by Arlem Hawks
Had he not thought of that when they made their agreement? Marah folded her arms. “You said I could work. This is part of my work.”
“Please, Mrs. Kinsley.” He kept his words low, though she didn’t know why. Every seaman on the silent deck was straining to hear their conversation. “I only wish for your safety.”
“I’ve fought in battles before.” Stand up to him. Like she’d done in his cabin. It had worked then. “Why is this any different?”
“Because I wasn’t captain then.” His chest expanded in a deep breath. “Cyrus, will you find someone to take your sister below?”
“I can find my own way,” she snarled. How dare he, that no-account commander playing at being captain. As though Cyrus knew how to run the ship.
“Would you leave the bosun’s call?” His gaze flitted to the whistle that hung against her bodice, then he wrenched his attention away as his face reddened. “Cyrus has informed me he misplaced his.”
Marah jerked the chain over her head and slapped the whistle into Cyrus’s hand. Traitor. She wouldn’t argue any more in front of the crew. They’d have trouble on their hands if she continued to draw out the captain’s uncertainty, and if the crew saw his inability to control the lone woman on this boat, they could lose faith in his leadership.
She turned on her heel and marched toward the hatchway, insides roiling like a stormy sea. He was wrong if he assumed she was a fine lady, too delicate to shoulder the burdens of battle.
But her halo of papillote curls chortling in the breeze begged to differ.
Abysmal. Splendidly abysmal. Collin clasped his hands behind his back but could not keep his fingers from fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. Not only had they allowed the French brig to escape last evening, but if they’d caught up, the crew clearly would not have put up much of a fight. This morning the men milled about in near chaos before him as they tried to practice under Cyrus’s directions.
They’d drilled with the guns only once since departing Chatham three weeks ago. What a fool he was not to think of practicing more. The gun crews had assembled awkwardly yesterday evening when they’d spotted the French brig, partially thanks to Cyrus’s inexperience. The Teaspoon hadn’t cooperated, either. Luckily for the crew, they’d lost sight of the other boat before they could engage.
Lieutenant Greetham’s sneer from the dockyard flashed across his mind. The man would have watched the display with glee at Collin’s struggle.
He paced the quarterdeck, half listening to Cyrus’s instructions to the gun crews. Mr. Riley’s deep voice carried from the forecastle. Even at a distance, Collin could hear frustration in the gunner’s usually calm tone. A few days of practice, and they’d pull together. Collin had to believe it, as they’d continued their course in the direction of the other brig and very well could have a battle on their hands soon. He hoped it had returned to dock, but they needed to make certain. Patrolling the coast was their assignment and bringing home a prize, even a small one, would boost morale. Not to mention the respect he’d earn.
Collin gave the call to load the cannons. He hadn’t seen Mrs. Kinsley that morning. Cyrus said she was working below, and Collin didn’t dare disturb her. He couldn’t shake from his thoughts the fire of indignation in her eyes when he’d insisted she go below yesterday evening. Collin rubbed his brow as he watched the crew clumsily loading the guns with powder, some of them cursing at the others’ lack of understanding and speed. How could she understand that it had nothing to do with his confidence in her abilities and everything to do with his fear for her safety?
Did he want her to understand? Collin puckered his mouth, turning his back on the struggling seamen. She wanted him to treat her like the rest of the men, or at least the other warrant officers. But she wasn’t really an officer. And not a seaman either, despite her hefty knowledge of ships and life at sea. He blew out heavily. All his years in the navy leading up to this moment were meant to prepare him for taking command. His superiors hadn’t covered how to handle a woman on the crew.
Not that she needed handling. She was confident, in her unassuming way, and any difficulties with the crew had come from their lack of experience, not her abilities. The corner of his lips pulled upward as he remembered their evening conversations. She had a dry wit that flickered to life after sunset, and her interest in him was flattering, if not endearing. So few people in his lifetime had taken interest.
But she hadn’t been there last night after the sighting. The men had left her normal place empty, but she hadn’t come to fill the gap. Conversation had continued, though without its usual fulfillment the party had dispersed much earlier than most nights. Perhaps he shouldn’t have attended and instead sent someone to assure her of his absence from the gathering. She deserved to be with her brothers and friend more than he. But he’d missed her company and had hoped…
Collin shook his head, marching toward the port rail. He could not develop feelings for a member of his crew. Even if she was a woman, and an unmarried one at that, with captivatingly blue eyes.
Footsteps advancing on the quarterdeck brought him to attention. Gun drills. He needed to direct his crew like a capable commander if he wanted to advance in rank to become a real captain. “Run out,” he said to Cyrus.
The footsteps moved away. “Run out!”
Collin startled. That wasn’t Cyrus’s voice. He whipped around to see Mrs. Kinsley charging across the deck, shouting commands to the gun crews. On the forecastle, Mr. Riley echoed her orders. Planks groaned and men grunted as they hauled the heavy iron guns into place.
She hurried to a struggling crew, her bosun’s call swinging around her neck. She must have retrieved it from Cyrus, who’d made use of it earlier, though he’d given the wrong signals. After a few instructions, Mrs. Kinsley seized the rope. With a shout at the others, she strained against the line, tugging the cannon into place with the more experienced members of that gun crew. Most women of his acquaintance, especially the wives of other officers, would have come away faint from such exertion. But Mrs. Kinsley popped up, brushed off her hands, and pointed to something on the cannon as she spoke to the landsmen watching her. The exercise had hardly affected her.
Collin stood rooted to the deck, watching as she grabbed the arms of the new crew members and directed them to their places. They listened, surprisingly. They hadn’t listened this well at the beginning of the voyage. By now everyone on the Teaspoon had learned to heed her. She didn’t bother with the fluff of pleasantries, but only spoke when she had something important to say.
He wished she’d speak more. He liked hearing her thoughts. Except when they were livid because of something he said.
Mrs. Kinsley crouched back from the gun with the rest of the gun crew and swiveled her head toward the quarterdeck. She caught him staring and scowled.
He nodded to her. “Fire!”
She repeated his order, and shouts followed down the length of the ship. The captain of the gun crew she was helping fumbled with the linstock. Collin bit back a chuckle as the woman’s shoulders sagged. The sounds of cannons firing in succession drowned out what he imagined was a groan from his bosun. She snatched the linstock from the gun captain and tapped its end to the touch hole.
The gun discharged with a thundering boom, bucking and spitting thick white clouds. Mrs. Kinsley was the first to her feet, giving instruction and encouragement once again before she moved to the next crew.
After a few more rounds, Collin called for an end. He hoped the crews had learned something. He’d been far too distracted to pay close attention. What a sorry excuse for a captain.
Mrs. Kinsley sauntered up to the quarterdeck when the men had dispersed to attend to their other duties. Real curls had replaced the funny paper packets she’d worn yesterday evening. Not having lived in close quarters with many women, he assumed the papers had something to do with making curls. Mrs. Kinsley hadn’t worn her hair like that before. Seeing them completed, the wind blowing them lightly across her
brow, he decided the effort to make the curls was worth it.
“Did you enjoy the view?”
Collin swallowed, ears burning. He gave a nervous laugh. Yes, he’d thoroughly enjoyed watching her whip the crew into shape. “You do your work very well, madam.”
She set her fists against her hips. “I am not a fine lady in need of sheltering from the brutality of war. As you can see.”
“Y-yes, you fire a gun with uncommon dexterity.” Why was his heart beating so quickly? He wanted to run from her presence, and yet he also longed to keep her here talking for the rest of the day.
“Then I expect not to be banished below the next time you attempt an engagement.” Her eyes drilled into his. “I very well may be the key to your success.” She turned away and called over her shoulder, “If you must lock up someone, make it Josias. Blasted fool.” Then she stormed off.
Collin couldn’t make sense of the last comment, but one thing he knew for certain—if he were not careful around this feisty widow, he very well might lose command of his heart.
Chapter 7
Marah clung to the yard high above the deck as she eased herself along the footrope. A light wind pulled at her skirts, and once again she was grateful for the men’s pantaloons she wore underneath. The shaggy rope of chafing gear she’d finished weaving last night was coiled around one arm, ready to be wrapped in place to prevent the rigging wearing down the wood of the yard. More than a dozen yards below her, men scurried about the work she’d given them like mice over a crumb-coated floor.
She’d been shocked when Stephen allowed her to climb aloft soon after their marriage. He supported everything she wanted to learn. She owed him so much.
Marah found the offending line with its old, worn-through wrappings. She braced herself, winding an arm through the jackstay that ran the length of the yard for stability. It wouldn’t do to fall to her death on the deck below, proving to Captain Boyd he’d been right to want to protect her. She methodically pulled the old gear from the rigging.
“Laying on starboard.”
Marah glanced toward the mast and the source of the voice. A funny pattering took hold of her chest at the sight of Captain Boyd waiting on the platform to climb out onto the yard. What was he doing up here? He’d left his hat and coat below. His loosened black neckcloth and shoes contrasted with the cream of his shirt, waistcoat, and breeches. Brass buttons and buckles glinted in the midmorning light as he steadily made his way to her, strong arm over strong arm.
Stop staring, Marah. She snapped her gaze back to the chafing gear. “What brings you aloft, sir?”
“I thought to observe your work.” But he wasn’t looking at her now. He regarded the black shoreline to the south. The coast of Belgium.
“Ah, yes. You enjoy doing that.” Marah freed the tattered gear and draped it over the yard. Captain Boyd immediately reached to coil it for her.
“It isn’t to find fault, if that’s what you think,” he said quickly. “In truth. I like watching you.” A touch of red flitted over his tanned face.
Marah started to wind the new chafing gear around the line. What was that supposed to mean? “And why might that be?”
“You… You do your job so well. It’s like watching a dance.”
“Hm.” She kept her focus on winding. “I was never very good at dancing.”
“You didn’t learn it at your fancy school?” He said it with a gentle tease, so different from Eliab’s grumpy jabs on the subject. The way he watched her… No one had ever looked at her quite that way before—like he found everything she did and everything she said fascinating.
“I’m certain your school was far fancier than mine, sir.”
The commander ran his fingers over the mangled ends of the old chafing gear. “A hospital for navy orphans, and then a handful of warships? I think you’ve won on that account.”
Her hands stilled against the line. An orphan hospital? He must have been very young when his parents died. “How long were you there?”
“From seven years old until I found my place as a ship’s boy on HMS Caledonian at twelve.”
Marah blew out, stomach clenching. She’d imagined his parents had died recently. “What happened to your parents?” She dropped her chin. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”
He gave that uncertain laugh of his that made her heart ache. The intensity of the hurt surprised her. “It’s a pathetic tale,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin a glorious morning with something so gloomy.”
Marah tied off the ends and gave an extra tug to be sure the chafing gear stayed. There. Now the line would not cause trouble. She leaned against the yard, turning her face toward him. “I can’t say I mind gloomy. One wouldn’t guess you had such a past.” Heaven knew her own recent past carried little joy.
The commander shrugged. “There’s no use in dwelling on it. Life can only get better. And largely it has.”
“I would like to know all the same.”
“I apologize. I am keeping you from your work.” He backed his feet down the footrope, retreating toward the mast.
“I need to check the gaskets,” she said, grabbing hold of one of the ropes that secured the furled sail against the yard when not in use. “Cyrus said one was damaged.” An idea tickled her brain. “Will you help me?”
Captain Boyd hesitated. She offered a smile that seemed to win him over. “If you’d like.”
She moved carefully toward the yardarm. Her pulse quickened the farther they moved from the mast. His fingers brushed hers as they inched along. The little spark that raced up her arm on the touch made her pull away quickly. She must be ill. She raised a hand to her brow, but she couldn’t tell if it was warmer than usual. After checking the gaskets she’d go to Josias. He would tell her if she had a fever, as she certainly felt that way.
While she examined the farthest gasket, Captain Boyd checked the next one. He didn’t volunteer any more information. Marah pursed her lips. She wasn’t used to being the one trying to draw out conversation. That had been Lavinia at school. How peculiar it felt.
“You didn’t join us above last night,” she noted.
The captain looked unnaturally enthralled with the ropes. “And you didn’t the night before.”
True. She had been too angry at his keeping her below under the threat of battle. Marah glanced over her shoulder. The watchman thought he’d glimpsed the French brig earlier that morning, but there had been no sign of her since.
“I was worried I’d driven you away,” he went on. “I didn’t want to separate you from your friends.”
Most were family she’d seen plenty of during their journey. And despite Josias’s constantly pulling faces at her whenever Captain Boyd appeared, she enjoyed his company in the evenings. “You are always welcome, sir. After all, you are counted among those friends.”
That brought his head up. Shadows cleared from his face. “That is a great honor. I know how you cherish your friends.”
Marah nodded toward the next set of gaskets, and the commander hurried down the line. They paused for another inspection. Words continued from her mouth with an ease she’d never experienced. “I think my friends would be shocked to see me now. The friends from school, that is. Climbing aloft was hardly one of the skills Mrs. Vernal considered essential. Though I think Isabel would appreciate the trousers.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut and ducked his head. She longed to ask what he’d been about to say but decided against it. Perhaps if she continued talking, he would be more willing to. “She suggested we wear them once, and I turned up my nose.”
He laughed. “It seems most women would.”
“I cannot see why. They can be very helpful sometimes.” They moved down the line again. “But I think she would be proud how I’ve infiltrated an institution overwhelmingly filled with men. She always was a bluestocking.” Marah leaned into the yard and rested her chin atop her hand. How she wished to see Isabel again. An
d Daphne. All of them. “She’d be so proud to see me earning a fair wage for my work.”
The captain had also stopped his examination. “What do you spend your fair wages on?”
“I mostly save them.” She slid closer to him, but he did not move on to the next gaskets. Before long, her skirts brushed against his leg. “I wish to buy my mother a cottage and a little land. She’s had a difficult life, and my father always spoke of buying her a place of her own. I am determined to realize his dream.”
He nodded, a thoughtfulness in his eyes. “Your husband, did he leave you with much?” She winced, and instantly Captain Boyd stiffened. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”
If she wanted him to speak openly with her, she had to return the courtesy. “I do not mind.” She only wished she’d been a better wife, and every time he came to mind the pangs of guilt nearly overwhelmed her. “He did not leave me with much. And most of what he did leave, I returned to his family. The most important thing he left me was this work and the ability to fend for myself.”
“We have that in common, having to fend for ourselves.”
Marah extended her hand to lay it over his. What was she doing? She froze. That was far too forward a gesture. She settled for resting it beside his hand. “You’ve had to do that more than I.”
“Marah!”
She glanced down. Eliab stood below, hands cupped to his mouth.
“Have you seen Cyrus?”
That boy! She scanned the deck. No sign of him. Here she was chatting like a London flirt with any gentleman that would pay her attention while ignoring her duties to the Teaspoon. “I’ll look for him.”
The commander did not budge, though he must have heard his carpenter’s call. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to,” Marah said.
“Must you go?” he asked, voice teasing.
He’d enjoyed it, then. Like a lantern lighting a darkened cabin, a warmth flickered inside her. “Did you come here to trap me, sir?” It wasn’t as though she could climb around him to get down. She was stuck until he moved. And part of her, a bigger part than she liked to admit, did not want him to make way.
