Someday she’d ask him why, but not today.
His last three words ended that thread of conversation as succinctly as if he’d said, “Mind your own business.”
“What did he mean by your talent?” Pulling the coverlet over her shoulder, she also closed her eyes.
“I can see something once and remember it with great precision and detail.” The revelation seemed more pained than proud.
It didn’t take someone terribly astute to recognize the subject bothered Oliver. Though he’d answered her initial question, he’d raised numerous more. That discussion would have to take place later. He could scarcely keep his eyes open.
“Shut yer mouth.” M’Lady Lottie muttered crankily. “Blasted dillberry maker.”
“Oh dear. We’ve roused your cross bird.” Blaike held her breath, hoping Lottie would go back to sleep. After a handful of minutes, when the cockatoo didn’t say anything more, she relaxed.
Oliver had closed his eyes again, pain pinching the corners of his strong mouth.
Her hatred for Abraham rivaled that of hers for Jonathon Severs. Appalled and a mite frightened at the fury engulfing her, she pursed her lips. “I’d say you have good reason to despise Abraham. I hope he never gets out of jail.” She raised up a few inches, and searched Oliver’s wan face. Her curiosity demanded satisfaction.
“Why didn’t he get punished for what he did?”
Oliver’s eyes remained closed as he answered, fatigue etched in every word. “Years later when I learned his identity, I tried to have charges brought against him. Too much time had passed. And besides, the authorities said it was my word against his.”
If he’d been a powerful lord, with coin to toss in their direction, they’d have acted, she’d be bound. “What do you think he was after?”
The edges of his eyes creased as he considered her question. “I honestly have no idea.”
He fell silent, likely lost in disagreeable memories.
That’d teach her to pry in the future. Nevertheless, she’d learned much about this fascinating man, none of which shocked or dismayed her. If anything, what she’d discovered made her admire him more. He’d overcome much.
With a resigned little huff, she pressed two fingers just over the bridge of her nose.
“I really should go, Oliver. I’ve delayed far too long. This is most inappropriate.”
He’d keep this breech of decorum to himself, she didn’t doubt. Oliver wasn’t the type to toss confidences of this nature about. And she’d be bound, he’d tuck away for safekeeping what she revealed about Madame Beaulieu and the Severs until she was ready to tell all.
Still, her limbs weighted with fatigue and uncustomary serenity, she made no effort to rise.
“Oliver?” she mumbled against the marble wall of his chest.
Deep, even breathing revealed he’d fallen asleep once more.
Good. He’d find respite from those dreadful recollections.
Blaike ought to leave, but she hadn’t been this content in a long while. Sighing, she snuggled closer, inhaling the scent that was uniquely him. She’d indulge a short while longer, for this opportunity surely wouldn’t be repeated.
“Ti amo, Blaike,” he mumbled. “I love you.”
How many treasures have been lost or lives ruined from a careless slip of the tongue?
A secret worth keeping is a secret worth guarding, whether yours or another’s.
~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living
“Grab yer ankles, wench.”
Oliver bolted upright, and agony exploded in his shoulder and head.
“Holy God,” he gasped, pressing his good hand to the pigeon egg-sized lump near his temple. He didn’t know which was worse: his gut-wrenching hangover or the skull-cracking pain stabbing his noggin.
“Lord help me,” he groaned, though it sounded more like a strangled croak than a prayer.
Would Hawkins chastise him for using the Lord’s name in vain or praise him for a pathetic attempt at supplication?
M’Lady Lottie screeched loud enough to crack the beams again.
Only respect for McMaster kept Oliver from selling the annoying creature to the first street peddler who made an offer. That, and he knew Lottie would die from a broken heart. He couldn’t be that cruel, despite her being a major inconvenience.
Her cage rattled violently. “Twattling peg-puff!”
“Lottie! Shut up.”
He lowered his legs over the edge of the bed, his mind still sleep-befuddled.
“Shut yer trap. Shut yer trap.” Furious flapping ensued, then angry banging. “I want out.”
“Give me a minute.” Having a bird her size careening about his quarters wasn’t ideal, but when he took her topside, she loved to perch either on the poop deck’s taffrail or the crow’s nest. After climbing the rigging, she’d screech foul expletives and sexual innuendos, much to the crew’s amusement.
Just then, his memory came crashing back, as forcefully as the cannon fire exploding in his head.
Blaike.
He tensed, then cautiously looked behind him.
No gorgeous, blue-eyed vixen lay there. He almost picked up the pillow and sniffed it to see if it smelled of vanilla to make sure she’d ever lain beside him.
Maybe he’d dreamed she’d been cradled in his arms when he fell asleep again.
He hadn’t imagined her torrid tale of why she’d fled Geneva.
Anger, fierce and scorching sluiced through him. Severs better hope he never encountered Oliver. Or Ravensdale or Leventhorpe for that matter. All three possessed black tempers when it came to protecting their own.
Except Blaike wasn’t Oliver’s to protect.
Didn’t matter.
In his heart she was and always would be.
He’d teach Severs a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
“Ol-eeve? Ol-eeve?”
More irritated clanging resounded from within the cage. “Move yer arse.”
“It’s Ol-i-ver. And I am moving my arse, as you so crudely put it.”
He quirked his mouth upward on one side. Now he was carrying on conversations with temperamental birds? M’Lady Lottie had started using his name, too. Well, her version of it. Perchance, that meant she was adjusting to McMaster’s death.
Oliver squinted out the small wooden-framed panes.
The sun wasn’t too terribly high, so he hadn’t slept the day away. So much for seeing the Sea Gypsy on her way, however. Nonetheless, he’d spoken the truth when he’d said his crew was capable of sailing the ship without him. He couldn’t ask for more reliable or skilled men, with one exception.
Fairnly.
Maybe Oliver would hire a cabin boy to look after M’Lady Lottie. He had to hire a surgeon anyway. A lad would like that assignment. He would’ve when he first took to sea. London had plenty of unfortunate lads who would leap at the chance to have a place to rest their head each night and a full belly, to boot.
Yes, that might be the answer to the bird he’d inherited and didn’t have the heart to get rid of. He knew what it was like to have the only person who loved you die and leave you alone, homeless, and dependent on others.
With extreme caution, so as to not aggravate his pulsating shoulder or risk dislodging his head from his neck, he shuffled to M’Lady Lottie’s cage. Once he’d pulled the quilt off, he unlatched the door, and she flew out.
After circling the stateroom thrice, she landed on her perch and proceeded to groom herself. One foot in the air, reminding him of some the less decorous things she’d witnessed in her former life, she trained her burgundy-brown eyes on him. “Go outside?”
“Yes, when I’ve dressed.” He’d forego his shave today. His hammering head couldn’t even take Hawkins’s gentle razor strokes.
Resting his hands on either side of the mahogany washstand, Oliver examined his shoulder in the looking glass. A neat bandage wrapped across his chest and around his back. Blaike had done remarkably well
for her first attempt, and pride as well as appreciation blossomed behind his breastbone.
No hysteria, fainting, or weeping. Just cool composure, even though she hadn’t known what she was doing. She was one strong woman, and by far, one of the most intelligent he’d ever met.
After splashing his face with water and brushing what tasted like burnt peat from his teeth, he tossed a towel over his unharmed shoulder and reached for his hairbrush. Only it wasn’t in its usual place. Slowly scrutinizing his quarters, his gaze came to rest on his night table.
Breaking into a wide grin, he retrieved it.
Wasn’t this interesting?
Amongst the boar bristles lay several silky, white strands. Blaike had used his brush. Such an intimate, domesticated thing to do. He couldn’t erase his much-too-pleased grin.
“Outside!” M’Lady Lottie shrieked.
Would he ever become accustomed to her screams?
Oliver finished dressing, not without muttering several curses and getting his sore arm stuck for a minute. Now he understood why men had valets. With some care, he added a vest, a belt at his waist, but gave up trying to tie his hair back. Lastly, he drew on his boots, again uttering several colorful phrases that made M’Lady Lottie’s language seem almost chaste.
Giving a short whistle, he held out his uninjured arm, and at once, she swept from her perch and landed on his forearm where he secured a strap to her ankle, lest she try to fly away. With clipped wings, she wouldn’t get far, but he still fretted that she might end up in the ocean.
“Let’s go, M’lady. I have a mind to see how my crew and passengers fare.”
More on point, a particular captivating passenger.
He grabbed his hat from its hook beside the door and crammed it on his head as he made his way along the narrow passageway.
Once topside, he took a moment to survey his ship before seeing to feeding the cockatoo. In vivid blue and unexpectedly smooth waters, the Sea Gypsy flew along, the wind filling her sails, and leaving Port de Lyon, far behind them.
Excellent.
That placed them that much farther out of Abraham’s reach. He’d seek the revenge he vowed, and Oliver must get the Culpeppers to London without delay. The day was soon coming that either he or Abraham would not walk away from an encounter with one another.
On deck, Oliver inhaled the tangy sea air, bearing the merest hint of salt and fish, deep into his lungs.
His crew oiled the masts, repaired rigging or sails, or went about the dozens of other tasks required of a clipper. Men nodded, waving or calling hello as he passed. To a man, they appeared relieved to see him up and about.
“Good to see you, Cap’n.” Hawkins trotted across the deck, three deep furrows ridging his forehead. “How are you feelin’?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a frigate and hungry as a hog. Although too much brandy last night has my stomach a mite wobbly.”
He glanced at the sails, noted the bright sky strewn with a few feathery clouds, then satisfied all was at it should be, ran a hand down M’Lady Lottie’s chest.
“Lottie luv,” she chirruped before scampering up his arm and cuddling close to his good shoulder.
To his credit, Hawkins kept a straight face. “Your Miss Culpepper is yonder.”
He pointed to the poop deck.
Blaike, enshrouded in a hooded emerald cloak, chatted gaily with Melville. He appeared to be showing her how to knot two pieces of rope. Whatever men had not become smitten on the first voyage would likely fall under her spell this crossing. Then, she’d have the entire lot wrapped around her dainty little finger.
“She’s not my Miss Culpepper.” Though Oliver did like the sound of it.
Still, it wouldn’t do for the hands to get the wrong impression. As much as he wished it otherwise, there could never be anything between him and Blaike. For her sake. It wouldn’t do for any sort of speculative tattle to start either. Seldom could inaccurate gossip or secrets ever be fully snuffed.
“As you say, Cap’n.” His voice quivering with suppressed humor, Hawkins yanked his bright orange and red knitted cap lower over his elfin ears. “She hasn’t broken her fast, either. Should I bring a tray up? I think she’d enjoy eatin’ in the open. The weather’s most pleasant, and you could share a picnic—”
“A picnic?” Just what was his first mate about? Oliver cocked a brow, and M’Lady took the opportunity to nip his ear. “Ouch, you she-devil. What was that for?”
“Her way of givin’ you a kiss.” Hawkins chuckled while pulling his earlobe. “She used to groom McMaster’s hair and even peck his lips.”
Oliver drew the line there. Not the least bit sanitary.
Besides, he didn’t trust the cantankerous bird not to pierce his lip or gouge an eye. He gently moved her back to his forearm. McMaster had been much too lenient with the cockatoo, giving her time and attention Oliver, as captain, simply couldn’t spare.
Maybe what she needed was a mate.
And have two of the noisy, demanding beasts on board?
Oliver would have to think long and hard on that.
His attention strayed to Blaike again.
She nodded and deftly twisted the ropes into what appeared to be a rolling hitch, though he couldn’t be certain from this distance.
“Where’s Miss Blaire?”
“The poor lass ails from seasickness.” Hawkins waved his rough hand toward the fairly calm water. “I hate to think how she’ll suffer if the weather turns petulant.”
It likely would. If not in the Mediterranean, then almost certainly in The Bay of Biscay.
Hawkins shifted his feet and scratched his neck whilst sending Blaike a speculative glance. “About that picnic—”
“Fine.” Oliver conceded, happy to seize any excuse to spend time with Blaike. “Have simple fare prepared. Bread, porridge, boiled eggs, tea for Miss Culpepper and my usual spiced coffee should suffice.”
He didn’t think he could get anything else down, despite his empty stomach’s gurgles and growls.
The fresh, albeit chilly wind, did much to clear his head, though did nothing for the constant thrum in his shoulder. Oliver made his way to the poop deck, mindful not to jostle his wound. “Good morning.”
Blaike whipped around, and a becoming pink tinged her high cheekbones. “Good morning. How did you sleep?” A slight crease pulling her fair brows together, she dropped her gaze to his shoulder. “Did the bandages cause you any discomfort? You’re not feverish or bleeding?”
“No fever or bleeding, and I slept well, which is why I’m so late rising.”
No, he was late rising because he drank too much and a certain blonde siren had made herself comfortable in his bed, luring him back to slumber.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d yielded to the temptation to fall back to sleep. It just showed how much Blaike affected him. He’d best watch himself, or he’d find his well-laid plans tumbling bow over stern.
“Hawkins tells me you haven’t broken your fast either, so he suggested we share a tray here. The weather may not hold, and when it turns, it won’t be safe for you to come above.” Why was Oliver rambling on, making excuses? Just ask her if she wanted to eat with him.
“I’ve only been up for a short while myself.” The merest smudge of purplish-blue half circles shadowed her lower lashes. She pulled her cloak tighter, and smiled at M’Lady Lottie. “Poor Blaire finally drifted to sleep, and I didn’t dare eat in our cabin for fear she’d smell the food and begin retching again. I hoped to have ginger tea prepared for her. If you have any on board, that is.”
A breeze wafted by, teasing the curls over her forehead.
“I honestly haven’t the slightest idea whether we do or not, but I can have Hawkins ask Fairnly.”
Melville chuckled when he saw the cockatoo still trying to cuddle Oliver. “Looks like she’s taken to you, sir.”
“Might I pet her?” Blaike turned an inquisitive gaze to Oliver. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? Sort of p
each tinted all over.”
“Except for her language,” he agreed. “Which, I believe you’ve already heard.”
“Yes. She has a most colorful repertoire.” Blaike chuckled, a pleasant melodious sound.
“She needs to get to know you before she’ll accept your touch.” Oliver withdrew a piece of apple from M’Lady Lottie’s cage. “Give her this.”
M’Lady Lottie sidestepped down his arm, eager for the treat.
Blaike offered the fruit to the cockatoo, and M’Lady Lottie grasped it in her claws. “Tit over arse, she goes.”
Rather than become offended, Blaike burst out laughing. “I had no idea a bird could learn so many words and phrases.”
“You haven’t heard her worst yet, I’m afraid.” Oliver removed the strap from the cockatoo’s foot, then set her on her perch, but left the door open.
“Won’t she fly away?”
“No, her wings are clipped. But she’ll climb every rope on this ship, given the chance. She’s become stuck twice, too. I’ve had to rescue her, since she terrifies the rest of the crew.”
M’Lady Lottie made a sound suspiciously like a person passing wind, followed by a loud burp. She bobbed her head as if proud of her achievements.
“Her talents are quite . . . erm . . . diverse, it seems.” Blaike couldn’t decide if she was more amused or appalled.
“Indeed.” A boyish slant to his firm mouth, Oliver scratched his chin, then smoothed his beard. “Melville, can you find something to use as a makeshift table and seats for us?”
“Aye. Will crates do?”
Blaike nodded. “Yes, that would be perfect.”
Another thing to admire about her.
Nothing pretentious or pompous about any of the Culpeppers, but Blaike seemed to genuinely not care about the niceties many of her station expected. Few ladies with her connections would be content to sit atop a turned over crate and dine with rough sailors milling about.
Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew (Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Book 4) Page 9
