Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2)

by Meredith, Anne

He laughed. “That, my darling, you are not. Intelligence and boldness flash in your eyes, and when you give them their head, you’ll overcome the fear life has taught you. I pray I’m there to watch your first flash of courage. It shall be no squeaking mouse, but the roaring lioness.”

  For that moment, his gaze on her was utterly gentle, and something moved within her. His mouth softened into a smile.

  “Do you know the feeling you get when you’re most afraid? When you tremble and shake?”

  She nodded.

  “That is naught but God’s invitation to courage. His power within us to do what we must. That you have not been taught this is no fault of yours. When you encounter it, take a deep breath to harness that power. Find a battle cry, and use it.”

  She gazed at him in wonder. Was he truly teaching her, or mocking her? A battle cry, from mousy Marley?

  “I’ll return by dark. Do you know how to read?”

  “Of course.” Did he think her dull as well as plain?

  “Then I invite you to avail yourself of my library.” He reached the door. “Are we agreed? If you leave this cabin, I’ll chain you to my bed.”

  “You lock me in. How am I supposed to go anywhere?” Then she heard his last sentence again and warmth flooded her at the idea.

  His eyes lit with lighthearted threat at her retort. “I fear you might persuade my halfwit partner.”

  She laughed at the thought of Raven.

  His smile went deeper, and he caught his lower lip in his teeth, a habit she was growing fond of. “Ah. I was right.”

  “Please, can’t you just tell me where we’re going? Won’t I see when we arrive?”

  “Boston. And you’re traveling on the ship Adventurer.”

  As he locked the door behind him, Marley accepted that she was neither comatose, dreaming, nor dead.

  What, then, might explain all she’d seen this day?

  For the moment, she was done with wearing a shirt and nothing else. She rummaged through the closet, looking for something resembling pants. Lacking other options, she chose a pair of the captain’s breeches.

  She looked over them. He was a slim man, but they would still swallow her. Taking them back to the bed, she turned them over and found adjustable lacings. She tightened those as much as she could.

  She slid into the pants and buttoned the front. They weren’t so bad after all. The hems hit low on her shins, almost as long as pants. Still comically baggy, they made her look like she was costumed for Halloween as a vagrant pirate who’d fallen on hard times. She tucked in the shirt to further thicken her waist, then walked across the room, delighted that they stayed up.

  She found a vest and decided to put that on under the shirt. At best, it looked weird. But it gave her some small bit of support, and for that she was grateful. After a short search, she found a small sewing kit and went to work taking in the vest. The rest, she left loose for now. Lacking shoes, she dug in a drawer until she found a pair of stockings that looked well worn. He wouldn’t mind loaning her these.

  And, because she’d been ordered to do something that any reader would consider a fantasy, she selected a stack of books and retired to the sumptuous daybed and quickly lost herself. Occasional notes scrawled in the margins, in the same handwriting as that on the map, amused her—the same observations any booklover might make.

  She paused to consider how different he was from the sort of man she’d thought she might expect in a ship’s captain—even one, presumably, for a theme ship for the uber-wealthy. For surely that could be the only explanation, could it not?

  She remembered his claim that it was 1775. He had answered her matter-of-factly, without embellishment.

  She set the books aside at one time, stopping to marvel at the construction of the daybed. The trim was ornate and carved by a master craftsman. When she touched the back wall, she noticed a small panel that seemed separate of its construction.

  Pressing against the panel, she was startled when a small chamber opened. A hidden safe.

  Hesitating, she listened for footsteps but heard nothing. She was certain she would hear anyone descending the ladder from the quarterdeck. She reached in and found a stack of papers and another ledger, similar to his ship’s log.

  The papers looked like legal documents, and she set them back into the safe and opened the ledger.

  Thursday – 19 October 1775

  18 casks gunpowder

  30 casks saltpeter

  24 cords firewood

  32 muskets

  12 bayonets

  Monday – 12 June 1775

  8 carronades & shot packages

  8 demi-cannons

  1 ton 32 lb. round shot

  1 ton 16 lb. round shot

  10 casks gunpowder

  Two more pages later, she found Inventory of HMS Glory, unescorted frigate, 28 August 1775.

  Among its spoils were a variety of cannons and other large guns; bayonets, muskets, gunpowder, shot, and a whole list of practical foodstuffs, liquor, and firewood.

  She turned the pages, her spine tingling. Could it be? This was no prop for tourists. This was indeed the work of a pirate.

  No. A privateer.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Marley heard the key at the door that evening, the sun had begun its slide into the water beyond the horizon.

  Hawk entered, his glance lingering on his clothes on her. “Fetching.”

  “Here’s your supper, sir—” came the voice of a young boy in the passage, before the captain slammed the door in his face.

  Opening a drawer, he grabbed a knit cap and threw it to Marley. “Stuff your hair up under this.”

  She did so, awkwardly. The long waves, unruly with sea spray, did not go willingly, but as he reached for the door, she finished up.

  The tow-headed boy who entered might have been fifteen or sixteen years old, and he looked around until he saw Marley, his curiosity easy to read. He inspected her and found her wanting.

  “Jem, this is Marley. He’ll be traveling with us on this voyage.”

  After a long moment, he said, “Hullo.”

  At the table, he arranged two places for supper. He opened a bottle of wine with surprising expertise and half-filled two glasses, then set the bottle into a clever brass fixture on the table that looked to be placed so for this very purpose.

  He padded back to the door, casting a glance at her as he passed, and fetched two full pails of water, placing them beside a washstand. He half-filled the basin and set the bucket aside.

  As he readied to leave, he stopped near the captain. “Anything else for you tonight, sir?”

  “No. Just the equipment I requested. And for the rest of the voyage, please sleep with the men. Marley shall tend to my needs.”

  The shock and anger on the boy’s face burned bright. “But, sir—is there something I—”

  “That’ll be all, Jem.” The words were kind but firm.

  The boy bowed stiffly. “Aye, sir.”

  He left the room and, presently, he hauled in from the passageway an armful of rigging that looked like a large net. He trudged across the cabin and placed it near the windows.

  As he headed out the door, Hawk stopped him. “Jem, how long have you been with me, son?”

  He straightened to his full height. “Three years this past July, sir. I’m nearly sixteen now.”

  “Indeed you are. How would you like to become a seaman?”

  The boy’s face went blank. “Truly, sir?”

  “You’ll train your replacement, beginning day after tomorrow.”

  “Do you mean I’ll get to—”

  “Yes, Jem. Powder boy, firing the big guns, all the joys a boy’s head can hold.”

  He thrust out a hand to the captain. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I won’t let you down. Oh!” he added in sudden afterthought, glancing back toward the table.

  “Forget something?”

  He shook his head in embarrassment and ducked out of the room. The capta
in barred the door behind him.

  “The boy’s like an adoring son. But I’m too soft with him, and it does him no favors. Another captain would terrify him.”

  Turning to Marley, he plucked the cap away, smirking at her outfit. “So you’ll take my clothing as well as my cabin?”

  A flush moved up her throat as she retorted, “Would you have me naked instead?”

  “Is that an option?”

  She laughed.

  As he drew away, watching her with surprising shyness, he gestured to the basin. “At sea we use drinking water only for drinking, but I thought perhaps you’d enjoy at least washing up a bit. Mind if I open a window?”

  “I didn’t know you could open ship windows.”

  “On this ship, you can.”

  She leapt at his offer of clean water, scrubbing her face and hands and throat and upper body with the small cake of soap there. It was decadent, the clean water splashing over her skin.

  She dabbed herself and the washstand dry with a small towel he offered. “What should I do with the water?”

  “Leave it.” He gestured toward the table setting, and she claimed one of the glasses of wine as her own and moved to the open window, intoxicated by its richness. Cool, crisp sea air filled the room, along with the lap of the waves cresting and falling behind as they sliced through.

  She sipped the wine, stopping—for the first time since the shipwreck—to love life, even as peculiar as hers had become.

  She leaned on the edge of the window, laughing with delight at the stars—more brilliant than any she’d ever seen.

  “Careful. Not sure I could capture a mermaid twice in this lifetime.”

  Her face was flushed with pleasure as she turned back to the cabin, and she went still at what she saw.

  He had stripped off his shirt to wash. He placed something—perhaps a piece of jewelry—in his top drawer, and he turned to the washstand. His casual acceptance of her presence during such an intimate act intrigued her, and she sank to a chair, silently sipping her wine.

  Then, thinking perhaps he assumed she’d stay distracted with the stars, she turned away from him. And yet there he was reflected in the candlelight in the windows, and temptation grew too great.

  With undisguised appreciation she turned and watched him. She had never known anyone who enjoyed such an everyday task as if it were the most sensual experience available.

  The joy of life’s simplest pleasures. Fresh water was a luxury that in her time was no longer relished as such. Certainly that would be different with the captain of a ship.

  He walked to the basin and bent over it, washing in the same water she’d used. His action bore the frugality of a sailor who’d known thirst. That he’d allowed her to use the water first, as small a gesture as it seemed, touched her. At the end, he dipped his head into the water and scrubbed his head with the soap, his long fingers massaging his scalp.

  He rinsed like a child playing in the bath, and a smile turned the corners of her lips. He opened a drawer and withdrew a shaving mug, stirring up a lather and dabbing it over his heavy stubble. Then he quickly whisked it away with a straight-edged razor.

  He glanced at her, then paused. “What?”

  She shook her head silently, looking down at her glass of wine and sipping as he shaved. The shave had revealed a face that belonged on a man far more vain than he.

  Rinsing, drying, and storing the blade, he withdrew a sponge and dipped it in the water, scrubbing his chest and neck. And as he turned his head, stretching his neck in enjoyment, he caught her smiling at his ablutions. His gaze on her simmered with blatant sexuality.

  “Care to scrub my back?”

  Certainly he was teasing her. “Seriously?”

  “I never joke about a lovely lady scrubbing my back.”

  He held out the sponge to her.

  She sipped the rest of her glass and rose with deliberate slowness. When she arrived, she saw the amusement in his eyes glimmer with invitation. He held out the sponge in an upturned hand.

  “Are you sure you don’t want fresh water?”

  “Yes. This is more decadence than I’ve known for months. You weren’t nearly as filthy as you seem to think.”

  “Well, you were,” she said, dipping the sponge and squeezing out the gray, hair-flecked water.

  He chuckled as he turned, presenting a broad, muscled back for her viewing pleasure. His skin was tanned a deep reddish-brown.

  The wine had stirred her mood, sweeping away her fearlessness. She scrubbed firmly, enjoying the supple give of his muscles, kneading and massaging him.

  “Ah. Were you a different woman, I would request a back rub.”

  “Were I a different woman, you’d already be having it.”

  This pleased him, and she enjoyed the sound of his laughter.

  At the narrow curve of his waist, she continued washing. Her ministrations fell to the edge of his breeches, and she saw the paler strip of skin revealed below, untouched by the sun, and it took little imagination to imagine the firm roundness of his narrow hips.

  Abruptly he took a step away, quickly towel-drying his hair and, sadly, reaching into a drawer for a clean shirt.

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat and buttoned the shirt.

  “My pleasure.”

  “But a luxury for a man like me, without a wife.”

  And utter joy swept her. She smiled at the silliness of that.

  He grasped her by the shoulders—as would a big brother, she suspected—and steered her back toward the dining table. She sat, contemplating her empty wine glass sadly, more reluctant to appear a lush than to be one.

  He lifted the basin and walked to the door of his private toilet—head, she corrected herself. She leaned forward to learn the proper method for discarding the water, but it wasn’t much of a surprise. He dumped the filthy water into the toilet, which likely had a direct outlet into the ocean.

  When he returned, he once more drew the damp towel through his hair, then shook his blond locks into place. He gave a long sigh of pleasure, and Marley found herself echoing it.

  Glancing at her, he paused, then hung the towel over the small rod at the side of the washstand.

  Damp, his hair curled loosely around his freshly shorn face. The curls gleamed like molten gold and bronze in the candlelight, and he met and held her gaze as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. Then he held out his hands, posing for her approval.

  “Fit for dinner with a beautiful lady? Try to ignore the bare feet. I did at least wash them on deck.”

  She tried to come up with a clever quip. Instead, she held out her glass. “May I have more without seeming like a drunk?”

  A rumbling chuckle came from his chest and warmed her even as he drew near with the bottle, pouring. “You’re dining with a sea captain, and I have a hold full of more, should this run out. Does that help?”

  “More than you know.”

  He raised his glass. “To mermaids and sea witches.”

  She raised her own. “To sea captains in days of yore.”

  “Ah, the pirates,” he said, taking the captain’s chair. “A bloodthirsty lot to be remembered as romantic as they are.”

  She remembered the hidden ship’s log she’d found this afternoon and felt suddenly awkward—as if she’d betrayed him. At what point had she stopped fearing this man?

  Had it been the moment she learned he was a privateer for the young country at war with the most powerful army, the greatest navy, in the world?

  When he saw to her comfort before his own?

  Or when she watched him play as a child in the water, knowing how he must have looked as a child coming to love the ocean?

  She didn’t know. She knew only that she no longer feared him. That instead he had awakened a nurturing instinct in her. He seemed so terribly alone, no one to fear at all.

  And that miscalculation should have terrified her.

  They found in their dishes a rich beef stew with root vegetables
, and Marley could only eat perhaps half her serving.

  He nodded toward her plate. “Jem thinks you’re a growing boy like himself.”

  “Would you like it? I’m quite full.”

  He declined, unlocking a drawer and withdrawing a cigar. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  “Would you like one?”

  Laughing at his teasing, she shook her head. Only then did she realize it had been a serious request. “May I try some of yours?”

  With a knife he cut off the tip, then lit it with a piece of tinder at the stove.

  “Why not just use a candle?”

  “You get the taste of the candle—whale oil.”

  He took several puffs, then held it out to her with that gaze she already was fond of—a combination of seriousness and flirtatiousness.

  “Don’t inhale. It’ll turn that lovely skin of yours greener than the olive already there. Just puff—like a kiss underwater.” His eyebrow raised, bringing to mind that moment deep within her, the moment he had saved her life, sharing his oxygen with her.

  This man is a rake.

  But no matter how her common sense heckled her, she was transfixed. She took the cigar, hefting its weight, its symbolism of the sort of man she’d daydreamed about for the past ten years.

  He reached into a glass-fronted liquor cabinet for a bottle and glasses and poured a generous splash into each, pushing one over to her. “Don’t be afraid. Kiss, taste, blow.”

  She obeyed, turning over what he’d just said.

  When she blew the smoke out, she sipped from the glass—rum—rolling it, too, around in her mouth, mixing it with the tastes of the tobacco.

  “Where are they from?”

  “West Indies. Cuba. That wine’s also fine with this cigar. What do you think?” He sipped the rum.

  She perched the cigar between her teeth, grinning a roguish smile, and he choked with laughter on the rum. She had no idea what she looked like, but it had pleased him.

  “You need a gold loop and a parrot,” he said, reaching into the drawer for another cigar. With it came an ashtray that he placed between them.

  Marley was inordinately pleased at his implicit approval, then recalled something he’d said earlier. “What do you mean, olive skin?”