by Connie Mason
Nick knew the type. Pasty-faced, dissipated with too much food and drink, and satisfied to luxuriate in the fine things provided him by the labor of others. Mr. Smoot Pennywhistle was certainly not a match for the lively, opinionated woman sitting before him now.
“Let your Mr. Pennywhistle bake in the Bermuda sun for a day or two and I’m sure he’ll be as good a man as ever he was,” Nick said with sarcasm as he handed the locket back.
“Oh, I hope so,” she said, missing his meaning as she fastened the thin chain around her neck once more. “So, you see, if you help us continue on our journey, I’m certain our fiancés would see you handsomely rewarded.”
“Not your good families?”
The question seemed to catch her by surprise. “Well, naturally they would be glad to learn of your assistance.”
“Excellent,” he said. “There’s a packet leaving for Bristol in a week. We’ll send word to your families with it. It may take some time, but at least news of your survival should arrive alongside reports of the Molly Harper’s wreck.”
“That’s not necessary. The important thing is—”
“The important thing is you don’t know who your prospective groom really is and I suspect your family doesn’t either.” He couldn’t imagine why a beauty like Eve Upshall didn’t have a dozen suitors clamoring for her hand in England. Even if her dowry was less than impressive, what he’d seen of her so far would more than make up for lack of funds to any man worthy of the name. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head at her. “Are the three of you running away for some reason?”
“Of course not!” she said, a trifle too quickly. “What a ridiculous notion.”
“Almost as ridiculous as sailing across the Atlantic to wed a man you’ve never met,” Nick said. “Your family had no part in arranging this, did they?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, they didn’t initiate matters. Our fiancés sent an agent to England to locate suitable wives. It’s all quite proper, I assure you. Biblical, even.”
“Biblical?”
“Of course. Have you never read how the patriarch Abraham sent his steward back to his father’s homeland to find a wife for his son Isaac?” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Lieutenant Rathbun reminded me of that at our first meeting. He says that accomplished gentlemen with many demands on their time have often deferred to the wisdom of a third party in the matter of choosing a bride.”
“Who’s Lieutenant Rathbun?” Nick was predisposed not to like him already. If he was spouting scripture, he might even be a Methodist.
“He’s the gentleman who’s escorting us to the Carolinas.” She frowned. “But when the ship ran aground, we were separated from him in the confusion and I don’t know how he fared this night.”
Nick didn’t know either, but he doubted Rathbun was a gentleman. The whole tale was a point off plumb. Eve Upshall didn’t strike him as a fool, but in this instance, she seemed entirely too trusting.
“Please, Captain. Lieutenant Rathbun assured us our fiancés are the most deserving of men.”
“Deserving, hmm? Well, there are far more deserving men on Bermuda.” The island boasted a couple brothels, but several of the young bucks in his crew chafed over the lack of respectable women. Whores were fine on short notice, but there came a time when a man wished to settle down.
Since he’d lost the prize vessel, he figured the least he could do was give his men a chance to court three likely young ladies. Besides, the thought of watching the shy Higgs go a-courting promised to be more fun than Nick could resist.
“I won’t take you to Charleston.”
“Then you refuse to help us?”
“I didn’t say that. My help will just be in an entirely different vein than you imagined,” he said pleasantly. “Three unattached, available ladies will need someplace to stay while they sort themselves out. My home on St. Georges is spacious enough to accommodate you and your friends.”
“You expect us to stay in your home?”
“I knew you were clever. We’re in complete accord.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, it’ll only be until such time as each of you chooses a husband from among the willing island lads, with preference given to my crew, you understand.”
“You expect me to marry one of your sailors?”
“I don’t see why not? A husband is clearly your aim. Why not an able seaman? Or at least an islander.” He fished a clean pair of socks from his sea chest and leaned against the bunk as he changed out of his wet pair. “After all, you were going to marry a pudgy, gout-ridden stranger named Penny whistle.”
“Mr. Pennywhistle is an upstanding, God-fearing gentleman of property.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt a God-fearing gentleman will take to an acid-tongued harpy whose knack for profanity is well-nigh an art form.” He gartered the stockings and chuckled as he stood upright. “A sailing man is far more apt to appreciate that unique ability in a woman.”
She rose slowly and he fancied he could see steam leaking from the shells of her pink ears. “Then I shall enlist the help of another captain once we make port. Perhaps the one who salvaged the Molly Harper.”
One of her delicate brows arched in challenge. Apparently she hadn’t missed the antagonism between him and Bostock. He further revised his estimation of her pluck.
“I wish you luck of that, Miss Upshall. The Sea Wolf makes berth on a different island,” he said, careful to keep his tone even. “And since you’ve naught but the wet gown on your lovely back, I doubt you’ll find success. Not even Adam Bostock is daft enough to board passengers without demanding the fare aforehand.”
“Captain Scott, this is wholly unacceptable.”
Nick swore vehemently under his breath and she plopped back into the chair. “Miss Upshall, I sacrificed a chance to salvage a fully loaded brigantine to fish you from the waves. I nearly ended up in a shark’s gullet. And now I offer you the protection of my sword arm and the warmth of my hearth while you and your friends make new lives for yourselves on as lovely an island as you could wish.”
He braced his hands on the arms of her chair and leaned down to nearly touch noses with her. “If that’s not acceptable to a fault, then I don’t know what possibly could be.”
Even drenched with seawater, her skin held an indefinably feminine sweetness. If she wasn’t the most irritating bit of muslin he’d ever met, he’d have been tempted to kiss her again.
Her mouth opened to respond, but a rap on the cabin door made her close it as quickly.
Nicholas barked out permission to enter and Tatem peeked around the door, ducking his head and tugging his forelock in deference.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n,” he said in his sandpaper voice. He held out Nick’s dry boots. “We’re coming up on the mouth of St. Georges Harbor, sir. Mr. Williams asks will you be pleased to relieve him at the wheel?”
“I’ll be there directly.” Nicholas never let anyone else negotiate the narrow passage to the Susan’s B’s final berth. The harbor was as snug a cove as a sailor could wish, but with its many little islands and shoals, he always passed through with an easier heart when his own hands were at the helm.
“Miss Upshall, I suggest you avail yourself of my sea trunk for some dry clothing while I’m gone,” he said as he tugged on his boots. “Saltwater will gald a woman just as quickly as a man. If you’re to be courted, you’ll not want to be doctoring a nasty rash.”
As soon as he closed the cabin door behind him, something thumped loudly against it.
Probably one of his books.
Why did women always feel the infernal need to hurl things at him?
In taking the three castaways into his home, he’d wrung the only bright spot of cheer from this night’s work.
But as he piloted the Susan Bell through the last leg of her journey, it dimly occurred to him that Magdalen might not see things in the same light.
Chapter Five
“Pigheaded, lo
use-ridden, so full of himself he couldn’t spoon in another drop! The man’s naught but a prick with feet.”
Eve loosed another string of muttered curses as she bent to pick up the infuriating man’s dog-eared copy of John Locke. She knew she shouldn’t throw something as precious as a book, even if it was beyond her abilities to puzzle out much more than the title. Her mother had started to teach her to read, so she knew her letters, but there hadn’t been enough time for her to develop any fluency with the written word before her life was upended as a child. She knew she shouldn’t swear either. No one would believe she was a lady if she did.
But it was difficult to shake the bad habit she’d picked up in the tavern and perfected further in Newgate. Hurling the book had helped, but nothing relieved her frustration like a few well-chosen phrases. Especially if they were ripe enough to curdle fresh milk.
If she were being fair she’d have to admit that part of her anger should have been directed at herself. She’d been weak-willed as a light-heeled trollop when the captain kissed her. She hadn’t reacted quickly enough with the righteous indignation a lady should display when a man took such liberties.
The way she softened, yielded for a moment, he’d believe she hadn’t a ladylike bone in her body.
Captain Scott would be of no help to her. Of course, she appreciated his rescue, but if he was going to keep her a virtual prisoner, that canceled out his heroics as far as Eve was concerned.
Now what was she to do?
She had to find a way to reach the Colonies, and not for any pudgy planter named Pennywhistle either. Her mother’s brother lived in Richmond. At least, that’s where the last letter had come from all those years ago. Surely Richmond wasn’t too far from Charleston.
Her uncle would help her. He had to. He was the only family she had left.
“First things first,” she admonished herself. She couldn’t trust Captain Scott to give her privacy for very long.
Eve unlaced her bodice, thankful she’d been wearing the pale blue muslin when the Molly Harper ran aground instead of the floral patterned sack dress she was saving for the day they made landfall in Charleston.
Much good may it do me now. The sack dress was lost to her. It was by far the most elegant bit of frippery that had ever touched her skin, but the blue muslin’s laces were in front. Which meant she could manage getting into and out of it alone.
And no one else would see her bare back.
She peeled herself out of the sodden gown, toying with the idea of wringing it out on the captain’s polished wood floor.
No, that’d be too petulant by half and would only inconvenience the cabin boy. Eve squeezed the water out into the chamber pot in the corner. Then she draped her gown and remaining stocking—she hadn’t even realized she’d lost one—over the chair, where it still dripped steadily. She knelt to rummage through the captain’s sea chest.
When she pulled the man’s shirt over her head, she was pleased to see that it reached below her knees. It felt odd not to have her breasts pressed up and together, imprisoned by whalebone and stiff fabric. The fine lawn teased her nipples as her breasts swung free beneath the fabric.
Eve could only find a pair of sailor’s short slop trousers, the wide baggy-legged type favored by mariners. Sadly, these left a scandalous amount of her calves on display even if she could keep them up. She remedied the problem by knotting a length of coarse rope around her waist and pulling on a pair of thick woolen stockings. She had no shoes. Even if the captain had left a spare pair of boots in his cabin, she’d have clomped right out of them with every step.
She was by no means decently attired, but at least she was more modestly covered than in her wet gown. The ship canted into a sharp turn and then righted itself. Dawn broke through the stern windows.
Eve ventured out of the cabin and onto the deck to see for herself just where she and her friends had landed. Sally and Penelope were leaning on the starboard rail, heads together in conversation while the sailors went about their business. Since the women were dressed more or less in the same unorthodox fashion as she, more than one of the salts cast lingering glances at their ankles.
Since there was no help for it, she might as well put on a bold face. Ignoring the crew’s leers, Eve strode across the deck to join her friends.
“Oh, Evie, isn’t the island beautiful?” Sally gushed.
“Compared to bobbing in the deep, I’d expect any place would be,” Eve said sourly. But truth to tell, the dense tangle of rhododendron and oleander beneath graceful palms and towering cedars was easy on the eyes. Especially after weeks of nothing but endless sea. The sweet scent of hibiscus wafted past her nose and the breeze held the heady breath of green growing things.
“We’ve landed on our feet and no mistake,” Sally went on. “Why, the captain is taking us into his own home. And Mr. Higgs says he’s all but lord of Devil Isle.”
“Devil Isle,” Eve repeated. How fitting for a black-eyed devil like Captain Scott. “And him the lord of the place. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?”
“Not really. There’s a governor, but Mr. Higgs says folk generally pay him little heed unless there’s a visiting delegation from England,” Sally rattled on with scarcely a breath. “It’s Captain Scott they look to. And it’s noised about that the captain is a gentleman of high birth.”
“And low sensibilities,” Eve muttered.
As if she hadn’t heard her, Sally breezed on. “Likely a second son, they say, because he don’t bear no real title, ’cept the town folk here do call him Lord Nick.”
“What else did Mr. Higgs say?” Eve figured it would do no harm to learn more about the place and the people in it.
“He says Devil Isle is the old name of the place, o’ course. Seems when folk first came here there was naught but a flock of birds and a herd of wild hogs, of all things! In any case, the sailors thought their calls and grunts were the cries of demons, up from the pit.” Sally shivered in horrified fascination. “Now Mr. Higgs says the islands are called the Bermudas.”
“Seems Mr. Higgs is quite a fount of information,” Eve said dryly. She cast a glance toward the first mate, who stood near the rail, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze darted toward the women, then away almost immediately when she caught him looking. His face reddened with a quick flush. Tall and lanky, with his pale hair pulled into a neat queue beneath his tricorne, Mr. Higgs reminded Eve of a long-legged colt, skittish and wary. “He seems shy.”
“Do you think so?” Sally rested a plump cheek on her palm. “I was worried about how we might seem to him in these clothes, but he said as we were the picture of English womanhood, no matter what we wore.” Sally sighed in a thoroughly besotted way. “Wasn’t that kind?”
“The Captain seems kind, too,” Penny said. “And brave.”
“But far too accustomed to getting his own way,” Eve said. “He refuses to take us on to Charleston.”
“That’s just as well.” Sally’s head bobbed in a satisfied nod. “St. Georges will do me fine. Once I set foot on dry land again, it’ll take the devil himself to force me onto another ship.”
White-roofed houses came into view. Neat and clean, the village of St. Georges was a welcome dash of civilization, as if a snippet of England had reached across the Atlantic’s gray waves. The ship’s bell began to sound news of their approach.
Eve looked back up to the helm, where Captain Scott stood behind the wheel. Legs spread, muscles bulging beneath his open-collared shirt, he strong-armed the ship into its berth. Instead of wearing a wig, as any gentleman would, or a tricorne over a neat queue like Mr. Higgs, the captain let his long dark hair fly free. It teased his broad shoulders as if he were some barbarian prince.
Eve turned away from him in frustration. Too bad the civilization of St. Georges had not tamed the master of this vessel.
The Susan Bell sidled up to the wharf, rubbing her hull against the dock like a tart toying with her lover. Nicholas supervised his men as they ma
de her fast.
An enterprising wharf rat had evidently heard the ship’s bell as they approached. The boy had nipped up to Nick’s big house on the hill and fetched an empty wagon in anticipation of the goods Nick should have been hauling back from the wreck. The lad had even thought to tie Nick’s horse to the back of the wagon bed.
“Mr. Higgs.” Nicholas snapped his fingers and his first mate came to heel immediately, following him to the head of the gangplank. “Bring our guests up to the house in the wagon. I’ll be along directly.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“Oh, and fetch that lad along as well.” Nick pointed at the boy who stood at the stallion’s head. “Make a place for him in the stables for now. If he continues to show promise there, we’ll see about a berth for him among the crew.”
“Aye,” Higgs said, a worried frown beetling his brows. “But aren’t you going to be there when we arrive? I’m thinking Miss Magdalen may not welcome our…guests as warmly as we might like.”
Nick laughed. “Astute as ever, Higgs,” he said. “Which is why I’m making a stop by the milliner on the way. Never go into battle unarmed, lad. And if your opponent is female, the best weapon is a new bonnet and a handful of ribbons.”
“B-but if we arrive before you, what shall I say to Miss Magdalen?” Peregrine’s stutter was back as soon as the deck stopped rocking.
“Don’t worry.” Nicholas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Women are always curious as magpies. Take our guests for a slow turn around the town and I’ll make sure to beat you home. It’ll all be sorted out by the time you arrive.”
He strode down the gangplank, tossed tuppence to the lad by the wagon and told him to wait for Higgs. Then Nick mounted the stallion and dug his heels into its flanks, launching into a quick trot along Water Street.
An image of Magdalen’s face shimmered before him. Perhaps two new bonnets might not be amiss.
