And he had no business making comparisons, in any case. There were no parallels between her parents' romance and the relationship between him and his clerk, because there was no romance here.
None.
Was there?
No. Surely not.
Her father's sacrifice, though — it went beyond poignant. Just the thought of it was unbearable. It ripped and shook Fleming to his core.
No. Not quite. As she shuffled papers beside him, his unconsidered, soul-searching thoughts found, in the very center of his heart, a solid chunk of his most inner being that remained undisturbed. Deep within him lived a man who could leave the sea, unhappy perhaps, grieving certainly, but without bitterness or remorse. He could do it.
For love.
And the unshaken nature of that chunk of his soul, as he contemplated such a change at her rhetorical request, could mean only one thing.
He could do it for her.
No other explanation accounted for his unsettling thoughts. He'd fallen, not in lust, but in love with Lady Clara. And if the only way he could have her was by leaving the sea and the service, then a cold, contained part of himself was prepared to do so.
Just like her father.
He wanted Lady Clara beside him, not only at table and on the quarterdeck, but when he awakened each morning in the hanging cot — and more importantly, when he laid down in it each night. It wasn't the satin sheet he yearned to feel stroking him, nor even her crow quill. And the thought of turning around during gunnery exercises without bumping into her stripped all the heady thrill from the imagined smells of gunpowder and slow match. She'd proven she'd go below during battle; his only concern would be keeping her away from the cannons once she was there.
And bonne chance to that.
But could she love him in return? That blasted Frenchman had broken her heart, and now the woman he loved had buried herself within that brittle shell of dignity and refused to relax her guard. He'd dearly enjoy to "engage the enemy more closely," as the signal flag said, but she had the weather-gauge and he couldn't force the battle. Nothing he'd tried had helped an ounce and he'd run out of ideas. Watching her pen scratch out another sentence on the sheet of foolscap, Fleming realized the next move would have to be hers.
Five days. They'd enter Plymouth in five days. Unless a fever broke out aboard ship, forcing them all into quarantine, he had that long to break through her self-imposed shell.
In the background, something squawked. An all-too-well-remembered, evil squawk.
And a frisson of horror rippled up his spine.
They were framed by the open stern window, forming their horrid little battle line on the ledge of the central panes: Red Spectacles, Blue Cheeks, and Mask. Blue Cheeks clacked his beak as if clearing his throat, Red Spectacles turned his head and riveted them with one gimlet eye, Mask opened his mouth—
—and Fleming wondered if he could reach his cavalry saber from where he sat at the dining table, preferably without Lady Clara noticing. It was past time to find out how parrot soup tasted.
She stared back at Red Spectacles with something awakening behind her eyes. It didn't seem to match his horror. Perhaps primness, but that didn't seem right, either. And the pettifogging parrot never blinked.
Mask said, "Mary."
Blue Cheeks clacked his beak a few more times for good measure. "Mary. Mary." He nudged Red Spectacles, who obediently joined in. "Mary. Mary."
"Mary had a."
"Yes indeedy."
"Mary had a little lamb."
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
He hadn't heard this one. Whatever was coming, he could no more prepare for it than Lady Clara. If he didn't frighten the silly things away or behead them first, of course.
"A little lamb."
"Lambie pie."
"She kept it. She kept it."
""Where oh where."
"She kept it.
"In a bucket."
They passed the lines back and forth like children with a ball, like dock workers unloading goods from an Indiaman, like a servant braiding a lady's hair. The waisters must have spent hours training the little pepperpot nuisances. He could reach out, grab the saber, and put the birds out of his misery. But he'd be a remarkably unpopular captain in tune with the stroke, and there was no guarantee they wouldn't duck beneath the saber and invade the great cabin. Then Hennessy would be hours getting rid of them. At least right now they only stood on the window ledge.
"Mary had a little lamb." Mask bobbed his head like a deranged horse nodding in a field.
"She kept it in a bucket." Red Spectacles turned that beady eye his way and fixed him with a malicious glare. "In a BUCK-et."
No. That rhyme he could see coming a nautical mile away. Fleming moved more slowly than a wet week, stretching one hand toward the weapons arranged in decorative groupings on the wall.
Blue Cheeks edged away. A tiny little brain, perhaps; stupid, no. "BUCK."
Red Spectacles chasséd sideways. In the other direction. "BUCK. BUCK."
And Mask climbed vertically up the window's railing, needle-sharp claws digging in. "BUCK." He bit into the wood, held on while he arranged his feet, then let go. "BUCK." The little fornicating dunderhead grabbed the upper edge of the window frame and side-stepped onto it. Upside down. "BUCK."
"And every time." Blue Cheeks ran out of ledge for easing away and stepped onto the upper cushion of the window seat. Into the cabin. Still inching sideways out of reach.
"Every time." Red Spectacles hopped down onto the seat itself and walked along it with mincing Hackney steps. "Every time."
Mask took up the song. Still upside down. "Every time the bulldog came."
If he jumped for the saber, they'd flap off in all directions at once. If he took much longer reaching for it, it would be too late. Either way, he and decency would lose.
And Lady Clara was about to hear it. Her eyebrows were pinched together, cheeks pink. Her lovely lips were pursed as if she'd tasted something acidulous, and her eyes reflected growing horror — or growing something. Clearly she'd heard a few naughty words in her time and knew what was coming just as he did.
"Mary had a leet-tle lamb." Mask seemed to love that line, savoring it syllable by syllable.
"She kept it in a BUCK-et." As Red Spectacles seemed to love that one. He lifted one foot from the seat and posed, tilting his head sideways. No chance he'd fall, of course.
"And every time the bulldog came." Blue Cheeks paused. His dramatic sense was flawless. "He always tried to."
They'd reached the peccant part. And he'd reached his target. His fingers fumbled along the wall. There. The basket hilt of his lion-hilted cavalry saber. He tried to draw it from the mounted scabbard without undue noise disturbing the rowdy Greek chorus, but at the whisper of steel they moved more quickly.
Mask spread his wings and flapped where he dangled, ready to go. "Always."
One reasonable target. That was all he asked.
"Always tried to." Red Spectacles scurried for the window seat's far end.
Blue Cheeks crowded into the other corner. "Al-ways. ALL-ways."
"He always TRIED to," Mask crooned. Like a signal.
In desperation, Fleming swept the saber free and swung at Mask. The parrots erupted into flight and Lady Clara leapt to her feet, dancing back out of the line of battle. Wings filled the great cabin, beating as if tiny flying demons had invaded. They screamed together: "CHASE IT ROUND THE YARD!"
He sagged. Oh, would he inspect the waisters come Sunday. Not half, he wouldn't. He'd inspect them straight to a rigged grating and take the cat out of the bag, something he hadn't done in months at sea.
Something wheezed behind him.
For a moment he allowed himself to hope that his wild swinging had felled at least one of the little brutes. But maybe he'd struck Lady Clara. Appalled, he whirled around.
She leaned back against the for'ard bulkhead, well out of range, still wheezing. Hand pressed to her
side. Chest heaving in huge gasps, released puff by puff. Her knees buckled and she slid down the wall, slumping into a disordered heap on the sailcloth rug. She paused, wiped the first tears from beneath her eyes, hauled in a deep breath.
And resumed laughing.
"Oh." She wiped more tears. Her shoulders shook and she slumped lower. "Oh, dear, your face."
He'd thought she laughed at the birds. Impudent little baggage. He hefted the saber. No. Not a good idea, Mrs. Fleming's little boy. With infinite care, he slid the heavy weapon back into its scabbard.
The beating wings faded away and the parrots settled on the backs of the dining table chairs, their show over. Fleming stared down at Lady Clara. She was helpless with laughter, young and carefree. Perhaps he'd been too hasty, reaching for a weapon, when the worst the birds could do was swear in front of a lady. They'd never offered to bite or claw anyone. He'd been cruel and thoughtless, risking the waisters' beloved pets.
Even if they'd made a fool of him. She hadn't laughed in so long, not since the night they'd danced on the quarterdeck before the storm. She was welcome to make up for lost time at his expense. He settled cross-legged on the sailcloth rug beside her. She sounded so delighted, so pleased. His heart sang within him and he knew he grinned along with her.
Finally she sat up, gasping. "Oh. Oh, dear. I thought…" She paused, as if unsure how to continue.
He nodded to fill in her blank. "Yes, I thought they'd say it, too."
"No." She tried to sit up and finally, still weak with laughter, succeeded in pushing herself straight. "I meant to say, I thought I loved him."
Fleming froze. Her words seemed to slip around him like a warm blanket, twisting the conversation he'd thought they were having into something else entirely. "You came all this way to find him."
"Yes, I did. Silly, wasn't it? I don't love him. I didn't, not even then. I only thought I did, and now I know the truth: I was enamored, I was bewitched." She paused and hauled in a breath. "I was silly."
Time seemed to stand still around them, as if the water splashing along Topaze's side represented not distance travelled but a sort of living and sailing in place. Between them on the rug, her hand rested, fingers so relaxed they curled naturally around her palm. Almost as slowly as he'd stalked the sword, he took her hand and folded it between his own. Her eyes widened, fastened on their clasp, raised and met his.
And widened further. As his heart began to beat faster.
"You were a child then. Now you are a woman."
Her sideways look twisted to the wry side. "I hope you aren't giving me too much credit."
Her palm was so soft. He could imagine it against his bare skin… no, better not. At least, not yet. "A child would not have grabbed the rammer and helped work Biting Bruiser while standing in full view of an aroused and hate-filled enemy." He didn't want to, but he settled her hand on her lap. And withdrew his hands to his knees. Not hers. "Mr. Abbot told me what happened, how the French gunners tried to turn their cannons on you specifically and how he had to convince them that was a bad idea. He said you never flinched. From him, that's the highest praise."
A ruddy glow warmed her cheeks. Behind her eyes, a lamp began to burn, hotter and brighter than any flame.
And clearly I no longer consider you a child. Clearly I respect and approve the woman you've become. But the understanding, the sheer unmistakable knowingness in her expression, negated any need to speak his thoughts aloud.
Instead he pushed up from the cabin floor and dusted off his seat. "The parrots are drinking your coffee, you know."
She glanced at the dining table. All three of the rascals stooped over her cup, beaks dripping. Red Spectacles stood on the saucer's rim and bobbed his head up and down as if demented.
More demented than normal.
Which was saying a lot.
"The good news is," Lady Clara said, "I believe we completed that dratted report."
Until he could think of something else to add, for purposes of claiming her attention. No, that juvenile tactic was best abandoned. It had served its purpose, and now he could only wait.
He'd made his message clear. Now he'd have to live with the results, be they lady or tigress.
Or disappointment.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The lush night blazed with stars, except for one small drift of clouds across the fat, full moon, a hand's breadth above the horizon. Clara stood at the taffrail, watching the wake's glittering phosphorescence, the night beating in her very blood. The wind in the rigging sounded like some whistling sort of harp, the water along the sides added depth, and the Atlantic rollers provided an underlying, felt-rather-than-heard rhythm. The music of the nautical night was so beautiful, her bones ached within her.
Someone stood beside her; another pair of hands, hard-worn and strong, gripped the rail alongside hers. Captain Fleming, too, watched the wake, his expression thoughtful, even distant. But that underlying rhythm added some unseen, unseeable depth to him, as well, and it glistened in his eyes.
When he held out his hand, hers met it halfway, as if they'd practiced the move for hours, and when he turned her onto the poop deck, she understood his purpose without a conscious thought.
In this dream-like haze, they danced. Topaze guided them through the steps, as she'd done the first moment Clara's slipper had touched her deck. When Topaze dipped to port, Clara retreated, allowing Captain Fleming to advance; when the deck straightened, they reversed. The night's music accompanied them as they gave both hands across and turned, balanced back, crossed and went below, and repeated, with a chassé back to position.
Her few remaining hairpins refused their duty, their pressure against her scalp slipped, and her knot collapsed onto her shoulder, unfurling over her sailor dress. When they interlocked for the arm-right circle, he reached across and fingered her mane as they spun. Something swelled within her, the night sharpening as if coming into focus. If this was a dream, she wanted to never awaken.
But in her heart, her soul, her dancing feet, she knew it was no dream.
His stare intensified, his gaze boring into her, and her steps faltered. Topaze dipped again, but instead of continuing the dance, he paused beside her, his arm slipping from hers, his hand running down her arm and closing around her fingers. And the searching depth within his eyes drew her in. For some reason, her heart began beating again, louder, more quickly than usual, almost as if it sang along with the night.
"I suppose you'll be happy to see home again."
Before she thought it through, before he'd even finished the words, her head was already shaking. "I never want to leave."
The edges of his lips turned up and his eyebrows lifted with them. "You like us that much? Shipboard life, I mean?"
She knew what he meant; shipboard life, forsooth. "You — and the officers and crew, of course, have done so much to welcome me aboard that I feel this is my home now."
"But you have a home in Plymouth, you've said?"
"A house, yes."
"Ah." He lifted her hand. Did his lips actually touch her skin, or was that his breath, blowing across the back of her hand? She shivered, one long, delicious sensation that rattled her insides to hot jelly. "You know, you've only been on one short, very short cruise. You've no idea what it's like, running short of water and rationing it in the tropics, running out of stores in the Indian Ocean and eating the same slop as the crew, fighting assorted insects for stale hardtack. Perhaps you should take some time and gather additional experience before you make a hasty decision."
But her head was already shaking again. "As Mr. Chandler reminds us, there's a clear difference between enjoyment and fulfillment, and sometimes one must be sacrificed for the other." She turned over their hands, still clasped; calluses roughened his fingers and palms. He could hold onto the prickliest rope, among other things, without suffering injury or pain. "We've never spoken of your home, you know." Oh, her words sounded shameless, and in that moment, she realized that she
was.
She was.
And she didn't mind her shamelessness. Nor did his answer matter. No matter what assets Phillippe could bring along, Captain Fleming offered something Phillippe would never have.
Her heart.
He didn't seem to mind, either, and shrugged. "I don't keep a permanent one. My elder brother inherited the property. When I'm ashore, I sometimes stay with him, or in Plymouth, or even London. Sometimes it's best to remain near the Admiralty and pepper them with requests for a ship."
"Are you ashore much?"
"Not more than six months at a time since I was a mid. I contrived to make as few enemies as possible on my way up through the ranks, so I've been able to get employment with a fair regularity."
"Six months. Sufficient time for a London season and six weeks with family. Perfect." She couldn't believe those words left her mouth. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the glee residing therein, and believed it. She laughed.
Exultation swept across his face. "So you will, then?"
Too easy, cully. "Will I what?"
Those incredible eyebrows folded in the center and soared. "Now, don't be like that."
"Like what?" she said, but before her dignified words were complete he'd stepped nearer, so very much nearer, far too near for any sort of propriety, but when she tried to step back his hands slid around her waist — her waist — and held her in place. Her heart beat faster still, as if it would explode from her chest. "You — you take far too many liberties, sir."
"Indeed." His voice was the barest whisper. He bent nearer, still nearer, his gaze never wavering, and all thoughts vanished from her head; the night, the moon, the heart-stopping beauty, all of it vanished. There was only him, his dazzling eyes, roughened skin, curving, softly parted lips that came closer and closer until—
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