The blood drained from her face, a sudden whitening as if someone had scraped away all her color with a holystone in three strokes. She stared out the stern windows, a wrinkle between her eyebrows, her mouth small. She didn't look happy at all. Confused, perhaps. Again both hunted and haunted.
Not what he'd expected. The conversation wasn't getting any easier, but he forced himself to continue, imbuing his words with all the gentleness he could muster. "Do you desire such an office be performed on your behalf?"
"I don't know."
And suddenly he could breathe again. "Pardon my impertinence, but when you first came aboard, you were very certain indeed."
Her tigerish temper should have flashed at that. Instead she looked down at the book. One hand smoothed over the letters she'd written, as if testing the ink, although she had to know it was long dry. "I'm not the same person as the one who came aboard."
And of course, she was right. Lady Clara had changed, matured, sobered. All those times during their outbound journey when she had aimed for dignity, she'd only managed a sort of staunch brittleness, or that nose-in-the-air, I-don't-recognize-your-existence of a spoiled, silly debutante. Not actually a goose, although perhaps the distinction was a fine one.
But now she'd achieved her goal. She'd pulled on a mantle worthy of the Roman goddess Diana. She'd completed her transformation into a marble statue on a pedestal, behind a glass container: untouchable, reserved, distant. And no one dared treat her in any other way.
He couldn't help considering it a change for the worse. Dignity came at too high a cost, and it didn't become her nearly as well as her previous fire and brimstone.
The understanding embarrassed him, as if seeing within her soul was the same as seeing her without her clothes. Discomfited, he bowed and left.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The cabin barely moved and the night air stuck to her like a scorching second skin. Late in the middle watch, with the sun long gone, but she couldn't escape the doldrums' heat. So of course she couldn't sleep. Impatient, Clara swung from the hanging cot; for the first time it had failed in helping her rest.
Even the deckboards felt cooked beneath her bare feet. The gunport already yawned open, a lighter square against the black-seeming bulkhead. She dragged her little desk chair across the cabin and sat; if the air moved at all, it would be there.
But honesty compelled her to admit it wasn't merely the heat keeping her awake. It was her thoughts, that maddening indecision that shocked her, shuddering and alert, whenever she started to drop off. It was the answer to Captain Fleming's simple question, hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles.
Did she want to marry Phillippe?
She didn't love him, and now she knew she never truly had. Her previous emotion had been what Diana would call a béguin, an infatuation, a liking that went further than prudence allowed — and even that, with her current awareness, was more than she could bear. Now, with her eyes painfully opened, with her new, clear image of Phillippe's true nature, she knew in her bones and blood and soul that she did not love him.
But that wasn't what the dratted man had asked.
In truth, nothing had changed. She still needed a husband before her nineteenth birthday, less than three months away, or she would lose her father's inheritance. Now that she understood the strength of a village, floating or land-bound, now more than ever she wanted that inheritance. And in all honesty, her relationship with Phillippe had only changed in her perception; she hadn't loved him before, and she didn't love him now.
But did she want to marry him?
He'd proven himself bloody-minded, dishonorable, condescending, insufferable. But by the standards of the law, Phillippe was still an acceptable husband. And if her choice remained between Phillippe and the viscount—
She shuddered.
Trickles of sweat dripped down her face, her spine, beneath her breasts, collected into pools in places she couldn't bring herself to name. In her shift. She couldn't remove any more clothing and retain her modesty. If she were home in Plymouth, now, she could have an ice and ask the footman to fan her. Here, the air didn't move at all.
Did she want to marry Phillippe? No.
Should she, though? Now, there was the rub. He still brought certain advantages to the bargaining table, such as the château and vineyard, a handsome face and physique — and yes, she'd confirmed that he filled out his dress coat to anyone's satisfaction — education and manners, good conversation so long as they stayed off the subject of honor in wartime, and excellent dancing. It seemed he still harbored some sort of affection for her. Besides, as a naval captain he'd be gone for months and even years at a time, leaving her with an open entree into Paris society, the best in the world.
If she couldn't marry to oblige her heart, which ached as if it would never feel again, well, these weren't inconsiderable assets.
But it seemed so cynical. As cynical as Phillippe. She shuddered again.
It was impossible to sit still any longer. She threw on her sailor dress, the last symbol of her pitiful attempt to join the Topazes — what had she been thinking? — and dragged herself through the unbreathable air to the poop deck. She'd never received the white gown that Wake had promised her. Surely now it was too late; no matter her decision, to marry Phillippe or no, the crew would never accept her again.
This late in the season, the doldrums weren't quite a dead calm. A tiny, wafting breeze sighed through the rigging overhead as if joining in her self-pitying misery, and she stood as still as possible at the starboard railing, letting the air and her horrid thoughts flow past her. The usual deck sounds seemed muted, with so many members of the crew aboard the prize and the Flirt. The helmsman stood alone at the wheel, and the watch on deck huddled in the fo'c'sle and lined the gangway rails. Somewhere for'ard, murmuring voices discussed the maincourse's trim. Chandler and the quartermaster? It sounded like their voices.
She felt alone, as if she commanded the quarterdeck of her own personal night-ship, charting a perilous course through the world.
On either end of the taffrail the stern lanterns burned, their flames small but steady, unmoving in the calm. For some reason their image brought Captain Fleming to mind. Dependable. A beacon. Comforting, in a way. Or at least no longer so irritating. But not particularly helpful, either; just a small, steady flame.
All through the tropics, a phosphorescent wake had stretched behind Topaze, reaching past Armide and Flirt and back to the distant horizon. Now it was gone, just like her heart. But perhaps a trace of it remained. She leaned forward, over the taffrail—
—and beside her, a male voice exclaimed.
She started and whirled. Phillippe stood near the port railing, as unmoving as she. He wore—
Good gracious.
He'd dressed for the heat. No coat nor waistcoat. No hat. Not even stockings or shoes. Only an open-necked shirt and unbuckled breeches, the absolute minimum amount of clothing for basic modesty. Shockingly casual — was that manner of dress practiced by all sailors when they were men alone? — almost indecent. She looked away, grateful for the night's cover for her flush.
Then he laughed, a low throaty chuckle that sounded like honest amusement. She couldn't resist and stole a glance. Phillippe bent over the taffrail, looking as she had planned into Topaze's little wake. The relaxed smile on his face, highlighted by the stern lantern nearby, was one she hadn't seen since the Plymouth assembly rooms, as if—
—as if no time at all had passed. As if her desperate yearning, her search, the battle, his dishonor, her despair — as if none of it had happened.
"Please, forgive my intrusion." He pushed his sodden hair back from his eyes and held it off his forehead. "And my poor wardrobe. My dress coat was not designed for the equator's heat." Another chuckle, and he dipped his chin into his shirt collar. He seemed flustered, his former cool arrogance stripped away and only self-conscious embarrassment remaining behind. "I thought to stand on deck in the silence and br
ing myself to understand where I have gone so wrong. No one would be bothered by my presence on the poop deck, I thought. And here I find the company of the one I have wronged the most."
He stood hunched over, shoulders rounded, left elbow leaning on the taffrail, right fingers tangled in his curls. In the stern lantern's light, sweat gleamed on his temples, his cheeks, and in little rivulets down his broad forehead. The white cambric of his shirt stuck to his upper arms, shoulders, back, emphasizing his build, and she didn't stop herself from tracing the line of his taut white breeches behind.
A small eddy of interest stirred within her and the flushed heat in her cheeks cooled, leaving only the tropical glow behind. He at least saw her perspective, although he'd been worse than a rum cove. And she still needed a husband. But a nagging wariness would not allow her to approach him; after all, she was not in love and while she might yet find herself cynically willing to marry Phillippe, there was little sense in becoming enamored of him twice over. Instead she turned away. The cascade of stars blazed across the heavens and the flames of the stern lanterns reflected flickering points of light in the sea below. Beyond sailed Armide, white sails glowing in the night; not so distant that a good shout couldn't reach her, rather as if Clara could reach out and prick her finger on the bowsprit.
"You will not speak, Lady Clara?"
The best thing she could do was renew their bond: discuss how he felt he'd wronged her, let him apologize and perhaps grovel a bit, as Diana had taught her, and so bring him to heel. Yes, that was what she should do. Amicable relations, or even just surface good manners on her part, would harm no one. She drew a deep breath and turned to him.
But the words that came from her mouth didn't allude to their suspended relationship. Instead, shocking herself, Clara asked, "Why did you fire on Flirt after she'd struck?"
He straightened and stepped back, eyes widening and brows lifting. A sweaty trickle down his forehead changed course, dribbling past his eyebrow and down his temple. "I've already answered that question, mademoiselle." He laughed, but this time she could hear no humor there. "For all the good it's done."
The more she considered her unexpected words, the more appropriate they seemed. How could she forge a true bond with a man she couldn't understand? His answer to that repeated question was what she needed to know, not how he imagined he'd wronged her. No, she couldn't let it go now. Words bubbled from her, unnamable emotions accompanying them, and all too many to speak. "Phillippe, she'd struck. She'd quit firing. Surrendered. You had nothing to fear from her—"
"You think not?" Angry now, Phillippe leaned over her, barely whispering his words. His face was no longer handsome but twisted, as if a civilized layer had been stripped away, leaving bare something savage beneath. "Captured crews don't always accept spending the rest of the war as prisoners and they've risen against their captors before. I told you; you know nothing, nothing really, of war."
The peaceful night seemed to shatter into hundreds of sharp little pieces that whirled around her, dizzyingly fast, and as each shard whizzed past it sliced into her mind, allowing a myriad unconnected thoughts to flow free. Phillippe. On deck. At night. In one of the darkest, least populated parts of the ship.
He still berated her, quietly carrying on like a fishwife. "You think one battle, one miserable, tiny battle between little ships, makes you an admiral? a general? You think you know something of war?" He leaned closer, so close the flame from the stern lantern reflected in his pupil, a pinprick of flickering light. "If you think that, then you're a fool, little girl."
Wearing the minimum amount of clothing that could be considered decent.
"You should return to your fireside, to your knitting. You have no business at sea."
As if going swimming. The Armide, his ship, his captured ship. A few hundred feet astern. And "captured crews have risen against their captors before."
"That's your plan, isn't it?"
His jaw snapped closed. "What did you say?"
"Your plan is to slip overboard and swim to the Armide. Earlier today we saw the rope trailing in the ocean from a gunport. It wouldn't be difficult for one of your crew to haul you in that way, and I know some of them volunteered to help sail Armide in return for not being locked into the hold. Once aboard, you intend to free your crew and retake the ship."
Breathing hard. Angrier than ever. But no longer fiery. The little flame in his eye flickered and died as Phillippe stepped close, closer, and the tint of moonlight turned the glitter to ice. "And if it is, mademoiselle? If it is, what is your plan?"
He breathed in all the air on the poop, leaving nothing for her. Her head swam. She tried to ease backward, away from him, but he followed her, crowding ever closer. "I'm going to stop you."
Phillippe chuckled. Closer still, and for a moment their bodies touched. Clara shivered in revulsion and sprang back. She slammed into the railing and he crowded her there. She had nowhere left to escape. Scream. She'd scream, alert the officer of the watch — Chandler? was it Chandler? How on earth could the dratted maincourse hold his attention for so long, leaving the quarterdeck and her undefended? Was the man at the wheel asleep? They were right behind him — but as soon as she opened her mouth Phillippe, still chuckling, clamped his hand across her face. His body, all of his disgusting body, pressed against her. She leaned back, away from him. But there was nothing there, just the open sea behind her, and her back arched over the railing. Her feet left the deck. He was pushing her overboard. She'd drown.
He leaned atop her, hand still clamped over her mouth. "You should have married me, little Lady Clara. It was always your only hope."
He was trying to kill her again. And this time, it was personal.
She flailed, scrabbling with her hands for something, anything, to hold onto. Lines. There should be lines there, rigging belayed along the railing right within reach — but no, they'd unshipped the t'gallant masts before the storm and never replaced them, reducing the amount of rigging along with the sails. Nothing, there was nothing but wood, and it was rocking, shifting beneath her hands—
Belaying pins. Lined up neatly in their holes along the pinrail. Twenty-one inches of solid hickory. Gripped tightly, smooth in her palm.
She couldn't scream or run or escape. She could only fight. And this time, it was personal for her, too.
"You and your precious Captain Fleming. We'll take him and his pretty frigate into Toulon, and you can't stop it now, little Lady Clara."
Clara slipped the belaying pin from the gunwale and swung with all her might.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A hand pulled her back inboard, Chandler's uninjured hand dragging her to safety and supporting her. Her pulse pounded, her neck ached, and her heart felt as if someone had reached inside her and ripped it out, still beating. How could he? He was supposed to be perfect. My perfect.
The quarterdeck was suddenly in an uproar, the helmsman glancing over his shoulder, the quartermaster hurrying up the ladder, wide, silent eyes peering down from high above the spanker. Phillippe sprawled in a graceless lump on the boards, a spreading dark pool surrounding his head.
"Fetch the captain," Chandler yelled for'ard, "and the surgeon, and a detail of Marines to guard the prisoner." Sailors scrambled, running footsteps diminishing, dying away.
Her head swam, one spinning moment with deck and sails in alien motion. But fainting was not appropriate behavior for the captain's clerk. Clara shook her head, straightened, eased her arm from Chandler's. Topaze settled back into her proper position and the quartermaster stepped away, horror painting his face in stretched-out strokes.
Even in the moonlight, Chandler's face glowed pale. He yanked off his stovepipe hat and crushed it beneath his bandaged arm. "M'lady… I mean, Lady Clara, I — I can't begin to apologize. I was—"
Two redcoats, their shakos slanting different directions, one with a crooked gunbelt, barreled up the larboard ladder, straightening their accoutrements as they ran. They posted themselves
over Phillippe, muskets on their shoulders. Lieutenant Pym followed them, bounding up the steps in two leaps. His sharp face peered around, seeking a target, settled on Phillippe, sharpened further, and he hurried to join his soldiers.
Now. When she no longer needed them. What was the point in having Marines aboard, if not to guard them?
"—I was for'ard, seeing to the trim of the sails, and I had no idea—"
Her aching throat constricted, as if she'd never swallow again. Enraged pressure built within her chest, threatened to force its way through her blockaded gullet, pour from her. But a temper tantrum would be worse than fainting. She fought for control, rubbing her throat. The bruised flesh already swelled beneath her hand.
Captain Fleming, wearing breeches and ruffled shirt, his feet bare, erupted onto the quarterdeck with all the captain's authority scintillating around him. The quartermaster eased back into his proper position without a sound; the Marines stiffened, and Chandler's stammering apology stumbled to awkward silence.
Never had she seen Captain Fleming appear so tall, so commanding. So furious. His gaze glanced off Phillippe, whipped around the deck, and then locked onto her hand, still stroking her neck. The coldness solidified in his visage, a mask of ice for a masquerade ball. "Report."
Of course he barked at Chandler, the mate of the watch. But she couldn't let him blame this on Chandler. He might be an awkward lout, but he was their awkward lout, and that meant he was hers, too. Before anyone else could speak, she did.
"Captain Levasseur tried to push me overboard." Pointedly, she refused to grace the cull with his proper French title; he'd dished his chances of receiving any courtesies from her. "I believe his plan was to follow me over the side and swim to Armide with the intention of leading an uprising amongst the prisoners. Whether he intended dragging me along or abandoning me in the ocean to drown, I don't know, but the belaying pin and I had no intention of finding out."
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 24
