A Different Sort of Perfect

by Vivian Roycroft

  If only he could lock her down there. But with her determination, she'd break through the best-battened of hatchways.

  Frantic minutes passed, measured by heartbeats, rigging completed line by line, and grains of sand trickling from the glass. The crimson flickers deepened to flashes, lurid behind the concealing clouds, and the whispered, individual thunder-like bangs merged into a continuous, pounding roll. The glass was turned; the Marine sentry rang six bells; the carpenter reported the ship pumped dry; the bosun rigged splinter-netting. Teasing cat's paws rippled the sea and flapped the maincourse, and Topaze sighed as she eased toward the battle one frustrating inch at a time. Every spare hand scratched the closest backstay, and every crewman's lips pursed in a silent, desperate whistle. Surely they'd get a wind, a good wind abaft the beam, before it was too late for that ferocious little brig. But the right-sided cannon fire stretched out, the pauses longer between the sharp little bangs, while the larger ship continued to fire a steady, rolling broadside. The growling along the deck intensified, the crew's anger deepening.

  Lady Clara's lips pursed, too, but in concentration as she followed him about the bustling deck, scribbling his comments to write fair into the log and for his official report after the battle. With her pale yellow hair glowing in the golden sunlight, she seemed heartbreakingly young, younger than Staunton, and too young for what he knew was coming. During their last cruise, Staunton had grown up in a single hour, ripening from a carefree lad to a stern midshipman in the battle with the Spanish privateer. But Lady Clara perhaps didn't have the depth of character Staunton had shown from his childhood. In comparison she seemed brittle, more likely to shatter instead of strengthen, and he'd hate to witness that catastrophe. As much as the gallant brig, Lady Clara was his responsibility; somehow he had to save them both.

  To do so, he had to find some way to convince her to seek shelter below before he could take Topaze into enemy fire, and he shouldn't be worrying about that nor her at the moment, but about preparing his ship for the pounding that was surely coming. But her image, like a worshipped idol, hovered at the edge of his thoughts, and not only because she trailed him from party to working party. Even when his back was turned, even when she held discreetly quiet and the scratching of her pen was muted by the racket all around, he felt her presence.

  Bad enough he'd been stuck with her. Worse that he'd no choice but to carry her with him into battle. Worst of all that now, with Topaze drifting closer to danger with every despicable, wanton breeze, he couldn't clear his mind. Her somber, intense gaze, head bent over her book as she waited for his words, riveted him whenever he glanced over his shoulder and then followed his thoughts back around. He couldn't afford to think of her. He couldn't forget her. And he didn't want to consider why not.

  Another breath of wind rattled the maincourse; longer, less teasing, more resolved. His pulse quickened. The trade winds remembered their duty. It wouldn't be much longer before he could set tops'ls and clew up the mains'l, clearing the deck for fighting. The gunner's mates filled the shot garlands, served out small arms to the sharpshooters, and positioned pikes, boarding axes, and marlinspikes along the deck between the guns.

  "On deck there!" yelled the lookout from the fore crosstrees. "The storm's clearing! A ship and a brig yardarm to yardarm, dead ahead!"

  The storm's trailing edge rippled, convulsed, and swept aside like a curtain from a stage. The battle's thunder broke free into a ferocious roar, echoed by every hand on deck. Behind him, Lady Clara gasped and cried out.

  The Flirt it was, but staggering like a punch-drunk fighter on the ropes. Her foremast was gone, chewed off and sagging forlornly over her starboard batteries, her sparkling gold leaf was black with soot, and her larboard side had been savaged until three gunports collapsed into one massive hole. A lone four-pounder barked, still spitting fire. The ball punched the side of the frigate towering over her, a frigate seemingly little touched by the desperate battle. All her masts stood proud, the insignificant holes in her woodwork didn't dip to the waterline, only a handful of rigging lines waved cut ends, and all her starboard guns spoke, answering the Flirt's defiance with bitter thunder.

  Fleming gripped the shrouds. "Lady Clara, note the time."

  "I have it, Captain."

  Topaze's mains'l flapped again, a drawn-out, quivering sound that didn't quite die away, and this time he felt the wind's sigh across his cheek. His heart rose through his anger. "Mr. Abbot, let's set the tops'ls and stays'ls, clew up the mains'l, and then pipe the hands to breakfast." Unless that capricious breeze strengthened considerably within the next few minutes, it would take a good hour for Topaze to cover the league remaining between them and the battle; no sense sending the crew into combat with empty bellies, and the activity would keep them from becoming nervous. "And then I believe we may beat to quarters."

  Before he'd quite finished speaking, the bosun's pipe whispered a muted call. But the hands were already moving; in the way of a well-founded, happy ship's crew, they'd predicted his orders and positioned themselves accordingly. It sliced minutes off the maneuvering time. Sailcloth opened above Topaze like a white flower, the tops'ls high above the deck and the triangular stays'ls parallel to the keel, out of the gunners' way, while the large, lower maincourse tucked up against the yardarm. The frigate sighed and leaned from the wind, whispering to the waves as she slid through the water. Her speed increased; often the higher breeze was steadier and stronger than what was felt on the deck.

  "On deck, there—"

  Fleming hissed. "Quietly, man! They haven't smoked us yet." Neither the frigate nor the brig showed any sign of noticing Topaze sneaking down on them, although the distance had narrowed to no more than two miles.

  The bellow shifted to a minor key. "—Flirt's striking her colors."

  Again the crew growled, disbelief and outrage flowing from the fo'c'sle aft. Fleming leaned on the starboard bow chaser and let the sound engulf him. There was no dishonor for Lamble, striking to such a formidable enemy, and he'd clearly fought until the most forlorn hope had died. But to surrender — surely something within Lamble had to be dying, as well. If he still lived.

  Armide fired again, a full rippling broadside into the surrendered ship. Fleming straightened, his heart thudding painfully. It could only be a mistake. No captain of honor would continue to fire on a defeated enemy. But as the final bang rolled across the gently lapping waves, the for'ard-most eighteen-pounder thrust its muzzle back through the gunport, then the next and the next, until all fourteen long guns had returned to the ready position. They fired as one, a sheet of red ripping from Armide's side and slamming the Flirt. The brig staggered, fell away, yawed. Her main topmast wavered, creaked, and finally cracked, tumbling overboard and dragging at Flirt like a sea-anchor.

  The guns ran out again. And fired. Again. And again. Flirt staggered from each successive blow. Her guns, rigging, upper deck, and quarterdeck, all were abandoned and still.

  Topaze, too, fell silent, only the whispering ocean breaking the bitter calm. As well as his own, Fleming felt his crew's fury, a sort of radiant energy hotter than the tropic sun. No one paused in his work, and no one spoke. But all knew this was despicable behavior. Hateful, criminal, cowardly murder. Such a ship, crew, and especially captain deserved neither courtesy nor pity. From the Topazes, they'd receive none.

  Suddenly beside him, Abbot swept off his hat. "Sir."

  "Yes, Mr. Abbot?" Surprising, how ordinary his voice sounded.

  "The hands—" Abbot paused, cleared his throat. "The hands have requested, sir, that they not be sent to breakfast. They'd rather stand to the guns and be ready should the breeze pick up."

  And with the words, the wind sighing through the rigging rose a note. The sailcloth ceased flapping, bellied from the masts, and the deck leaned into it. Finally, across the water, a voice shouted and the cannon fire died away.

  "An excellent notion," Fleming said. "Beat to quarters."

  The call to action rang out an
d both decks erupted like a stomped-on ant mound. Fleming turned and ran into Lady Clara. She still stood a step behind him, pen poised over her book and chin tucked. She'd been so astonishingly quiet since the storm had swept the battle into view, he'd forgotten all about her. And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  But he was out of time. He'd delayed this conversation earlier. He could do so no longer. Fleming took her arm and guided her through the rushing sailors back to the quarterdeck.

  "It's time for you to go below."

  She froze. Her eyes widened, turned even darker, and in their depths a fire smoldered. "And that child, Staunton? Does he go below as well?"

  The master at the wheel never glanced aside. But Fleming didn't need any evidence to know their conversation was no longer private. He led her to the hatchway and lowered his voice. "Mr. Staunton is a midshipman. He must manage his battery."

  "As I understand it, I am the captain's clerk and I must stand with you on the quarterdeck."

  "Lady Clara—"

  "Are you saying that I am not, after all, a member of your crew?"

  He took a deep breath. Hoist on his own silly petard. This would require even more patience than he'd imagined. "No, you most certainly are a full member of this crew, on the books and in the minds of the sailors. And as a member of the crew, you must obey the captain's orders."

  The fire in her dark, dark eyes could light sparks in the rigging, could set off the stern chaser beside them. "You are ordering me below."

  If he ordered, she'd obey. But it was the wrong tack to take, for she'd have difficulty forgiving him. And it would likely be the last time she'd obey him without question. That change in their relationship he did not want. Fleming sought desperately for something to say, something that would convince her. But all he could think of was the simple truth.

  "I am asking you as a friend." Hennessy appeared beside him, carrying the heavy cavalry saber from the great cabin's wall decoration, the one with the lion on the hilt. Fleming buckled it on. "I cannot concentrate with you beside me. And I could not bear it were you to—"

  He couldn't complete the sentence. But her sparks flared even more hotly. "I cannot imagine—"

  "Please."

  Her mouth snapped shut. For three heartbeats she stared at him without flinching… four, five. Then she sucked in a deep breath and turned away. Carefully she stoppered the inkhorn and tucked her pen into its slot. With gentle breaths she blew on the book, tested the ink with a finger, then closed the covers. She didn't look at him as she crossed the quarterdeck, the book hugged to her chest like a child's toy. Only when she stood on the ladder, peering above the hatchway, did she meet his gaze, and the smoldering flames in her eyes blew all thoughts of children from his mind.

  Except for creating them.

  What had been on his face, in his expression, during their stare, to bring forth such a heated, silent response from her?

  "Captain."

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Yes, Lady Clara?"

  "The breakfast table would be far less entertaining were it lonely."

  He swallowed. Creating children. Again, and again, and—

  Then she vanished below, and he knew their relationship could never be simple again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  She'd nearly refused.

  She'd wanted to refuse, wanted to stay on the quarterdeck, at her post, by the captain's side during the coming battle. But the heated intensity of his stare, the martial fire flaring within his eyes, had made Clara pause even as an answering fire had flared in her middle and spread all the way to her fingers and toes. That powerful, floating euphoria had begun to follow. But as soon as she'd recognized the sensation of that female allure, she'd broken their gaze and settled herself by fussing with the penner and book.

  Captain Fleming needed to concentrate on the ship, the crew, the enemy — the battle to come, whatever it actually entailed. Not on her.

  He was right. With this inconvenient fire growing between them, erupting at the oddest moments, she would distract him merely by standing at his side. And while of course Topaze would win the battle, distracting the captain would not be the best contribution she could make to their victory.

  She could argue against the captain's orders in order to remain at her post. But he hadn't attempted to order her. Instead, he'd said—

  —he'd said—

  Without warning, Clara shivered all over.

  She could not refuse a friend.

  No one could possibly have ever felt this way before, angry, uncertain, confused, hot and cold and trembly, like a snowfield ablaze. She shivered again and sucked in a hard breath, redolent of burning slow match, ripe gunpowder, and masculine sweat. Oh, that exciting, dizzying smell — the gun deck, ready for firing. Not this time in practice, but with murderous intent.

  She remained the captain's clerk. And she had a job to do.

  So it was best she not consider the image of the lonely breakfast table.

  The gun deck spread before her, an unblocked expanse from stem to stern post; the carpenter's mates had done their job, the cabins and contents swept down into the hold, and bright sunlight poured through the open gunports and the stern's arched windows. And the guns had been released. The gun crews clustered around their predatory charges, rammers and swabs in eager hands, the officers and midshipmen standing behind their batteries. Overall hung the sharp, acrid smell of gunpowder and burning slow match, filling the open area with anticipation.

  One small face, glowing with sweat beneath a fore-and-aft scraper, stared at her from near the capstan. It was Staunton, commanding the aft batteries, and when she reluctantly stepped from the ladder onto the deck, he approached her.

  "My lady, you should go down into the hold."

  Her innards numbed then tingled, leaving her cold and angry. That wasn't what Captain Fleming had said. "I'd go mad in the hold, listening to the battle and waiting for word."

  He ducked his head, rather in agreement. "Then at least into the orlop."

  Still a horrid option. "The surgeon works there and I'd be in the way." He opened his mouth again, but this time she cut him off. "The captain told me to go below. I'm below."

  His head wag this time smacked more of indecision than agreement. "You know this isn't what he meant."

  "Then perhaps he should have been more specific." The deck heeled further and the sea's rippling gained volume; the wind was picking up. The for'ard-most starboard gunport displayed Armide, a miniature ship encircled by a frame, larboard stern quarter facing, perfect for the drawing room. Her innards tingled again, but in a totally different manner, for Armide yawed, swinging her broadside toward Topaze. Toward them. And Topaze had obliterated targets at longer range.

  Then Mr. Abbot shouted something and his crew ran the gun out, shoving its muzzle through the gunport and blocking the view. But she'd seen that row of snarling teeth. The battle would begin any moment. And the world would never be the same again.

  Carefully she withdrew her pen and uncorked the inkhorn, opening the book to the page she'd started with the battle's sighting. As she loaded the pen, something in the distance began hammering, like a carpenter clearing away below decks, or her heart trying to explode from her breast; she'd had no idea it could pound so hard. She didn't jump from her skin, though, a moment to remember with pride.

  "First gunfire, Lady Clara." Staunton stepped away, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "If Armide crosses our bow or stern, lie flat on the deck," he said. "Especially the stern."

  She nodded, glancing at the repeater and noting the time — five minutes past eight — in the book. "I shall." The bulkheads of the captain's cabins had been swept into the hold and there was nothing between her and the windows except the aft hatchway ladder. A cannonball crossing the gun deck from there, even if it missed her, would spray her position with glass shards and wooden splinters. "I promise."

  Staunton, already back at his st
ation, nodded in return.

  "Steady, boys," Mr. Abbot called from the fo'c'sle batteries. "She's going to pepper us some, but hold your fire until they bear. Then we'll pay her out for her bloody-mindedness." His reassuring gaze, glancing over the men of Chandler's and Staunton's batteries, crossed her gaze and he froze, mouth open for a long, silly-looking mutual stare. Then something hard slammed against the hull and she jumped, oh how she jumped, with his attention full on her. The hollow gun deck rang, a vast wooden bell with an enemy clapper. His face stiffened and he turned back to his business; if the captain hadn't forced her into the hold, neither would he, although he clearly didn't like it.

  The crew held their silence, peering past the guns in the ports, and only the water's rustling broke the false calm. The water, and the throbbing within her. What a curious, indescribable feeling it was. It weighted her limbs, sharpened her hearing, upset her pounding heart. Even though the temperature on the gun deck was hotter than normal, with tubs of slow match burning, her arms had goose flesh and her hand clutching the pen felt cold. Fear; this could only be fear, real fear, the sort that made cowards of men and sent them running in panic to safety. But the Topazes remained firm, the gun captains peering along the barrels, muttering instructions, and the crews shifted their charges with handspikes, keeping the muzzles aligned on the target. Like them, she had a job to do and she couldn't hide, wouldn't run. She too would hold her position—

  More hammering, closer and louder this time, trying to drown the traitorous pounding of her heart. Another hard slam against the hull, more ringing, and now that well-known patrician voice, eager and full of fire, shouted a command on the upper deck, audible through the fear-naught screens across the hatchways. Topaze yawed, the sudden pressure pushing Clara against the ladder. She couldn't quite make out his next words but—

  "Fire!" shouted Abbot, Chandler, and Staunton, seemingly in the same shared breath. The gun captains yanked their lanyards and the deck exploded, sound, heat, smoke pouring back through the gunports as the big beasts recoiled between their crews. She caught a breath, choking in the acrid smoke. Already the swabbers were ramming their damp mops down the guns' barrels, already the loaders stood by with charges and wads, the rammers pushing forward. She checked the repeater and noted down the time, twenty-two minutes past, but that was impossible, time couldn't be passing that rapidly—