by Jane Feather
Cosimo weighed it in the palm of his hand as his mind raced. Meg would be expecting him to go to her immediately but this couldn’t wait. He strode up to the quarterdeck and under the lamplight from the yardarm opened the canister.
Chapter 9
Cosimo unrolled the thin sheet and held it up to the light the better to decipher the faint scratchings. It was from Ana. He’d known that instinctively even before he’d opened it. Or at least, it purported to be from Ana. But she had not composed it even if she had physically written it.
He frowned down at the signature. Anna. The signal they had agreed upon as a warning of trouble. The message itself was brief, as it had to be. Detained. Mission of paramount importance. Continue as planned. Bonne chance. Anna.
The message had come by pigeon courier. Had one of their own pigeons been captured by the enemy and used to bring a false message? It wouldn’t be the first time. French intelligence was as devious and cunning as the British. If they had taken Ana, they would have learned the details of the present mission, and they would be expecting him when he made landfall at Brest. Continue as planned.
His lip curled. What arrogant fools. Did they really think he and Ana were such inexperienced simpletons that they would fall for that? They could force Ana to write it, to prime the trap, as indeed he had to assume they had, but how naïve of them to assume they would have no safeguard in place. Whatever they did to Ana, whatever information she was forced to give them, she would always find a way to outwit them. Whatever they did to her.
He closed his mind to that thought; it would do neither of them any good. Before he jumped to any conclusions, he needed to talk to Lieutenant Murray, find out if there was anything different about this particular pigeon courier . . . any clues as to where it had come from, and if it was as he suspected, he needed to send an urgent message to his own spy network in England. They had to find Ana. And they would. They were all experienced agents, skilled at infiltrating the enemy networks. They would get to Ana.
He spun on his heel, intending to take the dinghy immediately across to the quay. Lieutenant Murray would probably be fast asleep, but that was just unfortunate. He’d have to wake up. Then he saw Meg standing a few feet away, watching him.
The sight of her startled him. He’d forgotten all about her in the last few minutes. Why hadn’t he heard her approach? How long had she been standing there? And now what was he to do? If he abandoned her at this crucial point, he would lose her. Their attraction was still too ephemeral to withstand such a seeming rejection. But he couldn’t afford to lose her. There was now much more at stake than a pleasant interlude. His mission now depended on gaining Meg’s cooperation. Murray would have to wait. The message to England would have to wait, much as he loathed the idea of wasting a minute in coming to Ana’s rescue. But Ana, he knew, would pour scorn on such concerns. For her the mission was always paramount; personal emotions had no place in her working world.
“I heard you come on board,” Meg said, not moving from where she stood at the deck rail. “I heard you talk to Frank. I came up to see what was keeping you.” His silence confused her. He’d uttered not a word of greeting. Her gaze was intense as she scrutinized his expression. It was unusually grim and his eyes were distracted. Something had happened, something important enough to drive all thoughts of erotic encounters from his mind.
“Just a message,” he said with an attempt at an apologetic smile. “I wanted to read it before I came to you.” He took the few steps necessary to reach her and pressed his little finger into the cleft of her chin. “I didn’t want anything to distract me.” His voice was a caress but somehow neither that nor the apologetic smile reassured Meg. He had completely forgotten about her.
“If you have business, you should see to it,” she said.
“You are my business,” he replied softly, pressing harder into her chin. “Tonight, you and only you, ma’am.” His eyes had darkened, his voice was smooth as molasses, and whatever he’d been thinking of before, it was clear that Meg now occupied his whole attention. Only passion was on his mind now.
His ability to switch moods so completely disturbed her. She had seen the shadow on his face, the grim set of his jaw. Where had it gone? It was unnatural to be able to dismiss a troubling thought, wipe it clean away, and replace it with a completely different side to his character. And yet she couldn’t find the words to say so. Once again she was confronted with the fact that she did not know this man, and she didn’t have the right to pry into areas he chose to keep private. Sexual attraction was no substitute for the kind of intimacy that would permit her questions.
Cosimo sensed the danger, felt her slipping away from him. He needed to do something to rekindle that erotic spark before it was too late. He took her face between his hands and kissed her, his mouth melting into hers in a long, lingering caress. At first, while she didn’t refuse the kiss, she was still and unresponsive, as if undecided. But slowly he felt her soften as he stroked her lips with his tongue, grazed her cheek with feather-light taps of his fingertips that made her smile against his mouth. The stiffness left her and she leaned into him, kissing him with increasing fervor.
“Come,” he commanded softly, taking her hand. He led her below, running his hand down her back as he eased her into the lamp-lit cabin ahead of him. His hand lingered on the roundness of her bottom and she could feel the heat through the thin material of her gown.
She turned towards him, her eyes now luminous in the golden glow from the lantern suspended from a hook in the ceiling. He held her hips as he gazed down at her, taking in the pearly pink tinge to her usually pale complexion, the scattering of freckles across her small nose, her moistly parted lips. He kissed the corner of her mouth as his hands moved to her back, his fingers deftly unfastening the long line of pearl buttons running from her neck to her waist.
“G’night . . . g’night.”
“Damn!” Cosimo exclaimed. “I forgot about Gus.”
“I can’t imagine how,” Meg said with a choke of laughter. “Can we put him out?”
For answer he picked up the macaw between both hands and firmly put him in his cage. He threw the crimson cover over it, saying, “Good night, Gus.”
“Poor Gus,” came the rather mournful murmur from beneath the cover.
“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I remember. I was unwrapping a present.” Cosimo reached for her hands. “New bandage,” he observed.
“David re-dressed it,” she returned, impatient at this mundane intermission and yet at the same time enjoying the suspense.
“Good,” he declared with an approving nod and then laughed a little, aware of both her pleasure and the impatience that exactly mirrored his own. He drew her closely against him, while he continued with the buttons. She could feel the hard lines of his body against her own softness. Her nipples hardened as she felt the back of her dress part and a coolness against her skin. He eased the gown off her hips to fall with a rustle around her ankles.
He kissed the hollow of her shoulder, before beginning on the tiny buttons that closed the bodice of her chemise. He appeared to be in no hurry, instead concentrating on his task as if it were the most delicate operation. She looked down with a curious sense of detachment at his nimble fingers as they worked and the bodice opened, revealing her breasts, their tips hard and tight. He slid his hands under the chemise to her shoulders and pushed the flimsy garment away from her so that she stood naked except for her sandaled feet and the puddle of material around her ankles.
His gaze, now alive with desire, flicked upwards to her face. He smiled slowly before he bent his head and kissed her breasts, cupping the soft swell on the palm of his hand, grazing the nipples in turn with his tongue. He painted a moist path down the deep cleft between her breasts, his hold now spanning her waist as he slid to his knees.
Meg inhaled sharply as his tongue dipped into her navel. She put her hands on his shoulders, heedless now of the slight throb in her arm, and shifted her stance, pa
rtly for balance and partly in involuntary invitation as his breath rustled warm across the taut skin of her belly. She was aching for his touch and yet she didn’t want it to come too soon.
“My turn,” she protested softly, twining her fingers into the wavy auburn hair that was tickling her thighs, trying to pull his head up before he did what she knew he was about to do.
He raised his head, looking up her body. “Ah . . . indulge me this once,” he murmured. “I need to know you, taste you . . . to savor the very essence of you.”
And in truth she had no real resistance. He parted her thighs, opened her with his fingers, explored the folds of her sex with his tongue, and she bit her bottom lip until she drew blood to keep from crying out with the pleasure of it.
And as the night in the gently rocking cabin continued, Meg didn’t think she had ever encountered a more selfless lover, or a more skillful. His touch was unerring, his awareness of her responses acute, and when at last he yielded himself to her she found nothing but delight in the shape, the scent, the feel of him. She moved above him, beside him, beneath him. His inventiveness matched her own, and when, exhausted, they fell asleep in a sweaty tangle on the box-bed just as dawn broke through the cabin window, she thought she could make love with this man for eternity.
_______
Meg awoke alone in the sun-drenched cabin. She was sore, aching, and filled with a deep sense of bodily satisfaction. She hitched herself onto an elbow and looked around. Her own clothes that had been discarded in a heap on the floor last night were gone. Cosimo’s clothes were gone too. Gus’s cage was empty. How on earth had the privateer got up, dressed, and removed the incessantly babbling macaw without her hearing a sound?
She fell back again on the pillow, a forearm covering her eyes. She felt as if she’d been poleaxed now, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she’d been dead to the world before. Still, it would have been nice to have been awoken with a kiss. But then, the captain of the Mary Rose had more on his mind than dalliance. Presumably he had to deal with whatever she’d interrupted last night.
She sat up abruptly. She had interrupted something . . . something that, if she hadn’t reminded him of her presence, would have ensured that there would have been no lovemaking last night. She felt a slight chill at the memory of the way he had suddenly turned on that seductive charm, almost as if he’d had a reason for it. Oh, she was being overly sensitive. What if he had forgotten about their tryst for a minute? This was a man who dealt in covert intelligence, courier pigeons, the luring of enemy ships. A man who went by one name only. And all those were reasons why she found him so exciting.
That and his superlative performance as a lover. She maneuvered herself out of the box and stood up, stretching and yawning. She’d always loved the sense of repletion, of a well-used body, the morning after. It was very indelicate of her, of course, but that reflection as always made her laugh.
She found her nightgown in the cupboard, although there was no sign of the bronze gown and chemise she’d been wearing. Decently clad once more, she experimented with the little silver handbell on the table. It brought almost immediate results.
Biggins knocked and entered on her invitation. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Would it be possible to fill the bath?” she asked, wondering with slight embarrassment if he was speculating about what had occurred among the tangle of sheets on the box-bed. Was there a lingering aroma . . . some hint she couldn’t detect?
But his expression, as always, gave nothing away. “Don’t see why not, ma’am,” he replied. “The galley fires are lit. I’ll heat up water. What about breakfast?”
“Yes, please,” she said with enthusiasm. “I’m always ravenous these days.”
A glancing smile crossed his stolid countenance. The first she’d ever seen. “Sea air, doubtless, ma’am.”
“Doubtless,” she agreed, wondering at the significance of that smile. She wanted to ask where Cosimo had gone but in the face of that smile couldn’t quite muster the nerve.
“Cap’n says to tell you he’ll be back shortly. He had to go to the guard post,” Biggins offered as he left the cabin.
Meg went into the head, no longer surprised at her lack of concern for clearly defined privacy. The confined quarters of a sloop-of-war changed one’s conception of space.
Biggins returned with a plate of coddled eggs and a pot of coffee. “This do ye, ma’am?”
“Wonderfully,” she said, sitting down in front of the plate with an appreciative smile. “It smells delicious. Thank you, Biggins.”
“Oh, don’t thank me, ma’am. Thank Silas. He’s the cook around here.”
Meg paused, her fork in the air. “Then I will,” she said. “I didn’t know, but please convey my thanks.”
The man nodded, but for once she detected approval. “I’ll be fetchin’ that water then,” he said.
Meg ate the eggs, drank the coffee, and with each mouthful the night’s euphoria faded and reality reared its unmistakable head. Today was Monday. The privateer was leaving at dawn on Wednesday. Now certainly they could enjoy themselves for those two days, but she couldn’t let him go while leaving her here without any means to get herself back to England. She had only a few coins in her purse. A trip to the lending library didn’t require much in the way of funds. Cosimo would take care of the expenses of her return, she was sure. He hadn’t shown any serious inclination to deny his responsibility for her presence here, but he would have to help her find a way to get home before he left.
Except that she wasn’t ready to go home.
Meg set down her fork and stared into the middle distance, chin resting in her elbow-propped hand. After such an absence she’d have to return to the parental home in Kent. Whatever story had been concocted to cover her vanishing, it would certainly entail a period of seclusion in the country. She drew in a breath of salt air, the scent of the sea pinks and clover on the hillside. The ship moved gently beneath her and she realized that she no longer noticed the motion.
Was there a way to extend this interlude?
Biggins’s knock banished the question for the moment. He entered with his acolyte, both bearing steaming jugs. Meg waited through two more trips before the bath was pronounced deep enough to immerse herself. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” Biggins announced, gesturing to the boy that he should clear away the dirty dishes. “Not much to do when we’re in port.”
Meg nodded her understanding. She’d seen what life was like on board the Mary Rose when they weren’t in port. The door closed behind them and she threw off the nightgown and sank with a sigh of pleasure into the bath. Her eyes closed as she revisited the question of whether there was a feasible way to extend this passionate interlude. It could only be a temporary reprieve from the seclusion in the country, but could the possibility be broached with the privateer?
She doubted it. He’d told her he was on a mission and she suspected that extraneous women, however passionate, would interfere with that mission. He’d shown as much last night.
She heard the cabin door open. Cosimo called softly, “May I come in?”
Her heart speeded. She was a naked offering in a bathtub. “You are already, aren’t you?”
“Only with your permission, if your remember,” he returned. “I always keep my promises.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” She soaped one foot. “Where’s Gus?”
It was an unnecessary question since the macaw at that moment appeared on the lintel to the head. “G’day.”
Cosimo loomed behind him, leaning on the frame of the partition. His eyes ran appreciatively over her body, barely immersed in the shallow depression of the bathtub. “Pity there’s not enough room for two.”
“There isn’t,” Meg said definitely. She reached for a towel on the floor and stood up in a shower of drops, wrapping herself in the towel. “What happened to my clothes?”
“Biggins w
ill have dealt with them,” he said carelessly. “I expect he decided they needed laundering.”
“Why didn’t you wake me before you left?” She followed him into the cabin, heedless of her wet footprints on the polished mahogany decking.
“My dear Meg, it would have been the utmost cruelty,” he said, taking her towel-wrapped form in his arms. “Believe me, you wouldn’t have heard the last trump.”
“Maybe not,” she conceded, kissing his hovering mouth. “Did you complete your business?”
That shadow crossed his eyes again but it was only for a second, then he said, “Tedious business with Murray. The man drives me insane with his rules and regulations. The navy must have this, navy ships must make such and such a report.” He shook his head and moved away from her to the chart table. “Bureaucracy does not win wars.”
“No, I’m sure,” she agreed. He wasn’t telling her the truth, not by a mile and a half. But even after last night’s ecstasies she still didn’t feel she could pry. She came up behind him as he bent over the chart table, wrapping her arms around his waist. “So will business occupy you all day?” She let the towel fall from her.
He reached behind him, running his hands over the cool naked body at his back. “That rather depends.”
“Depends on what?” She nuzzled the back of his neck.
“On what other diversions are on offer.”
Arabella had been pacing the drawing room all morning, staring out of the long windows onto The Leas, willing Jack’s return from London. Boris and Oscar, her two red setters, lay on the hearth rug watching her uneasily, every now and again going to pace at her side. She touched their heads abstractedly. The atmosphere in the house in the last two days had upset them enough to put them off their food. A highly unusual occurrence.
It was almost noon when, instead of Jack on his raking chestnut gelding, a lumbering old-fashioned carriage drew up at the front door. She recognized it immediately and her heart sank. It was Sir Mark Barratt’s. They must have left at dawn to reach Folkestone so quickly. What could she possibly tell them? They were expecting to find an ailing Meg, not no daughter at all.
