Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  “I had not considered that,” Cynthia admitted. “He is so very present, it seems hard to imagine a room without him in it.”

  “Think on it, then,” her grandmother advised. “I know that Evelyn is not the man for you, but you’ve grown up in a home where the man of the house comes home every evening. Captain Smith is a man-o’-war, not a home-at-night Johnnie. He would be gone for months at a time.” But her serious demeanor slipped for a moment. “The bright side of that is the happy return. When a sailor does come home, he is usually very pleased to see his wife!”

  Cynthia could not help smiling, but said primly, “You are a wicked old woman, Grandmama. It must be the result of having had three husbands.”

  “My dear, I had them one at a time, not all together. Not but what that might have been entertaining, but Mr. Leggett would never have got along with your grandfather. Off to bed with you, and think on what I’ve said. I will do what I can in the next few days to give you and the Captain time to get better acquainted.”

  “Thank you, Grandmama.” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and made her way back to her room, with much to think about before she fell asleep. She had just burrowed under the covers when another thought struck her—one that drove sleep from her mind.

  Commander Smith was an Englishman. His parents, his family—they all lived in England. If she were to marry him—and yes, that was a terribly presumptuous notion, but if she put all maidenly modesty aside, that was what she was contemplating—it might mean she would be able to leave the colonies forever and return to England. Her dearest wish might actually come true.

  But that could mean she might never see her brother Geoffrey again—or her grandmother. There were cousins back in England, true, but after nearly ten years, they would be virtual strangers. And as Grandmama had said, the wife of a sailor was alone most of the time. Was the intense attraction she felt for this handsome gentleman enough to sustain her in the midst of that much solitude?

  A voice that tickles me down to my toes. Yes, and not only his voice. His gentle strength! When he’d stopped her fall this afternoon, he caught her as though she weighed no more than a feather…. How lovely it would be, to have a husband big and strong enough to treat a sturdy woman like herself as the dainty creature she knew she would never be.

  But it was only in fairy tales that the prince came sailing over the horizon. Her father was probably right; a good marriage consisted of two healthy, hardworking people pulling in double harness toward a common goal. True love, especially true love at first sight, was probably no more real than mermaids and sea serpents.

  Still…. Commander Smith had seen a sea serpent with his own eyes. There might be more in Heaven and Earth than Edward Lancaster could fit into his rational, businesslike philosophy. There might even be room for love.

  Her namesake moon had risen high over the town and was shining brightly against her curtain by the time Cynthia decided that her hopes and fears really were just so much moonshine, and drifted off to sleep.

  HE CLIMBED to the rail at the stern, dove, and sliced into the water with hardly a splash. The sea was crystal clear, the color of a sparkling aquamarine, and warm as the summer sunshine. Paul swam through it with steady strokes, reveling in the freedom. His own command! True, a sloop was not a man-o’-war, but a small craft meant speed, maneuverability, and surprise. It was a first step, the chance for a second son to prove his worth. There would be challenges ahead, to be sure, but for now he was content merely to swim in the welcoming Caribbean waters, free as a gull circling in the sky, to go where he liked in this welcoming cove.

  A beach stretched before him, dazzling white, and on a little rise at the water’s edge, he saw a figure waving to him. As he drew near enough to find solid ground beneath his feet, he was surprised to see it was a woman—and not just any woman, but Cynthia Lancaster.

  Her golden hair was down, flowing around her bare shoulders and covering her nearly to her waist. He came closer, hoping she would let him brush that hair aside, and saw that what he had thought to be a skirt was in fact a long and elegant tail the same blue-green color as her eyes.

  She laughed at his surprise. “You have found your mermaid, Captain!” Then she slid into the water beside him and pulled him down into her arms, bringing his mouth to hers for a deep, passionate kiss.

  The sand dissolved beneath his feet. He found himself thinking that, of course, a mermaid’s lips must be warm. Strange, how easy it was to breathe beneath the surface. Mermaid magic?

  His hands slid down the silken curve of her hips as they drifted lazily in the water, and as he cupped her bottom in his palms, he felt, with some surprise, that she did not have a fish’s tail at all, but warm, voluptuous thighs that opened in welcome as his fingers slipped between.

  His eyes flew open in surprise, and she was a mermaid again. She spun from his grasp and swam away, tail propelling her through the water at remarkable speed. But she stopped only a little way off and waited for him, her breasts peeking enticingly through the hair that floated around her. Just as he reached her, she flipped her tail and swam away again, laughing musically.

  He chased her for a long time, knowing that if she really meant to escape, he would have no hope of catching her. At last she yielded to his persistence, coming to rest at the edge of the cove. He took her in his arms once more, lying back on the sand and pulling her atop him. Eyes closed, he kissed her lips, her throat… felt that lovely round bottom settle upon his hips, with her legs on either side of his body. He could feel her human shape with his hands as well as his body, but as he raised his head to look, she placed cool fingertips upon his eyelids.

  “You cannot look yet,” she said in her calm, musical voice. “You must have faith and perseverance.”

  He nodded in agreement, knowing that if he could win her trust, he would be rewarded with her love. And rewarded he was, as her breasts floated across his face, inviting him to taste. The gentle rocking of the water moved them closer as naturally as the tide, and when they came together at last, he could think only of a ship returning home to port after a long journey. Home at last, at last….

  A hideous racket brought him out of the dream and bolt upright. Paul was on his feet and reaching for his sword before he realized he was not in his hammock, nor even at sea. The noise erupted again, and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. A rooster—damnation, why could the accursed fowl not have held his peace for just a few minutes more?

  Just as well, perhaps. A few minutes more would have meant a bit of cleaning in this bed so generously given him. Perhaps he should have stayed at the inn, after all!

  Facing Miss Lancaster across the breakfast table was going to be a challenge after cavorting so shamelessly with her in the ocean of his dreams. What a treat that would be, though. If they were to marry—with her it would be marriage or nothing, and he wanted nothing less—if he was able to find a secluded spot, would he be able to persuade her to frolic with him in the water?

  There could be only one way to find out.

  MORNING DAWNED bright and clear, with a tang of autumn in the air. The leaves on maples and chestnuts showed colors proving that the chill of the night before had been no illusion. Conversation around the breakfast table, as though by mutual consent, stayed on harmless topics. Cynthia was pleasantly surprised by the fact that every time she glanced in the direction of Commander Smith, she found him watching her with a distracted expression on his face. She did not want to jump to conclusions, but she thought that perhaps her grandmother was right about his interest. Grandmama herself chatted with that gentleman quite pleasantly, describing various local sights that he might wish to see during his visit.

  Cynthia’s father seemed uninterested in conversation. He ate his eggs and mush with a single-minded determination that suggested he had important business awaiting him. Mr. Lancaster finished quickly and rose, but just before he turned away, he mentioned offhandedly that he was planning to invite young Humboldt home for dinn
er.

  While he was off in his study fetching some papers he needed, Cynthia excused herself and followed him. She rapped lightly upon the half-open door. “Papa?”

  His brows drew together, but he said only, “Yes, Cynthia?”

  What she had to say was incredibly difficult, so she took refuge in the commonplace. “Is—is there anything you would particularly wish me to prepare for dinner?”

  He brightened—with relief, she thought. “Oh! Oh, well, if you happen to find a nice piece of whitefish at the market, that would be pleasant. I was thinking of inviting Mrs. Humboldt, as well, and I believe she is partial to fish.”

  “Shall I send the invitation around to her, then, so she will not be troubled with preparing a meal?” If she did not, she could be quite certain that her father would wait until the end of the day to invite Evelyn, leaving his mother with a meal prepared and no one to eat it.

  “Excellent idea, my dear. You are a fine hostess. Is that all you needed to ask?”

  She had to speak. “I am afraid not, Papa. After last night’s conversation—please, please tell me you do not mean to order Mr. Humboldt to propose marriage to me!”

  His look of mingled surprise, embarrassment, and anger told her that her fears were well-founded. “See here, Cynthia, you know I have your best interests at heart.”

  “I know that you do. But—Papa, being a man, perhaps you have no idea how humiliating it would be to know that someone had been commanded to ask for my hand!”

  “I’m sure he means to, daughter. I’ve had him hard at work preparing for the removal—too hard, perhaps, if I’ve left the lad no time for courting.”

  Cynthia nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “Papa, what do you mean to do? I can only imagine the list you might make for poor old Evelyn!” She closed the door behind her, to be sure her impertinence did not carry outside the room. “Things to Do,” she said. “One: Check Bills of Lading. Two: Put Records in Order. Three: Pitch Woo to My Daughter. Papa, I do not believe that Mr. Humboldt wishes to marry me, or he would have taken some action of his own accord.”

  “Now, dear, you can hardly blame the young man. It’s to his credit that he may be reluctant to take advantage of his position.”

  “Once you gave him permission, he would have no reason to hold back—unless he had other plans of his own. Did you ask if his affections were engaged elsewhere?”

  Her father cleared his throat, obviously taken aback by her vehemence. “Of course not! His mother assured me that he is quite fond of you, and he himself agreed that you are a fine young woman!”

  Exasperated, Cynthia suppressed the reply that sprang to her lips. What would you expect him to say, Papa? “No, sir, your daughter is a podgy baggage and I would not have her as a gift!” “Papa, naturally Mrs. Humboldt would say that. I expect she would say that she herself is fond of me! But fond is not the same as enamored.”

  “You read too many books,” he said irrelevantly.

  “Tell me, sir—how would you have felt if your father-in-law had ordered you to marry my mother?”

  “Immoderately blest!” Her father set his bundle of papers down and faced her squarely. “I would have said ‘Yes, sir, immediately, sir!’ Now, daughter, I realize that you are—”

  “‘—not the beauty your mother was, but a fine young woman nonetheless,’” Cynthia finished bitterly. How many times had she heard those words? “No, I am not beautiful, Papa. But am I so repulsive that you must force a man to marry me in order to keep his employment?”

  But he had regained his composure, that rock-solid conviction of his own correctness. “Let’s have no more of this hysteria, Cynthia. You are overwrought about the move, and must allow yourself to be guided by my experience. You have little knowledge of the world, and no way of knowing what is best for you.”

  Cynthia took a deep breath in the face of his obduracy. “Perhaps not, sir. But I do know in my heart what is worst for me, and if Evelyn Humboldt proposes marriage, I promise you I shall refuse him.”

  He looked at her as though realizing for the first time that she was no longer the dutiful young girl who had taken up the reins of the household after her mother’s death, the anxious child to whom her father’s approval meant everything in the world. “You cannot mean that, girl.”

  “I have never meant anything more. Papa, I am sorry.”

  He stood staring at her, and then his eyes went to the portrait of her mother that hung over his desk. Forever young and beautiful, she smiled down at them both, benevolent but distant. He sighed. “If only your mother had lived, she would have talked some sense into you,” he said at last.

  Cynthia had been thinking the very same thing herself. Surely her mother would have understood! “Please, Papa—let us not quarrel over this.”

  “I have no reason to argue with a chit of a girl,” he said. “If you mean to be disobliging, please do not invite the Humboldts to dinner this evening. You and Evelyn will be in each other’s company often enough on the voyage to Nova Scotia. I am certain you will come to appreciate his worth.” He gathered up his papers and left the study, leaving Cynthia staring at her mother’s exquisite face, beautiful, remote, and completely out of reach.

  “MISS LANCASTER?”

  She jumped in surprise, and Paul apologized for startling her.

  “Oh, it is I who should apologize, sir. I was speaking with my father before he left, and the conversation turned to—to old family memories.” She indicated the portrait with a nod of her head.

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes. She never wanted to come to America, you know. It broke her heart to leave England, and she never recovered. Was she not beautiful?”

  “Indeed, quite beautiful.” The lady in the portrait had ethereal blue eyes and very fair hair, arranged atop her head with wisps escaping to form a halo. Her dress, too, was of some gauzy stuff, giving the impression of an angel floating off to Heaven. She had a delicate beauty that was utterly perfect and dreadfully fragile. “But I’d hate to have had her on any ship of mine.”

  Cynthia gave him a look of utter shock—and then burst into laughter. She quickly clapped both hands over her mouth and gave her mother’s portrait a guilty look. “Oh, dear—I feel I should apologize to her for laughing.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I meant no disrespect; it’s only that—if the portrait is true to life, she does not look as though she had much endurance.” Unlike her daughter, who glowed with the bloom of vigorous youth. “If she were on a ship under my command,” he felt compelled to explain, “and I had the responsibility for her safety and well-being, I would be most concerned.”

  Cynthia nodded. “You are exactly right, Captain. She suffered terribly from seasickness on the voyage from England. Fortunately my brothers and I were immune, and I was able to look after her.” She turned away from the portrait and led him back to the hall that ran out to a foyer between the parlor and dining room. “I meant to ask you, sir, should I address you as ‘Captain’ or ‘Commander’? My grandmother says that every man who commands a ship may be properly called Captain.”

  “I appreciate your grandmother’s compliment,” he said, “but it is only the men who serve under my command who must address me in that way. You may call me anything you like, though I should be most pleased if you would use my given name.”

  “Paul,” she said, as though testing the sound. “I should like that—and I would be very pleased if you would call me Cynthia—but I fear my father would become apoplectic if we were to be so familiar on such short acquaintance. He and my mother addressed one another as Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster all their married life.”

  “Miss Lancaster, then,” he said. “If you wish to call me Captain, Commander, or Jolly Jack Tar, I would be equally honored.”

  “Jolly Jack Tar?” Her eyes sparkled. “I might, you know!”

  He made a comic bow. “May this humble sailor accompany you to the market, milady? Your grandmother said you might be in need o
f an escort.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. I shall be ready in a few minutes.”

  He was admiring how gracefully she ascended the stairs when Mrs. Leggett popped out of the kitchen with a tea tray in her hands. “Captain, here is a fresh pot of tea. Do you have a moment to spare an old lady?”

  He took the burden from her. “The question should be whether you have a moment for me. I am at your service, ma’am.”

  “My compliments to your mother.”

  “How so?” He followed her to the parlor, set the tray down where she indicated, and took the cup she filled for him.

  Mrs. Leggett sat, indicating that he take the chair nearest hers. “It’s not easy to turn a rascally boy into a well-spoken gentleman,” she said. “I should know—I’ve raised half a dozen, one way and another.”

  Paul did the sums. “All of your own children were sons, then?”

  “Yes—the only girl-child in the bunch was Cynthia, and I will admit to you that she’s my favorite of them all. Now, sir, our circumstances make things very difficult for both of you, but if we wait for that misguided son of mine to see which way the wind’s blowing, you may miss your chance. Someone has to ask the proper questions, and that someone is myself. With regards to my granddaughter—are your intentions honorable?”

  He nearly spilled the tea onto his breeches, and laughed. “By God, ma’am, if you were a man, you’d be Fleet Admiral. That was worthy of Sir Francis Drake!”

  “Thank you, sir. The child is dear to me, as I said, and my guess is that you could change her life or break her heart. I’ll not sit idly by if I’ve misjudged you, so speak up, if you please. Is it your intention to court Cynthia? Have you any other attachments back in England?”