The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  She slid into her chair. The lieutenant assisted her from behind before he took his own seat across from her next to the captain. Two men flanked her. A marine to her right and another officer to her left, barely out of boyhood from the smoothness of his face.

  “Did I have a choice?” she replied curtly, causing a few of the men to laugh.

  The captain gave a tight smile and took his seat, as did the rest of them. “Allow me to introduce my officers, Miss Baratt. You are acquainted with my first lieutenant, Owen Masters.” He gestured to the lieutenant sitting at his right. “Beside him is Second Lieutenant Benjamin Camp.”

  The light-haired man with the pleasant face nodded her way.

  “Next to him is Master Jacob Tempe.”

  The gruff-looking seaman barely afforded her a glance.

  “On your left,” the captain continued, “is Midshipman James Sharpe, and on your right, Lieutenant of the Marines Luther Dimsmore.”

  The young midshipman’s face reddened as he glanced her way, while the marine offered her a sneer.

  Despite her hunger, all she wanted to do was run back to her cabin and slam the door. She hated being on display. She had no idea why these men wanted to dine with their enemy. Unless it was to taunt her, to belittle her. Or worse, to gape at her because they’d been on a ship too long without females.

  Without so much as a prayer or word of thanks, the men began grabbing bowls and platters and heaping food upon their plates. Emeline took a small portion of rice and fish, though suddenly her stomach felt as though someone had tied an anchor to it and dropped it overboard. The marine to her right took the liberty of pouring some amber-colored liquid into her glass. The scent of alcohol stung her nose.

  And as much as she wanted to take a sip to calm her nerves …

  Proper ladies did not partake of spirits.

  “Do you have any water, Captain?” she asked.

  For some reason her question seemed to please him as he set down his spoonful of rice and smiled her way. “A rare luxury on board a ship, Miss Baratt. I think, however, you’ll find there is not enough rum in your water to dull your senses.”

  “Which is why I’m thankful we also have this Madeira,” Lieutenant Masters said as he poured himself a drink from a separate bottle.

  “And if ever there was a man who could hold his liquor, it would be you, Owen.” The light-haired lieutenant beside him chuckled.

  “Hold it, indeed, for who would release such a pleasurable repast?” Lieutenant Masters grinned and sipped his wine, causing laughter to abound.

  Emeline frowned.

  The marine lieutenant beside her—Dimsmore, if she remembered—added with a scowl, “It has gotten you into more than one brawl ashore, Masters.”

  Owen’s eyes flashed. “Spirits? Or perhaps it is my charm with the fairer sex that invokes jealous rages in some.”

  Emeline could feel Dimsmore stiffen beside her. He shifted in his seat and pierced Owen with his sharp gaze. “Women are not playthings to be pulled off shelves, toyed with, and then discarded.”

  “I never toy and rarely discard,” Lieutenant Masters retorted.

  “You do both, sir!” Dimsmore seemed barely able to contain himself. “And with those who are not yours.”

  Disgust soured in Emeline’s mouth, and she lowered her gaze. What sort of men were these?

  The ship rolled over a wave, shifting bowls and platters on the table. No one seemed to notice.

  “Enough!” The captain cleared his throat and cast a stern glance over both men. “There is a lady present.”

  Lieutenant Camp addressed her. “You must forgive these two, Miss Baratt. They oft behave like feuding schoolboys.”

  “A feud that will not interfere with the running of this ship!” Captain Blackwell interjected with authority. “Or my dinner.”

  With a growl, Dimsmore returned to his meal.

  The captain faced Emeline. “Lieutenant Masters informs me that you were quite proficient at tending the injured.”

  Emeline stared at her food, unsure whether her stomach would accept it or would simply thrust it back out of her mouth and further embarrass her in front of these men. “I was happy to care for them.”

  “Wherever did you learn such skills?” Lieutenant Camp asked before plopping a piece of fish in his mouth.

  “My uncle was a physician. As a child, I assisted him in his calls on the sick and injured.”

  “Unusual skill for a lady,” Master Tempe muttered under his breath.

  A bell clanged above, joined by the squawk of a bird in the distance. Land. They were so close. She had felt the ship come to a halt mid-afternoon, but she didn’t know where they were until the cabin boy told her that they’d sailed into the Chesapeake and dropped anchor, awaiting orders.

  The Chesapeake! Would they continue up the bay and sail close to Baltimore? But what did it matter? Even if she could jump ship, she couldn’t swim.

  Emeline continued to stare at her food, finally attempting a spoonful of rice. It tasted better than it should have in her current state, but then again, she hadn’t eaten since last evening. Finally, she squared her shoulders and faced the captain. “What is to become of me? Why have you invited me to dine with you and your men?”

  “Forthright. I like that, Miss Baratt.” Grabbing his glass, he sat back in his chair. “We are gentlemen and officers, and although”—he glanced at Lieutenant Masters and Dimsmore—“we have obviously been far too long from society, there is no need to be anxious for your safety. Now eat. I insist.”

  Lieutenant Masters refilled his glass.

  “As to what will become of you,” Captain Blackwell continued, “that depends on you. If you behave and tend the sick as I require, it will go well for you.”

  “I am no ship’s surgeon, Captain.” Her pulse took up a violent race. “I can only patch minor wounds and distribute medicaments for simple illnesses. If you were ever to be in battle …” She swallowed and could speak no more.

  Her gaze met Lieutenant Masters, and she thought she saw concern on his face.

  The captain plucked a biscuit off a platter. “Until another surgeon is sent to us, you will suffice. It is better for you than the alternative—imprisonment, either here on the ship or somewhere far less pleasant.”

  She pursed her lips, attempting to suppress the tremble that ran through her. Hannah’s words intruded on her thoughts. Perhaps she should declare her loyalties to England. Would these men even believe her?

  “The cap’n don’t take kindly to American privateers,” Master Tempe added with a spiteful glance her way. “Traitors, all!”

  This comment, though directed at her, set the men off into a discussion of the “blasted American privateers,” especially those out of Baltimore.

  “That nest of pirates!” Captain Blackwell cursed. “Who would have thought there were so many worthy seamen among the barbaric Americans.”

  She should object to the insult, but none of them seemed to notice her presence anymore. All save Lieutenant Masters, whose gaze kept drifting her way.

  She sampled the fish, her stomach responding with great enthusiasm. She bit into a biscuit, tried the crab soup, then the fresh corn and cinnamon glazed apples. The ship must have been supplied recently to have such fresh food aboard—a luxury she hadn’t had in over a month.

  “Proper ladies don’t stuff food in their mouths like pigs in a trough.” Emeline could hear her father’s words as clearly as if he were sitting beside her. She’d always had a healthy appetite, and he’d always chastised her for it. She set down her spoon.

  “Remember the time Owen was sailing that prize sloop to Plymouth?” Lieutenant Camp glanced over the men and laughed. “And he caught another privateer with it? With a crew of only ten men?”

  “Brave of you when you could have easily avoided battle.” Captain Blackwell looked at Lieutenant Masters as a father would a son.

  Master Tempe shoved a sliced apple in his mouth. “I still owe ye my
life, sir, for jumping overboard in that storm to get me when I fell in.”

  Lieutenant Masters shrugged. “I’m a good swimmer.”

  “Not many officers would have done that.” Captain Blackwell took a sip of wine. “Or climbed to the tops to rescue that young midshipman.”

  “Aye, a brave move,” Tempe added.

  “Or a foolish one.” Dimsmore scowled and poured himself more Madeira.

  So the lieutenant was not only a womanizer but a reckless madcap. More reason for Emeline to steer clear of him. Especially since every time he looked at her, she felt as though he were peering into her soul. Why would he be interested in an enemy of his people?

  “Speaking of bravery, Miss Baratt.” Captain Blackwell leaned back in his chair. “Why would a lady sail on board a privateer?”

  Emeline set down her spoon and surveyed the men, searching for the right words … the right way to lie to them. Or should she? They seemed reasonable men. Perhaps her stay here would not be so bad. Perhaps she should accept her punishment. Before she could answer, the door opened. A sailor approached the captain. “Message for you, Captain.”

  Unfolding the paper, Captain Blackwell perused the words, his kind face of only moments ago tightening with each line he read until his expression conveyed naught but fury.

  She had never witnessed such a rapid transformation in a man’s mood, and it made her realize that these men were no ordinary gentlemen as they claimed. They were warriors who would not think twice about taking the life of their enemy, and taking it brutally. Even hers.

  Her heart crawled into her throat. Perhaps it was best if she convinced them of her loyalty to England. The lie may ensure her safety and aid her in keeping Hannah and the crew of the Charlotte safe as well.

  “What is it, Captain?” Lieutenant Masters asked.

  Crumpling the paper, Captain Blackwell glanced her way. “Nothing. News from Baltimore.”

  “Isn’t that where you are from, Miss Baratt?” the young midshipman asked.

  Her hands shook, and she gripped them together in her lap. “I was born there, yes.” She hesitated. “But in truth, it is not where my loyalties lie.”

  Silence absconded with all sound in the cabin. Even the men’s chomping ceased.

  “What are you saying?” the captain demanded.

  “I am saying I am loyal to England. I always have been.”

  “She’s lying.” Master Tempe slammed down his glass. Beside her, Dimsmore huffed and tossed the remainder of his drink to the back of his throat.

  Lieutenant Masters narrowed his gaze.

  Lieutenant Camp’s expression scrunched in disbelief. “You expect us to believe such a thing after we discovered you aboard an American privateer?”

  Emeline swallowed and lifted her chin. “I’ll admit that my father owns a privateer. But I have not lived in America since long before the war. My father sent me to stay with family in Brighton, to be educated by my aunt. I am an artist, you see, and among many other subjects, my aunt allowed me to pursue my drawing and painting. I have been there these past”—she pressed a hand on her agitated stomach—“ten years. In truth, I hardly remember Baltimore.” For a minute she was sure everyone would burst out in laughter. To her own ears she sounded ridiculous—her bloated tone overcompensating for her lies.

  Captain Blackwell eyed her. “Why didn’t you tell us this when you boarded?”

  “Because, Captain.” She looked down, giving herself time to search for the right answer. “I didn’t wish my father’s crew to know.”

  “Then why not inform us when you first entered my cabin?”

  “I wanted to know what sort of men you were. And I was frightened—still am, if you wish to know. I’ve never been on a ship of war before, nor with such boisterous company. I was unsure whether you would believe me.”

  “Hmm.” The captain grunted. “Who is this aunt? I assume she can verify your story.”

  “Miss Martha Langson, daughter of Lord and Lady Newsome.”

  “Nobles.” Lieutenant Masters snorted.

  For the first time that night, Lieutenant Dimsmore turned to gaze at her, his perpetual scowl temporarily abandoned.

  “Indeed, my aunt was the daughter of a baron, but she passed away three months ago, and my father called me home.” She fingered a curl dangling at her neck. “Believe me, I did not wish to return. My father and I had a falling out before I left, and we have not spoken since.” At least that much was true. And that her aunt had died.

  For some reason, Lieutenant Masters sat back with a snarl and stared out the stern windows.

  “Your father called you home during a war?” The captain’s tone was incredulous.

  Emeline stared at her lap. “There was an issue of arranging a proper guardian for me, and I had not received the monies my aunt left me.”

  Captain Blackwell studied her, rubbing his chin. “If this is true, then we have done a great injustice to you, miss. This certainly was not our intention.”

  “You may ask Captain Lansing why my father wished to bring me home. He was none too pleased at being called across the pond away from his trade in the West Indies.”

  “We will do just that, Miss Baratt. Mark my words.”

  Fear prickled over Emeline’s skin. Had she made things worse with her lies? What if Captain Lansing knew more of her past than she assumed? If so, her deception would probably cause Captain Blackwell to follow through with his more unpleasant threats to her future.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sleep eluding her yet again, Emeline stood at the railing of HMS Marauder and gazed over the choppy gray waters of the Chesapeake. It was hard to believe that just yesterday morn she’d been doing the very same thing aboard her father’s ship, and even morosely—though not seriously—contemplating leaping overboard rather than be saddled to a life of drudgery and societal expectations. La, how much had changed since then—and all for the worse. Either God had a rather peculiar sense of humor or He was still punishing her for her past rebellion.

  Rays from a rising sun warmed her back and chased away the mist blanketing the water as four bells rang, announcing the midpoint of the morning watch. She’d taken a chance coming above without an escort, but after pacing her cabin all night while listening to Hannah’s snores, she felt she’d go mad if she didn’t get some air. The marines and sailors on watch gaped at her when she’d first come above, but then they’d quickly settled back to task. She assumed if any of them planned to take liberties, they wouldn’t do it in plain sight of all.

  Proper ladies did not gallivant without escort around ships full of men.

  Nor did they lie.

  “Lord, I’m sorry for the lie. It appears that no matter how hard I try to be good, to be a proper lady, I fail.” Which was most likely why she was in her current predicament.

  A cool breeze swirled around her, tossing her curls and flapping the edges of furled sails above. Emeline drew a deep breath and watched as beams of golden light glittered across the waves and reflected off a rising mound of deep browns and greens in the distance.

  Land. Her land. Her country. The country she had denied last evening in front of officers of the Crown.

  But what else could she do?

  She frowned. That seemed to be her excuse more often than not for the things she did by impulse rather than by honor and decency.

  Like the time when she was sixteen and she had sneaked out of her house before dawn and gone to the shore to paint the sunrise.

  Or the time she’d put rat hair in Richard Boorden’s soup when her father invited him and his family to dinner to arrange a potential courtship. She couldn’t help but smile now at that particular memory. The poor man had dashed out the door and retched in the bushes before leaping upon his horse and galloping down the street as if he couldn’t get away fast enough. He’d even forgotten his hat.

  Or the time she’d been so engrossed in studying the paintings of a traveling art gallery, she’d forgotten to buy fresh fish
from the market. They’d had nothing to eat for dinner except moldy bread.

  She sighed. Her unruly antics had continued right to her last year at home. One of the worst rainstorms she’d ever seen had struck Baltimore, and she simply had to experience it firsthand. Hence, down to the shore she went to watch the foamy waves crash, to thrill at the way lightning painted the sky in vibrant silver, and to feel the rain soak her hair and skin—all impulses based on her sentiments without a care for her safety, her reputation, or her future. At least that’s what her father so often told her.

  “Proper ladies don’t traipse around in the rain. You’re so much like your mother,” he had shouted in exasperation, shaking his head and stomping away.

  Which was the best and worst insult of all. The best because Emeline had loved her mother and had always wanted to be like her; the worst, for she knew how much he disapproved of her mother’s actions when she’d been alive.

  Tugging on the chain around her neck, Emeline opened the locket that held a miniature painting of her mother, done by the woman herself. Somehow, she had captured her zeal for life in her expression, her smile, and the look in her eyes. Emeline’s own eyes moistened as she stared at the picture. If not for this portrait, Emeline might have forgotten all those wonderful things. Or even how beautiful her mother had been. “I love you, Mama.”

  Swiping away a tear, she closed the locket and dropped it beneath her bodice again.

  “And now, Lord, here I am a prisoner of this horrid war. Just when I promised You I’d behave.” She glanced up at the sky where gray clouds began to form. “I would have too. Please give me another chance.” Before she ended up like her mother … sick, miserable, and dying.

  The ship angled over a wave, and Emeline gripped the railing as footsteps alerted her to a man approaching. Lieutenant Dimsmore appeared beside her. The morning sun made his uniform appear an even brighter shade of red as his blue eyes assessed her.