Collins very nervously jumped in front of Reece to block the door. “Aye, Captain. But I told Heilsen that I would be returning directly. Let me handle him, then I’ll meet you in your quarters.”
Reece scowled at Collins. He was tempted to tell him that the second mate could wait, but decided against it. He needed a change, and outside all he could hear was the wind and the noises that actually belonged on a ship. “I’ll come with you. I’ve been down here too long anyway.”
Aimee heard heavy footsteps walking away, and was just starting to breathe normally again when she heard the rattle of someone asking to enter the room. Aimee swallowed, but before she could answer, a burly, flaxen-haired man in his midtwenties shuffled in and gave her a wide saucy grin. “Ahh, too bad yer awake, as the boss told me I could throw ye over me shoulder if you weren’t.”
Aimee blinked at the cheeky sailor smiling at her as if he had just won first prize in some popular event. Then he gave her a very low, showy bow, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “And just who are you, good sir, and why would you prefer to cart an unconscious female over your shoulder?”
“Name’s Hurlee, miss, and it’s best not to ask questions when one of the bosses tells ye to do somethin’,” he answered with a wink. “But if ye don’t mind, we need to leave right away.”
Aimee released her bottom lip and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Hurlee.”
“Uh, Hurlee’s me given name, miss,” he clarified as he turned and left the cabin.
Realizing that Hurlee truly meant to leave at that very moment, Aimee scurried off the bed and grabbed the loose slippers Collins had found with the other clothes he had given her. Leaping over the doorjamb, she barely caught up to the surprisingly nimble sailor before he disappeared down a set of stairs. She wanted to ask where they were going, who he was, why they had to leave, and why so fast. But instinct told her the answer to all of her questions was Reece and keeping him from finding her. Silently, she followed the broad-shouldered seaman. It was not long before her nose was able to discern at least one answer to her growing list of questions—they were headed to the kitchen.
As soon as she was safely inside, Hurlee grabbed her hand, performed another awkward low bow, and kissed each of her fingertips. “Ah, if only I could be yer One. Ye really are one beautiful woman, miss.”
Aimee shook her head and smiled, unable to be affronted by the man when he was trying so hard to flatter and impress her. But before she could reply, an empty sauce pan whizzed by her head. “Out! Out! Out wiz you, and never come back. I only agreed la dame could come in here. Not you, you . . . you . . . obscenely large man. Out!”
Unoffended, Hurlee grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and quickly scooted out of the small room, closing the door before another pan went flying toward his head. From behind her, Aimee could hear angry mutterings mostly in French. “Imbécile. Pretty women always make men go crazy.” He paused to look at her. “But it’s zat man Collins who is fou if ’e expects me to ’ide ye ’ere in me kitchen.”
Piqued, Aimee replied in English, “Since you feel so strongly, Mr. Jean-Pierre, maybe you should not hide me. I have no problem leaving this kitchen and announcing my presence to Mr. Hamilton. Of course, I’ll have to explain these.” She held up her wrists. “And, of course, just how kind you were in cleaning them.”
The cook squinted at Aimee. Her face was bruised and her dress was ill fitting, and yet the woman definitely outshone any female he could recall. Her pale golden tresses and sharp, twinkling eyes could mesmerize the most hardened of men, and JP knew he was far from immune. If only she would be haughty or proud, then he could easily spurn her presence.
Instead, he took in a deep breath and turned back to his pots. “You must love ’im deeply, mademoiselle. And I, being French, know better zan to contend wiz an emotional woman. So stay if you must”—he waved his ladle as if splashing something all around—“but be quiet.”
Aimee gave him a mock salute and smiled. Finding a narrow, tall stool next to where he was working, she sat down and propped her elbow on a bench, placing her chin on her hand. “Mr. Jean-Pierre, whatever happened to the stew you were preparing?”
Jean-Pierre stood stock-still for a moment and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. What had he expected from a woman who insisted on calling him Mister Jean-Pierre? That she would heed his simple request for silence? “It is fini, mademoiselle. Just like everyzing I prepare. I stir and combine and bake zee finest foods in zee world and zose men,” he said through gritted teeth, using his ladle as a pointer, this time toward the ceiling, “just gobble it up. No savoring. No enjoyment. Just swallow is all zey do.”
“Oh,” Aimee replied, not even trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She had no idea that nothing else could have captured the respect and the loyalty of the thin cook more.
“You really like me stuff, eh?”
“Absolutely!” Aimee proclaimed. “You included paprika, and I have been trying to convince our cook for ages that it would only enhance the flavor.”
Jean-Pierre’s eyes widened in appreciation and eagerness. “Ah, so you know something about cuisine.”
Aimee watched as he moved a large bin of carrots and potatoes over to the table she was sitting beside. “In truth, I know very little. Like you, our cook detests anyone—even other cooks—being in her kitchen. But whenever she is on leave to visit her family, I have been known to sneak into our kitchens and help with the pastries. Tilly, who stands in for her, thinks it’s amusing.”
“I zought zee, eh, nobles did not like, ’ow do you say? Get zeir ’ands dirty. Cooking can be dirty, eh? Especially zee pastry.”
Aimee got up and without thinking, selected a knife and began to assist with the chopping. “It is only a little mess, and pastries are so fun to make. The dough is like a piece of art begging to be molded.”
JP jumped as she slammed down the cleaver, cutting a large spud in two. She was right. He did not like anyone—even other cooks—in his kitchen. But it was clear she was not going to leave or just sit quietly. “Mademoiselle, zere is an apron be’ind zat cupboard zere. Yes, zere. I ’ave no use for such zings, but you may want to protect your . . . uh . . . your robe, since you insist upon interfering.”
Aimee grabbed the thick covering and put her arms through the loops. “As I have only this gown until I can stitch the sides of another, I thank you and will be glad to help you in any way I can. Just what pastry are you making?”
JP shook his head. “Never ’eard ’ardtack called a pastry before,” he said, handing her the bowl. “Keep adding a spoonful of water until it sticks togezer. Make it into a ball, let it sit, and zen roll it out very zin for baking.”
Aimee did as she was told and started to add the water, but her dress was made for a shorter woman, making it difficult for her to maneuver her arms.
JP chuckled. “So Collins gave you Rosita’s zings, did ’e, eh? If ’e ever tells you zat you are a burden, just mention ’er name. I promise you zat ’e will immediately be quiet.”
“But why? What happened to Rosita? And why did she leave her clothes aboard the Sea Emerald?”
“Ah, now, mademoiselle, I will not explain to you ze complexities of a man’s world. Just know I ’ave given you ze keys to dealing wiz Collins.”
“You are an evil man, Mr. Jean-Pierre,” Aimee replied, smiling. “And I am glad that you are my friend.”
JP froze for a second and then turned to look at her, twitching his mustache. Friend? How could she think that? They most certainly were not friends, and he did not want a single seaman on this ship to think otherwise. Not only was she a woman, but an English woman who, like all women, loved to talk. It was for his benefit—not hers—that he had not thrown her out. He was about to explain all this to her when Collins opened the door.
“My lady, I need you to come with me. You can spend more time with your new friend here tomorrow, if you are up to it.”
Realizing that Collins must
have overheard Aimee and thought to tease him about it, JP was about to remind the chief mate how unwise it would be to tangle with him. But before he could do so, Aimee had leaned over the small cooking table and kissed his unshaven cheek. “Au revoir, Mr. Jean-Pierre.”
If Collins had a death wish, he would have busted out laughing upon seeing the shock on the old cook’s face. He had already pressed his luck by teasing him about his and Aimee’s “friendship,” but he had not been able to help himself. She and JP had been gabbing like magpies and everyone knew that JP demanded absolute silence when he cooked. Collins had to hold on to the doorframe to keep himself from falling when he realized the buzzard was allowing her to actually help cook! As if a noble lady knew anything about the kitchen besides eating what was prepared there.
Collins maneuvered down one narrow corridor and into another, marching back as quickly as he could to his cabin. Once they were inside and the door was closed, Aimee asked, “Mr. Collins, whatever is the matter with you? You seemed much calmer before. I know it was a little exciting earlier this morning with Mr. Hamilton knocking on the door, but—”
“Exciting, my lady? Did you say exciting? No, that was nothing compared to later, when the captain accused me again of bringing someone on board because he could smell her—your—scent!”
Tilting her head back, Aimee peered at his face. “But, Mr. Collins, you spoke truthfully. You did not bring anyone on board.”
Collins ran his hands roughly over his face. “My lady, I think by the time this is over, I will be ready for sainthood. Half of the men are besotted with you. Bloody hell, you even converted JP! He hates everyone!”
“Mr. Collins, you do exaggerate.”
“Do I? Because I don’t think I do.”
Aimee exhaled. The man was obviously frustrated and needed to unload his burdens, so she moved to sit down and quietly pay attention to his ranting.
“I bet even Kyrk,” Collins snapped, throwing his hands up into the air, “who truly despises women being on ships, would take a liking to you given enough time. Maybe I should sprout a few blond curls so that I could bend the crew’s will to my every whim.”
“Now, Mr. Collins, you know that I am not trying to bend anyone’s will, and if I am being such a bother, then perhaps it would be best to take me to Mr. Hamilton right now.”
“Oh no!” Collins said, waggling a finger. “It was you who asked to see him after you are healed, and that is what’s going to happen. But starting now, I’m going to put down some rules, and you will follow them.”
Aimee pulled her legs up and under her to give the broad man some room, for it seemed he needed to pace. “I think that is a splendid idea.”
Collins stopped for a brief second to see if she was being sincere. Unable to decide, he continued. “Rule One. We work on four-hour shifts, so you will have to be ready to leave any cabin with only a moment’s notice. When you hear a double knock, open the door and be prepared to leave. Second rule—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Collins. But what if I am asleep? I am by nature a morning person, and find it difficult to wake in the early evening hours if I’m asleep.”
Collins stared at her, dumbfounded, for several seconds. “Aboard this ship, you’ll be what you need to be. Now for the second rule.”
“And why a double knock? How about a triple or just one solid thump? What made you decide to choose a double knock to indicate immediate departure?” Aimee couldn’t help it. She knew she was egging the man on, but he reminded her of Charles, who tended to command instead of persuade.
Collins was flummoxed the woman was daring to make light of his . . . her situation. “The second rule, my lady, is to never, under any circumstances, go into the captain’s quarters.”
Aimee scrunched her brows. She had not considered doing such a thing, but now that it was forbidden, she suddenly wanted to.
Collins hurried on before she could ask some silly question as to why. There were more reasons than just the obvious. For if she did go in, she would see pictures of herself, and there was no telling how she would react. “Third rule, unless being escorted to and from the kitchen, you are to remain in this cabin.”
That decree caused a dark shadow to pass across Aimee’s eyes, and Collins instantly knew that the even-tempered woman was no longer amused by his rules. Her icy expression could freeze the sea. However, he too was not someone easily influenced. Ask Rosita.
Aimee found her voice. “I expect you put some thought into your rules, Mr. Collins, but perhaps they could benefit from a little more consideration. For example, I suggest we revisit your third rule about me being confined as a prisoner on this ship.”
Collins clenched his jaw. “I did not ask for you to come aboard. My men did not ask for you to come aboard, and for certain my captain didn’t ask for you to be here. In your own words, you hoodwinked Petey and Gus into capturing you. And since I am the one who is in the uncomfortable position of saving you and my men, the three rules stand!”
Aimee rose fluidly and straightened her back. Collins was taller than she, but somehow she knew how to make her presence formidable. “I assume Mr. Hamilton sleeps predominantly at night?”
Collins felt like he was a puppet on a string, and he doubted he would ever get used to her calling his captain “mister.” “Aye, he does. After the night reading,” he answered hesitantly.
“Then I shall go above after he descends, Mr. Collins. It is unwise to lock someone up for too long in a small stuffy room, even one as comfortable as yours.” Aimee could see she was making little headway and was not close to persuading him. “Perhaps it is time to discuss Rosita.”
It sounded ludicrous, but she immediately got a reaction. “What about Rosita?”
Aimee shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and again sat down on the bed. God bless JP. He had been right. “Simply put, Mr. Jean-Pierre and I were having a lovely discussion when you entered. One of the more interesting topics was Rosita and how—”
Collins threw up his hands. “Fine! You can leave the cabin. But only after you are assured that the captain has retired for the night!” And then quickly added, “And it won’t be this cabin, but one of the crew’s.” It would be cramped and it would smell, but he felt no guilt. The lady deserved both.
Aimee’s smile was full of satisfaction.
“My lady, you are nothing like you look, all soft and sweet. The captain would be wise to stay clear of you.”
Aimee’s smile grew, unfazed by his assessment. “I am honestly not that bad, Mr. Collins. By next week, you might even be glad I was aboard.”
Collins shrugged and crossed his arms. “You might want to save all your charm for the bosun.” Aimee knew from what she had studied about ships that the boatswain had many jobs, from overseeing maintenance and rigging to foreman of the deck crew. “It’s now Carr’s responsibility to decide which of the crew is to watch over you and ensure you are never where you shouldn’t be.”
Aimee rolled her eyes. She suspected that was pretty much everywhere.
“Oh, and one more rule . . . stop singing.”
Chapter 6
October 12, 1816
Reece leaned back in his chair and, using the heels of his palms, he vigorously rubbed both eyes. He had been in his cabin for the last couple of hours, studying one of the new nautical charts he had procured in London. Of the latest design, it not only mapped out the current that ran from south of England toward the western coast of Africa, but it more accurately laid out how the current of Atlantic Ocean water moved parallel to the equator. Once across, he used the warm eddies that spun off from the current to push the ship northward along the eastern coast of America. It was the route Reece had used for years, but learning just where and when to turn could add or remove days from a trip.
The map was much larger than the ones he was more familiar with, in that it not only showed the currents, but the depths of the water near the coast, seabed descriptions, details of the coastline, navigational hazards, as
well as information on tides and currents. All information he needed if he intended to improve his normal route.
Reece inhaled and rubbed his scalp. Blowing the lungful of air out, he heard the sound of someone singing. It was faint, melodic, and haunting. He closed his eyes and just focused on the sound. It was the one from his dreams. Aimee was on board the Sea Emerald, humming wherever she went. And when she stopped singing, the dream always ended with her waking him with a kiss.
Ten months, he muttered to himself. After all this time, it seemed no matter where he was or what he was doing, his thoughts kept coming back to her. Frustrated, he got to his feet and headed to the upper deck to get some fresh air.
The sun was sinking on the horizon. It was always cool on deck without the sun, but they were now close enough to the equator that it was comfortable to be out at night. It also helped that the weather had been agreeable, with scattered clouds and no showers. Although it was rare they were able to get across the ocean without encountering at least one sizeable storm, it did not look like it would happen tonight.
“Collins,” Reece said as he stepped onto the afterdeck.
Collins swallowed, gave Reece a brief acknowledging look, and then snapped his brown eyes to the main deck. “Captain.” His gaze was focused on the two men staring at each other.
Reece took in the scene. Both seamen were standing, fists clenched, glaring at each other. The dogwatch crew had all stopped their duties and were eagerly waiting to see who was going to strike whom. “What happened?”
Collins pursed his lips. “Nothing much. Gilley was backing up to tighten the brail on the lower sail when he tripped over the ropes Bean was coiling.”
Reece nodded in understanding. Bean was mad at having his work ruined and Gilley probably had a mean rope burn after losing control of the brail. Accident or not, the inevitable conclusion of such a mishap was a fight. Upon looking at the two men, Gilley looked to be the more likely winner. He was far taller and had several missing teeth due to years of working—and fighting—on the seas. But Bean was not to be underestimated. Though the shortest on his crew, he was far from the weakest.
A Woman Made For Sin Page 8
