She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers. Delicate, soft, less than the touch of a feather, his kiss slammed throughout her body with the force of a lightning strike. Her knees trembled, threatening to deposit her on the quarterdeck. She didn't care. Her nerves hummed, singing like the rigging, like an intricately played harp. Oh, he could play her—
Shameless. Yes, because love had no reason for shame. It conquered shame, dignity, and anything else that stood in its way.
Being shameless with the man she really loved was nothing to be ashamed of.
She didn't reopen her eyes. "Will I what?"
Another feather-touch, on her forehead; another, on her cheek; and a gentle rasp as his bristly chin brushed her ear. "Will you marry me, beautiful Clara?"
The last of her tension left her. She leaned against his chest, letting him take her weight, and his arms wrapped about her as if he'd never let her go. "Oh, that? Of course I will."
His arms tightened. "Then we have a decision to make."
"Oh? And what might that be, captain of my heart?"
"Do we wait to be married ashore, or do we ask Captain Lamble to perform the honors?"
She withdrew and smiled. "Why not both?" On its own, her hand stole up and brushed the stubble on his cheek. "My Uncle David is going to approve."
For the first time, hesitation showed in his eyes. "You've no doubts?"
"None." She snuggled back into his arms. They felt so heavenly, entwined about her. Probably scandalous behavior for the quarterdeck, but just this once couldn't damage discipline too severely. "Because you aren't Phillippe."
Chapter Thirty-Six
Topaze swung to her mooring, Armide alongside and Flirt beyond. Half the three towns, it seemed, lined the docks, hands gesturing toward the French tricolor beneath the red ensign on Armide's masthead. Clara's heart swelled, threatening to burst from her chest. The cruise was over, the Topazes' assigned task completed, the Indiamen saved — from this menace, at least; the other perils, from Malay pirates to the Indian Ocean's caprices, the merchant ships would have to weather on their own.
Best of all, although she stood on the quarterdeck, in full view of the docks — no one pointed at her.
Captain Fleming, her own Alexander, had convinced her to wait for Uncle David's blessing before committing herself to marriage. The delay still seemed overly cautious, of course Uncle David and Aunt Helen would see for themselves precisely how perfect he was, but if a wedding in St. Andrew's would please him more than one on Flirt's poop deck, then she'd let herself be persuaded. Although it still entertained her, imagining returning home married to the perfect man, only days before her birthday. But instead she'd return home engaged to the perfect man, with two weeks to spare.
Beside her, Staunton cocked an eyebrow. "So you've made it back home safely. Surprised?"
She scoffed. "Not in the slightest. In such capable hands? I always expected to return home safely."
And the beauty of it was, every word was true. Mostly.
Across the water, a voice cracked out an order, and moments later, a captain's gig rowed from behind Flirt, crossing the Hamoaze and heading toward the docks. A round head, bisected by a scraper worn fore-and-aft, topped a round-shouldered body sitting in the stern. Captain Lamble, whose ship and crew had suffered so much under Armide's assault, and who had dealt the battle's final blow, carried the two captains' reports to the Citadel. Everyone said it would make his career; then they'd all hurriedly added, it wasn't going to hurt anyone else's, either. Clara smiled. As if she, or Captain Fleming, had anything to worry about.
He clattered up the ladder to the quarterdeck, wearing his elegant shore-going rig, his lion-hilted sword swinging at his thigh and a smile curving his lips. As it had done the night of her disagreement with Phillippe, natural authority radiated from him, making him seem taller, stronger, more imposing, even more dreamy. Hennessy followed behind, carrying the log book and ledgers that she'd helped maintain for eight thousand miles and which she'd helped balance over the past five days.
Beside her, Staunton straightened and removed his scraper. If he breathed, it didn't show.
When Captain Fleming reached for her hand, hers met his halfway.
"My lady, I must go ashore and settle accounts," he said. "Do you wish for an escort to your home? I'll join you as soon as possible, although it may not be until this evening."
Before he finished speaking, she shook her head. "No, I'll be fine with this scamp for a few hours." Staunton's elbow dug into her ribs. She returned the gesture with interest. "I'd much rather we arrive home together."
His smile faded, then twisted into that lopsided, wry grin she'd grown to love. "Going to throw me on the mercy of your pack without benefit of an introduction?"
Her smile grew. "Why on earth would you need one? And as for you, Hennessy, most amiable and excellent of cabin stewards, why are you smiling in that conspiratorial, victorious fashion?"
At mention of his name, Hennessy's face shut down into blank, well-schooled lines. But she'd already seen the knowingness behind his smirk, and suspicion bubbled within her. Everyone seemed much too complacent over her impending nuptials.
"My lady—"
"You didn't happen to win the betting pool, did you?"
Staunton tried to ease away. Clara nabbed his arm and held on. Silent and astonished, Captain Fleming stood motionless while his gull-winged eyebrows crept up his forehead.
As if he didn't wish to be drawn into the discussion.
"My lady, I'm hurt." The fact that he'd reddened belied Hennessy's innocent statement. "I'd never—"
"Then the winner passed you a cut of the proceeds. And tell me, Mr. Staunton: is it true the betting pool's subject changed from 'Will she find her French captain?' to 'When will she agree to marry Captain Fleming?'" That was a guess on her part, but it seemed well-founded, considering the way much of the crew, and even passing brig captains, had come to consider her the de facto captain's wife.
Staunton reddened, matching Hennessy's shade to a remarkable degree. Rather as if she'd selected coordinated shades of brick for a drawing room. He shuffled his feet. "Never was a change in the betting pool's subject, my lady. And while some people—" Staunton pointedly did not look at Hennessy "—seem to think the pool was on from the moment you met our captain, the rest of us know it started during that very first gunnery exercise, when someone was staring so hard at you, he didn't even see to get out of the first lieutenant's way."
Yes, she remembered that moment, when Mr. Abbot had nearly bumped into Hennessy, moongazing like a landman, staring at her, and clearly thinking more than was good for him. She did her best to scowl at Hennessy, and succeeded well enough to darken one of her coordinated shade-wearers satisfactorily.
"Well," she said, and paused. Dramatically.
The fingers holding hers loosened their grip and began easing away. She curled hers around his and held on.
"It was a profitable cruise all around," another pause, while worried eyes cut her way, "and I can't see anything wrong with that."
Hennessy deflated, his eyes closing. Staunton sniggered. "Nicely done, my lady. You had us all going there."
No more than she deserved. "I should hope so."
And there behind her very own Captain Fleming were Chandler and Wake, Mayne tagging behind them, climbing the quarterdeck ladder. Both of the leaders—
—carried bundles of white cloth, folded in their hands.
Her heart started beating faster.
"My lady." His embarrassment fading, Hennessy shifted the stack of books in his arms and nodded to the new arrivals. "A deputation from the crew and the midshipmen's berth to see you."
All three doffed their hats, nodded to the captain. And to her. Clara's heart swelled again. If this continued, she'd soon have insufficient room in her breast to contain it.
"Me lady." Wake's gnarled hand stroked the white garment he held. Beside his fingers, an edge of indigo blue encircled the neckl
ine. Tiny, meticulous stitches formed straight seams, cunning tucks, traveling down the bodice and vanishing at the fold. "We'ems shamefully late in getting your white gown to you, even though we promised faithful." He grimaced, as if mortified. "Shamefully late."
Or as if pretending to be mortified.
"Good Mr. Wake, I don't believe a word of it, so your excuses may as well cease now. You've been in on this matchmaking from the very beginning, haven't you?" She shifted target and included Mayne in her mock glare. "Both of you?"
Mayne hung his head. Wake didn't. "Well, me lady, we'ems couldn't see no reason such a mort of pretty white duck shouldn't be used for a good and proper purpose."
Of course, no one seemed surprised. Except for her. And Captain Fleming, whose frozen expression stared off into the distance as if wishing he were elsewhere but didn't know how to extricate himself without drawing undue attention to the captain's presence.
"Mister Wake. The shamelessly provocative neckline on that dinner gown? That was your doing? Poor Lieutenant Rosslyn hasn't been the same since."
Staunton choked and tried to ease away again. She tightened her grip. Mayne's head drooped lower.
And Wake's smile grew. He handed her the folded white gown.
The indigo-trimmed neckline was square but with rounded corners, and behind it the back fell into a modest V. Tucks gave the bodice form, gathering the gown above the waist, and when she shook it out the skirts flared into a short train in the back and to both sides, hemmed with indigo blue. The straight sleeves reached to the elbow and were also trimmed. Simple, fashionable, elegant: what more could a lady seek in a wedding gown?
She truly was becoming a fashion hound. Diana had taught her all too well.
Clara crushed the gown to her chest, her heart overflowing, just as she'd foreseen. Words were impossible and wouldn't be sufficient, in any case. Impulsively she reached out, drew the battered old fo'c'sleman to her, and hugged him.
His shoulders stiffened beneath her hands; his torso froze. The blue-and-white checked shirt, washed weekly in seawater during make and mend, felt crusted with salt and grime, stank of sweat and barely-washed male body, and his greying queue felt greasy against her cheek. She refused to let go, squeezed harder even though the quarterdeck had fallen silent around them, and finally his arms encircled her shoulders with return pressure.
"Thank you, Mr. Wake. You and Mr. Mayne are the best friends a fashionable girl could have."
Someone nearby barked with laughter. But when she swung around, all she saw were innocent faces and self-consciousness creeping across Captain Fleming's expression. Of course, she'd had to let both her captives go and they'd backed away, a wary Staunton out of her reach.
And Chandler, still holding a bundle of folded white, looked panicked. As if he might run for it if she reached for him. So Clara drew herself straight and instead gave him her best smile.
"We—" But Chandler stopped and glanced around, to Staunton, Wake, Mayne. Not his captain. "We all made this for you." He handed it to her and stepped back.
Tiny, delicate, exquisitely formed flowers: lace, white floral lace on the trellis pattern, the one she'd tried and failed to perfect during her time aboard. And not merely a square sheet to be cut and fashioned, but a carefully designed overdress, an echo of the white wedding gown. Clearly they'd been created at the same time, and not within a matter of days. Like any other handiwork she'd seen performed by sailors, it was of far better quality than anything she could have made herself.
Mouth open, she could only stare at Chandler.
He fumbled with his hat. "The gunner filed bits of wire down into hooks and the carpenter set them into handles, see, and then the sail-maker ripped up—" He glanced at the captain and swallowed. "—ripped up an old sail that couldn't be used no more, and turned it into thread. You'd shown Staunton the pattern and he taught us, well, everyone else at first and then I joined in later." Chandler paused and swallowed, as if waiting for her reaction to his tardiness, but still all she could do was stare. Ears bright pink, he stumbled on. "And— and we made— we made this for you. Hope you like it?"
Again words felt inadequate. But grabbing Chandler would not be an act of kindness. As Wake and Mayne left, retreating from the quarterdeck, Clara stroked the lace with reverence. It smelled a bit musty, as if the old sail had been stored away for a long time; it smelled like the ship, like heaven, and she couldn't wait to wear it.
Aunt Helen, with her delicate taste, was going to love this wedding gown. Perhaps even more after it had been aired a bit. And almost as much as the bride.
"Irish colleens could not have done better, Mr. Chandler. I'm so very touched and grateful." She held out her hand and held him with her gaze when he tried to look away. Finally, awkwardly, he accepted her clasp. "Thank you, Mr. Chandler. Not only for the lace. For teaching me to fight for what I want. For teaching us all to strive to be better than we are. For showing those of us who were born to our positions that those who work for them are not less for it. Thank you."
He listened in silence, brown eyes wide and staring, as if drinking in her meaning and letting it soak through his soul. When she released his hand, he tucked them both behind his back, then, clumsy as ever, dropped them to his sides. For a moment his mouth opened, then he paused, rolled his lips together, and swallowed. "Thank you, Lady Clara, for— for—"
"For not treating you like an awkward lout?" Staunton suggested.
Chandler's swift glance was exasperated. But Clara laughed, and the tension broke. Staunton guffawed, drawing a shy, rueful smile from the older midshipman, and even Captain Fleming's lips curved in his I'm-not-here-don't-anyone-notice-the-captain expression.
Hessian boot heels thumped across the boards, and Lieutenant Rosslyn crossed the quarterdeck, only missing his step once. He removed his scraper for the captain. "The blue cutter's ready, sir."
"Thank you, I'll come now." Captain Fleming's expression smoothed to normal. Again he reached for her hand and met it halfway. "Certain you don't wish to go ahead?"
She smiled. "I'm certain."
Aboard Armide, Mr. Abbot bawled an order to the sailors on the mainyard, still furling the sail. His gaze swept across Topaze in the way of a professional sailor, running along the lines, and when their glances crossed he smiled and waved. Astonishing, so much so that she nearly neglected to return the gesture; receiving a merry smile from Mr. Abbot felt as if the world had shifted on its axis around her. Too bad he was busy now, but later she could tease him.
Because of course she would see him later. The cruise might be finished, Mr. Abbot would most likely move on to his own command, and she might never sail with him again. But he'd remain her husband's friend for many years to come.
More boot heels on the deck, several pairs of them, and the sun vanished behind the clouds. Clara felt her smile fade with it.
Phillippe stared at them from the port gangway, surrounded by Marines. His stare fastened onto their hands, still clasped openly on the quarterdeck; then he raised his eyes to her face, her surely glowing, ecstatic face, and she made no move to restrain nor veil her happiness. And in the end, it was Phillippe who lowered his gaze to the deck. He preceded Lieutenant Pym over the side and down the accommodation ladder to the red cutter, for his lonely journey to prison.
* * * *
"My girl! My little girl!"
Through a faceful of brunette wisps, Clara hugged Aunt Helen, arms wrapped around her and squeezing in return. Impossible to say whether they laughed or cried, or both. Around them, pandemonium, uproar, hysteria even, as the footman knocked over the umbrella stand and the pugs yapped and the housekeeper screamed something about a ghost returned from beyond. Satisfying, that; perhaps the woman would cease listening behind doors. Well, Clara could hope.
"We thought you'd been taken," Aunt Helen whispered in her ear, barely audible through the tumult. Her delicate hands trembled on Clara's spine, high and low. "We thought you'd been murdered. Oh, my girl."
Guilt poured through Clara, tightening her throat with more confused tears, and she kissed her aunt's hair. "I promise I'll tell you the entire story tonight." She eased back, although she couldn't break Aunt Helen's hold. Nor did she want to. "But for now—"
Across the library at the desk, Uncle David already quizzed Captain Fleming. Caution flavored the two men's stance, but behind it, respect seemed already established. Clara's next breath came more easily. Of course Uncle David would approve; she'd thought so all along. But her heart still beat high and fast, belying her courage.
Aunt Helen threaded her flyaway hair behind an ear, her glance cutting across the library. "Your captain is a handsome man," she murmured. Her eyelashes flickered. "Is he yours?"
Time for their first admission. Clara nodded. More blinking, then Aunt Helen stepped back and fished out her handkerchief. No judgment on her face, but no excitement nor happiness, either; she'd wait for her husband's assessment before carrying her approval further. Clara's heart thudded even faster. Perhaps her aunt had drawn an improper conclusion… but surely she knew Clara better than that?
When had they learned to speak with only their eyes, all the way across the library? How could they listen with their hearts, understand with their souls? She'd never had any such method of communication with Phillippe. Of course, that hadn't been love, any more than it had been appropriate.
This most surely was love.
And as the two men spoke, Uncle David's smile became more expansive, more approving, more confident. When he glanced at her, he nodded with enthusiasm, then returned all his attention to the conversation. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely; good thing the two would have time during Topaze's refit to extend their budding acquaintance.
Beside her, Aunt Helen relaxed.
The battle for their hearts had been won.
And now it was time to complete the rout. As unobtrusively as she could, Clara slipped across the library to the little round table near the window, where the massive tome rested in red-leathered and gold-leafed splendor. On the cover, two lions rampant with spears and helms bracketed the title, the crown over all. After all, both he and Staunton had mentioned that his brother inherited the estate. With his patrician features, was it too much to expect a title accompanied the property?
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