The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Her pulse was racing a bit too fast, and she was angry at herself for not getting the keys, but she was otherwise unharmed. It wasn’t like a man had never attempted liberties before.

  “I warned you about Dimsmore. He’s not a man you should keep company with.”

  “He says the same about you.”

  “Then I recommend you stay away from us both.” His tone was clipped, angry.

  Yet contrary to his words, he made no move to leave or escort her below. He merely stood there, gazing at her.

  Oddly, she felt none of the uneasiness she’d felt with Dimsmore.

  The deck lifted slightly, and the lieutenant steadied her with a touch then quickly released her. He scanned the ship as if he were looking for some excuse to leave.

  “Why have you not asked anything of me?” he finally said, removing his hat and raking a hand through his hair.

  “I have everything I need, Lieutenant.”

  He snorted and ran a thumb down the scar on his cheek. “I have never met a woman who was satisfied with what she had.”

  “Then perhaps you should spend less time in the company of port trollops.”

  Surprisingly, he chuckled. “Now, what gave you that impression?”

  “Merely the talk at dinner. Or are you so drunk each night, you don’t remember?”

  He cocked his head. “Do my dalliances and spirits offend you?”

  “Me? I take no care. But they offend God.”

  He grinned and looked away. “Ah, God is it? I doubt He knows what I’m up to.”

  The declaration both surprised and saddened her. In that way, he and Dimsmore were very much alike. But she wouldn’t tell him that. “He sees everything.”

  Lieutenant Masters cocked a brow. “Yet He never attempts to stop me.”

  “He has given us free will.”

  “Then I choose to live my life the way I please.”

  As if to prove his words, the ship pitched yet again, and the lieutenant caught her by the waist—this time refusing to release her.

  She glared up at him. “Am I freed from one scoundrel only to be assaulted by another?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Owen found he would like nothing more than to sample Miss Baratt’s sweet lips. Hang it all! He released her, regretting the action immediately for the wind stole away her feminine scent.

  “I make a habit of never kissing traitors,” he said.

  She eyed him curiously. “But I am on your side.”

  “Regardless, you turned your back on your country. Not an admirable trait.”

  “So that is why you despise me so.” She stared over the shadowy bay.

  “Despise is a strong word for someone I do not know.”

  “Yet I see it in your eyes when you look at me. And you do look at me quite often.” She smirked.

  So she’d noticed. He would have to stop that immediately. “You are the only eligible woman aboard this ship, Miss Baratt. All the sailors look at you.”

  Lifting her hand, she began twirling the curls at her neck—an adorable habit of hers he’d noticed. Along with her moist, soft lips that suddenly drew his gaze again.

  He did want to kiss her. Desperately.

  “Hmm. Since you loathe my presence, Lieutenant, why are you still here? Surely you have duties to attend.”

  “I cannot leave you unescorted.”

  “I can take care of myself. Besides, a traitor deserves whatever fate brings her, no?”

  Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps, but I have my orders.”

  This seemed to sadden her. “Very well, Lieutenant. You may escort me to my cabin.”

  He may, may he? Her supercilious tone grated, but he supposed that was her intention.

  At the door of said cabin, before he could bid her good eve, she slammed it in his face.

  Maddening woman! This was his reward for rescuing her from Dimsmore? Next time he would leave her in the man’s slimy grip. He stood there for several minutes, too angry to move, oscillating between knocking and demanding an apology—or at the very least, a thank-you—and going to the wardroom for another drink.

  Finally he decided to head down to sick bay to see his injured midshipman before retiring.

  He leapt down the ladder and crossed the gun room that substituted for the crew’s berth at night. Snores rumbled from dozens of swinging hammocks hanging from the deckhead, looking more like a school of grumpy whales than sleeping sailors. The stink of far too many unwashed bodies curled Owen’s nose.

  Only three men remained in sick bay, one American and two British—Seaman Thornhill, who slammed his eyes shut when Owen appeared, making Owen wonder if the man was pretending his illness, and Midshipman Langston, whom he found reading a book by a candle.

  “Studying for the lieutenant’s exam, I see.” Owen drew up a stool and sat beside the man’s hammock.

  Langston lowered his book and smiled. “No time to waste, sir. I hope to take it soon as this war is over.”

  “Good man. How are you faring?”

  “I am well. Miss Baratt said I can return to my duties tomorrow. Though in truth, I could use a few more days of studying. Besides, she’s pleasing to look at and so kind.”

  “Kind?” The thought bristled Owen.

  “Aye, doing so much more than old Clemens did. Checks on us often. Makes sure we get enough food and water. Talks with us, offers comfort. Sometimes she even sings.”

  “Sings?” Of all the … Owen clenched his jaw.

  “She’s even kind to Thornhill there”—Jack thumbed toward the seaman two hammocks over—“who constantly makes lurid comments. And the Americans too. That one over there, he says all manner of vile things to her since she claimed loyalty to Britain. But still she tends his wounds just the same. Probably saved his life.”

  Owen didn’t want to hear any more. “Seems you’re quite smitten.”

  “Naw, sir. She’s far too old for me. But it’s nice to have a caring female on board.”

  Owen chuckled at the comment, for the lady had to be close to his own age of five and twenty. “Well then, I shall see you at your post.”

  “Are we going to see action, sir?” The boy’s eyes lit.

  “Seems that way.” Owen nodded and rose. “The captain is preparing for a big campaign.”

  Angry at herself for not getting Dimsmore’s keys, Emeline tried her best to concentrate on the task at hand—painting the captain’s portrait while hiding her true loyalties beneath the man’s incessant questions. Either he suspected her or he was truly interested in getting to know her. Both prospects sent a shiver down her spine.

  Every day over the past week, she’d spent two hours in his cabin during the hottest part of the day. In that time she found him to be a strict and stern man, but fair, kind, and a good conversationalist.

  Also during that time, HMS Marauder had been quite busy sailing up and down the Chesapeake, meeting with other ships of the line. No sooner did they drop anchor beside a ship than Captain Blackwell and his lieutenants would row over to confer with its officers, only to return in a few hours and set sail in the other direction. Even in the short time Emeline had known the captain, she could sense a new excitement about him. His eyes had a twinkle that wasn’t there before, his step was a bit lighter, and every time he called his officers into his cabin, he seemed about to explode with new information.

  Of course she was always excused before she could overhear anything of import.

  But she did know one thing. Something big was afoot, and keys or no keys, she simply had to discover what it was.

  Dabbing her brush into a blob of brown paint, she stroked it over the canvas and decided to turn the questions onto him. Most men loved to talk about themselves, and she sensed this one was no different.

  “Pray tell, Captain Blackwell, how did you come to be in His Majesty’s service?”

  He shifted excitedly in his seat by the stern wind
ows.

  “Be still, Captain,” she scolded playfully.

  “Ah yes, of course.” He smiled and began to talk, regaling her with the entire story of his naval career. A fascinating one, to be sure, and one that more than entertained her. His love of the sea was obvious, as was his love of rules, regulations, and God. Indeed, she could learn much from this man.

  “I see you are a man of honor, Captain. One who allows decency, morality, and the strictures of society to guide your behavior.”

  He must have noticed the approval in her tone, for the gold epaulets on his dress coat shook as his shoulders rose. “Indeed, Miss Baratt. I have lived my life accordingly, and the good Lord has marked His approval with many a success.”

  Exactly what she believed. Or what she must believe from here on out. God rewarded good behavior and punished bad. No more frivolous pursuits for her, no more wild adventures, no more dreams of becoming a famous artist and traveling the world.

  From now on, Lord, I promise to comport myself as a lady of good breeding and high society.

  Sunlight trickled through the stern windows and dappled over Captain Blackwell’s blue coat, sending Emeline dipping her brush in the yellow paint, hoping to capture it.

  “And where do you go from here, Captain? I mean, after we defeat the Americans.” She hoped he didn’t notice her grimace.

  “Why, I hope to make admiral one day, but of course that depends on so much. Regardless, I wish to serve my country at sea, for it is my true love.”

  Emeline bristled at the comment. “But what of your wife? How often do you see her?”

  “Very rarely, I’m afraid. But that’s the life of a sailor’s wife.”

  “Surely she has children to keep her company in your absence.”

  Silence pervaded the cabin, save for the creak of timbers and gurgle of water.

  “We could never have children, I’m afraid.”

  Suddenly Emeline felt sorry for the poor woman, left all alone months on end without even children to comfort her. “I’m very sorry, Captain.”

  “So are we, but God’s will be done.” Though his voice was edged in sorrow, she sensed his strong faith.

  She ducked her head behind the canvas, feeling like an intruder into the man’s emotion.

  “I have grown fond of our time together, Miss Baratt,” he said.

  Hannah’s suggestion to get close to the captain reasserted itself in her thoughts. “Thank you, Captain. I too have enjoyed our conversations.” Though it was true, guilt pricked her conscience at her ulterior motives. And at her lies. Yet perhaps the captain had some of his own reasons for befriending her. Many a lonely man at sea had found temporary solace in the arms of another.

  Bile rose in her throat at the thought that she may have to encourage such attention. She continued painting.

  “If you’ll permit me to say, Miss Baratt. If Eleanor and I were to have had a daughter, I can very well imagine her to be just like you. Talented, wise, educated, and kind.”

  Relief swept through her. A daughter—not a prospective lover. She smiled. An honorable man, indeed. His sentiment touched her deeply, something that rarely occurred with her own father. She laid down her brush and peeked around the canvas. “If you’ll permit a moment of honesty, Captain. If God had deemed me worthy to be your daughter, I should feel quite honored.”

  Captain Blackwell smiled, rose from his seat, and started her way.

  She meant it of course, but as he approached, guilt at her deception assailed her, making her feel nothing like a proper lady at all—and everything like a bedeviled cur.

  He halted before her and was about to say something when a rap on the door interrupted them. At his “Enter,” in marched Lieutenant Masters, hat in hand, ducking beneath the beams. Strands of his windswept hair hung about his stiff jaw.

  A burst of salt-laden air swept in behind him and rustled the papers on the captain’s desk.

  His intense gaze swept over her before it landed on the captain. One curious brow lifted at the sight of them so close. His presence filled the room, and against her will, Emeline’s heart leapt in her chest.

  Owen stood at attention. “Captain, we approach HMS Shannon.”

  “Very good.” Captain Blackwell backed away from the lady, adjusted his coat, and grabbed his hat. “Miss Baratt, it has been a pleasure as always. The lieutenant will escort you to your cabin.”

  She nodded and smiled before focusing back on her painting.

  Blackwell marched from the room, leaving Owen alone with the woman. He should escort her right away. He would be expected on deck. But his eyes were drawn to the portrait she so intently worked on.

  Though only shadows and shapes took form on the canvas, he could see the figure of the captain emerging, the colors and textures quite alluring. “Exquisite.” His thoughts emerged unbidden in a whisper.

  Startled, she swerved to face him. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  Did she take so little note of him that she wasn’t even aware of his presence? He supposed he deserved that. They hadn’t spoken since he’d rescued her from Dimsmore, and he wondered if he’d been too harsh. But seeing her sitting here in her blue gown, fringed in Chantilly lace, all innocence and golden curls, he felt himself softening toward her.

  And he couldn’t have that. “I should escort you to your cabin.”

  “Do you admire art, Lieutenant Masters?”

  “I admire beauty.”

  She stared at him, and he could see in her eyes that she understood he referred to more than the painting.

  He shifted his stance. “Your work is truly beautiful thus far. I own it will be a good likeness of the man. You’ve captured his severe essence, his authority.”

  She eyed him with a grin. “And yet I sense your disapproval of those qualities.”

  “He is a good man, and I have learned much from him these past years. Your time could be spent in worse company.”

  “You shock me, sir. I understood you to be a man who shuns rules and regulations.” Her tone was playful, her green eyes twinkling.

  So she did pay attention to matters concerning him. “That doesn’t mean they don’t fit well on others.” He frowned. “A little advice, miss. Have a care for your reputation.”

  “My reputation is none of your concern, Lieutenant,” she retorted, her playfulness gone. “I am merely painting his portrait. That is all.” She dipped her brushes in a cleaning solution.

  “There is talk among the crew.”

  “You would do well not to listen to idle gossip, Lieutenant. Or”—she smiled coyly—“perhaps you are jealous?” The curls around her neck dangled like jewels.

  Of all the …! He couldn’t help but chuckle. What a fascinating woman. Too bad she was a traitor, or he’d be delighted to banter with her, even woo her with his charm. “You flatter yourself, miss. But I give you fair warning. Do not toy with the captain’s sentiments. I will not see him hurt.” If the woman could turn on her own country, she could certainly turn on a man.

  Oddly, her brow furrowed, and a brief flicker of unease traversed her expression before she began drying her brushes with a cloth. Her glance swept toward the captain’s desk as if looking for something. “No need to escort me, Lieutenant. I should clean my brushes more thoroughly before I return to my cabin.”

  “I cannot allow you to remain here alone.”

  “I only wish to—”

  Owen held out his hand. “Now, Miss Baratt. I am needed above.”

  With a huff, she laid down her brushes, stood, and followed him out the door. At her cabin, he bowed and spun on his heels before she could slam the door on him again. He heard it slam, nonetheless, as he made his way up the companionway ladder. For some reason, that made him smile.

  On the main deck, he joined Captain Blackwell, Ben, and Dimsmore in a cockboat that had just been lowered and was ready to row to HMS Shannon. The meeting with the captain of the Shannon was short and to the point. Maps were spread out an
d battle plans marked. Coded messages were handed to Blackwell with further instructions.

  But one thing—one very alarming thing—became clear. One piece of information that sent Owen’s mind and emotions reeling.

  The British planned to attack Washington, DC!

  He could hardly believe it. The capital of his nation! His anger and outrage at the news had risen so quickly and so intensely, it had taken every ounce of his strength not to unleash hell on the officers surrounding the captain’s table of the Shannon. But he must have allowed a flash of emotion to appear on his face, for Dimsmore stared at him most curiously after that.

  Unfortunately, the crew of the Marauder would not take part in that battle, but their marines and sailors would be required for another possible offensive planned against Baltimore.

  Specifics of both battles were being kept secret at the moment, but soon all would be disclosed.

  Owen hated to wait. He longed to jump overboard, swim to shore, and warn his uncle. But he didn’t have dates or troop numbers yet. Just a few more days, a week at most, and he would know more. In fact, he would probably be sent ashore with the marines. After that, it would be easy to sneak away and report to his uncle in Washington. Then finally after all these years, he would gain his freedom, but even more importantly, he would be able to help America win this war and defeat the British once and for all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Quit your pacin’, dear. It only makes it hotter in ‘ere.”

  The bulkhead grew larger in Emeline’s vision until she could make out every stain, knot, and divot. Twisting one of the curls at her neck, she spun, her skirts swishing over the cot on one side and the table on the other. “I can’t. I hate being confined in this cabin. I feel as though I’m in prison.”

  Before the words escaped her mouth, she realized what she had said and knelt before Hannah, sitting on the chair. “I’m a peevish goose. I’m so sorry, Hannah. I know your husband is locked below in a far worse place than this.” She rose with a sigh and moved to the tiny porthole. “I should not complain.” Standing on her tiptoes, she peeked out at the same scene she’d seen for the past two weeks—ripples of gray-blue water extending toward the distant blur of land.