by Jane Feather
Her eyes fixed on the locked drawer beneath the chart table. Presumably the stiletto, cleaned of bloodstains, was back with its fellows.
She jumped up, discarded her coffee cup, and went into the head. How to explain her estrangement from Cosimo without letting on that she’d seen what he’d done on the cliff top? She poured water into the basin and dropped the sponge in, lathering it absently. Perhaps she could simply say that after the events of last night she had no stomach for this adventure anymore, that she’d misjudged herself, her own strength and courage. She’d lost interest in their liaison and she wanted to keep herself to herself until they reached Bordeaux, where she would try to find passage home.
It was plausible enough, and no decent man would argue with a woman who wanted to call a halt for whatever reasons to what had been a casual, opportunistic liaison at best. But it stuck in Meg’s craw. Apart from the fact that she doubted her ability to be convincing about her abrupt loss of passion, she had plenty of courage, and stomach enough for any adventure that didn’t include cold-blooded murder. But if she had to play the feeble little woman to escape gracefully, then so be it. She would play it to the hilt.
She sponged herself with the warm water, and the aches of a restless night dissipated. Once more attired, this time in a jonquil gown of dainty sprigged muslin, she began to feel almost hopeful that she could pull this off without stepping any closer to the brink of the privateer’s dangerous edge. She drank more coffee while combing her hair and then set her shoulders. It couldn’t be put off forever. She left the cabin.
The tantalizing aroma of kidneys and frying bacon assailed her as she climbed the companionway steps, and when she stepped out into the sunlight she saw Cosimo sitting at the table that had been set up on the quarterdeck. He raised a hand in greeting and crooked his fingers in invitation. Gus, perched on the rail, squawked a “G’mornin’ ” and unfurled his brilliant scarlet wings.
“Good morning, Gus.” She returned the greeting as she crossed the mid-deck. The sun caught the deep red glints in Cosimo’s auburn hair, his sea-washed eyes squinted against its brightness, and he looked the picture of relaxation. That now familiar current of desire jolted her loins and prickled her skin. Once again he was the image of the man Meg had known before the events of last night. And for a minute she was tempted to forget what she had seen. But only for a moment.
She stepped onto the quarterdeck and came over to the table, shading her eyes against the sun. “What happened to the weather?” It was a properly neutral greeting and she kept her tone of voice similarly so.
“It turned around,” he said pleasantly. “May I pour you coffee?”
“Thank you.” She took her seat and shook out her napkin. “I seem to be hungry.” Nothing dangerous in this social chitchat. Just keep it up, she told herself.
“After last night it’s hardly surprising.” He filled her cup and added milk, just the right amount for her taste.
Meg stirred the liquid. He’d brought up the subject and now she needed to pick up the ball. “Yes.” She gave an artistic shudder, her fingers quivering a little as she picked up her cup. “I’d rather not talk about it. I angered you by following you and I’m sorry for it.” She managed another shudder and lightly brushed the cut on her neck in emphasis.
A frown crossed his eyes, but he said easily, “I don’t allow myself to get angry, it’s a wasteful emotion, although I admit I was annoyed. But I don’t think of it anymore. Let’s agree to put it all behind us, Meg.” He reached over and ran his fingertips over her hand in a skimming caress. She froze beneath his touch and stared blankly over his shoulder. He moved his hand and sat back, frowning openly now.
Meg picked up her fork and began to eat, avoiding his gaze. She had only to think of those two men crumpling onto the grass to maintain her role. She cast about for some ordinary banal topic of conversation that would skate over the awkwardness but her tongue was tied. She had never discussed banalities with the privateer and didn’t know where to begin.
Cosimo regarded her in puzzlement. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.” She forced a smile.
Cosimo gave a half shrug and continued with his own breakfast, making no further attempt to break the silence that stretched between them until it was almost visible. Finally he pushed aside his plate and stood up. “Excuse me.” He walked away towards the bows, his brow deeply creased.
Why had she not responded to his overture? Cosimo wondered. If anyone should still be put out, it was he. Meg had jeopardized his mission, she had been in the wrong, not the other way around. He had hurt her, but not intentionally, and surely she knew that, just as she must have known the danger they were all in on French soil. It was a piece of arrant stupidity to have followed him. Did she think this was some kind of game?
But that deadness in her eyes, the flat tone of her voice, the way her hand had felt like a lifeless bird beneath his fingers . . . what was behind that? Something much more than an accidental cut for which she had been at least as responsible as he.
On the quarterdeck Gus flew onto the table and picked at breadcrumbs. He regarded Meg with one beady eye. “Mornin’.”
“We’ve already been through that, Gus.” she said, offering her forearm as a perch. She scratched his poll, murmuring, “I wish there was somewhere to go on this ship. Something to do.” She looked up at the rigging where two sailors were working on the ratlines. It was as hazardous as it looked far up against the mainmast but Meg envied them both the task and the excitement. She had never been bored before on the Mary Rose, but then the constant presence of the privateer had been more than enough excitement. Now it was something she needed to avoid, which in such close quarters was not going to be easy.
She got up and went back down to the cabin. One of Ana’s gowns had a loose button; it would give her some employment. But she found when she took out the gown that Biggins had been there before her and all the buttons were secure.
A letter to Bella. That would occupy her even if she didn’t know when she’d be able to send it. By describing to someone else the events of last night, the whole muddle of her present feelings, her fears about Cosimo and about the immediate future, she might gain some much-needed perspective.
The shelf above the chart table yielded paper, pens, and ink and Meg sat at the table, sharpened a quill, and began her letter. Once begun it was hard to stop and she’d covered three sheets when Cosimo entered the cabin for once without an alerting knock. She was so absorbed that the appearance of the main subject of her detailed correspondence caused her a guilty start. She jumped, dropping the pen, splashing ink over her page, which at least gave her the opportunity to cover her writing with a blotting cloth.
“What did I do to cause that?” he asked with a smile that did nothing to lessen the frown in his eyes. “I don’t normally have that effect on people.”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said lamely.
“I don’t know why not.” He came behind her and clasped her nape warmly. She stiffened, her body suddenly motionless, her hand on the cloth covering her letter. He let his hand drop and moved away as if he’d noticed nothing. “Whom are you writing to?”
“Bella, my friend. I assume there’ll be a way to send it, but if not I’ll just take it with me when I go home.” She took a deep breath. “I want to leave the Mary Rose at Bordeaux and go home on another ship. How long before we get there?”
“This is rather abrupt.” He leaned his shoulders against the bulkhead and watched her, his arms folded, his eyes sharp. “Why are you so anxious to leave me?”
Now was the moment. “I think this has run its course, Cosimo,” she said slowly. “It was amusing for a while to pretend that I was an adventuress, but after last night I realize I’m not cut from the right cloth.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” He didn’t move from his position but his voice had hardened, and the light behind his eyes was not particu
larly amiable.
Meg clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I thought I was stronger . . . had more courage than I do. It’s mortifying to acknowledge it, Cosimo, but I was terrified last night and I had the most dreadful nightmares. This life . . .” She gestured vaguely around the cabin. “What you do . . . in this war . . . this whole uncertainty. I’m frightened and I want to go home.” She gazed at him with what she hoped were limpid green pools of feminine frailty.
He continued to look at her, nodding slowly but with a disconcerting lack of conviction. “You do, do you?”
“Please,” she pleaded. “How soon can I get back to my world? I wasn’t bred for this and I’m too old to learn new tricks.”
The look in his eye changed. He stroked his chin, tapping his mouth with his forefinger as if deep in thought. Then he said, “Too old, eh? Well, Madam Methuselah, I see no way to let you off the ship prematurely unless we come across a naval vessel that will take you as a passenger. It seems to me you should have thought of this before we left Sark.”
Meg wanted to throw something at him but she kept her hands firmly clasped in her lap. “I couldn’t anticipate how I would react to something I’d never experienced,” she said, keeping her voice low and unprovocative. “And, be honest, Cosimo, you never told me to expect something like last night.”
“My dear, you were the one who insisted on joining us, if you recall.” Sarcasm laced his tone. “And, I might add, putting the endeavor in jeopardy.”
“I’m sorry for that. I didn’t understand the danger, and that more than anything made me realize how unsuited I am to this kind of existence. I’m not made to be a spy or an adventuress. I don’t like admitting it, but it’s true.” She tried for a rueful yet determined smile.
“Well, I don’t see that it makes much difference,” he declared, dropping his arms and turning to the chart table. “As I just said, barring the felicitous appearance of a ship of his majesty’s navy en route to England, you’re stuck with me. There’s no need for you to embark upon any more extracurricular enterprises.”
“But you will be?”
“I have one other stop to make.” He spoke casually as he applied the sextant to the charts. “But you will stay safely aboard.”
Meg swallowed and prepared for the final and most difficult declaration. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to . . . to keep to myself from now on.”
His put down the sextant and straightened, turning his head towards her. “What am I to understand by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I made a mistake. I have to correct that mistake now. I need to leave this ship at Bordeaux and I want our affair to end now, Cosimo. It doesn’t feel right anymore.”
“I see.” His voice was arid as the desert. He returned to his charts, made a few more notations, and then left the cabin, closing the door softly behind him.
Meg let out her breath, realizing only as she did so how shallowly she’d been breathing throughout that confrontation. It was done, over with. He couldn’t refuse to honor her wishes. He could despise her for a weak-minded simpleton who hadn’t the courage of her convictions, but she could live with that and he would still leave her alone. The next few days promised to be tedious and awkward, but she could get through them. And she didn’t believe that Cosimo was vindictive; he wouldn’t simply abandon her at Bordeaux. He would help her find passage home.
On deck, Cosimo did something he now very rarely did. He jumped into the ratlines and climbed steadily upwards to the platform halfway up the mainmast. It was an insecure perch at the best of times but he balanced easily, leaning against the mast at his back, watching his men on the precarious footropes hanging over the deck as they worked the sails. No one paid him any attention, which was as it should be. One instant of inattention could mean death at that height. He enjoyed the cleanliness of the salt air, the swaying of the mast so high above the deck. It gave him detachment and he needed detachment to dig below the surface of Meg’s abrupt change of heart. What was behind it?
What exactly was she saying?
Not for one minute did he believe that flummery about being a weak and feeble woman who’d bitten off more than she could chew in a fit of, oh, such understandable female confusion and uncontrolled impulse.
Meg knew exactly what she was doing and had known so all along. So what, that he didn’t know about, had happened last night to cause her to put on this farce?
And, as much to the point, how was whatever it was going to affect his plans? The difficulties of counting on her absolute compliance aside, what if she found the whole idea of the mission anathema? Cosimo believed in his own powers of persuasion, particularly when it was a woman he had to persuade. He’d never been given any reason to doubt that power, until now. It was a sobering reflection. At some point the sexual attraction he possessed was going to wear thin, and then what weapons would he have in his arsenal? He laughed with self-mockery. At some point he’d slow down in other areas too. His knife hand would not be so fast, his memory would slip occasionally, his timing would be off kilter, and he would die.
But not yet. He was at the top of his game. This mission was the most important of his professional life and he could not fail. And Meg Barratt was an essential tool.
He climbed down the ratlines to the deck, where his lieutenants pretended they weren’t curious about his ascent. “You should keep in practice too,” he said. “Both of you.”
They took it as the order it was and went up. Cosimo watched them, hands on his hips. “Good lads,” Mike observed from the helm behind him.
“Aye, but they’ve a lot to learn,” his captain said. “Frank in particular. He still doesn’t understand where his hands are supposed to be.”
“He’ll get it in the end, sir.”
“His mother will kill me if he doesn’t,” Cosimo remarked a trifle gloomily. “I’ll be below. Call me when we’re off St. Nazaire; we may encounter French shipping in the area.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cosimo paused outside his cabin, then, once again dispensing with his customary preliminary knock, opened the door. At first he thought the cabin was empty, and then Gus swooped onto his shoulder with an informative “G’night.”
Meg was asleep on the bed, the cover tangled around her knees, her head pillowed on her hand. Cosimo disentangled the cover and drew it up to her shoulders. She didn’t move, but he knew it was no feigned sleep. A pile of paper lay on the table and he went over, lifting the top sheet, which was blank. He caught sight of his name and immediately dropped the covering sheet into place. Maybe the clue to this mysterious behavior of Meg’s lay in that letter but nothing could make him read it. Which was interesting, since he spent most of his life decoding private correspondence and burrowing for other people’s secrets.
Cosimo glanced again at the bed. It would seem he’d developed a conscience, an ordinary human reluctance to pry into someone else’s secrets. Or at least, as far as Meg was concerned. And just how had that happened? He picked up the top sheet again, determined to read her letter, and then he let it fall. It couldn’t be done. Meg had to tell him herself.
He left her sleeping. If her nightmares at least had been real, then she probably needed a dreamless nap.
The naval sloop appeared on the horizon in late afternoon. She flew his majesty’s colors boldly and Cosimo sent Frank to act as signalman with the flags from the port bow.
“They say they’re heading for La Rochelle, sir,” Frank said excitedly.
“Mmm,” returned his uncle, who could read the signals at least as well as his nephew. If the British navy was making for La Rochelle, that meant that one of the fleets of the French navy was preparing to leave the harbor. His own landing point was two miles to the south of the harbor, but if there was going to be a heavy naval engagement, then he would be expected to offer support. But he couldn’t afford the time. He had to get to Toulon before Napoleon left.
“Is that a British ship?”
Meg’s voice startl
ed him, he’d heard it only in his head for most of the day. He glanced over at her as she stood at the rail beside him. “I believe so.”
“Will they give me passage?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But I suspect they’re on course to join the fleet going to Egypt.” He glanced at her. “Would you like to go to Egypt, Miss Meg?”
So they’d retreated to the old sardonic familiarity, and Meg could only be glad of it. It signaled a respite, an acceptance of her earlier statement. She shot him a withering look and ignored the question.
“Did you enjoy your nap . . . no nightmares?” he inquired pleasantly enough.
“None that haunt me. Will you hail that ship?”
“If you wish it. And how would you like to explain to the commander your presence on the Mary Rose?” Once again the question sounded pleasant but Meg wasn’t fooled.
It was an awkward question. She’d shied away from meeting the commanders of the frigates at Sark partly because of the possibility of scandal, and now she had to come up with a plausible explanation for her presence on a privateer in the middle of the Bay of Biscay. But she could give a false identity at least. That would be some protection.
“My name is Gertrude Myers and I’d been going for a pleasure sail with friends and we were shipwrecked just off Sark. A fisherman rescued me from the sea and took me ashore, where you found me, and being an upstanding English gentleman, you immediately offered your protection and assistance in returning me home,” she said.
Cosimo gave an appreciative whistle. “What a fertile imagination you have,” he said. “But I doubt there are too many pleasure sailors in the Channel at the moment.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Meg stated flatly. “It will serve. I’d like you to signal them, please.”
