The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Emeline tilted her head to the left then right, hoping to relieve the ache that had settled there. It didn’t work. Grabbing a clean cloth, she dabbed the perspiration on her forehead and the back of her neck and drew a deep breath. She instantly regretted it. By now, she should be used to the foul odors and sweltering heat belowdecks. Especially since she spent so much time attending the sick in this makeshift surgery.

  The ship angled to port as a rare breeze swept in from above, fluttering the lantern flames and sending light shifting over the examination table. She dipped the cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out, then began scrubbing off the blood and other body fluids.

  How had she been reduced to such gruesome work?

  She wanted to be off this ship. She wanted to go home. She longed to see her father, even if he was angry with her, even if he continued to restrict and restrain her … or worse, marry her off to some demanding man. Odd that she would say such a thing when a few weeks ago the thought of returning home made her wish to jump overboard.

  No doubt living in constant fear for her own safety and that of the crew of the Charlotte and then having to continually maintain her deception were beginning to take their toll on her. Perhaps that was God’s plan all along—to humiliate her into submission. If only He would deem that she had suffered enough for her past rebellion, that she had learned her lesson, and send her home where she could prove to Him that she had.

  But at least she’d been able to paint. “Thank You, Lord, for that small blessing.”

  And the blessing that she’d been able to paint in Brighton as well. Her aunt had encouraged her, in fact, but as Emeline soon discovered, only as a hobby, part of a lady’s education and proof of her status.

  “Ladies do not perform menial work,” her aunt had said when Emeline conveyed to her how she’d been raised—cooking, cleaning, and caring for her brothers. “That is why we have servants. I must say, I’m quite surprised at your father, but then again, I warned him not to marry a common American—especially one with Indian blood.”

  Though Emeline bristled at the insult to her mother, she was elated to think she’d found an ally in her great-aunt, someone who would encourage her to follow her dreams and not enslave herself to a marriage of duty and submission.

  But that was not the case. The life her aunt offered her was merely a different kind of prison, one of societal obligations, cloaked in wealth and privilege. Her death had left Emeline with a small inheritance but not enough to live on for very long or to allow her to follow her dreams. That and her father’s insistence she return home had caused Emeline to finally make up her mind to do the right thing from here on out.

  Then why was she stuck on this enemy ship?

  Perhaps to aid the American cause as Hannah had said. The lady had already given the chisel to Robert. The rest was up to Emeline. Tomorrow during her painting session, perhaps God would be merciful and loosen the captain’s tongue about their upcoming mission. But how to broach the subject?

  She imagined how the conversation might go:

  “Miss Baratt, after the war, should you ever find yourself in London, I should love it if you would visit my wife and I. We could show you all the wonderful sights of the city.”

  “I’d like that, Captain, and by the way, what are the British plans for the American land invasion?”

  No. It simply wouldn’t work.

  She sighed, hung up the clean rags to dry, and tossed the hopelessly filthy ones in a corner to be taken to the laundry.

  A moan sounded from behind her, and she turned to see that Mr. Thornhill was finally awake. Dipping her ladle into a barrel of water, she made her way to him.

  “Good eve to you, Mr. Thornhill. How are you feeling?”

  “Better today, miss.” He smiled a sort of crooked smile and propped himself up on his elbows.

  Emeline held the ladle to his lips as he slurped down the water. “You certainly look much better. You’re regaining your strength.”

  She withdrew the ladle and laid the back of her hand on his forehead. Still no fever. Good. “How is your stomach—what?!” She screeched as he clutched her wrist and swung himself up in the shifting hammock. The ladle clanged to the deck. Before she could jerk from him, he leapt to the floor and shoved her back against the surgery table.

  “What are you doing?” His sudden strength shocked her as the realization of what he intended sent her heart spinning in terror.

  “I’ve been waitin’ fer this moment, missy.” He pressed her hands back on the table and shoved his body against hers. “We’re finally alone.” His breath, hot and putrid, blasted over her.

  “Help!” she managed to scream, but only the distant snores of sailors and creak and groan of the ship answered.

  Thornhill grabbed a cloth and stuffed it in her mouth. “That’ll be enough of that. Now how’s about some lovin’ for ole Thornhill.”

  Emeline glanced to where the marine had stood, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Lifting her body as if she were naught but a sack of rice, Thornhill slammed her on top of the table then leapt on her. His weight forced the air from her lungs. She gasped and struck his chest with her fists, moaning and groaning and trying to work the cloth from her mouth, but he merely grabbed both her wrists with one hand and leaned over her.

  “Yeah, I’ve been eyein’ you, pretty one, the ways you go around playin’ the wanton vixen with us men, tauntin’ us with your long lashes and coy smiles. They say you’re wit’ us, but I don’t believe ‘em. You ain’t nothin’ but a stinkin’ American whore.”

  Had she behaved in such a way? Horrified, she tried to rise, but his weight kept her pinned, her legs flattened beneath his.

  So, this was it. Her final punishment for years of rebellion. I’m sorry, Lord. Please, help me.

  Thornhill grunted and fumbled with her skirts, giving her a bit more leverage. She kneed him in the leg where he’d been wounded.

  He arched in pain. Curses spewed from his mouth. “You’ll pay for that, missy.”

  He continued jerking up her skirts. Emeline closed her eyes. Her thoughts spun in a cyclone of disbelief and horror. Tears sped from her eyes into her hair. He released her hands and dropped his full weight onto her chest.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  No! No! This can’t be happening. Horror thumped so loudly in her mind, she could hear nothing else.

  Thornhill began slobbering on her neck. Emeline reached to her right where she remembered there was a tall stool. Had she put away the iron pot? Squeezing her eyes shut, she groped for it. For anything … when …

  There it was. Or something, anyway—something hard and heavy.

  Thornhill trailed kisses down onto her chest.

  She found the handle … strained to lift it …

  And slammed it onto Thornhill’s head.

  Two things bothered Owen that night. Two things that normally he’d be able to dismiss given enough alcohol and a good game of whist. But for some reason, both things—one physical, one mental—refused to give him peace. The physical thing was the raw open sores on both of his hands, gained from his antics in the tops earlier that day. The mental thing was the frustrating Miss Baratt’s absence from dinner. In the two weeks she’d been on board—and yes, he had kept track—she’d never missed dinner in the captain’s cabin.

  Blackwell seemed unaffected, though disappointed, by her absence, citing the message she’d sent that she was not hungry.

  Not hungry? He’d seen the woman eat. For such a tiny thing, she had the appetite of a sailor stranded on a deserted island. He smiled, but then threw down his hand of cards onto the wardroom table and slammed the remainder of his brandy to the back of his throat. “Count me out, gentlemen.”

  “Aw, come now, Owen,” Ben said from beside him. “It’s not like you to leave such a huge pot.”

  “I say, it is indeed like him.” Dimsmore sneered. “Running away when he knows he’s beat.”

  Owen rose, his chair scrap
ing over the deck, and started for Dimsmore, but Ben moved between them. “On the contrary.” Ben smiled. “You know as well as I that it’s Owen who runs toward danger and uncertainty more than any of us.”

  “Humph.” Dimsmore scowled, his bitter gaze shifting between them before he lowered back to his chair. “That makes him more a fool than brave.”

  Not in the mood for a fight, Owen ignored the insult and excused himself from his fellow officers to retire in his cabin. But his feet refused to cooperate. Instead they led him down a hall, past storage rooms, and down a ladder leading to the gun deck.

  Hundreds of snores rumbled across the deck like a thunderstorm rising at sea. Hammocks, strung between guns and gear, swayed to the movement of the ship. Yet it was a light on his left that drew his attention, seeping in between cracks in the temporary bulkhead erected to separate surgery from the men. Odd. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there at this hour. He’d only hoped to avoid Miss Baratt and find some bandages for his hands.

  A muffled squeal sent every one of his nerves to attention. Dashing forward, he pivoted around the bulkhead, hand gripped to the pommel of his service sword, ready to fight, ready to protect, whatever was necessary.

  The vision of Miss Baratt lying on the table with Thornhill on top of her had barely registered in his thoughts when he saw her strike the man on the head with a chamber pot.

  The sailor moaned in agony, wobbling above her and shaking his head. Without delay, Owen dashed for him and shoved him off Miss Baratt to the deck. Thornhill’s body slammed hard on the wood. He struggled to rise, groaning and gripping his head, his face twisting in rage, ready to defend himself against his attacker.

  Until he saw Owen. Halting, he stared at him, hatred and defiance remaining in his eyes, but fear creeping across them as well.

  “What is the meaning of this, Thornhill?” Owen shouted, drawing his sword and leveling it upon the man.

  Miss Baratt struggled to rise on the table, trembling, eyes wide, and chest heaving. She yanked a cloth from her mouth and tossed it aside.

  “The lady asked for it, sir.” Thornhill backed against the bulkhead.

  “And just how could she ask for anything with that rag in her mouth?” Owen stepped toward the man.

  “She were flirting wit’ me the whole time I were down here. She’s a trollop, I tells ye, sir.”

  Sheathing his blade, Owen raised his fist and, with every ounce of his anger, slugged Thornhill across the jaw. Arms flailing, the sailor sprawled backward, struck his head on the corner of a cabinet, and toppled to the deck. He didn’t move.

  Owen shifted his gaze to Miss Baratt, who stared at him, wide eyes full of terror. Rushing to her side, he grabbed her waist and helped her from the table. But no sooner had he set her feet on the deck than she faltered in his grip. He caught her before she fell and held her against him.

  “It’s all right now, Miss Baratt.”

  She stiffened for a moment, seemed to have regained herself, before a rush of sobs and whimpers billowed through her entire body.

  “There, there.” He led her to a chair and helped her to sit, then knelt before her. Tears turned to liquid crystal in the lantern light as they sped down her cheeks. For a moment—a brief moment—he forgot this woman was a traitor to his country and longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.

  “Are you injured, Miss Baratt?”

  “I didn’t … I didn’t …”—she shifted glassy eyes toward the still figure of Thornhill—“I did not encourage that man.”

  Owen plucked a handkerchief from inside his coat and handed it to her. “I’m sure you did not.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.” Owen glanced his way. “But he’ll wish he was soon enough.” Especially if Owen had anything to do with it. He still could make no sense of the horror, the fury erupting within him when he first saw Thornhill attacking Miss Baratt. Much more than he’d ever felt.

  She dabbed her cheeks. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Gripping the handkerchief tightly in her lap, she squeezed her eyes shut and began to shake visibly. Owen could stand it no longer. He gripped her hands in his. They were so small, his meaty palms swallowed them up whole.

  “You are safe now, Miss Baratt.”

  “Yes, I know. Forgive me. I am out of sorts.” She breathed out a sigh.

  “Understandably.”

  She retrieved her hands, dried her eyes, and lifted her gaze to him. “Surely you came here for some other reason than to offer me your comfort.” She stuck out her chin and threw back her shoulders.

  He turned his hands palms up for her to see. “Indeed. But it is of little consequence now.”

  “Don’t be silly. I will tend to them.” Shoving from the chair, she moved to the cabinet on shaky legs and retrieved a bottle and some bandages.

  Owen rose and sat on one of the chairs, watching her curiously. “It is all right to be distraught, Miss Baratt. You’ve had quite a fright. You do not have to comport yourself with poise in every situation.”

  She returned to sit beside him. Golden strands of hair fell in disarray to her shoulders, her eyes were swollen and red, and dirt and blood stained the apron she wore over her gown. But she was lovely. Truly lovely.

  Dipping some of the liquid onto a rag, she pressed it on his palm. He winced, but the pain quickly evaporated beneath her gentle ministrations.

  Even amid her own pain, when most women would deflate to a sobbing mess and curl up in a corner, she thought of him. Or was it merely gratefulness after he’d saved her?

  “You do not owe me this kindness for saving you, Miss Baratt.”

  “Saving me?” She huffed through a strangled sob. “Though I thank you for landing the final blow on Mr. Thornhill, I was doing quite well on my own before you arrived.” The tremble in her voice spoke otherwise.

  Owen chuckled, unsure whether she was teasing. “Clearly you did not stop the man from continuing—” He cleared his throat. “Merely stunned him momentarily.”

  “I would have thought of something else.” She moved to tend his other hand.

  He watched her, amazed. Of all the gall. The brazen chit! Yet rather than be annoyed, he found her captivating.

  “It is all right for a man to rescue a woman, Miss Baratt. You are free to express your gratitude.”

  “Oh, am I, indeed?” She finally gazed up at him. A spark of irritation had replaced the fear in her eyes. “Would you prefer I stand and cheer for you as your crew did earlier?”

  “That would be acceptable, yes.” He grinned.

  Groaning, she continued dabbing medicine on his hand, albeit much harder this time.

  Pain throbbed, but he wouldn’t give her the pleasure of knowing that. Besides, her touch was driving him mad, along with her closeness, her unique womanly scent, the wisp of her breath filling the air between them.

  And when she raised those green eyes to his, so full of strength and pluck, he wanted to kiss her more than anything.

  But now was certainly not the time. Nor would it ever be. She was a traitor. If she put her feet on American soil, she’d be hanged for treason.

  He snagged back his hands and stood. “Thank you, Miss Baratt. If you give me the bandages, I can finish myself.”

  Though a tiny wrinkle of surprise formed between her eyebrows, she nodded and stood. “Very well.” She gathered the cloths and handed them to him.

  “I’ll escort you to your cabin.” He kept his voice firm, devoid of any tenderness or playfulness it had held before.

  “What of Thornhill?” She glanced at the unconscious man.

  “I’ll have the marines lock him up and report the incident straightaway to the captain.”

  Fear reappeared in her eyes. And he hated himself for behaving so callously.

  They walked to her cabin in silence, though everything within him begged to offer her some words of comfort, apologize for Thornhill’s behavior, assure her all would be well.

  At her door, he once again advised her in th
e strictest terms to go nowhere on the ship unescorted.

  Turning to stare at him, terror flickered on her lovely features before she raised her chin. “I am sorry to have bothered you, Lieutenant.” And once again, he found himself staring at her closed door.

  Regardless, Owen marched off, feeling worse than a scamp.

  CHAPTER 11

  Emeline handed Hannah a cup of lemon tea she’d managed to convince the cook to brew for her friend. Apparently, the captain’s admiration of her had spread through the crew, and they seemed more than happy to oblige her every request. Which made her feel slightly better about her safety after the incident with Thornhill two nights ago. That and the fact that the captain was most distraught, apologizing to her for his sailor’s actions over and over, and assuring her it would not happen again. Though she had not witnessed the punishment, word around the ship was that Mr. Thornhill had been flogged and assigned to a detail belowdecks, and she wondered who had tended his wounds.

  She also wondered why she had not seen Lieutenant Masters since the incident. Though now that she thought about him, her anger rose.

  “The man is unhinged. He’s a churlish fatwit.”

  “Oh, I dunno, dear.” Hannah sipped her tea as she sat on the cot in their tiny cabin. “I wouldn’t mind some ‘andsome man rescuin’ me like that … dashin’ in and punchin’ out the villain.” She swept her fist through the air and smiled. “Quite romantic.”

  Emeline frowned. “It wasn’t romantic being attacked.”

  “No, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light o’ it. But God rescued you, after all.” She smiled. “And in the form of quite the ‘andsome gallant.”

  Emeline crossed her arms over her waist and stared out the port window. “The lieutenant didn’t rescue me. I was in the process of knocking that vile sailor out when he dashed in and interfered.”