A chill wind was blowing, playing with the ribbons of her bonnet and nipping at her cheeks. In the distance the water was as pale and smooth as the blue silk that made up her favourite evening dress, but closer it dulled to grey and crowned small waves white. She contemplated the journey that lay ahead, crossing the Atlantic Ocean to take her back to England, and knew so late in the year a poor choice for a good crossing. But Sarah had every wish to be gone from New York before Christmas.
She looked again into the distance. The vastness of the ocean soothed her. The water was polished like a looking glass, its surface unbroken save for one small dark shape. Her eye focused on the shape. She peered harder, wondering what it was—a whale or dolphin, or, more likely, a seabird. But it was none of those things. The realisation kicked her heart to a gallop. With a gasp she turned, calling as she ran.
‘Mr Seymour! There is a man in the water! Over there, in the distance!’
James Seymour, the sea-worn first mate, glanced where she pointed, removed his pipe from his mouth and regarded her with an expression of weary patience. ‘The Angel has carried many passengers alongside her cargo in her crossings of the North Atlantic and you would be surprised at just how many of them fancy they see men, and more, within this here ocean. Rest assured, ma’am, there’s nothin’ out there save the fishes.’
Sarah’s eyes swivelled to where the shape had bobbed. There was only the endless stretch of water.
‘Just a trick of the light, ma’am.’ Mr Seymour turned away.
Sarah’s gaze returned again to the empty waves. She saw him then, quite clearly in the distance. There could be no mistake. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Look!’
Mr Seymour peered at where she pointed and, with an exclamation beneath his breath, was off and bellowing for the captain.
Sarah kept her gaze on the man. Each time he slipped beneath the surface the breath caught in her throat, only releasing when he bobbed up again.
His arm raised, reaching towards her.
Sarah responded, reaching to him, as if their two hands could meet, as if she alone could save him.
‘Hold on,’ she whispered, knowing that he would not hear even had she screamed it at the top of her voice. The distance was too great, the wind too strong.
In the background, voices shouted amidst the clatter of the crew’s footsteps. Wood creaked, ropes slid, canvas billowed and cracked in the wind. The Angel was changing course, tacking into the wind so that she might reach the stranger.
‘Hold on. Just a little longer,’ she willed the man. ‘We’re coming.’
The schooner crept closer, defying the wind to reach him. As the distance diminished she saw him more clearly. Dark hair, slick and sodden. A pale face. A white linen shirt that both clung and swirled in the water. He tried to swim, but his strength was spent and the current too strong.
‘Please God...’ Sarah prayed. ‘Please.’ It was all she could do other than stand helpless and watch his struggle while the jolly boat was lowered on to the waves.
Two men rowed out to fetch him, catching hold of him, pulling him and a gallon of seawater into the little boat, bringing him back to the Angel and safety.
The sailors quietened, the murmur of voices dropping away. She was right there when they laid him on the wooden deck.
Even laying his length she could tell he was a tall man, used to activity and well formed. His feet were bare, his dark breeches hugged tight around the muscled length of his legs. He wore neither coat nor waistcoat, only the white shirt transparent against the flesh of his chest and gaping wide at the nakedness of his throat.
Her eyes slid higher to his face. Her heart stumbled and missed a beat, then raced all the faster. His eyes, which were staring into hers, were the colour of the ocean from which they had fished him, pale and blue and piercing. Something arced between them. Something that Sarah had never felt before. Time stood still. Seconds became aeons. Until, eventually, his eyes flickered shut and he was gone. Even then she could not look away, but continued to stare at the pale skin that glistened with water and the dark hair slicked back smooth...and the bloody gash that stood jagged and stark at the edge of his forehead.
Her mouth was dry as a desert. ‘Is he...?’ The words faltered against lips that were almost as bloodless as his. Her fingers curled tight, the nails cutting into her palms.
The captain glanced up, noticing her for the first time. ‘This isn’t a sight for a lady’s eyes, Mrs Ellison. We need to get him below and warmed up if he’s to survive. You should return to your cabin, ma’am.’
But she could not move. Her eyes returned to the man who lay so limp and still upon the damp deck, seawater seeping from his clothing.
‘Mrs Ellison...’ Captain Davies urged.
It took real will-power to walk away. ‘Of course, sir.’ With a nod of her head she returned to her niece and maid in the cabin below, but in her mind remained the image of a man who had defied death in the Atlantic ocean on a cold November day.
* * *
The first thing that Daniel Alexander became aware of was the pounding in his head. In those initial few seconds he thought that he was still aboard the Viper, held captive by Higgs. But as the foggy confusion cleared he remembered the events of those last hours and exactly what Higgs had done.
Somehow, Higgs had failed. God only knew how.
Daniel kept his eyes shut and tried to gauge his surroundings. There were voices, two men talking quietly. He listened.
‘There was naught on him to give a clue to his identity,’ said the first voice.
‘Well, he’ll no doubt tell us who he is and what exactly he was doin’ floatin’ around out there all covered in bruises and cuts...if he ain’t lost his memory, that is,’ replied the second, with a West Country accent.
‘As like he cracked his head when he was up the riggin’ on watch. Probably went into the water while it was still dark. No one to see him, if the rest of the crew were asleep.’
The other—older, if the gravel of his voice was anything to go by—man snorted. ‘If he’d been in the water that long he’d be dead. And he’s no ordinary seaman. Look at his hands.’
Daniel knew they would be staring down at him.
‘He’s a gent, that one.’
‘Then what the hell was he doin’ swimmin’ in the Atlantic?’
‘Now that’s the question, lad.’
Daniel had heard enough. Whoever the men were, they neither worked for Higgs nor knew who he was. Ignoring the ache in his head, he cracked his eyes open and looked up at the men. One was perhaps thirty years his senior, grey-haired, sinewy, a man who had spent his life at sea. The other was a youngster, perhaps eighteen years of age, fair-haired and fresh-faced.
‘So you’re awake at last.’ It was the older man that spoke. The boy just stared with curiosity.
‘Where am I?’
‘Aboard the Angel,’ said the same man.
‘The Angel?’ Daniel’s accent was soft in comparison to theirs, his voice, weak. Indeed, he felt as if something had chewed him up and spat him out.
‘A merchant schooner, under Captain John Davies, that transports cargo between America to England. I’m the first mate, James Seymour.’
Daniel gave a nod and then wished that he hadn’t. The pain in his head intensified to make him feel nauseous.
‘Head hurt?’ Seymour asked.
‘Like the de’il himself were pounding upon it.’
‘And it’ll get worse before it gets better.’ The man gave a grunt. ‘So, you’re a Scotsman, are you?’
‘The last time I looked.’
Seymour cracked a smile, then gestured to Daniel’s head. ‘Nasty bump that is. Hit it before you went into the water, did you?’
Trust no one. The words whispered again in Daniel’s mind and he knew, af
ter Higgs, that he would listen to them. There was no way of knowing which men or ships were involved.
Daniel shrugged. ‘Came to in the water with no sign of the ship.’
‘Best fetch the captain,’ Seymour instructed.
* * *
The boy returned with a man who was squat and packed with power. His eyes were sharp as he offered Daniel his hand.
‘Captain Davies of MS Angel. And you are?’
‘Alexander, Daniel Alexander.’ To his relief no one gave a flicker of recognition at the name.
Captain Davies wasted no time in pleasantries. ‘Oakley here tells me you were knocked overboard in an accident.’
Daniel said nothing.
‘From which ship?’
‘Miss Lively.’ It was the name of a merchant ship Daniel had had dealings with in the recent past. Lawful cargo and passengers were not the only things Miss Lively carried.
Davies didn’t even pause to think about it. ‘Never heard of her. Have you, Mr Seymour?’
Seymour shook his head.
‘I thought they would realise I was missing and come back for me.’ The naivety of his statement fitted the part that Daniel was trying to play.
Davies did not correct him.
‘With my business in New York concluded I meant to travel to London and thus paid passage to Plymouth with Captain Murchie on Miss Lively.’ Daniel could feel the fatigue tugging at him and kept the deception as simple as possible.
‘Murchie?’ Captain Davies’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place the name.
Seymour slid a look at the captain. ‘Friendly with Jim Walker was Mr Murchie.’
‘I see.’ Davies did not pursue the matter, just as Daniel had anticipated. Walker had gone to the gallows for smuggling.
‘I owe you and your crew my thanks, Captain Davies.’ Daniel fought the urge to close his eyes. ‘Mr Seymour said you are for Plymouth. I will, of course, pay my passage in full, if you do not mind waiting until we reach England. At this minute I find myself without funds.’
‘I’ll wait, sir. But it is Mrs Ellison, not me, who deserves your gratitude for she spotted you in the water and raised the alarm.’
Mrs Ellison. The angel in a dying man’s dream. Except he had not imagined her.
‘Your wife, sir?’
‘My passenger. A respectable widow of four years, travelling to Plymouth with her niece.’
‘Then I will be sure to offer my thanks to the lady.’ The words sounded slow and stilted. He wondered if his mouth and his brain were still connected.
The Captain nodded. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Alexander.’ Davies left, taking Seymour and the boy with him.
Daniel could no longer defy the darkness that was creeping to claim him. But in the gloom he saw the face of the angel again and he smiled.
* * *
Three days passed before Sarah saw the man again.
She was taking the air with ten-year-old Imelda and their maid, Fanny. As the only passengers on the schooner Captain Davies allowed them to come up on deck as they pleased, weather permitting.
The sky was grey-white, the water, cold and choppy and dark. The wind was stiff and unremitting, blowing its damp chill through every nook and cranny of the boat. Yet still Sarah sought it out at every opportunity.
‘I think I see something over there!’ Since the rescue of the man they had learned was a businessman returning to London from New York, Imelda still had not given up hope of spotting something equally exciting in the water.
‘It is just the wind on the waves, Imelda.’ Sarah stared out at the place to which her niece pointed.
‘I bet that’s what Mr Seymour said to you when you saw Mr Alexander in the water.’
Sarah gave a wry smile and breathed in another lungful of air.
‘Perhaps it is another of Mr Alexander’s pirate crew.’ Imelda had spent the past week reading An Investigation into Monsters, Myths and Villains of the Oceans and so was obsessed with the idea that the rescued man was a pirate. ‘They have hatched a ploy to sneak on to the Angel one by one.’ Imelda was warming to her theme. She had read the chapter on pirates twice already. ‘They mean to rob us and make us walk the plank. And we will be eaten by sharks.’
Fanny’s eyes slid to Sarah’s and the women exchanged smiles before Fanny answered the little girl. ‘Do you really think so, Miss Imelda?’
‘Of course, why else would Mr Alexander be in the Atlantic ocean waiting to be rescued by the Angel? I tell you he is a pirate captain with a plan to steal our jewels.’
A deep masculine voice sounded. ‘My, I cannot help but notice what a very pretty bracelet you are wearing, miss.’
The three figures spun round. Imelda gave a shriek of horror, Fanny’s face flushed puce, and Sarah found herself looking into the eyes of the man she had last seen lying half-drowned upon the deck.
‘Forgive me if I startled you,’ he said, ‘but as there is no one to introduce us I find I must introduce myself.’
Imelda and Fanny were staring at him, eyes like saucers. Sarah felt like doing the same.
He was a devastatingly handsome man. Now that it was dry, his hair was a light ashen brown, cut short and feathered in the wind. His nose was strong and straight, his mouth, both determined and sensual, with a hint of amusement about it. He was taller than she had anticipated, and the borrowed brown coat he was wearing was too tight across his broad shoulders. Fortunately the clean white shirt beneath it decently covered his chest this time and he was wearing a dark neckcloth. Sarah swallowed.
‘I am Daniel Alexander.’ His soft Scottish lilt stroked against her ear to the nape of her neck and all the way down her spine. He bowed. ‘And I am very pleased to meet you, at last.’
Sarah ignored the increased patter of her heart and curtsied. ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Alexander.’ She met his gaze with a cool calmness she did not feel. ‘I am Mrs Ellison and this is my niece, Miss Bowden.’
Imelda appeared to have been struck dumb and motionless.
‘Imelda,’ prompted Sarah.
Imelda dropped a hurried curtsy.
‘It seems that I owe you my life and my thanks, Mrs Ellison.’ He extended his hand to shake hers.
Her eyes took in his lack of gloves, and the long bare fingers, making her heart speed all the more. She hesitated, but knew she could not refuse to shake his hand.
His clear blue eyes were calm and steady and smiling as she finally grasped just the tip of his fingers. Even through the kid leather of her gloves his touch was warm and disturbing, sending tingles of awareness all the way up her arm.
‘I did no more than any person would have done.’ She withdrew her hand too quickly, turning to the ocean view once more, both to hide her embarrassment and to terminate the conversation.
But Mr Daniel Alexander was not so easily dismissed. ‘Not according to Captain Davies.’
‘Captain Davies is too kind.’ She allowed just enough of an edge to her voice—of reserve and distance. She kept her gaze fixed on the grey-blue waves with their white-flecked heads.
From the corner of her eye she saw him smile. ‘Then I must be thankful that your eyesight is so keen and your powers of persuasion so determined.’
She said nothing, just stared out to the sea, waiting for him to leave, but much to her consternation Mr Alexander showed no sign of leaving. The silence stretched until Sarah was embarrassed by her rudeness to the man who had come so close to death.
Unable to bear it any longer, she glanced round at him, her eyes moving over the bandage fixed upon his forehead and the fading bruising on his cheekbone and jawline. ‘Are you recovered from your accident, sir?’
‘Very well recovered, thank you.’ His voice was easy. He smiled again. A self-assured smile. A smile that mad
e her stomach flutter with nerves and other things. Oh Lord! She was not attracted to him.
She gave a curt nod and turned back to the safety of the ocean. The civilities had been exchanged. He should walk away now.
There was another silence in which only the wind blew and the water slapped against the boat.
‘Are you travelling on from Plymouth, Mrs Ellison?’
‘I am, sir.’ She glanced across, meeting his eyes, and holding them with the clear message, Go away, sir. I have no wish to converse with you, or tell you anything of myself.
But Mr Daniel Alexander’s gaze was unfazed. Indeed, she could see in it something that looked like amusement.
‘We are for Bowden, near Totnes in Devon. My Aunt Sarah is returning me to my family for Christmas. I stayed on a little longer after their recent visit to my aunt’s home in New York.’
Sarah suppressed the sigh.
‘I’m sure you must be looking forward to the reunion, Miss Bowden.’ His eyes were laughing, even though his mouth was all politeness.
Imelda’s face was a picture of honesty. ‘Immensely so.’ She grinned, before hastily adding, ‘Not that I would not have enjoyed Christmas in New York. I loved staying with my aunt.’
‘Naturally.’ Then, with a look at Sarah that said he knew he was baiting her, asked, ‘So, how long have you lived in New York, Mrs Ellison?’
‘Some years.’
He smiled. ‘And yet your accent...’
‘Is as unAmerican as yours,’ she finished.
Their eyes duelled across the small distance, his with provoking merriment, hers, with a coolness she was finding increasingly difficult to maintain.
‘Your voice does sound funny.’ Imelda peered up at him. ‘Where are you from, Mr Alexander?’
‘Young ladies do not ask such questions,’ Sarah warned.
‘Do not scold the lass. She has a natural curiosity, and my accent is different from most she will hear in Devon or New York.’ He looked at Imelda. ‘I’m from the Highlands of Scotland.’
A Magical Regency Christmas Page 19
