A Different Sort of Perfect

by Vivian Roycroft

  Captain Fleming blanched. But his fury remained. Again he turned toward Chandler and opened his mouth. And again she forestalled him.

  "None of this can be laid to Mr. Chandler's blame. He was for'ard tending to the ship's operation, as he should have been. He returned in time to ensure I did not, in fact, fall overboard." Should she mention that Captain Fleming himself had told her they were seriously under-officered? The situation could only be worse with Mr. Abbot, the bosun's mates, the gunner, and the Marine sergeant aboard the Armide, leaving Rosslyn and Chandler to manage as best they could. But perhaps not; hearing what one already knew was irritating at best. Instead, she took a deep breath, again stifling the insistent pressure building within her, and glanced down. Phillippe stirred amidst his dark pool; it glinted in the stern lantern's flame. "Mr. Chandler, I'm sorry. I seem to have stained the deck again."

  Such a flurry of emotions flashed across the senior midshipman's face: astonishment, disbelief, wariness, humility, and finally simple, reluctant gratitude laced with wild humor. But there was nothing ungallant remaining when he lifted his chin, and if his smile seemed awkward still, she could not blame him. "All in the line of duty, my lady."

  She couldn't suppress a giggle, even though it sounded shrill to her own ears and dampened her spirits further, rather than raising them. When she met the captain's eyes, her twisting smile faded. His fury had dissipated at her insistence, but his stare, searching deep within her as if to read the letters of her soul, overwhelmed her. She hadn't distracted him a whit from his purpose, no more than he allowed. Not only was he the ship's captain, but master of the situation. And the flicker of recognition, of compassion and relief, that danced across his expression in the lanterns' gentle light could only mean that he'd followed her thoughts. She hadn't fooled him, and he hadn't fooled her. Hadn't even tried to.

  A man she could understand…

  "And you?" he asked.

  And you. If only she knew. She couldn't even identify the emotions fighting for release, much less her heart's desire. "He frightened me," she admitted, "but he did not injure me."

  Although he tried. Those words hung unsaid on the quarterdeck. Her self-control wavered. The pressure within her swelled in a relentless tide, confused and entwined emotions fighting for release.

  My perfect Phillippe tried to kill me.

  Captain Fleming continued to wait, as if he, too, felt the raw, rising tidal wave that soured the back of her throat. His eyes drew her in, comforted her and encouraged her to let it all go, but her dignity—

  Dignity be hanged. Those indescribable emotions would no longer be restrained and she had no sane reason to fight them.

  "He tried to throw me overboard!" The words felt torn from her raw throat, torn from her bones and blood and the deepest hidden nooks of her soul. "The fornicating scoundrel, the rotting vermin, the grass-combing cull!"

  His eyebrows soared, his stern lips relaxed, but his glinting eyes intensified. Humor, yes, but not as if he laughed at her. More in… triumph?

  Surely that would remind her temper of its proper place. But words continued to tumble from her, some inner dam broken and releasing them forth. "He's as fine a gentleman as Lucifer himself. The scurrilous lout has outvillained villainy and deserves to be harrowed, torn limb from limb—" But her throat again tried to close, the understanding of how closely she'd approached death waxing through her. She shuddered and broke off.

  "In the Royal Navy, we say he should have his ear nailed to a four-inch plank and be tossed overboard." Compassion and understanding, real understanding, tinged Captain Fleming's voice.

  Her chest tightened in an entirely new manner. He understood. Somewhere back in his life, someone had betrayed and hurt him, as well. He'd invited her to spew out her fury rather than close it off inside, rather than let it devour her from the soul out. And now she knew that, if she'd successfully closed off that hurricane of raw emotion, she would have drowned beneath it and never recovered.

  Chandler cleared his throat. "Or he could be towed ashore on a grate." His voice sounded as awkward as he looked. But at least he was trying.

  "Indeed he could." Captain Fleming straightened again. "Mr. Chandler, have—" he paused, glanced down, and his mouth twisted into a grimace "—him taken to the sickbay and post a Marine beside his hammock. He's to remain there under guard until he's put ashore at Plymouth. The quartermaster will hold the deck until you return."

  "Aye, aye, Captain." Chandler nodded and started to turn away with his usual alacrity. But suddenly he paused. His glance snagged on Clara's, and he swallowed. Back he turned and gave her a jerky bow before he clapped on his crushed hat and ran for'ard.

  A silence as awkward as the midshipman fell over the quarterdeck, smothering it in rich tropical heat. She couldn't help but rub her throat; it hurt, was swelling; bruises were forming beneath her touch, bruises that carried the shape of Phillippe's fingers. Her blood broiled but everything inside her tightened, seeking another sort of relief, and she turned to the taffrail rather than let such a childish response be seen by the crew. They'd believed in her, welcomed her, and she'd betrayed their trust. His trust. Perhaps in a way, she deserved the punishment Phillippe had meted out.

  Phillippe. Her soul cried within her, for her. From the moment he'd stepped aboard Topaze, his behavior seemed inexplicable. Unless… unless his cynicism lurked even more deeply than she'd suspected. Unless the chateau, the vineyard, the entree to Paris society, all were lies.

  Unless he was an impoverished adventurer who needed a silly young woman's fortune to salvage an expensive, fraudulent lifestyle. During the Amiens peace, some English debtors had migrated to France to escape their creditors; some of them rotted in French prisons still. Might French debtors have turned that about? Might not Phillippe's presence in Plymouth during the peace have related, not to his interest in traveling and broadening his acquaintance, but to a desire to escape debtor's prison?

  "Captain's clerk?"

  Captain Fleming's gentle voice hurt more than the bruises. She'd betrayed his trust, yet he still at least addressed her with courtesy. She'd not let him see this disgraceful reaction, either, and a deep breath forced the tears back down. "Yes, Captain?"

  "May I escort you below?"

  His eyes, pale in the moonlight, were compassionate, probing, without judgment but filled with concern. The tears tried again to overwhelm her. This time, she had to sniff before she could answer.

  "That would be welcome, thank you."

  He offered his arm and she took it with real gratitude, for her knees no longer wished to cooperate with the rest of her. He took her weight, held her steady, and guided her below, the sailors stepping back and staring as she passed. They all doffed their hats and touched fingers to foreheads. That gesture of respect should be for the captain; but all of them stared, as usual, at her.

  At the door to her cabin, he paused. "Do you wish to be alone? Or shall I sit with you for a while in the great cabin?"

  And suddenly she was aware of the strength of his arm, supporting her without effort. She shouldn't be clutching the soft-as-butter, washed cambric of his shirt, nor allowing him to hover over her so protectively, so gently. She eased away and disentangled her arm from his. In the lamplight by the door to the captain's cabin, the Marine sentry stood — not Morrow this time — face like a rock, staring into space.

  "I promise I'm uninjured."

  He still didn't seem convinced, despite her attempt at a smile. "External injuries are no longer my major concern."

  The first tear spilled, and she swiped it away with a finger. "I only need to rest."

  "Then I will say no more, except if you need anything in the night or require assistance, you have only to call. I—" He paused. Although he didn't glance at the sentry, Captain Fleming straightened, the smooth captain's mask falling over his face with the ease of long practice. "—or Hennessy, of course, will be available at any hour."

  "You're very kind." Another traito
rous tear broke free. She had to escape.

  But with her cabin door open, he spoke again. "I hope you'll be able to resume your duties tomorrow."

  He couldn't mean it, not after her betrayal. But the lamplight fell fully onto his face and no glinting mischief sharpened his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I still need to write a blasted report on the battle." He seemed embarrassed, even apologetic. "And you're much better at drafting that stripped-down, cold-blooded sort of prose than I am. Hopefully I'm not asking too much?"

  "No." He had a point; she could assist him at that task. And his need dried her tears better than any handkerchief. "No, of course not, Captain. Consider my vocabulary and copperplate hand at your disposal, preferably over a pot of coffee?"

  "We'll meet at breakfast, then. Good night, my lady." He turned and bounded up the ladder.

  She still felt empty inside as she closed the cabin door behind her. But it was a hollowed-out, clean sort of empty, not the ripped vestige of a broken heart.

  If he needed her, she'd be there.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Next morning in the great cabin, they crossed out one scribbled line after another in their battle to prepare the battle report. But it refused to come together, and Fleming admitted — to himself, never to her — that it was because this would be the report to make his career. And Abbot's — the first officer who brought in an elegant and expensive captured French frigate would likely be made post and given command of her. Honestly, unless clumsily handled, the report wouldn't bring any harm to anyone else's career, either, and once Armide was bought into the service, the entire crew would share in the prize. So much importance rode on this report, perhaps it was no wonder his tongue was too tied to write it.

  Overnight Lady Clara's slender throat had swollen to twice its normal size and the bruises resembled the blackest storm clouds, resembled his feelings toward that blasted Frenchman, the scum-swimming villain who didn't deserve to look at her, much less court her. The damage looked severe and painful, but she'd refused to lie abed despite the surgeon's dire warnings. Instead, she insisted upon meeting him for breakfast and then taking out her crow quill, inkhorn, and trimmed-down foolscap. Her voice degenerated into a hoarse whisper and finally to scrawled notes in the margins, barely legible. It would take a far harder heart than the one beating in his chest to deny her the sacrifice.

  No matter that they had the rest of the cruise to finalize the silly report and she needn't have bothered.

  Even worse, however, she'd retracted back into her dignified tortoiseshell, as if she refused to share her suffering with him or anyone else. Not even Hennessy received a smile. Not even Staunton. For one shining moment on the night-time quarterdeck, she'd flashed out with her real spirit, the one that brought out the worst in his sense of humor. Now it had once again vanished, leaving him too distressed to concentrate.

  It made him want to call out the despicable Frenchman and then send the mumping miscreant to the bottom in a hammock with roundshot sewn in at his feet, rather than haul him into Plymouth. Some offenses could only be settled on a field of honor, but that word stuck in his throat when applied to Levasseur — he had none and shouldn't be granted any by a gentleman with any proper pride.

  Just where had this protective instinct arisen? Perhaps he'd fooled himself into actually considering her a member of his crew, making her his responsibility and none other's. If Staunton faced injury, or if he'd known during the battle of Chandler's, perhaps that would have aroused a similar surge toward their defense. Or was this something entirely new in his makeup, a recently developed resemblance to Cerberus?

  Or was this something entirely different and even more recent? But he had no wish to consider those possibilities, and abandoned that train of thought.

  In the end, they found two sentences upon which they could agree before he wearied of his self-inquisition and begged her indulgence to see to his ship. As he left the great cabin, he bumped into the surgeon, testy at having to wait, by Rosslyn's orders.

  Whatever that was supposed to mean, Fleming didn't wish to know.

  Not yet, at least.

  * * * *

  It became a ritual as the Channel coast came closer and closer, plotted each day at noon and entered into the log. Although her voice returned and her bruises faded to virulent yellows and greens, the surgeon advised her to remain withindoors until she'd affected a full recovery, and although her lips thinned and she glanced aside, she agreed to comply. So for as long as her injuries inhibited her enjoyment of the poop deck and its open air, Fleming dallied with her in the great cabin over coffee. Each day they swatted out a few sentences, never enough to finish the report, but always enough to justify the time and exercise. And if he occasionally rejected a perfectly adequate sentence just to keep her attention to himself, to rile her dormant temper and encourage her to push back in the tigerish manner he'd grown to admire, well, sitting with a lovely young gentlewoman wasn't a crime in his book, at least.

  Especially since the cabin doors were always open and Hennessy trotted in and out, bringing a fresh pot or Naples biscuits, taking away dirty cups and the gossip the crew doubtless awaited on the fo'c'sle. Gossip was fine, so long as he did nothing to give it horns.

  But he couldn't force or wheedle a spirited response from her, not with his best-aimed words or most infuriating comment. It was as if she'd tidied away her raw emotions that night on the quarterdeck and now refused to allow them air as long as she couldn't have any herself. Hopefully this mood wouldn't last any longer than her full recovery. The thought that it might formed ice on his skin and stole his complaisance, leaving him unhappy and yearning for one good, hard snap from the tigress.

  Five days out from Plymouth, with a fair wind and royals set, the narrowing deadline convinced him that several sentences he'd previously described as pathetic actually had hidden merit. With that concession they finally progressed in their task, and while her neck hadn't quite recovered to its normal graceful self, the bruises had diminished until it approached something resembling that state. Perhaps it was shameful that he continued to monopolize her time to such an extent, but handling the ship without his supervision was excellent experience for Rosslyn and the mids, and besides, a yell would bring him running should disaster strike.

  And the honest truth of the matter — he'd soon miss her company if forced to do without it.

  He turned the penner's sand pot in his hands, around and around. "I've never asked you regarding your father. You say he was a sailor?" He'd never asked her anything about her home life; why it mattered now, he didn't know.

  She glanced up from the dining table, littered with foolscap scraps trimmed from every possible document and covered with spare sentences, some under consideration, some cast aside. "My father, yes. In the American War he was a ship's captain—"

  He nearly dropped the sand pot. "A post-captain?"

  "I don't know." Her eyes turned down again, and she resumed sorting the scraps. "He commanded a ship called Astraea—"

  "A frigate." It was rude to interrupt, but the words simply fell from him in his astonishment. "She's still in service, although old-fashioned. And a frigate, yes, that would have made him a full post-captain."

  For a moment the fire burned behind her eyes, the tigress peering from the night beyond the campfire's circle. His heart soared and tiny invisible zephyrs breathed over his skin; he nearly shivered, the imaginary night was so real. Then the firelight died, leaving a dignified, restrained lady fingering bits of paper, and the returning ache made him catch his breath.

  "With two other British ships, they captured an American blockade-runner called Julius Cæsar and took her into Halifax. While there, he met a beautiful young lady at the port admiral's ball." A dreamy smile drifted over her curving lips. "I barely knew Mama, she died when I was quite young, but Father always said it was love at first sight. She wore the most enchanting robe à l'anglaise in green silk, with an embroidered stomacher, a bi
g round skirt, and the tiniest corseted waist he'd ever seen." Her smile grew. "Or so he always said. And they danced a minuet and the cotillion, and he admitted before the evening's end he wanted to sneak her out the back way, but instead he asked her to marry him."

  The sand pot was made from the oxhorn's base, hollowed out and fitted with a shaker top. Bands of color ran from top to bottom, sepia, tan, cream, and back to sepia. It fitted so perfectly to the inkpot, carved from the middle section of the horn, that the stripes aligned to a hair.

  "Would you wear an enchanting green silk robe à l'anglaise with an embroidered stomacher?" For a modern, fashion-conscious gentlewoman, it was the most aggravating thing he could think of to say.

  But her smile only twisted into something wry. "Not for love nor money."

  "Not even for love?"

  The embers glimmered behind her eyes, but only for a second. "Mama agreed to his proposal that very night, but only if he gave up the sea and settled with her in England. It took months of persuasion on her part, but that's how he came to be a rich, knighted merchant shipping spars and gunpowder and cordage from the Baltic, silk and spices and jewels from the Orient, rather than a fighting admiral in charge of a fleet." Her smile died away. "Would you do that for love, Captain?"

  His stomach knotted. No, he wanted to shout, as loudly as possible, until it echoed from the rafters and reached the bowsprit and main crosstrees and brought Hennessy running. No need to consider. He opened his mouth—

  —and no sound came forth.

  Was she seriously asking him? No, surely she knew better; she should know by now it would kill him to leave the sea. Her parents' romance differed, for her mother had never been a sailor, might even have been afraid of sailing, and could not have known what she asked. Just considering the notion — leaving the sea, leaving the service — was an odd, unsettling thought, and it rippled through the great cabin, through him, like an Atlantic roller that gained strength as it crossed the two thousand miles from America's coast before it crashed onto the western shores of Ireland and Cornwall and Spain and Portugal, before slamming through the Bay of Biscay with its pent-up energy and roughing up the weather like an angry Poseidon. The ripple swelled to a storm wave, almost to anger, but he quashed it; he wanted to rile her, not be riled himself.