by Sue London
She wrinkled nose in distaste. “Wouldn’t you rather have pound notes?”
He saluted her with his cup of ale. “Although I haven’t known you long, I wager that this will be a prize we will both value to win and hate to lose most. If I’m man enough to risk it, I would hope you could stomach the risk as well.”
“Fine,” she said with a laugh, raising her own cup. “To the winner goes all the credit, to the loser all the chagrin.”
He clinked his cup against hers and took a deep draught. If she regained her feistiness then at least his time here wouldn’t be boring.
Chapter Three
Francie studied Mr. Burnham surreptitiously. He seemed at his ease, as though in his own home. What was that ability that some had to settle in wherever they were? Francie wasn’t certain she’d ever felt that settled here and it was her home. She’d always suspected her itch to move along, to travel, was something she inherited from her father. Even when he had a wife and young daughter to settle him down, he’d traveled for work. At first she’d thought it perfectly normal to have a father away all the time. Then she’d noticed that most of the local girls had fathers who stayed at home. Her mother used to say, ‘The sea called him as a lad, and even now he needs to keep his feet wet.’ While mum had been cheerful and philosophical about her husband’s absence, as Francie grew older she clung to him more and more before he would leave. She would cry until her face was one large red blotch, making her cornflower eyes stand out in stark contrast. When she was eight she cried that one day he wouldn’t be able to find his way home and he showed her how a map could always help him find her. She’d been enamored with the compass rose. It had power. It meant those you loved could never be lost. The next trip he’d brought her a map of her very own, with their home marked and his route on the river. Her fingers had traced over the path between so many times over the years that a dark stain showed the way home clearly.
But eventually her father hadn’t come home. A letter had come instead, with apologies of an accident and a settlement for his widow. Momma had cried for days, dying all her best dresses black for widow’s reeds. Francie had retreated to stare out the window where she always watched for her father’s return, finger tracing over the map in a soothing reminder of his path. She’d been eleven years old.
In time momma returned to her normal disposition, sunny and determined. But Francie became obsessed with stories of men at sea. Pirates. His majesty’s navy. Privateers. Whalers. Fishermen. Explorers. Whenever she encountered a compass rose in a book she paused to trace her fingers over it. It saddened her that it wasn’t as magical as she’d originally thought it. But somehow the stories made her feel that she was still close to papa in some way. Just recently she’d read the account of a crew in the south seas, and their encounters with natives. Had her father ever sailed to a place so distant that a completely different people had been there? It was hard to imagine. She regretted that she’d never pressed him for stories of his travels. It never occurred to her at the time. He was just papa. But now she wondered where he’d gone, what he’d seen.
And, if she were honest, she wondered the same thing about Mr. Burnham. But it wasn’t as though she could ask him. For one, she’d never talked to anyone about her love of seafaring stories. It was something she held close, almost as though it were her one surviving relationship with her father. For another, well, what was a man to think if she started asking him questions? That she was interested in him? She most certainly was not interested in Mr. Burnham. Even if her duty to check his healing wounds in Mr. Manners-Sutton’s absence meant she saw rather a bit much more of him than any maiden should. And that she’d yet to fail to react to seeing his exposed skin. But, one could admire a horse without buying it. And that was precisely what she was determined to do. If his physique was remarkable, if his eyes were a rather fetching flecked golden brown, if his voice rumbled at just such a register that she could feel it in the pit of her stomach and it set butterflies to tumbling there, then such was life. It didn’t mean she had to dangle after him.
Although perhaps that was precisely why she should ask him about his time at sea. He was just another route to the stories she loved so much. Nothing he said would mean much to her.
“Have you been to Bermuda before?” she ventured.
*
Reggie’s attention came back to his dinner companion. Prior to this the term companion might have been browning the truth a bit. But now she had an actual question. Six more words, all strung together.
“Yes, we were serving in the war against the colony uprising and our primary station was on Irish Island.”
“Irish Island?”
“It’s been a key fortification for some time. There are plans to expand it, so I will be serving there after this leave.”
“You won’t be on a ship anymore?”
“Not often, I don’t suppose. It will do my dear mother’s heart some good,” he joked.
“Were you in danger on the ship?”
He narrowed his eyes as though judging what he should say to her. “We were at war, you know.”
Surprisingly, she leaned forward. “There are all sorts of jobs in a war, so I wasn’t sure if your vessel saw any action.”
He raised his brows, but perhaps he shouldn’t be shocked that the little virago was at least somewhat knowledgeable of what war entailed. “Yes, some. I didn’t point that out to my mother, of course, but she can read a paper as well as the next woman and recognized the name of our ship in some reports. It was, of course, particularly difficult for her if casualties were not named.”
She nodded sadly. “It’s terrible waiting for someone to come home, knowing that perhaps they never will.”
Her tone had the ring of someone who had experienced it herself. He resorted to the same logic he used with his worrying mother. “But that’s true for all of us. Terrible accidents happen every day. Yes, the chances are greater at war, I will grant you that. But the papers are full of those who died trampled by a horse or from an unexpected illness. Hell, it wasn’t the guns that killed Wally, it was the same blasted fever I had only just recover from myself.”
“You had the fever, too?”
He’d been lost for a moment in his remembrance. “Yes, but don’t mention it to my mother.”
She gave him one of those saucy smiles again he hadn’t seen since his first few days here. “But then whatever shall we chat about over tea?”
That was an image. His mother, the viscountess, taking tea with this country mouse. Not that Miss Walters was without her charms, but her manners were definitely those of a girl raised in a small town. As he recalled, the Misses Walters and Grenard shared relatives on their mothers’ side, daughters of a vicar. So the girls were passably well educated in the graces. But quite honestly he didn’t think that Miss Walters could stand polite society. One too many veiled insults and the girl would most likely dump her tea down the dress of the minx trying to bait her. If Miss Walters were to go to London it was possible he should sell tickets to the event.
“I’m sure you could think of something other than my health,” he observed dryly.
She braced her chin on laced fingers and said, “Perhaps I could if you told me more about Bermuda.”
As she seemed genuinely interested he began. “It’s quite hot and sunny, in a way that is almost impossible to imagine when you are in England. Even the hottest, sunniest day here is relatively drab by comparison. The water is unbelievably clear, with a pure, intense green like a chip of jade. All of the colors could only be described by comparison to jewels, they are so bright.”
“Do you like it there?”
He laughed. “My work is there. I will be honored to serve with Rear Admiral Griffith, constructing a fortification that will serve our Navy for years to come. When I return I will lead the work on the foundations. As you might know, nothing is any stronger than the foundation it is laid on, so I am pleased they thought me equal to the task.” He rolled h
is cup between his hands. “As for enjoying Bermuda itself? You must take the bad with the good. An Englishman is not predisposed to be so hot all the time. You can feel the sunshine burning into you, almost like a weight. But it is also beautiful in an almost shocking way. Some mornings you wake up and wonder how it is all possible, it is so different from where we came from.”
“The pirates were reputed to bury their treasures in the islands,” she said. “I can only imagine how strange it must have been going to the islands for the first time. As you say, so different from anything we would see here.”
“Do you fancy the buccaneers?” he asked.
She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I’m intrigued. They are essentially highwaymen of the sea, yet they are romanticized. Why is a man who kills and steals on land to be reviled, but one who does so on water to be adored?”
“Well, first, I think it is more the passage of time that gives the pirate his glow. For instance, there is a highwayman you admire. Robin Hood. In their heyday pirates were hunted and hanged. It’s only now, after more than a hundred years since their prominence, that we see them cast as tragic heroes. You can’t compare the pirate of the 1600s to the highwayman of 1816. It isn’t a fair comparison.”
“I should have known that a Navy man would see the problem with pirates.” She smiled. “And an Englishman would be able to cite Robin Hood so readily.”
“You don’t have a problem with pirates?”
She sat back again. “I’ve yet to truly decide.” She grinned. “Perhaps if I met a few.”
“That I sorely hope you do not do.” He rubbed tenderly at his shoulder. “Although perhaps they will make you their queen.”
Chapter Four
Francie wondered if she lacked character because she should still be worried about her cousin and her future, but found that she rather enjoyed sitting in this dimly lit room chatting with Mr. Burnham over their meal. When he wasn’t being overbearing he had a certain charm. The sort of earnest, forthright manner that she admired in a man. It was, she thought, good on the Crown that they’d not employed him in any sort of subterfuge because she couldn’t imagine him prevaricating. Quite the opposite of Phoebe’s slippery father who seemed inclined to lie for no reason at all.
Thinking of Jack Grenard only led Francie back to worrying about her cousin again. “Do you think Phoebe will be safe with Mr. Manners-Sutton?”
Mr. Burnham was silent for a moment, as though thinking over his answer. But as she’d expected, it hadn’t occurred to him to mollycoddle her even with a polite lie. “Harry is capable of handling himself, although any man can be overset if faced with enough foes. My only reassurance is that he plans to seek help from his brother-in-law, and I doubt that Caversham would allow anything to befall them. If you’re wondering about your cousin’s reputation. Well. They seemed sweet on one another, but I can’t imagine Harry taking advantage. Not with Wally’s sister.”
She nodded. “That was my thought as well.”
“Do you wish we’d gone with them?”
She blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I need to finish this order or our business is completely done for, but it all seems rather desperate and useless. Whatever reputation we had left after my mother’s passing has surely been torn to tatters now. London debt collectors haunting the streets, and then men staying in our establishment? Cleadon is too small a town to forgive such things.”
“Most towns are too small for such things.”
She nodded a bit sadly. “That’s true. Well, I’d best get back to sewing if I’m ever to get this dress ready.”
He rose when she did, a reminder that he was a gentleman. “Can I help in some way?”
Could he? She’d not really considered it. “If I need something held or cut, perhaps. Tonight I am finishing a dress, though, so unless you embroider there is nothing you can do.”
“No, my talents do not run to the needle, I’m afraid. I could read to you while you sew if you like.”
“What would you read to me?”
“Well, er, that is if you have a book. I’m afraid all that I have with me is a mechanical arts journal.”
She laughed. “I could never afford a book. But read to me from your journal. I’m sure it will be more entertaining than listening to the candles gutter.”
*
Reggie was surprised he’d volunteered to follow her downstairs and read to her. He wasn’t sure if he was more or less surprised that she’d agreed to hear his journal on the mechanical arts! It might have just been loneliness, but he’d not wanted their supper conversation to end and it seemed perfectly natural to stay with her. She set to her sewing again, charming little trailing leaves and flowers in white thread over cream fabric. Perfect for a young lady. Sitting nearby he angled his journal to catch the light, cleared his throat, and began to read. “On the Friction of Fluids.”
He saw her brow arch and lips curve, but she didn’t comment as he read through the lecture on hydraulics. Nor did she complain when he stopped periodically to share his own thoughts on the topic. Considering how they’d met, and fought, it was a surprisingly cozy evening.
Once she started yawning and stretching every few minutes he closed his journal. “You’d best go up to bed. At this rate you’ll poke yourself bloody.”
She smiled sleepily. “I fear you are correct. Have a pleasant evening.”
They had already begun something of a habit at night. She would walk around with her key ensuring the doors were locked, and as soon as she was on the steps to her room he would check them both again. A consequence of serving on a crowded ship at war meant he wasn’t the lightest of sleepers. He didn’t need much sleep, but once out he would probably need her to dash water on his face to even notice anything was amiss. He could hardly be effective protection if he wasn’t awake to guard her.
That made him rub his shoulder gingerly, wondering again if she needed his protection. Although much quieter without her cousins in residence, he doubted that her aim had grown any worse. And he knew that she’d primed her gun and taken it upstairs the first night they’d been alone together. A none too subtle hint that she would ultimately see to her own protection, even from him.
However, even such a stubborn girl couldn’t take on two ruffians alone. And the truth was that his greatest protection lie in the fact that the two wouldn’t want to tussle with him, whereas they wouldn’t have such qualms about harassing a single lady on her own. They had no reason to know that she was far more likely to put a bullet in them rather than wait to see if things turned dire first.
The truth was that Reggie didn’t care for killing. He didn’t care for death at all. There was far too much of it in the world for his taste. Two of his siblings had died in infancy. Two of his friends had died when they were captured to be pressed into the Navy. Countless enemies and comrades had died at what little action he’d seen at sea. Then there were the men who fell to the fever.
Wally had been the worst, the most unexpected. Who would think such a young, vibrant man would succumb to a fever that so many of them had survived? If he had the choice, Reggie would have traded places with him. Wally’s sisters clearly needed him. No one needed Reggie, not really. His siblings had all made the quintessential ‘good matches’ that ton mamas raved about, thus his sisters needed no protection. His brothers were, to a man, happily settled into the lives of gentlemen. Only Reggie had diverted from the regular course, and that quite by accident. Because he’d been at supper that night with his friends. Three of whom now had their final rest. And Harry? Well, he was going to return to Scotland and become the doctor he’d always wanted to be. And it was a fair bet to think he would have Wally’s sisters in tow. So Reggie couldn’t even serve the memory of his friend by helping with the sisters. Not that he begrudged Harry anything. No, all Reggie really wanted to do was return to Irish Island and set to work on foundations for the fort.
He just wished that his friends had survived instead of him.
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Chapter Five
Francie awoke before the dawn again, chilled as the lone occupant in the bed. She hadn’t realized how dependent she’d become on the heat of another. She rubbed her gloved hands together and pulled the covers over her head. Blast, but what would she do in the depths of winter? She’d always known she was cold blooded compared to her mother and cousins. They were forever complaining about her cold fingers and toes under the bedcovers. She huddled in the middle of the bed, trying not to move as it would cause a puff of cool air to move under the sheets, or she might move a limb onto a cool spot. With her eyes tightly shut she tried to summon up an image of Bermuda. Hot, he’d said, with the sunshine burning into you like a weight. Just now that sounded lovely. She tried to imagine what sand felt like. What jewel clear waters looked like. It worked moderately well, thinking about the impossible scene, until she heard a thump downstairs. Then the chill that ran through her was less about the air and more about fear.
Creeping out from under the bedclothes she tucked her feet in her slippers and donned a flannel gown and wool pelisse for good measure. Taking her pistol quietly from its box, she tucked it in the large pocket of her coat. She was careful on the stairs, keeping to the edge where the steps were less likely to creak. One board groaned uncertainly under the weight and she stopped dead, her heart in her throat. Seconds ticked by and she heard nothing below. Had it just been Mr. Burnham earlier? Or was it someone more nefarious? She cautiously crept lower until she could peek into the room beside the stairs. Nothing. She could see the back door from here and it looked to still be closed and locked. She drew back against the wall to consider what to do next when someone walked across the hallway directly in front of her.
It was so unexpected that she screamed.
