Her Sheriff Bodyguard

by Lynna Banning

  They had been at sea for nine weeks. Captain Cobb reckoned it would be another three before they reached their destination, Bombay. Only three more weeks before Constance would meet, for the first time, the prominent East India merchant who was to be her husband. No matter how hard she tried, she was still unable to prevent that sickening little lurch in her stomach every time she was reminded of this call of duty that took her halfway around the world.

  She had resisted this marriage which was convenient for all but herself. She had reasoned. She had come up with any number of alternatives. She had even, to her shame, resorted to tears. But when all her stratagems failed, when it became clear that her fate was sealed, she had resigned herself to it. Boarding the Kent at Plymouth, she had felt as if she was jumping off a cliff rather than stepping onto a ship, her eyes screwed shut to avoid the ground rushing up to meet her. The ground, in the form of this arranged match, was not rushing, but it was inching inexorably closer as the East Indiaman sailed across the ocean on fickle winds, edging ever nearer to Bombay. Constance had begun to dread their arrival. This marriage—or any marriage for that matter—ran counter to all her inclinations.

  Oh, dear! She had promised herself not to pick over it all again. The deed was done, the deal had been made—for a business transaction by another name this marriage most certainly was. The exorbitant sum of money Papa required to save the estates had been despatched by Mr Gilmour Edgbaston. The goods, in the form of Constance, were in transit in the opposite direction. ‘And there’s no point in railing against your fate,’ the most expensive piece of cargo on the ship told herself firmly. ‘The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.’

  An excellent resolution and one, she had persuaded herself before she sailed, which was quite achievable. But before she had sailed, she had been bolstered by Mama’s happy smiles and confident assertions that Constance was doing the right thing. Now, very far from home indeed, with far too much time to consider the reality of the situation, she was not at all sure that Mama’s simple philosophy that money was the root of all evils and the source of all happiness had any foundation at all. Not that she had ever believed it. She’d simply had no option but to pretend to do so, because Papa had given Mama no choice, and so Mama had been forced to demand this ultimate sacrifice of her daughter.

  It hurt. It hurt a great deal more than Constance had ever permitted Mama to see. A great deal more than she cared to admit even to herself too, so she endeavoured not to think about it and she succeeded, mostly. Save that here she was again, dwelling on it most pointlessly. ‘When my time would be a great deal more productively spent dwelling on how I can make sure my marriage does not become a prison cell in which I must serve a life sentence,’ she told herself sternly.

  Her heart sank. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to force herself to feel positive about something so very negative. She had three more weeks at sea. Three last weeks of freedom, and three more weeks to make the most of the spectacular stargazing opportunities the long sea journey had granted her as they travelled under unfamiliar skies, crossing the equator into the southern hemisphere before crossing back into the northern hemisphere again on this final part of the journey.

  Mind you, it was doubtful whether she’d see anything of value through her telescope tonight, Constance thought. The clouds had merged into one roiling mass now, an angry pewter colour, dense iron grey at the centre. Around her on the deck the crew were struggling with the rigging. The calm deep blue of the Arabian Sea, with its crystal-tipped waves, like the clouds, seemed to be forming into one foaming mass, a more sinister sea which moved in one great rolling motion, sending the Kent high above the horizon before plunging low, into the depths of the swell.

  Constance retreated into the lea of the main mast in the middle of the ship, but spray soaked her face and travelling gown. Above her, terrifyingly high on the crow’s nest, a sailor signalled frantically to the crew.

  ‘Best get down below decks, your ladyship,’ one of the ship’s officers told her. ‘We’re going to head in towards the shelter of the coast, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to outrun the storm. It’s going to get a tad rough.’

  ‘A tad?’ Staggering as the Kent crested the swell like a rearing stallion, Constance laughed. ‘That sounds to me rather an understatement.’

  ‘Aye. So you’d best get below sharpish. If you thought the Bay of Biscay was rough, I assure you it was nothing to what’s heading our way. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  The ship listed again. Above her, the mast creaked alarmingly. Barefooted Jack Tars clung tenaciously to the sodden decks, going about the business of steering the huge three-master towards safer waters. Several of the soldiers of the Thirty-First Regiment of Foot, en route to a posting in India, were helping out, looking decidedly unsteady in comparison to the sailors, but Constance was the only civilian left on deck. The wives and children of the soldiers and the twenty other private passengers including Mrs Peacock, the returning merchant’s wife whom Papa had paid to act as companion and protect his daughter’s valuable reputation during the voyage, were all safe and dry below.

  She really ought to join them. It was becoming treacherous on deck, but it was also incredibly invigorating. Here was a breath of true freedom. Constance found a more secure spot under the main mast, out of the way of the crew and mostly out of sight too. Though her stomach lurched with every climb and dip, she had discovered very early on in the voyage that she was an excellent sailor, and felt not remotely ill. Spray, heavy with salt, burned her skin. Her hair escaped from its rather haphazard coiffure, whipping her cheeks, blowing wildly about her face. The wind was up now, roaring and whistling through the rigging, making the sails crack. The ship too was protesting at the tempest, the timbers emitting an oddly human groan as they strained against the nails and caulking which bound them together.

  The spray had become a thick mist through which Constance could make out only the very hazy outlines of scurrying sailors. The ship listed violently to port, throwing her from her hiding place, sending her sliding out of control across the deck, saved only when her flailing hands caught at a rope. The swell was transformed into terrifyingly high walls of water which broke over the decks. Clutching desperately at her rope, she was dimly aware of other bodies slipping and sliding around her. The ship listed again, this time to starboard. Men cried out, their voices sharp with fear. Below decks, women were screaming.

  This time when the Kent tilted on her side, perilously close to the water, Constance didn’t think she could possibly be righted. By some miracle, the vessel came round, but a blistering sound preceded the sheering of the mizzenmast from the decking.

  Chaos ensued. Screaming. Tearing canvas. Crashing timber. The hoarse, desperate cries of sailors trying to save their ship and their passengers and themselves. The thud and scramble of feet on decks. And above all the roaring and crashing of the sea as it fought for supremacy.

  It was no easy battle. The Kent was built to ride such storms, and her captain was a man experienced in doing so. Staggering like a drunken sot, the ship careered towards the calmer waters of the Arabian coast. Women and children, soldiers and sailors, spilled out onto the top deck, scrambling up from below to cling to the remnants of the fallen mast, to the rigging, to the torn sails, to each other.

  Constance, flung against the foremast, her skirts tangled in rope, saw it all through a sheen of spray, frozen with fear and at the same time fiercely determined to live. It was invigorating, this determination—proof that her spirit was neither tamed nor broken.

  She would not allow herself to perish. On she clung, and on the ship tossed and dived, corkscrewing and listing, so that even Constance’s strong stomach protested, until finally land came into sight and with it the promise of safety, the force of the storm either spent or left behind them.

  She was loosening her painful grip on the rope when the main mast suddenly went, taking the foremast with it. The Kent rolled onto her starbo
ard side, hurling Constance overboard, throwing her high into the air before she plunged headlong into the Arabian Sea.

  Kingdom of Murimon, Arabia

  She had been marooned here in this remote Arabian fishing village for about three weeks when the authorities finally came for her. Constance watched from the shore as the large dhow moored at the mouth of the inlet which served as a harbour, dwarfing the little fishing boats which had returned with the day’s catch. The slim hull was glossily varnished and trimmed with gold, with an enclosed cabin built to the aft, the top deck of which formed another deck covered with a large awning. The lateen sail was scarlet.

  The villagers crowded around her. They too knew that the arrival of this ship signalled her imminent departure. She didn’t want to leave, though she knew she must. It was impossible for her to remain here, becalmed for ever. The sea had temporarily washed all her responsibilities away, but the future she dreaded still loomed somewhere on the horizon. This sleek ship would be the first step of the journey she must resume.

  Bashir, the village elder in whose home she had been cared for, made a formal greeting to the official-looking man who stepped from the boat almost before it was tied up. A tall angular man with piercing nut-brown eyes set beneath luxuriantly bushy brows, his beard was trimmed to a sharp point. His bony fingers were impeccably manicured. His pinched face and pained expression were at odds with his expensive-looking robes. Screwing up his face, he produced a piece of parchment and unrolled it with a flourish. ‘Lady Constance Montgomery?’

  Her name sounded odd when spoken with his accent, but it was definitely her name. With a sinking heart, Constance made an awkward curtsy. The wound on her head began to throb. One of the women had removed the tiny stitches only that morning. The skin felt tight, but the stabbing pain behind her eyes had long since faded, and the resultant headaches were all but gone.

  ‘Welcome to the kingdom of Murimon. You will come with me.’

  It was a command, not a request. Constance had time only to make swift and rather tearful farewells while the official took Bashir aside. A few minutes later, she clasped the elder’s hands, expressing her abject thanks as best she could, before being ushered aboard the dhow.

  She spent the journey huddled in the cabin, unexpectedly overcome with fear as the ship set sail. It was ridiculous of her, for the sea was flat calm, the skies above perfectly clear, the wind a gentle zephyr, but as she placed her bare feet on the deck and felt the gentle sway of the boat, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on her skin. Her ears were filled once more with the roar of the waves, the crack of the masts, and the screams of the Kent’s passengers. Thankfully, the official who escorted her seemed content to leave her alone, though whether for reasons of propriety or simply because he was offended by her presence here, she had no idea.

  *

  The sun was going down when they arrived at the port. Constance staggered from the dhow and into a covered chair, caring nothing save that they were on dry land. The chairmen moved off swiftly. As she closed her eyes in an effort to compose herself, she was aware that they were climbing but of little else. Set down in a huge enclosed courtyard, she blinked in the glow of what seemed like a thousand candles, but the zealous official was already waving her on urgently, giving her no choice but to follow.

  She padded in the wake of the man along the smooth, polished marble floors of endless corridors. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she must look, with her skin burning from the day’s sun, her wound like a brand on her forehead, her feet bare, and the rough brown tunic she wore big enough to encompass at least two of her.

  As they came to a massive double door presided over by a hulking guard with a huge sabre, the reality of her situation dawned abruptly on her. She was in a foreign country, quite alone, and completely at the mercy of whoever was on the other side of this door. Captain Cobb? She presumed there must be other survivors of the shipwreck. It was too awful to contemplate that six hundred souls had perished and that miraculously she had not. An official equerry? A prison guard? A harem eunuch? The colour drained from her cheeks.

  Constance shook out the copious folds of her borrowed tunic over her bare toes, and pushed her hair back from her face. Her heart was racing. Her legs were shaking. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as the doors were flung open.

  Copyright © 2016 by Marguerite Kaye

  ISBN-13: 9781488004261

  Her Sheriff Bodyguard

  Copyright © 2016 by The Woolston Family Trust

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