The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  But a dream only for fools.

  Angry shouts coming from the main deck ruined their carefree moment, and Emeline took Hannah’s arm and led her around the foremast then down the ladder.

  Lieutenant Dimsmore stood amidships, his red uniform stark in the noonday sun, shouting at one of his men—something about the state of his uniform and his omission to salute the lieutenant properly. The fury tightening the lieutenant’s face and his grating tone made Emeline feel sorry for the young marine he was scolding. She slowed her pace even as she heard Hannah give a disappointed huff.

  “Somethin’ ‘bout that man. I don’t care for ‘im.”

  “He’s just doing his job, I suppose.”

  “Maybe, but ‘e’s the one locked up my husband, an’ what keeps ‘im locked up. Wait.” Hannah’s press to Emeline’s arm halted her. “That means ‘e has the keys.”

  Emeline followed her gaze to a set of iron keys hanging on a loop attached to the lieutenant’s belt. “Yes. But what can we do about it?”

  A tiny smile curved her lips. “Why, get them of course!”

  Emeline couldn’t help chuckling at her friend. “To what purpose? Need I remind you, yet again, that we are on a ship?”

  “Ah, but did you know that ole Robert Nifton can swim?” Hannah stuffed wayward hair beneath her bonnet.

  “The purser?”

  “Aye. And quite well if you’re to believe ‘im.”

  Emeline wiped the perspiration from her neck. “So what are you saying? We should steal the keys and free Robert so he can swim to shore?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, dear.”

  “And what will he do when he gets there? Doesn’t that leave the rest of us still here?”

  Hair blew in Hannah’s face, and she wiped it away. “Didn’t you say you knew someone in the militia? We can send Robert to ‘im.”

  Emeline stared toward shore, shaking her head. “I still don’t see what good it will do.”

  “Maybe they can rescue us.”

  “Off a Royal Navy frigate?” Emeline gave her friend a berating look, to which Hannah only shrugged.

  “Why would they bother?” Emeline added.

  Finally, Dimsmore’s tirade wore itself to completion, and the young man shuffled away. Emeline attempted to yank Hannah to the other side of the deck before Dimsmore saw them.

  Too late. He started their way. And as if he had not just belched fury upon another human being, he smiled. “Miss Baratt, such a joy to see you grace our deck,” he said, completely ignoring Hannah.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Dimsmore. My friend Mrs. Keate and I enjoy the fresh air.”

  He gave Hannah a cursory glance. “Then perhaps you’d enjoy a stroll after dark? The stars are stunning on a clear night.”

  She’d rather remain in her cabin and count the divots in the bulkhead. “The captain has forbidden me above deck at night.”

  “Without an escort, Miss Baratt.” He leaned in to smile. “But I assure you, you will be safe with me.”

  Somehow she doubted that. Hannah gently elbowed her in the side. La! To what lengths did Hannah expect her to go to steal the man’s keys?

  Seconds passed interminably … proper ladies didn’t steal, right? Ohhh. Fie! She faked a smile. “Then I accept your kind offer, sir.”

  He dipped his head. “Until then.”

  Hannah drew her away and smiled. “Seems you have an admirer.”

  Emeline huffed. “I should get below. The captain expects me to continue work on his portrait.”

  “How is that going?” Hannah asked as they approached the companionway. One glance up revealed Lieutenant Masters’s eyes upon her yet again. Was he that deprived for the sight of a female? The man had done nothing but ignore her for the past two days.

  “The portrait I have only just started,” she answered Hannah as they descended the ladder. “The captain seems pleasant enough. Not at all as harsh as he first behaved.”

  Inside their cabin, Hannah shut the door and whispered, “Good. Perhaps you can pry some information out of ‘im. That would give Robert somethin’ to tell the Baltimore militia.”

  Emeline rubbed her temples. “You have such exaggerated faith in me, Hannah.”

  “Because I know you, dear. You ‘ave a passion, a fervor for life, and a courage I’ve not seen in many women. If only you realized it.”

  Emeline sighed and stared out the porthole. “I don’t want to realize it. For once in my life, I’m trying to be proper.”

  “Proper? Wha’s bein’ proper ‘ave to do wit’ it?” Hannah grabbed a handkerchief and dabbed the back of her neck.

  “Hmm.” Emeline frowned. “Regardless, my passion for life, as you put it, has brought me nothing but trouble.” And she was through with trouble.

  After doing her best to refresh her appearance, she left Hannah and made her way to the captain’s quarters with one thought in mind.

  Proper ladies don’t spy.

  Sometimes Owen loathed himself. Well, perhaps loathe was too strong a word. Disappointed might be a better term. The Baratt woman was clearly an enemy. Nay, worse than an enemy—a woman who would turn against her own country! Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, purposely made sure he was on the quarterdeck when she came up for her daily strolls, looked forward to them, in fact. He could only attribute his uncanny attraction to the fact that he’d not had female company in months. Not since the last shore leave in Bermuda. Indeed, that was the reason.

  She was comely, to be sure, but he’d seen beautiful women before—courted many of them. No, there was something else about her. Where most women would demand every luxury they could acquire aboard the ship, she hadn’t asked him for any comfort besides the basic necessities she was given. And she didn’t flirt. What attractive woman didn’t flirt? It was one of the few weapons God had afforded the weaker sex. Miss Baratt had been given an extra measure of beauty with which to wield that particular sword. Still, she kept her blade sheathed.

  In addition, she was kind—even to her enemies. He’d watched her with great interest pick up the rag the American sailor had dropped. Why? Even if he wasn’t her enemy, she hailed from nobility—albeit quite removed—but someone of status who had lived in a noble home these past ten years would never lower themselves to assist a servant. Why, she even treated her lady’s maid as if she were an equal, a friend.

  Then there were the injured men, both British and American, whom she tended without prejudice. And tended well—sacrificing her own sleep last night to remain with one of the Americans who had developed a fever.

  Hang it all!

  And now she was speaking to Dimsmore. The peckish fatwit! How could she not tell what a snake he was? She may be a kind enemy, perhaps even humble, but she was definitely a fluffhead.

  “You’re quite smitten, eh?” Ben said from beside him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “With the Baratt lady.” He gestured toward her with a nod of his head.

  “Gad! Contrary to your opinion of me, I don’t chase every skirt I see.”

  “Only the pretty ones.”

  “She’s pretty, I’ll give you that. But that’s where her attraction ends.”

  “I’ve never known you to avoid a comely lady. Have you taken ill with one of those tropical maladies?” Ben raised a hand to touch Owen’s cheek, but he batted him away.

  “Perhaps I’m finally looking to settle down, and I seek a decent lady.” The words sounded ridiculous on his lips.

  Apparently Ben was of the same mind, as his laughter brought the gaze of a few sailors. “If so, then why not this lady? She has noble blood and an inheritance. In addition, I continually find her conversation at dinner entertaining.”

  Something Owen had also enjoyed. The lady was polite. She offered compliments and interesting anecdotes, and she didn’t blather on and on about nonsensical things as some women were prone to do. “Then you pursue her,” Owen snapped.

  “I just may do that, th
ank you.”

  Owen’s stomach coiled into a knot at the words. Yes, he definitely loathed himself.

  Fortunately, land appeared off their starboard bow, changing the topic of conversation.

  “I’m anxious to stretch my legs on land again,” Ben said, planting his feet wider apart as the ship canted. “Hard to see it so close.”

  Harder than Ben realized. One slip over the side and Owen could swim to shore within minutes. “Perhaps we’ll soon be sent on a raid.”

  “Perhaps, yet I don’t relish the violence.” Ben’s mood suddenly soured.

  “We are at war. Violence is to be expected,” Owen returned a bit too harshly, though he was not surprised at his friend’s comment. Ben was pure goodness, honesty, integrity, and kindness. If anyone could convince Owen that God was good, it would be Ben.

  If anyone could convince him otherwise, it was men like Dimsmore. He watched as the ladies left his side and disappeared below, the muckrake staring after Miss Baratt like she was his last meal.

  Yes, the sooner Owen got off this ship, the better.

  The urgent message the captain had received two days ago contained information about a large land campaign, but the captain had given him no further details. So Owen would wait. And watch. If there was an invasion planned, he must discover the date, location, and number of troops and armament.

  Still, such a plan could only mean one thing—the British believed they had the advantage and could soon win the war.

  Owen smiled. Not if he could help it.

  CHAPTER 7

  The minute Lieutenant Dimsmore offered Emeline his arm as they emerged from the companionway after dinner, she regretted accepting his invitation. It wasn’t that he wasn’t handsome, gallant, and charming. He was all those things. But something about the man soured the food in her stomach she’d just consumed.

  But once they reached the railing and she gazed up at the myriad stars flung across the sky like diamonds on black velvet, she realized his company might be worth it.

  The bell at the forecastle rang three times, and she calculated it must be 9:30 p.m. in the first watch—something the captain had taught her. Drawing a deep breath, she gripped the railing and glanced up.

  “It’s gorgeous. God’s creation. Makes one feel rather small in the scheme of things.”

  Dimsmore eased beside her. Far too close. “I knew you’d enjoy it.”

  She inched away slightly. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “It gives me a chance to get to know you better.”

  “We eat dinner together every night, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah, but I mean alone.”

  She glanced behind her at the men on watch. “We are hardly that.” Thank God.

  Dimsmore slipped closer, and the pungent scent of alcohol stung her nose. She’d seen him imbibe quite a few drinks at dinner. Lieutenant Masters as well, making her wonder if they were in some sort of deviant competition to see who best could handle their liquor before falling over.

  He placed his hand atop hers on the railing, giving her a start. She withdrew hers and faced him, longing to excuse herself and retreat to her cabin, but she had promised Hannah she’d attempt to get his keys. As unlikely as that was.

  “Tell me of your childhood, Lieutenant.”

  The topic seemed to wipe the desire from his eyes as he faced the bay. “Not much to tell. I was an orphan. My parents were both killed in a fire when I was six.”

  Emeline followed his gaze to the dark water, laced in silver moonlight. “I’m so sorry.”

  He leaned on the railing. “I barely remember them.”

  “How did you survive … if I may ask?”

  “I lived on the streets of Liverpool for a time, stealing food and clothing just to stay alive.” Despondency settled on his features, almost making Emeline feel sorry for him.

  “Then I was rounded up and sent to an orphanage, where I was educated.” He shrugged as if the incident had not altered the course of his life.

  “Thank God for that,” Emeline said, and she meant it.

  “God had naught to do with it, Miss Baratt. He abandoned me as a child and has not made an appearance since.”

  As much as she wished to defend God, the sudden fury and gravity of his voice bade her change the topic. “How did you come to be a marine?”

  His shoulders rose. “I joined of my own volition. Worked my way up from private to lieutenant in only ten years. Unlike”—he glanced behind him—“many of the naval officers who receive commissions because of their connections and wealth.” His tight expression matched his tone, and she wondered if he referred to someone in particular.

  “I imagine they work quite hard as well.”

  “Humph. They have a life of ease on board this ship compared to the marines. We are the ones who keep order, who protect against mutiny. We are the ones who go on land to fight their battles.”

  Emeline swallowed. Anger and bitterness seeped from this man’s being, and she longed to relieve herself of his company, but her eyes landed on the keys clipped to his belt. “You have done well for yourself, Lieutenant. You should take that to heart and be satisfied.”

  “Hard to do when lesser men around me get rewarded.” He tightened his grip on the railing, then released it and drew a breath, no doubt trying to cool his temper.

  She should allow him to do so … wanted him to regain his cheerful demeanor lest he lash out at her in his anger. But she needed to gather information, and his fury may allow something of value to slip. “I assume you refer to Lieutenant Masters. I have noticed the animosity between you.”

  The smile that had begun to erase the hostility from his face grew flat again. “Hard not to, I’m sure, miss. He is a raffish miscreant of the worst kind. You’d do best to avoid him.”

  “You fault him simply because of the privilege of his birth?”

  “No. I fault him for the many acts of cruelty he has perpetrated on me, Miss Baratt.”

  “Such as …?”

  He studied her for a moment, but a cloud covered the moon, and she couldn’t make out his expression. Finally he said, “Nothing that would recommend either of us, I assure you.” He proffered his elbow, and she allowed him to lead her around the deck.

  The keys jangled at his side, taunting her. She must get her hands on them. But how?

  He led her up the foredeck ladder to stand at the prow where a cool breeze swirled around them, fluttering the curls at her neck. She grabbed one and fingered it like a lifeline, seeking a solution to her problem. Lieutenant Dimsmore stumbled and put a hand on the mast for balance, reminding her that he was rather besotted. He stared out to sea, and Emeline took the chance to study the keys in the light of a nearby lantern. A simple clip seemed to be the only thing holding them to his belt.

  Shoving down her repulsion, she sidled up to him. “Your success in life is commendable, Lieutenant. It is rare to find such a handsome, honorable man. I can’t help but wonder why you have not taken a wife.”

  This brought a rather wide smile to his lips. “You are too kind, Miss Baratt.” He faced her and leaned back on the mast, taking her hands in his. “I suppose I haven’t found the right lady.”

  She stiffened but did not pull away.

  There was a coldness to this man. Instead of looking at her with an ounce of care, his gaze was one of predator to prey—or perhaps a pirate to treasure.

  Over his shoulder, Emeline saw the marine who was standing guard turn and leave. A trickle of dread slithered down her spine.

  She glanced up at Dimsmore and found his gaze wavering over her lips. La, was she going to have to kiss this man in order to get his keys? Nausea brewed in her stomach as she debated whether it would be worth it.

  The deck tilted.

  Emeline fell against him. His arms encircled her. His head lowered.

  She reached for the keys.

  Her hand gripped the metal ring. She dared to gaze up at him and found his slobbering lips inches from hers.
His breath was hot and stank of rum. Disgust made her cringe.

  She groped for the clip. There! She attempted to open it. It didn’t budge. She tugged on the keys. They wouldn’t move.

  Fie!

  She pushed from the lieutenant and backed away.

  His eyes opened, shock and anger appearing on his face.

  “Thank you for the stroll, Lieutenant, but I should be retiring. I have a long day tomorrow in sick bay.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so.” When he didn’t offer his arm, she turned to leave, but he grabbed it anyway and spun her back around.

  “I had hoped … well … it seemed …” He pulled her against him and held her there with one hand, while with the other he raised her chin.

  She pushed against his chest, fear ringing in her ears. “Let me go! What are you doing?”

  Hands reached out of the darkness and shoved the lieutenant away. He stumbled over the deck and landed against the railing. “Leave her be, Dimsmore.” The voice, deep and commanding, brooked no argument.

  Gripping the railing, Lieutenant Dimsmore stood to his full height and glared at the intruder. “What business is it of yours, Masters?” He straightened his coat. “The lady and I were merely getting acquainted.” He gripped the hilt of his service sword.

  “Miss”—Lieutenant Masters’s gaze swept to her with a look of concern—“do you wish to be left alone with this man?”

  “Most certainly not.” She stared at Dimsmore. “You forget yourself, sir.”

  He frowned, and his eyes flashed fury before a smile appeared on his lips. He dipped his head. “Forgive me, miss. I misunderstood your encouragement.”

  “I gave you no such encouragement.”

  “Then I am in your debt.” Squaring his shoulders, he stormed past Lieutenant Masters, bumping him in the arm.

  The lieutenant stared after him, his fists hard knots, and for a moment Emeline thought he would charge him and pummel him to the deck. But then he turned and faced her. Wind wisped the dark strands of his hair, and she wished she could see his expression, but his hat kept his face in shadows.