by Jane Feather
He perched on the edge of the table, swinging one foot, his arms folded as he regarded her with a quizzical smile. “As a matter of fact I have given it some considerable thought.”
“And your conclusion?” she prompted when he didn’t continue.
“Well, now . . .” He tapped his mouth with his fingers. “We could decide not to bring this delightful . . . uh . . . association . . . to an abrupt end.”
A quiver of anticipation, a little prickle of excitement, lifted the fine hairs along her spine. She said carefully, “How so? You said you had to leave.”
“Your friends’ immediate fears are by now put to rest. Is there a pressing need for you to return at once to the family fold?”
Her green eyes took on a lustrous sheen. “Go on,” she invited.
He’d hooked her, he knew it. That luster in her eyes, the sudden glow of her skin told him all he needed to know. He smiled a slow smile. “We’re sailing to Bordeaux with some secret dispatches for our friends there. I shall exchange them for others to be delivered to England. You could come with me for the round trip.”
Her blood sang but she forced herself to go slowly. “You’re returning to England immediately afterwards?”
He nodded, preferring the deceptive gesture to an outright verbal lie.
“How long will this journey take?”
He shrugged. “That I can’t answer, Meg. You’ve seen for yourself how we’re always at the mercy of the weather.”
“But weeks . . . months . . . ?”
“I’d hope weeks, although in the circumstances I’d prefer months.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth curved in pure seductive invitation.
It was not an invitation she could refuse. In fact, although she had not allowed herself until now to acknowledge it, it was one she had been hoping for. But the risks . . . the risks were enormous.
Reality was a bucket of cold water. Meg suddenly couldn’t see how she could agree to such a plan. An absence of weeks, maybe even a month or two, would be impossible to conceal.
“I have to think,” she said suddenly, feeling his gaze on her, uncomfortably penetrating as if he would read her mind. She couldn’t reach a considered decision under that kind of pressure. She hurried out of the cabin, leaving Cosimo still perched on the edge of the table.
A frown chased the seductive softness from his countenance and his mouth hardened. Had he misplayed his hand? Had he misinterpreted Meg’s expression, her desire? He would have sworn not, but if he’d jumped the gun, he’d lost the only opportunity he would have. He started to go after her, then stopped. Pressing her wouldn’t help. She was far from the most persuadable lover he’d taken.
He turned back to the charts. With or without her, he was leaving for Bordeaux at dawn. His visit to Murray had confirmed the suspicion that the pigeon had been tampered with and he had to assume that the French would be waiting for him at Brest. So he would take the longer route by sea to Bordeaux and from there the shorter overland route to Toulon. It was a more frequented cross-country route and therefore more dangerous, but Ana’s capture had left him no other choice. And if he failed in recruiting Meg, he was going to have to complete his mission alone.
He paused, his quill suspended. His chances of successfully completing his mission alone and coming out alive were very slim. He knew he could manage the first part, he had never yet failed at such an enterprise. But living to tell the tale in this instance was much more of a challenge. He needed a partner. And it had to be Meg. The stakes were far too high to consider failure. She was a free spirit, impatient of convention, and with a very healthy appetite for the joys of lust. In the week or so it would take to sail to Bordeaux he would have ample opportunity to feed that appetite, an appetite, if the Bard of Avon was to be believed, that grew whereon it fed.
It certainly did with him, he reflected, with candid self-knowledge. Indeed he could imagine that making love with Meg could become an addiction. He adored the way she moved in sex, the feel of her body, its angles and points, and the surprising softness of curves and indentations. He couldn’t get enough of her scent, of the wild fires in her eyes as she approached orgasm, the way she threw her head back, exposing her white throat at the moment of convulsion. And most of all he loved the way he could make her reach a climax over and over again, her cries of ecstasy filling the cabin, her body writhing beneath his hands, his tongue, around the throb of his sex buried deep within her.
He inhaled sharply as his body stirred at the images. Oh, yes, he could imagine sex with Meg could become an addiction; he just had to ensure that it was a mutual one.
Lovemaking didn’t figure in Meg’s cogitations as she stood in the stern apparently watching lobstermen at work checking their pots in the harbor. In fact, the busy scene made no impression at all. She needed a plan . . . a plausible story she could concoct to cover an extended absence. One that would satisfy the gossips. Obviously her parents wouldn’t be deceived and of course not Jack or Bella, but she had to believe that at some point she would return to her ordinary world and she couldn’t do something that would slam the door of social acceptance in her face.
She would write to Bella . . . enlist her support. That would be easy. She could suggest that her parents fabricate the story that she had gone to distant . . . very distant . . . relatives for her health. But where, though? Not Europe, no one in their right minds would visit the war-torn Continent for their health or their pleasure. But her mother had relatives in the Scottish highlands. Not that she’d ever met any of them, but it was far enough off the beaten track for no one to question an extended absence.
Or she could go home tomorrow.
And miss the adventure of a lifetime? The best lovemaking ever? Absurd. Besides, she liked the idea of contributing her mite to the war against France. Sailing on a sloop-of-war, taking part in the transfer of dispatches, however passive her part, could still be seen as participation in a patriotic act. In fact, she decided, it was her duty to her country to extend her sensual idyll with the privateer.
The hypocritical sophistry made her laugh aloud and the two lieutenants looked at her curiously. Their uncle had just emerged from the companionway and at the sound of that laughter a satisfied smile crept over his countenance. He came over to her.
“What’s amusing?”
She looked over at him. “My faultless self-serving reasoning.”
“Care to share it?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. If I write a letter of explanation to my friend, is there any way it can be transported?”
He nodded. “The fishing fleet will go out on the morning tide tomorrow. They sell a lot of their lobster catch to fishermen working off the English shore, where they’re not plentiful, and they can pass on a letter. It’s a relatively efficient postal service.”
“Then I’d better start composing.”
He put a hand on her back, warm and somehow possessive. “So, is that my answer?”
She smiled at him. “I find I’m in the mood for adventure, sir.” Her little attempt at rational consideration of the proposal had been a waste of time, she knew. She’d always intended to accept the invitation and the consequences be hanged. She laughed at herself again. So much for mature reflection.
“Then write your letter quickly,” he said. “We’ll sail on this evening’s tide instead of tomorrow morning.”
She looked startled. “Why such a sudden change of plan?”
“Because, my dear, if you’re coming with me, there’s no need to waste any more time.”
“I thought you were waiting for dispatches.”
“I got them from Murray this morning.”
“Oh, I see.” Except that she didn’t. Despite the urgency of his time-sensitive mission, an urgency he’d stressed to her more than once, an urgency that had prevented him taking her back to Folkestone as soon as he’d discovered the mistaken identity, he’d been willing to wait unnecessarily just for the sake of one final night of passion. Some
thing was wrong there, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“I’ll write my letter,” she said, going below, still thinking about the puzzle. He had left the narrow bed before she’d awoken that morning, as he had done the previous day, so presumably that’s when he’d picked up the dispatches. But where had they come from? The only ships she had seen near the island were the naval men-of-war, and it didn’t make sense that their commanders had given Cosimo dispatches when they all seemed to be sailing in the same direction and they’d left Folkestone together.
Oh, well, she knew nothing about the mechanics of all this covert activity. At least not yet. There was probably an explanation that hadn’t occurred to her. She dismissed the puzzle for the moment with the reflection that she might find this voyage a useful education in more than the joys of the privateer’s body.
For the moment blissfully unaware of the questions his glib response had raised in Meg’s inquiring mind, Cosimo glanced around his ship from his position in the stern. It was an orderly, leisurely scene. The tide would be full at six o’clock and they would have time to negotiate the reef and be in the open sea before dark. He detested inaction and while he’d accepted the need to stay put while he worked on his as yet unwitting partner, now that that was accomplished his spirit strained to be on the move. He beckoned to the ever watchful Miles, who sprang eagerly across the deck to his side.
Below, Meg heard the abrupt bustle, felt the change in the atmosphere. Voices called, feet ran on the deck above her head, and Gus started to pace his perch, muttering. A knock at the door brought David Porter with his little bag of tricks.
Meg looked up from her composition as she bade him enter. “Good afternoon, David. It seems we’re leaving ahead of schedule.”
“Nothing unusual about that,” he observed, setting his bag on the table. “I’m guessing you’re staying with us.”
“You guess correctly,” she said, aware of a slight heat in her cheeks. It was one thing to behave with blatant indiscretion, quite another to be forced to acknowledge it. But David merely nodded. “It’ll be good to have another face around. Sailing can be tedious when you don’t make landfall for a long time.”
“It can’t take that long to reach Bordeaux,” she said.
He looked interested. “Oh, is that where we’re heading?”
“You didn’t know?” She looked stricken, remembering the secrecy that seemed to exist on Cosimo’s ship. “Should I have told you?”
“If Cosimo told you, he has no problem with its being general knowledge,” David said, lifting her arm to unwrap the bandage.
Meg wasn’t sure she liked being lumped together with the entire crew of the Mary Rose. It would have been pleasant to cherish the illusion that she was in the privateer’s confidence. But it was early days yet, she reminded herself, turning her attention to the rapidly healing wound.
“Does it still need a bandage?”
“I’d prefer it,” he said. “Just for another couple of days. If you knock it accidentally, it could open up again. It doesn’t take much for that to happen in such close confines.” His eyes flickered to the captain’s bed and Meg bit her lip hard, unsure whether she should laugh conspiratorially or maintain a haughty indifference to the implication.
She settled for a neutral “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
He looked at her then, a searching, questioning glance, before efficiently rebandaging the arm. “Are you writing letters?” He indicated the parchment and quill.
Meg gave up a pretence that didn’t sit well with her anyway. “A difficult letter,” she said ruefully. “To my friends in Folkestone. Cosimo said he could send it with the fishing fleet before we leave. I have to give them some explanation.” She opened her hands expressively.
“They know you’re unharmed? Cosimo sent the pigeon courier?”
“Oh, yes. But I have to concoct some explanation they can put about for why I’m taking an extended absence from the world . . . well, my world,” she amended.
David inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Tricky. I wish you luck.” He picked up his bag and went to the door. “But then, I’ve always believed one should follow one’s fancy.”
“Really?” It seemed the most extraordinary thing for the reclusive, efficient, unemotional surgeon to believe.
“I’m following Cosimo,” he reminded her with a flash of a smile. “Where he leads, there go I, when I could be peacefully and quite lucratively established catering to the whims and megrims of London’s society set.” He nodded in farewell.
Meg chuckled in amazement as she picked up her quill again. So David Porter liked a little adventure in his life too. Needed a little adventure for his own satisfaction, she corrected. Only a pressing personal imperative would persuade a man like David to throw in his lot with a man like Cosimo, on the surface his antithesis.
The reflection spurred her to fresh efforts on her letter. Arabella would sympathize, and Jack would too, once he’d recovered from any residual anger at her for causing his beloved Arabella a moment’s anxiety. But it had not been her doing and her conscience was clear on that. This that lay ahead, however, was entirely of her own making, so she’d better do the best she could to ease matters for those she left behind. Most particularly her parents, who would bear the brunt of the inquiries. They would forgive her in the end, at least she hoped they would, but they would do so much more readily if there was no scandal attached to her adventure.
She looked out of the window for a moment, imagining that she was sitting with her friend in Arabella’s conservatory. Bella would be feeding and pruning and spraying her beloved orchids, listening intently to every word. She heard her friend’s mischievous chuckle as she regaled her with the more intimate details of her lovemaking with the privateer. A smile touched her mouth and she dipped the quill in the ink anew and attacked the paper with renewed vigor.
When Cosimo came into the cabin fifteen minutes later, she was sanding the closely written, frequently crossed sheet. “Long letter,” he commented.
“I couldn’t think of a few short lines to describe adequately the complexity of this situation,” she retorted, shaking off the sand. “Could you?”
“Probably,” he said cheerfully. “I am a man of few words.” He was once more at his charts.
Meg folded the letter and affixed a wafer to the fold. “Do you have wax?”
He reached to the shelf above the chart table and took down a stick of red wax. “There’s flint and tinder in the drawer under the table.”
Meg heated the wax and dropped it onto the wafer. She would have liked to have stamped some identifier into the melted wax but she wore no rings and could think of nothing else, so it would have to go as it was. Then a thought struck her. She took up the quill and scratched a G into the wax. Arabella would make that connection as she’d made the last.
“It’s ready,” she said.
“Good. Take it to Miles. He’s waiting for it. We make sail in an hour.” He spoke without taking his attention from his charts.
Meg contemplated the curve of his long back, the tightness of his buttocks as he stood, legs braced apart, while he worked. Arousal flickered in her belly but she knew the privateer was as unaware of her gaze as he was of any desire to arouse her. The passionate lover was clearly taking a secondary role to the working captain and always would. Well, at least she had no illusions about her position in his priorities.
And when she came first, she most certainly came first. Smiling, she went up on deck to deliver her letter to Miles.
They left the harbor on the swell of the tide, the Mary Rose tacking across the sheltered body of water towards the open sea, where the crash of the breakers on the reef grew ever louder and more menacing. Cosimo was at the helm, Mike beside him, as the sloop, under full sail, headed for the gap in the rocks.
Meg, wrapped in a cloak against the freshening wind, looked back at the rapidly diminishing hamlet that seemed to represent the last vestige of her
normal world. The sea-bound world she inhabited now had rules of its own, and dangers all its own, and she couldn’t begin to imagine what her future world would be like after this adventure. Would she be able to fit back into conventional society again?
She’d never been completely at ease in that world, even when she’d known no other. Unlike Arabella, she had not managed to make the ordinary world fit her needs. Bella had molded society to her own tastes, ably assisted, of course, by her unconventional rake of a husband. Meg, without the advantage of such a husband and the social status of a duchess, had had little success in carving her own path. What the duchess of St. Jules could do without scandal, a mere Miss Barratt could not. And she’d opted to appear at least to toe the line. She doubted that she’d be able to settle for that after this adventure with the privateer. So what would the future hold for her?
The question caused a flutter of unease and she spun away from the departing shoreline and looked ahead. Cosimo’s tall, powerful frame blocked her view to the bow and the churning waters beyond, and she was content at the moment to have it so. For now, her future lay with the privateer. She had made the decision and she would not allow herself to regret it.
She watched him steer the craft through the rocks, his eyes on the sails, his voice, barely raised as always, calling out a series of orders. Sails were adjusted minute by minute as the sloop entered the gap. Spray from the breakers blinded Meg and dampened her hair, and then the Mary Rose sprang free of the narrow gap and the sound of the crashing waves came from safely behind them. Ahead lay a moving sea, white-capped swells racing towards the sloop’s lifting bow. The wind was stronger, whipping her hair into a tangle as she stood holding her cloak together at her throat, feeling the deck rising and falling beneath her booted feet, and the salt spray on her cheeks.
