by Barbara Dan
Josiah raised his voice above the raging storm. "Aye, sir!"
Bruce lounged on the aft deck, careful to avoid the boom. He let Josiah mind the tiller. Behind his relaxed facade, he was already busy calculating their chances, come morning. Would the Isobella be able to spot one small sailboat in the middle of the ocean? He prayed Josiah had more experience than he judged. Shrugging with weariness, he closed his eyes and slept in the rain.
When he awoke, the first rays of the sunrise were faintly coming over the distant horizon. The rain had stopped, his stomach was growling, and if that wasn't enough, Josiah was shaking him and yelling in his ear.
"Captain, sir!" Josiah sounded excited.
"What?" Bruce roused from a dead sleep to find himself somewhere in the Atlantic with a nice looking young fellow with peach fuzz on his cheeks and an expression that hovered somewhere between awe and panic.
"Look there! Starboard, sir."
Cracking an eye in the direction indicated, Bruce half expected to see half the British navy bearing down on him. Instead he saw a humpback whale surface roughly five hundred yards away.
"I see him, Bromby," he said. "And 'tis a more welcome sight than what I feared when I heard you holler."
"He was even closer a minute ago," said Bromby. "I never was so close to one of the great ones before."
"Aye, 'tis an awesome sight," Bruce agreed, "but he's disappearin' now."
Bruce sat up and ran his big hand through his scraggly locks. A few stars lingered in the early morning sky. "Hand me the sextant, Bromby. We need to take another fix, to make sure we're still on course."
Swiftly the young man complied; putting into words what Bruce was thinking: "What happens if we don't find the Isobella, sir?"
A grim smile hovering around his lips, Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You'd best pray we do. There's not enough hardtack to keep us alive till we get home."
Josiah gulped. "That's what I thought, sir."
"Don't worry, lad," Bruce joked. "I've been stranded at sea before and ne'er turned cannibal yet."
Bromby looked shocked. "That never entered my mind, Captain."
Bruce fell silent, concentrating on his instruments. "Dead to reckoning, lad," he announced with satisfaction. "We should reach our destination in time."
Stretching, he went to check on Lydia. Though she was as pale as the dawn, her color had improved. Still worried, Bruce pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and left her sleeping like a babe.
Shortly thereafter, while he and Josiah breakfasted on hard biscuits and water, a thick fog rolled in. They spent the next hour sailing blindly into the mist, using the compass to keep on course through choppy seas. Estimating their location, they spent several anxious moments searching through the haze, until finally they made out the Isobella on the port side bow.
"Ahoy there!" Burton's voice rang out across the water.
Using his glass, Seth made out MacGregor and Bromby. But where was his sister? By the great Neptune! He would see his sister avenged, if she had sacrificed herself to save MacGregor.
As the sailboat hove to, Seth waited tensely, wondering what sort of confrontation to expect from the towering Scot.
"Permission to come aboard, sir," Bromby called.
"Permission granted."
The rope ladder lowered, and Bromby scrambled topside, clearly relieved to be aboard.
"Thank God!" he said. "We feared we'd missed you in the fog."
"If you found us, what's to prevent the British from coming up on us in the fog? We need to get under way," Seth said, anxious for news of his sister. "What's keepin' MacGregor?"
"Look out behind you." Bruce pulled his bulk over the side, supporting Lydia on his shoulder. Arms dangling and wrapped in a heavy blanket, she hung limp as a dead fish.
"Lydia— Is she all right?" Seth asked anxiously.
"The victim of her own skullduggery," Bruce announced wearily. "Should be fine, once she sleeps it off."
The combined crews of the Angelic Lady and the Isobella stood gawking at the bedraggled couple.
"Cast off, Burton," MacGregor ordered crisply, forgetting it wasn't his command. "I've set the sailboat adrift. Maybe if the British find it, they'll think my men and I drowned at sea."
Seth nodded. "We'll make better time without it. I'm glad to see all three of you safely aboard."
"Aye," said Bruce tiredly. Without another word, he headed toward the cabin, his wife gently bobbing against his broad back.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Seth turned and gave the order to get under way.
Reluctantly, he had to admit to a grudging admiration of MacGregor. Lydia could have done a lot worse in her choice of a second husband.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bruce laid Lydia in her narrow bunk and, collapsing into the adjoining bunk, let sheer exhaustion take him down.
Hours later, something moist and tickly touched his lips. Rats! 'Twas bad enough having them invade his cell, without them nosing about in his face!
A salty oath on his lips and eyes still closed, he threw his arms in the air.
The back of his hand struck a soft cheek and tangled hair.
Instantly awake, Bruce watched in horror, as his petite wife, clad in a black lace chemise, voluminous petticoats and mesh stockings, careened across the cabin.
She landed on her ruffled bottom with an indignant yelp.
"Lydia!" He sprang to his feet, dashing to her rescue.
Interpreting his smack as rejection, Lydia hitched away on her bottom.
"Don't you touch me, Bruce MacGregor," she cried, struggling to her feet.
"I apologize, Lydia! I didn't know. I dreamt you were a rat," he explained lamely.
"Oh, a rat, am I?" She glowered at him through her tousled blond locks.
Bruce rose, stooping to avoid the low ceiling. He looked her over, saw she was unhurt, and decided, fetching as she was, she had overstepped all reasonable bounds of feminine propriety and common sense. "My apologies, madam." He bowed, adding, only half seriously, "Though maybe you deserve the back of me hand, now that I think on it."
"So that's the thanks I get for rescuing your miserable carcass!" Hands on hips, she faced him, gearing up for a fight.
"I fully intend to give you a paddling when I'm rested up." Bruce yawned, rubbing his unshaven jaw. The curvy hellcat shooting lightning flashes at him from her stormy violet-blue eyes was a damn distracting sight, but she had scared the holy bejeebees out of him last night. She must be made to understand that he'd tolerate no more misguided heroics. "Lydia, you damn near backed yourself into an English noose. If I hadn't rescued you—"
"You rescued me?" Lydia said, gesticulating wildly. "Let me tell you, Bruce MacGregor, if anyone is in the rescuing business, it is I." She walked up to him, as bold as a tipsy mouse parading before a hungry cat.
He raised an eyebrow at her boasting. "Is that so, madam?"
"Yes! And don't you forget it!"
Bruce grinned menacingly. "It appears we're both cut from the same cloth, Lydia. First, I rescue you from Rathbun by marrying you—"
"Hah! I was in more danger from you than from the Colonel," she reminded him indignantly. "You conniving, seductive, tricky man!"
He waggled a finger under her nose. "Then you rescued me from the British. Only you got in over your pretty little head, didn't you? Then I rescued you. Don't bother to deny it."
"Hah!"
"And now you're in trouble again with me. Only this time, there's nobody to rescue you."
He laughed, but Lydia failed to see the humor in getting knocked across the cabin, when she had a headache and only wanted comforting. She gave him a savage poke with a dainty finger. "Next time you get in trouble, MacGregor, remind me not to take pity on you!"
"Ah, lass, you needn't have gone to all that trouble. Why, a council of English and American statesmen is meeting at Ghent at this very moment to settle their grievances."
Lydia gave him a suspicious look, not sur
e if she should believe him. "What are you trying to say? That the war is practically over?"
"No, but even in prison word gets around. The British want to end this squabble as much as we do."
Lydia threw her hands in the air. "Talk, talk, talk! You'd still be in that prison, if I hadn't rescued you."
"Aye, you're right about that, lass," he sighed, "but the British are finally quits with the French, and I daresay they're ready to call it a day with us Yanks. The war's cost 'em heavily."
Lydia threw herself down on her bunk and gave him a peevish look. "Regardless of what you say, the war's not likely to be over before the end of summer."
"Why did you do it?" Bruce asked, completely baffled. "Were you bored? Looking for excitement? Tell me, Lydia. I'm curious to learn how your mind works."
"I'd rather not discuss it when you're in such a foul mood," she said, not forgetting that he had shoved her. Turning up her nose, she sped to the cabin door to make good her escape.
But as she tugged on the latch, Bruce's arm snaked around her ribcage. "Hold on, madam wife. You can't be traipsin' about the deck in your unmentionables."
His lips brushed her ear, and she suddenly froze, aware of her half-naked breasts and the itchy black lace against his brawny forearm. Slowly her face turned crimson, as she recalled her role in last night's prison break.
"I'm surprised you can still blush after consorting with strumpets and soldiers! You're not getting out of here without a damned good explanation. You owe me that much."
"I owe you nothing," she said sullenly.
"Except your life."
"All right," she snapped. "So you saved me—thank you! Now will you kindly let me get dressed?" She tapped her stockinged toe on the cabin floor, hoping Bruce would take a hint and leave.
"I'm not going anywhere." Bruce folded his arms across his chest. "Not until you tell me why you went to so much trouble."
Lydia pressed her lips together, resolutely holding back the secrets of her heart. She wanted to shout that she loved him. That she had missed him desperately, and that they were having a baby in three months. She had so much she wanted to tell him!
But the stubborn set of his bearded jaw changed her mind. Ignoring his scowl, she began to rummage through Seth's sea chest for clothing. She had abandoned her trunk at the rooming house in Halifax. Surely Seth had something to wear. She came up with a shirt and trousers, both huge, but better than the blanket Bruce had wrapped her in before dumping her in her bunk.
She shot Bruce a look of rebuke. "Do you mind?" she said. "I'd like a little privacy."
"As you wish, madam." He coolly inclined his head. "I'll go see what the cook has in the galley." Halfway out the door, he turned to issue a warning. "But don't think you're off the hook. I'm going to clip those lovely wings of yours, my little seagull. This is the last time you take off without my permission. Do I make myself clear?"
"Permission!" Lydia swung around and made an impudent face at his vanishing back.
Why that ingrate, she thought indignantly. Her rescue plan worked better than most men's would have. In fact, it was brilliant. Except for that one little mishap.
Having no other undergarments, Lydia pulled Seth's shirt on over what she wore. Dropping the petticoats to the floor, she stepped into Seth's trousers. To her immense relief, the baby was churning actively in her belly, no worse for last night's adventure.
Suddenly thoughts of the baby turned her attention to her figure: If she stuck the shirt inside the trousers, her belly would show. And then wouldn't Bruce crow about clipping her wings! Right then she decided not to tell Bruce about the baby yet. She could spring it on him any old time. Shirt tail dangling, Lydia left the cabin in search of food. Suddenly she was ravenous.
* * *
Over the next day and a half at sea, she waited for Bruce to take the first step in mending their quarrel. But although he went out of his way to be civil to Seth and both crews, he seemed content to play a waiting game where she was concerned.
Slowly, she felt her resolve wavering. Whatever happened to the man who actively pursued and won my heart? she lamented one morning as she helped the cook fillet a mammoth halibut Bruce had battled over the side.
There he stood, joking and swapping fish stories with Josiah, while she cleaned his fish! The smell of fish oil made her nose wrinkle with disgust. So the mighty warrior only had to land his catch, did he? Admittedly, it had been a valiant fight. The halibut had fiercely slammed its weight around, wreaking havoc on men and deck equipment alike, before it was finally subdued. Flattened by oars and a small harpoon, no less.
But then her dear, darling Bruce had left her to do the dirty work. Lydia paused to wipe sweat and blood from her knife. Busily trimming away excess bone and fish fat beneath the slick skin, she raised her head to glare at him across the foredeck.
Rogue that he was, Bruce swept a low bow in her direction. Incensed, she turned her back. Black-hearted devil! No doubt it amuses him to see me up to my elbows in fish guts! He was grinning right at her, his black hair ruffling in the breeze, looking incredibly virile and alive. He had borrowed a razor, and despite his old clothes, he looked breathtakingly handsome.
Catching his impudent wink, Lydia muttered under her breath what she'd like to do with him for his teasing looks, as she labored on. She, in baggy, dirty clothes, never looked worse. Nor ever smelled so foul. She felt embarrassed for him to see her unavoidably filthy and hard at work on such a thankless, disgusting task.
Finally she and the cook had the halibut ready for the enormous cook pot. Picking up two buckets of fish intestines, Lydia trudged dispiritedly to the railing to deposit her refuse in the sea. Feeling about as glamorous than its contents, she was lifting the first bucket when a big hand took the bucket from her.
Lydia watched Bruce toss the entrails to the waiting scavengers of the sea. He set down the bucket, and disposed of the other bucket's malodorous contents as well. Then, before she could move, he captured her soft hand, still oily from the fish.
His gesture took her by surprise. She gazed up at his magnificent, rugged features, taking in the faint crinkle of laugh lines around his eyes, as Bruce lowered his dark head and pressed her rank smelling digits to his lips. For a brief instant, she felt herself swept away by the feathery tickle of his breath on her skin, as he nuzzled her fingertips.
The wind was blowing behind her, and loose strands of her hair tangled with his dark locks, forming love knots. He glanced up, his eyebrows raised in gentle humor. "Not for all the perfumes of Araby. . ." He grinned, leaving the rest of the sentiment to her imagination.
Lydia snatched her hand back, sensitive about her appearance. "I don't notice you getting your hands dirty," she snapped, eyes blazing.
He laughed easily and moved to draw her into his embrace, but she resisted. Resting his chin on her curls, he teased, "What a fine fisherwoman I married. Oh, I know, we had a lively time discussing deep sea fishing over clam chowder, once upon a time. But seeing's believing, they say."
"Is that so?" Lydia tilted her head and met her husband's frankly admiring gaze. He must be mad, she thought, flirting with me, when I look such a fright!"
"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Lydia?" he murmured, kissing her ear. "I don't know another woman who can clean a ninety pound fish and still look so deliciously feminine."
"I look nothing of the kind, Bruce MacGregor." She ducked her head, and a curious shyness swept over her. He had paid her the strangest compliment she had ever received, yet it touched her deeply.
"Were we alone, I'd lay you down on the deck, and we'd make wild passionate love," he whispered. "Once this war's over, we must go fishing often, just the two of us."
"I hope it's not the fish oil that excites your sensibilities," she teased, her fingers irresistibly drawn to the crisp hair at the throat of his open shirt.
"Fish oil, or the sweet fragrance of roses, 'tis all the same to me." Bruce laughed, nibbling at the highly sensi
tized nerves on her neck.
"Then perhaps you'd as happily sleep with a whale as a wife," she quipped.
"Not unless my wife was big as a whale," he joked, "in which case, there'd be more of you for me to love."
At his ribald comment, Lydia blushed guiltily. Before long, he would have a whale-sized wife! She had better tell him about the baby. She took a deep breath, ready to confess her secret, when he swooped down and kissed her.
"It might be fun getting my wife as big as a whale. Big as a beluga, anyway. How does that strike you?" he said playfully.
His lips captured hers, and Lydia melted against him.
"B-Bruce, what are you talking about?" she gasped, coming up for air.
"Babies," Bruce mumbled against her lips. "If you had a baby, I guarantee you wouldn't be sailing the high seas."
Damn! He planned to control her by using her own biological urges against her!
"So we're back to that!" Lydia stormed. She twisted away from him and strode indignantly back to the galley, swinging her buckets.
"Back to what?" Bruce yelled after her. "I don't see where we're back to anything."
"That's because you're too dense to understand!"
For a second Lydia fantasized about strapping Bruce to the muzzle of the small cannon mounted to the side of the ship and blasting him into the water! But—oh, damn!—that wasn't even physically feasible. She was small and puny. Besides, she was desperately in love with the brute!
She blew a curl out of her line of vision and gave him a defiant look. "What makes you think a baby would keep me home?" she muttered crossly.
Bruce regarded his disheveled, grumpy wife with astonishment. "Lydia, sweetheart, surely you know 'twas but a wee joke?"
Shrugging his hand off her shoulder, Lydia picked up her filleting blade again and ducked her head to avoid telling his the truth. "Let's just say I've lost my sense of humor."
His hands dropped to his sides in a helpless male gesture. He had no idea why she was angry. Her flare-ups made no more sense to him than her escapades in Halifax.
