pointed. She saw a large island just ahead.

  “Within a quarter hour, I suspect.”

  “That was fast!”

  He laughed. “You slept a good long while. It will be a longer voyage to Cuba.”

  “Is that where we’re going next?”

  “It’s one possibility. We have to meet Pallet in Havana in less than a month and I have some business there as well as find a buyer for Mr. Appleton’s sugar. Is that acceptable?”

  Jo gazed at him incredulously. “After all you’ve done for me, I would happily go with you into Seven Dials”

  “Where is that?”

  “The west end of London, and a more nefariously rundown and dangerous slum does not exist in England. But as it happens, I am rather excited to see a place other than St. Kitts.”

  “Have a bit of island fever, do you?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t until just now when the possibility of seeing more of the West Indies made me realize how small life in St. Kitts is.”

  “You’ve not visited the windward side of the island?”

  “Except for one time visiting Mount Misery, I’ve not travelled outside of Basseterre! Theo tells me there are only sugar plantations on the east side and that I would find it dull.”

  “There are many plantations there, but there are also lush forests and pristine beaches. The roads are rough, of course…” his voice trailed off and Jo had the impression he was trying to decide if he should tell her something. She tried to look earnestly encouraging. His gaze shifted to the encroaching island even as he addressed her. “That’s where my land is.”

  “Your land? Oh yes! Your sugar plantation?”

  “Well, just a house now,” he said, still not meeting her gaze. “It was my father’s. I sold most of the fields after he died, but I kept the farm and house.”

  “I remember you telling me that,” she said, hoping he would say more about his father. He’d told her of his mother during one of their beach rendezvous, but he’d never said a word about his sire beyond mentioning his land.

  “Did you…” she nibbled on her lower lip, wondering if she dared such a personal question. Deciding she did, she asked, “Did you sell it to spite him? Your father, I mean.”

  “Spite him?” Ford seemed genuinely confused.

  “You’ve never mentioned him. I thought perhaps you and he didn’t get along.”

  “Oh. He, ah, was a good father, actually. He taught me everything about running a sugar plantation, but also how to manage people, how to balance account ledgers. And how to deliver Hamlet’s soliloquy with proper elocution.”

  “Hamlet?”

  Ford struck a dramatic pose, his accent turning crisp. “To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.”

  He paused to take a breath and a nearby deckhand, in a terrible falsetto voice interrupted, “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s scholars, soldier’s eye, tongue, sword.” These last words were said with a lascivious rolling of the eyes that made Ophelia’s line seem suddenly tawdry.

  A laugh escaped Jo and she clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Ford did not seem offended.

  “Bodega, if you’re going to play Ophelia, you must learn the entire play so you know when to deliver your lines.”

  “Sorry cap’n,” the man said, shamefaced.

  Ford caught Jo’s gaze, then grinned and shook his head. She returned his wry expression with a smothered laugh.

  “Per’aps milady will play Ophelia now she’s ‘ere.” Bodega’s accent was a strange mismash. Jo couldn’t discern if it was predominantly East End London, rough Spanish, or even the sing-song of Chinese, the likes of which she’d heard once in the market of Basseterre. His features were equally indiscriminate.

  “From where do you hail, Mr. Bodega?” she asked.

  The man’s eyes widened and he gave her a gap-filled smile. “Mr. Bodega. I like dat, milady. I hail from da sea, ye understand. Ain’t no land to call me own.”

  “Oh, I do see. Well, Mr. Bodega of the sea, I assure you that I could not deliver tragic Ophelia’s lines half as dramatically as you. I could, perhaps, manage the role of one of Macbeth’s witches, however.”

  “Aiyiyi, milady, no! One as beautiful as ye could never play the part of a witch,” Bodega protested earnestly.

  Jo laughed in delight, turning to Ford to see him shaking his head at the theatrics.

  “On your way, Bodega. Find Odysseus and send him to me.”

  “Odysseus?” Jo asked after the deckhand ran off.

  “My first mate. It’s not his real name, of course. I doubt any of my crew use their actual given names.”

  Odysseus arrived, a mammoth of a man with heavy features and dark hair. He towered over her and carried himself with a confident ferocity that made him seem even larger than he was.

  “Captain,” the first mate said with a bow.

  “I need to deliver a packet to the civil offices. I’ll take two men with me. We won’t dock, but row in. I want you to have the Nightingale ready to depart as soon as we return. I’d rather not linger long enough for anyone to take note of us.”

  If Odysseus was surprised, he did not show it, merely replying, “Of course Captain,” in a heavy Russian accent.

  “Miss Barclay will remain on board. I entrust her safety and well-being to you,” Ford said with a low-voiced intensity that made the baby hairs on the back of Jo’s neck ripple in delight.

  Odysseus flicked a glance at her and she tried to pretend like she belonged here.

  “You have my word, Captain.”

  Ford drew Jo aside and said, “You’ll be completely safe. I just want Odysseus to make sure none of the crew says anything off-color.”

  Jo couldn’t contain her grin. “To be sure, an off-color joke might be more than my delicate sensibilities can handle.”

  Ford returned her smile, his teeth startlingly white amidst his closely clipped black goatee. The sight caused a strange quiver in her belly, and lower.

  “Nonetheless, should you require anything, he will see to it.”

  Jo glanced over at the first mate, who was barking orders to various crew members.

  “I don’t think he approves of me being on board,” she said warily.

  Ford looked over his shoulder. “Oh no, that’s Odysseus being friendly. He’s a rather taciturn man.”

  Jo twitched her eyebrows in disbelief but held her tongue.

  With the sails furled, the Nightingale slowed. The rattle of the anchor preceded the ship drawing to a complete stop, the only motion being the up and down swell of the sea.

  Ford touched Jo’s cheek in farewell and hopped aboard the rowboat just before his crew lowered it.

  Jo watched from the rail until she could barely make out the small craft landing ashore. She fancied she could tell which tiny figure was Ford, but he was soon lost among the crowds and buildings that lined the shore.

  She glanced around at the controlled chaos on board as sails were reconfigured and the ship was brought round in preparation for their departure. She tried to pretend she had a purpose on deck though she had not the first idea what to do with herself
.

  A loud crash at the stern drew her attention. She saw a man pull himself up off the deck. When she noticed he was bleeding from a gash in his head, she cried out and ran to assist him. He seemed unaware he was injured as he returned to tying off a rope.

  “Sir! Sir!” she called. As he turned, she recognized him. Bodega. She touched his elbow. “You’re injured, Mr. Bodega. You’re bleeding,” she said, pointing at his brow.

  He swabbed a hand over his brow. “Oi! So I am!”

  She glanced around for something with which to bandage him. There was nothing, of course, so she knelt and reached under her skirts. She tore a strip off the hem of her chemise.

  She wrapped the bandage awkwardly round his head; awkward because she’d never bandaged anyone before. The end result was rather sloppy, but the man’s expression was one of awe and embarrassment. She realized the crew probably only sought medical treatment in the direst cases.

  “Alright, Bodega. You’ve been fixed. Go on about your business,” Odysseus said, coming up behind her.

  Bodega touched a knuckle to his brow and hopped down to the main deck.

  “I hope I didn’t commit mutiny,” she said to fill the silence following Bodega’s departure. Odysseus finally looked at her.

  “You do well for Captain Spooner,” he finally said cryptically.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Shall I have Cook prepare tea?” Odysseus said instead of answering her question.

  “Umm, yes?”

  He nodded and called out orders to several crewmembers. Within minutes, a small table and two chairs had been set in the shade of a half-raised sail as if tea on deck were a perfectly normal activity.

  “My lady,” Odysseus said, holding out a chair for her. She didn’t correct him on her title or lack thereof. All of the sailors as they passed by going one way or another tugged at their forelock and said, “Milady.”

  Seated comfortably with a thick ceramic pot of strong black tea, Jo studied the crew as they went about their business. Ford seemed to have accumulated a crew of men from every nationality. When she and Chester had left England, the crew had been made up of Englishmen. She noticed a group of dark-skinned men gathered at the prow who didn’t seem to be sailors.

  Odysseus turned to see where she was looking. “No, they are not crew. They are passengers.”

  “Oh! I thought Mr.—I mean Captain Spooner said he was transporting sugar to Cuba.”

  “We have a hull full of Appleton’s raw sugar as well. We take these men to Havana where they find better wages. Being free no guarantee for fair wages, da? Don’t worry,” he said when he noticed Jo’s frown. “They return to their families when they make some money.”

  Jo had never considered that the freed slaves of St. Kitts would not make enough on their island home to support their families. She frowned as she wondered if Theo paid his employees enough.

  “I didn’t know Captain Spooner provided such a service,” she finally said.

  “Most people don’t. It is not in the captain’s best interest for everyone to know such things.”

  “Whyever not?”

  Odysseus shrugged. “Ten years it has been since slave owners lost their free labor. If they discover their cheap labor find better place to work, they make business difficult for the captain.”

  “Because if it is difficult for them to find good workers, they may have to pay more?”

  Odysseus winked at her. “You do very nicely for the captain.”

  Jo pretended to be fascinated with the rigging to her left. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Odysseus chuckled, a low, rusty rumble, as if he didn’t do it often. He refilled her teacup and urged her to take another biscuit.

  “The captain never brings female passengers on board.”

  “Never?”

  “Not unaccompanied by husband. Even if he did, he need not ask me to watch over her. His crew is loyal to him to a man. They would not harm a single hair on a guest's head.”

  “Then why did he? Ask you, I mean.”

  He gave her a pitying look, as if she were too simple to figure it out. “You must be particularly special to him.” He drew out the word particularly as if rolling it over his tongue like a marble.

  Jo buried her nose in her teacup to hide her reaction. She cast a quick glance at Odysseus, whose name should have been Sphinx, so impassive was his expression. Something in his eyes, however, made her think he was testing her with his confidence, perhaps judging her worthiness for his captain based on her response.

  Not wanting to fail the test, and in fact, suddenly eager to be able to tell someone about her feelings for Hungerford Spooner, she took a last fortifying swallow of tea and forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “I will admit to feeling rather particular toward Captain Spooner as well, Mr. Odysseus.” She wanted to say more, but truly, that small admission felt like quite the most personal confession she had ever made.

  Though his face still looked like it had been carved in granite, when he spoke, Odysseus’s harsh accent had softened. “This, it is a good thing. You make him happy, yes?”

  “I will do my best,” Jo said faintly, though she had no idea what that entailed. She and Ford had not spoken about the feelings growing between them. The farthest they had looked into the future thus far was to arrange a date for their next walk along the beach. She had no idea if he intended anything more serious than a few stolen kisses. And yet…

  He had saved her life yet again, and this time at great possible risk to his reputation, his business, his very liberty. Surely that spoke of a more than passing fancy?

  “Ah, they return,” Odysseus said, and called for a man to clear their tea table.

  Jo jumped up and turned around. She could just make out the movement of a boat made tiny by distance being launched from the beach. She was amazed Odysseus had even seen the movement, much less known it was Ford. She’d been able to track Ford’s landing earlier only because she’d watched his craft from the moment it had left the Nightingale. She’d have never been able to pick it out of the jumble of boats on the beach otherwise.

  She felt her heart speed up as the small boat drew closer. Ford was at the oars and she admired the fluid movement of his shoulders beneath his linen shirt. His sleeves were rolled up and as the boat thudded against the Nightingale, she could see the cords of muscle in his forearms, clearly delineated after his exertions.

  He grabbed up his coat, which was wrapped in a large bundle and climbed one-handed up the rope ladder.

  Suddenly shy, Jo hung back as Ford called for the anchor to be drawn and the sails raised. He finally turned to her and when he smiled, her shyness evaporated.

  “I didn’t realize captains rowed their own boats,” she said, teasing.

  He grinned in return. “They do if they have extra frustrations to burn off.”

  Her smile turned quizzical. “What frustrations were you exorcising?”

  He glanced from side to side to make sure no one was nearby.

  “I wish I could have spared you that unpleasantness with Livingston. I wish I could have saved you from—”

  “Myself?” she asked, all humor gone from her expression and tone.

  “Somewhat,” he said ruefully.

  She straightened her spine and drew her shoulders back. “I do not regret what I did, though I doubt a bullet to the leg will stop his vile treatment of his wife.”

  He surprised her by saying, “I don’t regret that you shot him. I suppose I wish I’d been the one to do it. For you.”

  She licked her lips then pressed them together.

  “I—thank you. But I fear I will receive far less punishment than you would. I’m sure the whole incident will be attributed to my delicate constitution,” she said acerbically. “At worst I’ll be labeled mad and Theo will have to keep me locked in the house.”

  Ford seemed about to say something but changed his mind, instead unwrapping the bundle that was
his coat and revealin several yards of cherry red fabric.

  “Did you—is that a red dress?” she asked, completely distracted from their conversation.

  “I didn’t have a great deal of time. It’s not a dress, but, well, here,” he said, thrusting the bundle into her arms.

  As she shook it out, she realized it was a full skirt and loose blouse.

  “It’s not—” Ford began.

  “It’s perfect. I love it. It’s—” her voice cracked as she realized no man had ever given her a gift before. Thomas Kent certainly hadn’t, even before he revealed himself to be a villain and for all that her brother cared for her, the idea of bringing her a gift simply wouldn’t have crossed his mind.

  She took a deep breath and willed her eyes not to water as he handed her one more piece of clothing. He grimaced as she unfolded a pair of breeches.

  “I know they’re not what ladies wear, but sometimes on a ship—well I just thought they might be useful.”

  She felt her cheeks warm at the thought of wearing such a garment and she ducked her head as she said, “That was very thoughtful.”

  Ford cleared his throat. “We’ll be underway shortly. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course,” she murmured. She watched him stride about the deck, her heart full of an emotion too raw to be examined. Instead, she turned and made her way below deck to her cabin—Ford’s cabin. She shucked her dress and peeled off her stiff corset, shivering in delight as the air dried her sweat-dampened chemise, cooling her skin despite the stuffy heat of the cabin.

  She pulled on the loose-fitting blouse, feeling almost wicked. This was the first time she’d gone without a corset since she’d been a girl. Though she was alone, she felt her cheeks warm and her scalp tingle as her breasts moved unfettered beneath the cotton.

  Jo glanced in the small shaving mirror, having to prop it on a lower shelf in order to see her torso. The blouse had a wide neckline which exposed as much neck and upper chest as a ballgown, but was voluminous and loose fitting, completely disguising her unbound breasts. Reassured, she stepped into the skirt, whose wise waistband was open at either side seam. Two sets of tapes extended from the waistband; one set to be tied at the front of her waist, the other wrapping around her back. The skirt hit her just above her short walking boots, revealing what would be in London or even Basseterre a scandalous amount of ankle. Here, however, Jo was thrilled that she wouldn’t constantly have to worry about stepping on her hem or catching the wide flounces on something.