by Merry Farmer
Knowing the Tuscan was a British merchant vessel—a brig with sixteen guns—Flinn ignored the ships that were clearly Portuguese, Spanish, or French in origin. Their distinctive profiles made them easy to detect, so he instead concentrated on English ships.
Able to spot a ship nearly twenty-five miles away from his perch in the crow’s nest, Flinn aimed the spyglass in the direction of France and hoped their prey really was headed for one of the French ports.
Hearing his name shouted from below had Flinn giving a start. He lowered the spyglass and looked down to discover Captain Russell standing on the deck with his hands on his hips.
“Their destination is definitely Calais!” Blake called out.
Flinn grimaced before yelling, “Aye, Captain. No sign of the Tuscan.” He glanced at the position of the sun—nearly directly above them—and added, “but we’re still an hour from a likely sighting.” He had been gauging their speed from familiar landmarks, impressed by just how fast the Molly could travel when speed was necessary. The wind favored them, but that meant it favored the Tuscan, as well. The two-masted ship couldn’t begin to match their speed, though, especially if she was loaded with cargo.
Blake allowed a sigh that could almost be heard by Flinn. “If you see any ship that might be the Tuscan—”
“I’ll give a shout, I promise, Captain,” he yelled down.
Blake allowed a nod. He knew he could count on his crew. They had trained under Jack Crawley. Been paid well for their services. Continued their service under his command for nearly a year. And although this mission wouldn’t see their hold filled with contraband liquor or valuables, they would be paid a reward by Sir Peter—in blunt that would allow his men to enjoy a quick shore leave and as many prostitutes as they could employ when they finally went off in pursuit of the French smuggler.
The thought of spending time in the company of a willing woman had Blake allowing another sigh. Although he had enjoyed the company of women in numerous ports of call—Rome, Barcelona, Algiers, Le Havre—he found he no longer looked forward to time spent with the prostitutes who saw to sailors.
He thought of Jack, or rather Alexander Bradley, the former captain of the Molly. Blake remembered how Alex had been dumbstruck by the sight of a young Greek woman on the docks at Mykonos. Dumbstruck and struck by Cupid’s arrow, for Bradley had fallen in love with the woman. The two had been wed while at sea as the Molly made its way back to London.
At the time, Blake had been dumbstruck by his captain’s behavior. How could a man decide he had met the love of his life after spending only a few hours in her company?
What had him believing she was the one?
Blake gave a shake of his head. The night before, he had experienced lust at first sight, but that wasn’t the same as love at first sight. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. At least, not as it applied to a woman he might decide was the one. If he ever took a wife—and he wasn’t convinced he ever would—it would be after courting her for several weeks. And after he had decided to retire from captaining the Molly.
Captains of ships were rarely married men.
But the thought of Miss Barbara Wycliff had him reconsidering for just a moment. Dressed as Little Bo Peep, her charms on prominent display and her red lips smiling easily, Barbara seemed like the perfect woman to come home to after a few days away at sea. The kiss they had shared, although brief, was filled with as much passion as was possible. If he had the chance to repeat it, he vowed he would do so. Then he might allow his lips to trail down her neck and past her collar bones to the generous breasts below.
The thought of cupping one in his large hand, of how it might feel to caress the velvet soft skin as she pressed it into his hold, of how he might flick his thumb over the engorged nipple, had the oddest sound escaping his throat.
He dared a glance at Nelson, wondering when his first mate might be ready to take on the piloting of the Molly. At learning the ship was really under the command of the Foreign Office, Nelson had seemed to take the news in stride. Almost as if he had already known the Molly wasn’t really a pirate ship. Which meant he would make the best choice for captain once Blake decided to retire from service to King and Country.
That is, if the man could get his eyes back in their sockets. Ever since their stowaway first appeared on the threshold of his quarters, the first mate had stared at her as if he were seeing a ghost.
And not a frightening one.
Did the two have history? Or had Cupid’s arrow struck his first mate?
Blake wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but until they had the Tuscan in their sights, he had nothing better to do than to discover what he could about the young woman.
And Little Bo Peep, as well.
Hiding in Plain Sight
Meanwhile, back on the Tuscan
Barbara inhaled deeply as she concentrated on the horizon. As long as she stared at something that didn’t move, she could keep her seasickness in check. With the wind whipping the sails, she didn’t hear the man who approached from the bow.
“Since you’re up and about, I trust you’re feeling better, my lady?”
Jerking her head to the right, she immediately regretted the move, for her stomach lurched. “I was,” she hedged, noting the man seemed to have recently bathed and wore a white shirt with a waistcoat and cape coat over Nankeen breeches. A tricorn hat hid most of his graying hair. His slight beard was the only feature out of place for a man who appeared to be a gentleman. “I... I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Cyrus Bimmington, miss. I’m the captain of the Tuscan.” He held out his right hand. “You were asleep when you were brought on board, but given the early hour and your illness, it only stands to reason you would be.”
Furrowing a brow and giving her head a shake, she asked, “Do you do this often?”
“Cross the Channel? A couple of times a week, usually,” he replied. “Not always to Calais, though, but since your husband has offered—”
“Husband?” she repeated, her eyes rounding in disbelief. “If you’re referring to the cur who left me tied to a chair in your quarters, let me assure you he is not my husband.”
The captain stepped back, obviously surprised by the vehemence in her words. “Tied to a chair?” he repeated before his own eyes rounded. “Well, I don’t wish to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel—”
“Lover’s quarrel?” Barbara had to forcibly close her mouth and consider that she probably sounded like a parrot to the captain. At that thought, her gaze darted to the left and then to the right, wondering where his parrot might be.
Didn’t sea captains keep parrots as pets? Or did only pirates do such a thing?
“Captain Bimmington, let me assure you in no uncertain terms that I am not on this ship because I wish to be.”
The older man angled his head back and forth. “I understand. Unexpected travel, because he forgot to inform you of his plans. Sometimes my fellow men can be difficult to live with. Give him a chance to apologize—”
“Sir. I have been kidnapped,” Barbara stated, her hands moving to her hips. The move had the captain reacting, but not in the way she expected. Her generous bosom had not only lifted considerably, but it was also thrust out so that his gaze settled on it with appreciation.
“Oh, my sweet. There you are.”
Barbara’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to find her kidnapper displaying a pleasant expression. “How dare you. I am not your sweet. And now that the captain knows that I’ve been kidnapped, I’m quite sure he’ll turn this boat around and head back to London. Lord Dorchester is calling on me this afternoon, and I intend to be at home when he does.”
The captain and the kidnapper regarded one another for a moment before they both burst out laughing. “I rather doubt a lord would be paying a call on a young woman who is clearly of a lower class than he,” the kidnapper remarked. And then his eyes widened. “Unless he’s calling for a different reason,” he added, his hips thrusting forward
in a suggestive manner.
He didn’t see Barbara’s hand before it impacted his cheek.
He did see stars afterwards, however.
“How dare you, you... rogue!”
The kidnapper was about to retaliate with a hit of his own, but Captain Bimmington stepped in between the two with his hands held up, palms out. “Now, now, you two,” he said in his most soothing voice. “Perhaps, Mr. Smith, it would be best if the missus ate her breakfast now,” he suggested.
“I am not his wife!” Barbara responded, her voice raised so that several deckhands paused in their duties and turned to stare at her.
“You will be considered thoroughly ruined, however,” Mr. Smith hissed under his breath.
Barbara heard the comment and once again felt ill. She turned her attention on the captain, but realized he would be of no help. “Would you have the time?”
Bimmington pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat, gave it a quick glance, and said, “Half-past nine.”
“What will it take for you to turn this boat around?”
Inhaling as he gave a glance in the direction of the well-dressed gentleman, he said, “Passage to Calais has already been paid, milady. For you both. The winds favor us in this direction, but they will not going back to London.”
“How much?”
The captain furrowed a brow. “How much?”
“How much will it cost my father for you to turn this...” She glanced up and noted the two masts and six sails. “This ship around?” she asked.
Exchanging glances with the kidnapper, Bimmington shook his head. “As I said—”
“He told me my ransom is twenty-thousand pounds,” she said as she lifted her head in the cur’s direction.
“Now, my sweet, it’s evident you’re not feeling well at all...” Mr. Smith managed to duck just before her fist flew past his head.
Once again, Captain Bimmington stepped between them, his arms held out as if he could provide some sort of wall between them. “Perhaps it would be best if the two of you spent the rest of the trip at opposite ends of this ship,” he warned, his manner far more serious than it had been. He gave a nod in the direction of a beefy deckhand, who immediately moved to join them.
“Captain?”
“Escort Mr. Smith to the poop deck.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“This is an outrage,” the kidnapper argued, his anger directed at both Barbara and the captain. “I paid for passage—”
“Then you can remain in your cabin for the rest of the voyage,” Bimmington warned, a bushy eyebrow arched up.
Mr. Smith directed a fierce look in Barbara’s direction. “If you think this is over—” He didn’t have a chance to complete his threat before the beefy deckhand grabbed him by his cravat and nearly lifted him from his feet. Any protest he tried to make was caught in his throat as he was practically dragged away.
Barbara let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “Now can we turn back for London?”
Bimmington shook his head. “If you weren’t so ill, I would send you back to my cabin for the rest of the trip,” he replied. “Instead, I order you to eat your porridge and remain near the bow.”
Her eyes widening in disbelief, Barbara shook her head. “But, I’ve no hat. No parasol,” she argued.
Rolling his eyes, the captain said, “I’ll get you an umbrella. Will that do?”
About to argue further, Barbara realized the captain was through with abiding his troublesome passengers. “It will have to,” she replied on a sigh. Then, just because she thought to sow some more seeds of doubt in the captain, she added, “I am my father’s favorite daughter. He’s a baronet, you see.” She angled her head, deciding he didn’t need to know that she was her father’s only daughter. “Sir Peter. He’s a very rich baronet, which is why Mr. Smith kidnapped me from Lord Weatherstone’s masked ball last night. Seems he requires a good deal of money to make his living—”
“Enough, Miss...” His eyebrow arched up when he realized she hadn’t introduced herself.
“Wycliff. Barbara Wycliff,” she replied.
Although he looked a bit uncertain for just a moment, Bimmington gave a shake of his head. “Never heard of a Peter Wycliff,” he said.
And with that, he strode off in the direction of the wheelhouse. The short, stout deckhand that she had spoken to earlier in the captain’s cabin stepped up carrying a tray on which rested a bowl of porridge. Porridge that had obviously congealed in the time she and Mr. Smith had been arguing with the captain.
“Breakfast, my lady,” he said as he held out the tray.
Her stomach once again making its displeasure apparent, Barbara took the tray and thanked the man. Moving closer to the bow, she held the tray over one arm as she picked up the spoon, rubbed it on a pink satin sleeve, and then tucked into the porridge.
Despite the fact that it was no longer hot, she thought it was the best tasting porridge she had ever eaten.
A Doubtful Captain
Once he was in the wheelhouse, Captain Cyrus Bimmington regarded his first mate with a worried expression. “Tell me, Anders. Ever heard of a baronet by the name of Peter Wycliff?”
Anders stepped aside so the captain could take the wheel. “Sir Peter?” he replied. “The owner of Wycliff Mercantile? Wycliff Drapers? Wycliff Textiles? And the new owner of the shopping arcade in Bond Street? That Peter Wycliff?”
Bimmington stared at his first mate for perhaps a moment too long, for the man continued with, “Did he buy this ship, too?”
Seeds of doubt now fully sown, Bimmington shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”
“I heard he was in negotiations to buy Wilson’s fleet,” Anders countered, with too much enthusiasm.
“What do you know of his daughter?”
His eyes darting to one side—Anders prided himself on knowing everything he could of important people in London—he furrowed a brow. “Barbara?” he countered, as if he was making a guess.
Bimmington rolled his eyes. “She cannot be,” he murmured. “She’s dressed no better than a barmaid.”
Anders allowed his captain to ruminate for a moment before he asked, “Would you be referring to the young lady that our passenger brought on board before dawn?” he asked. “The one who is dressed like Little Bo Peep? Her mask must have cost a fortune, what with all that gold gilt on it.”
Bimmington blinked. “Aye,” he replied carefully, just then remembering that Mr. Smith had been wearing a black mask when he stepped aboard carrying the young woman in pink. “Said she’d had too much champagne.” Before he even completed the word, he thought it odd that a woman dressed in the clothes of a shepherdess would have had champagne.
“More like drugged,” Anders countered.
Bimmington furrowed a brow. “Drugged?” He gave a huff. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Now he really was beginning to wonder if there was some truth to the young lady’s claims.
“Well, at first I thought she was dead,” Anders replied. “Didn’t want to be in trouble with some murderer. But then I heard her snore, so I figured she would be right as rain once she slept it off.” When he saw his captain’s look of disgust, he asked, “Do you think she’s lying about who she is?”
“I have no idea what to think at the moment,” Bimmington replied, but his furrowed brows and thoughtful expression were at odds with his comment.
One thing he knew for certain. If his passenger really was the daughter of a wealthy baronet, and if she really wasn’t married to the man whom he knew as Mr. Smith, then it was rather likely someone would be looking for her.
Which meant, someone would be looking for the Tuscan.
“Have our barrelman keep watch to the north. I want to know if anyone is following us,” he ordered.
Anders nodded. “Aye, Captain,” before he hurried off to the main mast.
There’s Something About a Maid
Meanwhile, back on the Molly
When Blake
was sure Miss Woodcock was out of earshot—she had taken to watching the Molly’s progress from the railing near the bow—he joined his first mate at the wheel. “You care to explain what’s going on between you and the lady’s maid?”
So stunned was he by the strange query, Nelson nearly let go of the wheel. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Capt’n,” he replied.
“You know her.”
Nelson straightened as much as he could, although the captain still had a good six inches on him. “I might,” he hedged. When Blake lifted an eyebrow, as if that could coax the man to say more, Nelson allowed a huff. “But I might not.”
The captain dared a glance at the lady’s maid. When he was sure her attention was still on the horizon, he said, “You couldn’t take your eyes off her when she was in my cabin. Am I right in thinking the Molly might be losing another crewman to Cupid’s curse?”
His mouth dropping open and his eyes rounding in shock, Nelson did let go of the wheel. Blake quickly grabbed one of the spokes in a fist before it could turn and held it in place as his first mate fumed.
“First of all, Captain,” Nelson said with a huff. “The chubby little bastard knows better than to waste an arrow on me, and second of all, she ain’t what I’d be looking for to warm my bed, if you catch my meaning.”
Blake furrowed both brows. “Oh, no, Mr. Nelson. I’ve seen what you do in nearly every port we pull into. Don’t be trying to convince me you’re some... molly,” he warned, whispering the last word.
The comment only seemed to rankle his first mate even more. “I like my women... fruitful, Capt’n,” he stated.
His eyes darting to one side, Blake was almost afraid to ask. But he did anyway. “Fruitful? What the hell does that even mean?”
Nelson’s cupped hands went to his chest. “Peaches up top, melons on the bottom, and a bright red cherry—”
