“Miss Baratt,” he said with a smile.
“Lieutenant Dimsmore,” she returned, knowing that his sudden kindness was due to his belief she was no longer his enemy.
“You really shouldn’t wander about the ship alone.”
She studied him. In the sunlight, he appeared much older than he had in the dim light of the captain’s cabin. At least ten years older than her. Tiny lines furrowed his face, and there was a weariness to him she’d not seen before. The odor of alcohol and musk clung to him. But still, he was a handsome man, tall, broad-shouldered, firm features, with dark hair cut short to his collar.
“I don’t know how you bear the stuffiness belowdecks,” she said. “I took a risk and was rewarded with fresh air and a beautiful sunrise.”
“Ah, such an appreciative attitude when you find yourself a prisoner.”
“Am I still?”
His lips flattened as he stared into the bay. “I believe your story, Miss Baratt, though I was skeptical at first. You comport yourself as a British lady and not one of those cloddish, vulgar Americans.”
Emeline hid a grimace. “Why thank you, Lieutenant. I can’t say I’ve ever been quite so flattered.”
Her sarcasm was lost on him as he lifted his chin to the wind.
Another bell rang from the front of the ship. Five rings this time, and Emeline could hear someone below shouting, “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks, ahoy!”
Moans filtered through the deck, followed by the thudding of feet. Within minutes, the clank and grind of chains was added to the cacophony, and ten men from the crew of the Charlotte crawled through a hatch, large stones the size of a book in their hands. They removed their shoes and rolled up their stockings, as a hose, carried by two sailors, was hoisted above after them. Water and sand were strewn over the deck, and the men dropped to their knees and began scrubbing with the stones. The first mate, Aaron Mules, and the purser, Robert Nifton, were closest to her. Robert glanced her way, a momentary look of confusion on his face before he went back to task.
Her heart sank, and she faced the bay again, attempting to keep her anger at their treatment from her expression.
Dimsmore’s eyes followed her curiously. “Does the sight of hard work disturb you, miss? They are treated better than they deserve.”
“No, of course not. I quite agree. They are prisoners, after all.”
Moments passed, the scratch and scrape of their scrubbing grating over Emeline’s nerves. If only she could help them somehow. And why was Dimsmore still standing there? Surely he had duties to attend.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Miss, I feel it is my duty to warn you.” He glanced behind him then leaned toward her. “There are those aboard this ship who will not treat you with the respect your weaker gender deserves.”
Weaker, fie! She forced a smile. “And here I was told you were all gentlemen.”
“Well”—he stared over the deck as if looking for someone—“as you witnessed last night, Lieutenant Masters has quite a history with women. And not a good one. I’m afraid he will attempt to lure you in with his charms. He cares not if a woman is rich, poor, noble, common, comely, or ugly, he must feed his insatiable ego by gaining their affection.” The man’s jaw tightened.
“Again, you flatter me overmuch, Lieutenant.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, I certainly didn’t mean—”
“I know.” She smiled. “And I thank you for the warning.” Not that she had any intention of getting to know Lieutenant Masters, nor the man before her. Her goal was to survive and get off this ship and back home as soon as possible before she was forced to do anything else she shouldn’t do and only increase God’s anger.
More sailors leapt on deck from below, followed by several midshipmen and a few officers, Lieutenant Masters among them. He headed their way.
Emeline had noticed the change in him as soon as she’d announced her allegiance to Britain. It became all the more prominent when he’d escorted her back to her cabin. An ax couldn’t have sliced the tension between them. Odd. Perhaps it was because he’d imbibed too much alcohol, evident in his uneven gait. Or perhaps his flirtations had just been an act of which he had grown weary.
He halted before them now, sunlight glinting off his shiny brass buttons. “Miss Baratt, the captain wishes to see you. He has spoken with Captain Lansing.”
Already? Emeline’s throat tightened. “Very well.”
He and Lieutenant Dimsmore exchanged a look of disdain before Lieutenant Masters led the way to the captain’s cabin. But Emeline took no care of the hostility between the two lieutenants. Of far greater import was that whatever Captain Lansing had told Blackwell, it would seal her fate.
Owen Masters led the lady onto the quarterdeck and down the companionway. Traitor was more like it. Any attraction he had toward her had instantly vanished at her declaration. And even more so when he’d spotted her with Lieutenant Dimsmore. Any female who spent time with that slobbering mongrel was not worthy of Owen’s time. Unless of course, Owen was only using her to purposely frustrate the marine—as he had done on more than one occasion when he’d lured away Dimsmore’s lady friends.
Not that this particular traitor hadn’t presented a very alluring figure standing on deck with the wind waltzing through her curls set aglitter by the rising sun. That same sun cast a flawless golden hue over her skin that made Owen itch to touch it. He frowned. Perhaps his attraction to her hadn’t completely vanished. But he had no intention of doing anything about it. Not even when, at the moment, her uniquely feminine body drifted past him—smelling of woman and sunshine—as she entered the captain’s cabin.
Ducking beneath the beams, Owen followed and heard the marine shut the door behind him.
“Ah, Miss Baratt, do have a seat.” Captain Blackwell rose from behind his desk and gestured toward one of the wooden chairs perched before it.
The rare smile on the man’s face had the effect of lowering the lady’s shoulders ever so slightly. Still, she remained standing, stiff as a salt-encrusted rope, as if she were on trial for her life.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” the lady squeaked out.
“Very well. I’ll get right to the point. I have spoken with Captain Lansing and he has verified your tale.”
The woman smiled and released a huge breath.
“However”—the captain added, circling the desk—“only so much as to say he’d been ordered to collect you in France and escort you home and that you were none too happy about it.”
The lady gulped. “Surely that is all you need to believe that I am indeed loyal to England.”
Captain Blackwell leaned back against his desk. “What did you intend to do once you arrived in Baltimore, Miss Baratt? Seeing that you would have been on enemy territory against your will.”
The lady flung a hand to her chest and affected a rather defenseless tone. “I was petrified at the prospect, I assure you. Should anyone discover my loyalties, I could be hanged.”
Owen prided himself on knowing the human character pretty well, and it seemed the lady was overdoing the theatrics a bit.
“Of course,” she continued, twirling a finger through one of the golden curls at her neck, “I would have made plans right away to escape my father’s clutches and return to Brighton as soon as possible.”
“Why did you bother stepping aboard your father’s ship in the first place?”
“I am a dutiful daughter, Captain, or try to be. I wanted to explain to him face-to-face that I wished to stay in England. He is my father, after all.”
The captain seemed to accept her explanation, for he nodded. “Yet by what means would you survive since your aunt has passed on?”
Miss Baratt folded her hands before her, her fingers fumbling as if seeking anchor. “My aunt gave me an inheritance that will suffice as my support until I can marry.”
Another smile appeared on the captain’s face—so foreign, Owen had to blink to ensure he wasn’t seeing things. “I
find myself persuaded of your loyalties.”
“Thank you, Captain.” The lady’s smile washed all harshness from Blackwell’s face. “Am I free to go then? Can you put me ashore?”
“Bah!” The harshness returned. “I wouldn’t do such a thing to a defenseless lady. It isn’t safe for you in Baltimore at the moment. I insist you stay on board. As my guest of course. Aid the men with their medical complaints, and I promise I will ensure you are safely delivered home at war’s end or back to England if you prefer.”
“War’s end, Captain?” Moving to the chair, she slowly lowered to sit. “But that could be years.”
Captain Blackwell shared a glance with Owen that bespoke of knowledge he’d yet to impart. “I assure you, miss, that will not be the case. The war will soon be over, and Britain will be the victor, mark my words.”
Miss Baratt held a hand to her stomach.
Owen wanted to do the same. But not for the same reasons. A wave of excitement quivered through him. Finally he would acquire some valuable information vital to the war, and he could leave this godforsaken ship.
“In the meantime, Miss Baratt,” the captain continued, “did I hear you say that you are an artist?”
The lady nodded, appearing as unsure where this was going as Owen.
“Good.” Captain Blackwell rubbed his hands together. “I would like to commission you to do a portrait of me while you are here.”
Miss Baratt shifted in her seat and lowered her gaze. “I couldn’t possibly. Truly, I’m not that—”
“Pish.” He batted away her objections. “I’ve always wanted one done, and since you are available … Give me a list of what you require, and I’ll ensure you get it.”
Miss Baratt opened her mouth to respond when a knock on the door preceded Midshipman Sharpe with a folded piece of foolscap. He handed it to the captain.
No one else would have detected the ever-so-slight twitch above the captain’s right eye, but Owen knew him too well, had served under him these past eight years. He was a man of rules and regulations, honor and loyalty. A good man, in truth, despite the blood of England flowing through his veins and the Royal Navy saturating his every breath. The only thing that stirred emotion in Captain Blackwell—other than, apparently, Miss Baratt—was an impending battle in which he was assured victory.
“I must end our conversation, Miss Baratt.” He folded the paper and extended his hand. The lady took it and stood.
“Of course, Captain. You have a ship to run.”
“And a war to win.” He bowed to place a kiss on her gloved hand. “In the meantime, should you have need of anything, Lieutenant Masters will see to it.”
Owen suppressed a huff. Just what he needed. To be nanny to a traitor—a pampered British lady who would no doubt complain ad nauseam about the hardships of life aboard a ship. Never mind her. He had but one thought as he escorted the woman back to her cabin. To discover what news had the captain so excited and then get off this blasted ship and gain his freedom.
CHAPTER 6
Emerging from the companionway with Hannah on her heels, Emeline drew in a deep breath of fresh air, tainted with brine, moist wood, and a hint of earthy loam—the promise of home. She shifted her gaze to the left where she spotted land rising from the sea like a murky green cloud off the starboard railing. So close, she could almost reach out and grab it. Yet there might as well have been an entire ocean between them.
Halting, she lifted her closed eyes to the sun. It felt good to be on deck. She’d spent too much of the past two days in sick bay attending the injured or in the captain’s cabin working on his portrait.
“I thank you, dear,” Hannah said from beside her, drawing Emeline’s gaze as they started their walk. “For takin’ me on your walks. I ‘ate bein’ cooped up below like one of their pigs or chickens.”
Emeline returned her smile. “The captain said I needed an escort, and who better than you?” Feeling uneasy, she looked up to see at least half the sailors staring their way.
“It gives me a chance to see Mr. Keate, I ‘ope.” Totally ignoring the gaping men, Hannah searched the crew for her husband as they rounded the capstan and headed for the foredeck ladder.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. I don’t believe he’s above deck right now.” Emeline had already spotted the men from the Charlotte, cleaning out the guns and polishing brass. “They only allow ten men on deck at a time.”
Hannah did not hide her disappointment. “I don’t see why. Chained up as they are. They can ‘ardly escape.”
The clank of iron brought Emeline’s gaze to Aaron Mules, the Charlotte’s first mate, scrubbing the foredeck ladder railing … or at least attempting to do so as the irons locking his feet together made mounting the ladder difficult.
“Mr. Keate is doing well though. You know he is.” Emeline tried to comfort her friend.
“Yes. I saw ‘im last night. So nice of Lieutenant Masters to allow me to sup wit’ the crew.”
Emeline glanced over her shoulder to the quarterdeck where the lieutenant stood, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His cocked hat shadowed his expression, while rebellious strands of his dark hair had loosened from his queue and waved wildly in the breeze. Beside him Second Lieutenant Ben Camp said something and gestured her way.
She spun around. “Indeed. Though I cannot fathom why.”
Sails glutted with wind as the frigate sped on its way. Their snap and thunder joined the gush of water against the hull. No sooner had Emeline left the captain’s cabin yesterday morn than he’d ordered all sails raised, and they had rushed up the Chesapeake where they rendezvoused with a much larger ship of the line. A cockboat was lowered, and the captain and his lieutenants rowed over to the other ship, only to return at dusk. He must have received new information, for they tacked about and were now speeding back down the bay.
Halfway up the ladder, Aaron dropped his cloth. The wind tossed it across the deck, and Emeline rushed to catch it before it blew overboard.
She handed it to him, accompanied by her best smile, but he snagged it from her hand, eyes fuming, before he spit to the side.
Clenching her jaw, she clutched her skirts and passed him up the ladder, heart sinking. “I wish you’d tell them the truth,” she said to Hannah after they both stepped onto the foredeck. “It pains me to see the hatred in their eyes.”
“It’s for the best, dear. The less people what know, the better.” Hannah patted her hand. “The truth might slip, and then who knows what the captain would do with you?”
“Most likely lock me up below. Which is what I deserve.”
“Don’t be sayin’ sich things, dear.”
Emeline released a breath and leaned toward her friend. “Lying is a sin.”
“Not during war,” Hannah whispered back with a flash of her brows.
Despite the breeze, perspiration slid down Emeline’s back. “Indeed? And just where is that written in the Bible?”
“God says not to murder, but then killin’ in battle is acceptable. And remember King David actin’ like ‘e were insane so ‘is enemy wouldn’t kill ‘im?”
“I don’t remember that. You certainly know a lot about the Bible.”
“My papa taught me to read jist so’s I could study the Word. ‘E said it would bring me life. And ‘e was right.”
Emeline had to admit, other than sermons she’d heard in church, she didn’t know the Bible very well at all.
Sails cracked above, and the deck slanted. Emeline stumbled to grip the railing. After nearly two months at sea, she should be used to the heaving and leaping by now. She should also be used to being stared at. She glanced over her shoulder once again to find Lieutenant Masters’s eyes fastened upon her. Instantly, he shifted them away.
The ship bucked again, this time showering them with sea spray. Hannah chuckled. Emeline joined her, happy to have a reprieve from the hot August sun.
“Look lively, men!” Lieutenant Masters shouted. “Lay aloft and unfurl
topsails. Halt taut!”
Other shouts followed, and men scrambled to task. Backing against the railing, Emeline braced her feet on the teetering deck and watched as sailors flew into the shrouds and climbed aloft. Others remained on deck, hauling ropes or “lines,” as they called them, while other men busied themselves with repairs on lines and sailcloth, cleaning guns and weapons, and participating in drills. Every man had a duty, and every man was busy at all times. Such an efficiently run ship. So different from the Charlotte.
The thought made her swallow a lump of dread. How was America supposed to win against such power and expertise?
“Where d’ you suppose we are sailin’ off to so fast?” Hannah gripped the railing and glanced above. A few of the newly unfurled sails flapped and growled like ravenous birds until they caught the wind in a jaunty snap!
“The captain must have important information to pass along to other ships,” Emeline shouted over the wind.
Hannah’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned toward Emeline. “You should discover what it is.”
“Whatever for? In case you haven’t noticed, we are trapped on board this ship.”
“Posh!” Hannah waved a hand through the air. “We could escape.”
Emeline gaped at her friend. “Two ladies escaping from a Royal Navy ship of war? Hannah, you never fail to surprise me.”
“If God wills it, it will happen. Remember Peter in prison?” The sun had turned Hannah’s cheeks into rose blossoms, making Emeline smile.
Before a frown overtook her. “I’m no Peter.” Not even close.
“God is no respecter of persons, my dear. We are all ‘is children.”
Some of whom were in His disfavor at the moment, Emeline wanted to say, but kept the words to herself. Hannah would only chastise her for such a thought.
They continued onward, and Emeline felt that strange sensation again. But when she looked around, she found most of the sailors hard at work and only Lieutenant Masters looking her way. Odd man. Facing forward, she inched over the deck, clinging to Hannah for balance. At the front railing, she halted and closed her eyes, allowing the wind to rush through her hair and blast past her ears. And for a moment, she pretended she was on a ship of her own, sailing on a wild adventure to exotic ports where she would paint magnificent scenes of each locale. She smiled. What a wonderful dream.
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