by Jane Feather
Meg nearly choked on her first sip. What was he playing at? Did he view flirtation as an automatic reaction to the presence of a member of the opposite sex, however inappropriate the setting? Was he some kind of lecher? A Casanova rather than a Cosimo. Non-response once again seemed the most dignified response. She ignored the comment.
Cosimo smiled as he tipped his head back to the sun again. He was enjoying himself. Miss Meg had bested him verbally all too often in their short acquaintance and pressing the attack seemed like a viable tactic. It had certainly caught her off balance and that gave him a little advantage. If she was discomposed by his pointed flirtation, all the better. Even if she did accuse him of clumsiness, he reflected with a slightly caustic edge to his smile.
He realized that his present enjoyment was enhanced by the proximity of her slight frame. Ana’s gown was a little big for her, giving her an appearance of frailty that he was confident was merely an illusion. He liked the fact that she’d come shoeless on deck, a lack of interest in the propriety of her appearance that was in keeping with the outspokenness of her personality, as he’d encountered it so far. And a quality that boded well for the use he would like to make of her. She seemed unconcerned by the hopeless tangle of tight red curls that flew every which way around her angular face. The previous day’s rain had given her an unruly and distinctly frizzy halo.
As if aware of his reflective assessment of her charms, Meg sat up and adjusted the loose bodice of her gown, retying the sash rather vigorously beneath her small breasts. She glanced sideways at him and didn’t know whether to be reassured or not when he didn’t even open his eyes.
Gus flew down from the railing, creating a welcome diversion. He hopped onto Cosimo’s knee and regarded him with head cocked. “G’morning . . . g’morning,” he declared with what Meg would have sworn was a questioning note.
Cosimo opened one eye. “Surely a man can take a nap on a sunny afternoon, Gus.”
“G’morning,” the macaw repeated with rather more insistence.
“He is the most extraordinary bird,” Meg said. “He makes everyone do exactly what he wants.”
“He has us all well trained,” Cosimo agreed, opening both eyes and hitching himself farther up against the railing. “Pass me the glass, will you?”
Meg handed him the wineglass. He filled it and drank with a little sigh of pleasure. She remembered something he had said when first they’d met. “This mission of yours,” she said rather musingly. “I understood you to say it was a matter of some urgency . . . so much so that you couldn’t possibly take the time to turn around and take me back to Folkestone.”
His eyes sharpened a little and he turned to look at her. “Yes, I did,” he agreed. “What of it?”
“For a man with a sense of such urgency, you seem remarkably untroubled by being becalmed,” she pointed out. “A whole day has been wasted, it seems to me. And if you can’t make harbor tonight, then a whole night too.”
He smiled again and shrugged lightly. “I’m a sailor, Miss Meg. I know I can do nothing about the wind. It will serve me when it chooses and only then. I await its pleasure with patience.”
Once again she had the sense of that deep core of the man existing beneath this carefree, amused façade. A stillness ran there with the hardness that she’d already seen. What else? Power and resolution, she was convinced. Cosimo was no idle dilettante sailor.
“Why do you sail a sloop-of-war?” she asked abruptly. “You don’t belong to the navy.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not in so many words.”
“Ah.” Meg sat up fully, curling her legs beneath her. “A denial that’s not a denial. I’ve always found those most interesting.”
He nodded. “Yes, I can see why.”
“But you’re not going to say anything else?”
He shook his head this time. “No.”
Meg absorbed this, continuing to look at him with interest. Whatever his mission it had something to do with the war. “Did those men-of-war leave Folkestone with you?”
The gleam in his eye intensified. “So you noticed them?”
“They were hard to miss.” She turned to look out between the rails and then pulled herself to her feet and scanned the horizon. “They’re not in evidence now.”
“They too are at the mercy of the same mistress,” he said, standing up with her. “The wind plays no favorites.” He walked across to the helm and picked up a telescope. “Here, take a good look at your surroundings, Miss Meg.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said tartly as she took the telescope. “It makes me feel like a governess.”
At that he laughed. “Oh, no, not you, Meg. No governess ever had such ungovernable red hair and such an asp’s tongue.”
“I wouldn’t know, I never had one,” she said, raising the telescope. “At least not beyond the age of five.”
“So you attended an establishment . . . a school for young ladies,” Cosimo said.
Meg lowered the telescope. “Drawing, study of the globe, a little pianoforte, a little Italian, a smattering of French?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I didn’t have a governess beyond the age of five and I was never educated in some establishment to be one.”
Cosimo was puzzled. He knew little about the education of girls, but women of Meg Barratt’s position, or at least what he assumed from her manner was her social position, usually had some kind of formal learning. “You had no education beyond the age of five?”
“We had tutors,” she said impatiently, scanning the horizon. “Of course we were educated.”
“We?”
“My friend, Arabella. We grew up as sisters.” She lowered the telescope and turned slowly to look at him. “I have family, Cosimo. A father and a mother . . . as well as Bella and Jack, who will be frantic at my disappearance. Do you not understand how I feel? . . . How they must be feeling?” She stared at him and for a moment he saw revulsion in the green gaze, and a sheen of tears.
He drew a deep breath. “I can do nothing about it until we make landfall. You must see that.” He gestured at the sea, the sky, the empty vista.
“Not at this moment, certainly,” she said, the tears gone. “But you could have done when first you realized your mistake, and you can rectify the situation as soon as we reach Sark. There must be someone . . . some fishing boat, who will take me back.”
He hadn’t ignored Meg’s situation, Cosimo reflected, but he had put it to the back of his mind. He had been concentrating on plans that didn’t involve sending her back to England and so he hadn’t allowed such a possibility to interfere with his greater purpose. An error, clearly. He needed her confidence.
“As I said, that’s always a possibility, but . . .” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “But what is a certainty is that once we land I can ensure that a message reaches someone you choose in England within thirty-six hours.”
Her eyes widened, lost some of their scornful anger. “How?”
“A pigeon courier.” It was a piece of information that gave little away. She had already surmised that he was in some way connected to the navy. It would come as no surprise that he should have access to some of its resources.
Meg absorbed this in silence. It made perfect sense and it would bring relief to her loved ones much more quickly than an uncooperative wind and a fishing boat could. Presumably the pigeon went to its home in England and a human being took the message to its destination. There was something rather cloak-and-dagger about the idea of homing pigeons, however. Questions hovered on her tongue and were quickly swallowed. Cosimo was niggardly with information and she was fairly certain he wouldn’t satisfy her curiosity too easily. “Thank you,” she said simply. “That relieves my mind.”
“Good.” He turned to the rail beside her and took the telescope. The distant land was suddenly sharper. He looked up at the pennant flying from the topmast. It stirred faintly.
“Wind, Captain,” a voice called, fro
m nowhere as far as Meg was concerned. But the sloop came instantly alive. Men lazing on deck were on their feet, others spilled upwards from the companionways, a broad-shouldered man appeared at the helm, rapidly unlashing it.
“Make sail,” Cosimo called between cupped hands and sailors leaped into the rigging. Meg watched with fascination as the sails were unfurled and snapped by a sudden gust before Cosimo, his eyes on the sails, again called an order and the helmsman adjusted the wheel. The Mary Rose came on course for Sark, her sails filling slowly as the wind increased.
“In time?” Meg asked.
“No,” Cosimo answered. “It’ll take us till dark to come within two miles of the harbor. We’ll stand to there and go in at first light. Excuse me . . .” He left her, loping across the quarterdeck, down the steps, and towards the companionway.
Meg stayed where she was until she began to feel superfluous. She didn’t think she was in the way but it was hard to be the only spectator in the midst of such activity. She looked around for Gus. He was nowhere to be seen and she guessed that he too preferred the undisturbed peace of the cabin. She picked her way through the hive and climbed down the companionway. The cabin door was closed.
She looked at it for a minute and then, adapting the assumption that sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, knocked vigorously. Gus invited her in at the same time that Cosimo called, “Enter.”
She did so. Cosimo didn’t look up from the charts. He was using compasses, making swift pencil notations as he did so. They reminded her of the odd notations in the margins of the dictionaries. He said over his shoulder, “Ring for Biggins. He’ll fill the bath for you with the hot water they have to jettison now we’re under way. There’s nothing for you to do on deck and I’ll be out of here in less than five minutes.”
Meg realized that a hot bath had become the most unlooked for and therefore most wonderful indulgence imaginable. “Thank you.” She let the door close behind her.
“You’ll have to endure Gus’s company. He doesn’t come on deck when we’re sailing in a stiff breeze,” Cosimo said, still bent over the charts. “You can put him in his cage and cover it, if you like.”
Meg glanced at Gus, who was sitting on his perch quietly picking at his wing feathers. “I’ll trust him to keep his eyes shut.”
Cosimo straightened. “Good.” He went to the door.
Meg had the sense that he had almost forgotten who she was and why she was there as he left. She rang the bell for Biggins.
He came within minutes. “Captain says you’d like enough water for a bath, ma’am?”
So he hadn’t forgotten. “Yes, thank you, Biggins.” She lifted her hair away from her scalp. It would be good to wash it. Perhaps she could dry it in the air on deck. With the wind that she could now feel beneath her feet as the Mary Rose lifted to the swell, her hair would dry in no time. She went back to the cupboard with the clothes meant for Ana and looked for something suitable for a woman who wanted to be unobtrusive on a nighttime deck.
Biggins reappeared with the youngster who’d helped with breakfast that morning. “Captain says he’ll be dining on deck in two hours when we drops anchor, ma’am,” Biggins said, while gesturing with an impatient hand that the boy should take the jugs into the head. “Looks like it’ll be a nice evening so he’d like to know if you’ll be joining him, or dining in the cabin, ma’am.”
Hadn’t she already decided that her hair would dry better in the evening air? “Please tell the captain that I’d like to join him on deck.”
“Right y’are, ma’am.” Biggins clicked his fingers at his companion, who backed out of the tiny space with the empty jugs. “We’ll be back in a couple of minutes, ma’am, with more hot water.”
Ten minutes later Meg was wallowing in the shallow tub of hot water, while Gus sat companionably in the doorway, keeping up a mindless series of phrases that thankfully appeared to need no response.
Chapter 4
Meg found it difficult to keep her footing as she dried herself after her bath. The Mary Rose was skipping over the water under a stiff breeze and the sky beyond the cabin windows was darkening. Wrapped in the towel, her hair in a towel turban, she knelt on the window cushion and looked out. The sea had lost its sparkle and was now the color of pewter, the rolling waves tinged pink by the setting sun. She could see land more clearly now. A small rocky outcrop surmounted by green hills. It looked deserted from this distance.
Cosimo’s now familiar knock came at the door. “Just a minute,” she called, jumping off the cushion. The towel was no substitute for a dressing gown or even a nightgown.
“Forgive me, I thought you’d be finished with your bath by now,” he said through the door and Meg could hear the exasperating lilt of amusement in his voice.
She dropped the damp towel in the middle of the floor and yanked open the clothes cupboard. She grabbed the hooded cloak and wrapped it securely around herself. “All right,” she said somewhat grudgingly.
Cosimo came in. His eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s the most eccentric costume. A turban and a cloak? Is it some new fashion that’s passed me by?”
She glared at him. “You didn’t give me time to dress properly.” She pulled the towel from her head and shook out her hair.
“Why didn’t you say?” He bent and picked up the larger discarded towel from the floor.
“I assumed you had urgent business in your cabin,” she said, waving vaguely in the direction of the charts. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.”
“Nothing that couldn’t wait,” he said, tossing the towel into the head. “Actually I merely came to fetch a cloak. It’s turning chilly up there. You’ll need one and something on your feet when you come up.” He was opening another cupboard as he spoke. He pulled out a cloak of serviceable dark wool and slung it around his shoulders.
Meg had resumed her seat in the window, hugging her own garment tightly to her. She could find nothing to amuse her in this uncomfortable situation, but Cosimo clearly derived some pleasure out of it. The sooner she got off this ship, the better, she reflected crossly. And then the question reared its head oddly enough for the first time. Where was he going to sleep?
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked involuntarily.
“When . . . tonight . . . ?” He seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “In here, of course.”
In silence Meg looked at the narrow box-bed and then back at him.
“It is a little narrow for two,” he said. “Unless of course one is particularly fond of cuddling.” When she remained silent he said with a chuckle, “You need have no fear for your virtue, Miss Meg. I’ll sling a hammock.” He pointed to two hooks in the ceiling that she had noticed and wondered about. Then, whistling softly to himself, he left the cabin.
Meg felt she hadn’t come too well out of that encounter. In fact, she was beginning to realize that Captain Cosimo was playing with her. He seemed to enjoy teasing her, trying to discomfit her, throw her off balance. Was it simply because she’d annoyed him earlier by refusing to respond to his friendly overtures? If so, she wouldn’t really blame him. She’d probably have felt the same herself even though she’d have castigated herself for pettiness. But she didn’t think it was that. He didn’t strike her as a character who would indulge in pettiness. So what was his game?
Well, she wouldn’t find out sitting here hugging herself in a cloak. She went to the clothes cupboard again and examined its contents once more. The bronze she had worn earlier would do fine, but she’d just bathed and clean clothes seemed in order. She lifted out a sage green silk gown that seemed more formal than the others. Silver lace edged the three-quarter-length sleeves and a similar band decorated the narrow hem. She’d intended to find something that would allow her to fade into the background but something perverse prodded her to make more of an effort. She laid the gown over a chair and fetched clean linen and a pair of thin woolen stockings.
In fifteen
minutes she was dressed. The only mirror was a small round glass set into the wall at the right height for shaving. Even to see her face she had to stand on tiptoe. Her hair was almost dry and she used a comb lying on the shelf below the mirror to bring the curls into some kind of order. The gown, like the one she’d worn earlier, felt a little big, but the addition of the leather buttoned boots gave her a little more height. The color suited her, it was one she often wore, so she would assume that her appearance was more than presentable.
Now, why that should matter was something else altogether. A loud clanging and scraping as of a huge chain being unraveled interrupted her reverie. She spun round from the mirror and ran to the window. The Mary Rose appeared to have stopped. The sound of running feet, shouted orders, and the squeak of bolts and halyards came from overhead.
“In port . . . in port . . .” Gus announced, hopping to the door. “G’bye . . . g’bye.”
So they’d dropped anchor. That would explain the noise and the bustle. And the macaw was now ready to leave the cabin. Well, Meg was ready too.
She slung the cloak around her shoulders and opened the door and Gus flew up to her shoulder and playfully pecked at her earlobe. “You do me too much honor,” she declared, but she was rather pleased nevertheless at this clear indication of the bird’s acceptance.
She climbed the companionway and emerged on deck, where the last bustle of furling sails and dropping anchor was almost finished. The light was fading fast now and the evening star shone low in the sky, a three-quarter moon climbing just over the horizon. She stayed at the top of the companionway, unwilling to thread her way to the quarterdeck until it was clear all activity on deck had ceased. Gus showed no such restraint. He took off from her shoulder and swooped towards the lowered boom. He walked along it as delicately as if it were a balance beam and then swooped down onto the quarterdeck.
Meg could see Cosimo at the helm, directing operations in a calm but carrying voice. His cloak hung loosely from his shoulders as he stood braced on the deck, and the evening breeze ruffled the long auburn hair that curled loosely around his ears and flopped over his forehead. There was something almost raffish about him, she thought. An air of careless competence that she knew in her heart of hearts could be her downfall.
