by Merry Farmer
“I get it!” Blake said in a hoarse whisper. A quick look in the direction of Miss Woodcock showed she wasn’t well endowed up top—or on the bottom. As for whether or not there was a bright, red cherry, he wasn’t about to guess. “Still, I saw you staring at her. If not because you were imagining a tumble with her, then pray tell, why?”
Taking the wheel back into his beefy hands, Nelson lowered his voice and said, “I ain’t saying she is who I think she is, but if she is who I think she is, then I have to say I am verra curious as to how she landed a position as a lady’s maid. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Blake began tapping his black leather boot on the wooden planks below.
Nelson allowed an audible sigh. “I cannot be positive—”
“But if you were—”
“Then she’d be one of the grifters from my old neighborhood in Cheapside.”
The captain’s eyes widened before he allowed his gaze to sweep the horizon, which included another quick look at the lady’s maid. “How the hell does a grifter become a lady’s maid?” he half-asked. Didn’t a servant have to show a character to be considered for employment? Be dispatched from an agency, or be referred by someone of importance?
“Exactly what I was thinking, Capt’n. Which is why...” Nelson stopped and allowed a sigh. “I’m expecting she might be trouble.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Miss Woodcock, who was now leaning against the railing with her back to the water. His expression quickly turned friendly when her gaze caught his, and she dipped her head in acknowledgement.
“Now, what you did just there,” Blake said in a quiet voice. “That’s what has me thinking Cupid got a clean shot.”
Nelson rolled his eyes, and he was about to respond when a shout came from above. Blake moved to stand beneath the crow’s nest. “Report!” he called out.
Leaning half out of the barrel, Flinn pointed southeast. “Found her! Six sails,” he yelled. “Twenty, maybe one-and-twenty miles.”
Waving up to the barrelman, Nelson turned so he could take a look at Miss Woodcock before he settled his attention on the captain. He wasn’t surprised to find her attention had returned to the water. She had one gloved hand raised to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. As for her ability to catch sight of the Tuscan, Miss Woodcock wouldn’t be able to see it for some time. The Molly would have to travel another half-hour or so before those on the deck would be able to spot the Tuscan.
“At this rate, we may not catch her until she almost pulls into port,” Blake said under his breath. Although the winds had favored them through the mid-morning hours, they had subsided once the sun passed the zenith. “The last time we made this trip, we did so in four hours,” he murmured.
“And it was twenty hours the time before that,” Nelson reminded him.
Crossing the Channel could be problematic.
Blake nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized Miss Woodcock was standing to his right.
“Twenty hours?” she repeated in alarm. “Will we be in time to rescue Miss Wycliff?” she asked, her expression laced with concern.
Blake and Nelson exchanged quick glances. “Well, that’s the plan, but even if we don’t get her back—”
“We’ll get her back for you, Miss Woodcock,” Nelson interrupted. “Seeing as how you would be out of a position if we didn’t.”
The lady’s maid’s eyes widened. “Are you thinking my mistress is about to meet some dreadful end?”
The two men exchanged glances, and both shrugged their shoulders. “Hard to say,” Blake replied.
“The sea can be a cruel mistress,” Nelson added.
“There is a deadline. If the baronet doesn’t get the money to the kidnapper by five o’clock...” Nelson used a finger to make a slicing motion across the front of his neck.
Blake was about to argue the time of the deadline, but realized Nelson was playing Miss Woodcock.
Didn’t the first mate remember that she had been the one to deliver the ransom note? That she had heard Nelson reading the instructions, including the time? Given her widened eyes and pale complexion, though, perhaps she hadn’t heard, or had merely forgotten the details of the exchange.
Blake decided to play along with his first mate. “Hard to believe the kidnapper thought the baronet could make the trip later in the day with the ransom. And such a large one.”
Miss Woodcock, looking ever so horrified, turned a furrowed brow on the captain. “Well, why couldn’t he?” she asked, her query sounding entirely innocent.
“Ship has to leave London at low tide. There isn’t a ship at Wapping that would attempt to leave any later in the day,” he explained. “We were barely able to make it out when we did.”
When Nelson was about to remind the captain that there were steam ships that could make the trip, Blake stepped on his foot.
Her eyes widening once again, as if she was truly frightened, Althea visibly swallowed. “Then how will the baronet send the ransom?” she asked. “If you don’t stop the Tuscan, we’ll have to have the ransom to get Miss Wycliff back,” she whined.
The two seamen exchanged glances. “You mean, you don’t have it?” they asked in unison. Blake pointed down to her valise. “Seems like it would have been expeditious for Sir Peter to have sent it with you.”
Miss Woodcock actually looked down at the valise as if she were seeing it for the first time. “These are clothes for my mistress,” she replied. “She was taken from the masked ball dressed as Little Bo Peep. Hardly an appropriate gown for a baronet’s daughter to wear for her trip back to England,” she explained.
“Hardly,” Blake agreed, although he rather liked Miss Wycliff as Little Bo Peep, all innocence despite a body meant to be worshipped by a man such as him. His lips would sprinkle kisses up and down her entire body. His mouth would feast on the mounds of her breasts, his teeth and tongue teasing her nipples into tight buds. Then his tongue would see to a most sensual delight, the tip of it circling her engorged womanhood until she begged for him. His cock, hard as a rock and soft as velvet, would dive into her wet, welcoming cocoon. Surrounded by her warmth, his cock would thrust and pulse and thrust again, until the friction sent him—and her—to a blissful state of euphoria.
Oh, the pleasures they could enjoy should they ever end up in a bed together!
Giving his head a shake and curious as to where those last thoughts had come from, Blake cleared his throat. He wondered if they had misjudged the lady’s maid. Perhaps she really was a dedicated servant, and not the mastermind of an attempt to bilk a wealthy baronet out of twenty-thousand pounds.
“Not sure how the kidnapper expects to spend his blunt in France if it’s all in British pounds,” Blake remarked. “Not like he can exchange it in France, given the poor relations between the two countries, and he won’t be able to return to England. Be arrested as soon as he steps foot on shore.”
“As well he should be,” Miss Woodcock stated, her curt nod punctuating her words.
At a loss as to what else he could say to have the lady’s maid admitting to her involvement in the kidnapping, Blake finally allowed a shrug. “I suppose we’ll need to count on a rescue at sea,” he murmured.
Nelson furrowed a brow, thinking that had been the plan all along. His foot still stinging from having been trounced on by the captain, he allowed a nod. “I’ll have Fitz mount the jib sails,” he said.
Blake smirked, rather glad he didn’t have to be the one to suggest they add their last two sails to their arsenal. “One hour, Mr. Nelson. Then I expect to be boarding the Tuscan.”
“Aye, Capt’n.”
A Ship Pursued
Meanwhile, on board the Tuscan
His crow’s nest listing left and right with the rough seas beneath the Tuscan, the barrelman, Taylor, had a hard time keeping tabs on their pursuer. Either a ship really was after them, or it just happened to match their course for Calais.
One thing was certain—with seven sai
ls and two jibs full of wind, it would be running into their stern within an hour. Given the British ensign flying from the main mast, he didn’t think it posed a threat, though.
“Is that what I think it is?” Anders called up from where he stood on deck.
“British vessel,” the barrelman called down. “In a hurry, from the looks of her sails.”
Grimacing, Anders dared a glance at the wheelhouse and another toward the bow. Their female passenger stood gripping the railing in one gloved hand while she held an umbrella aloft with the other. If she really was Miss Barbara Wycliff as she claimed, then perhaps it would behoove them to simply slow down. They were ahead of the schedule their one paying passenger had detailed the night before—get me to Calais by five o’clock in the evening—so if the ship in their wake wasn’t after them, it would simply beat them into port.
If it was after them, then there would no doubt be a warning shot fired from a cannon. Or worse. A cannon shot aimed to do their hull some damage.
The very last place he wanted to have to arrange repairs was a French sea port. They would be charged double or triple and be stuck in Calais for a fortnight or longer.
“I’ll let the captain know,” Anders called up. He turned and was about to head to the wheelhouse when the barrelman gave a shout.
“A pennon is going up,” the barrelman called down. He gave his head a shake. “Red and white, and here comes another.”
Anders stiffened, wishing his eyesight was better so that he could make out the shapes on the pennons that were rising to the top of the other ship’s main mast. He hated relying on the barrelman to know their meaning. “Can you make out which ones?”
The barrelman whistled before he leaned over the edge of the crow’s nest. “They wish to communicate. Apparently, we’re in danger.”
“Damnation!” Anders dared another glance at the ship that followed them and then allowed his gaze to sweep the horizon. There was no sign of an impending storm or another ship. The shoreline of France could only be seen when the Tuscan crested a wave.
Had France declared war again? Were they sailing into a trap by making port at Calais?
Or was the danger due to something else entirely?
He hurried off to the wheelhouse to speak with the captain.
When told about the ship in pursuit, Bimmington rolled his eyes. “Well, at least they had the decency to warn us with a pennon instead of a cannonball,” he murmured.
“You think they mean to shoot at us?” Anders asked, stunned. “It’s a British ship. Looks like a naval vessel leftover from the war.”
Bimmington sighed in frustration. “They outman us, and they outgun us,” he said in a low voice. “And I’m not about to take a cannonball because some cit paid too much for passage to Calais.”
“What’s this now?”
The captain and Anders both turned to discover their passenger, Mr. Smith, regarding them with a look of alarm.
“I was just telling my first mate here that I’m not looking to take on a cannibal because some Brit paid his passage to get away,” Bimmington replied, as if he were repeating what he had said to Anders.
Mr. Smith blinked. “A cannibal?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “Is there such a thing?”
“In the West Indies, yes,” Bimmington replied. “I think it’s best they stay there. Now,” he said as he crossed his arms once he knew Anders had the wheel. “Why aren’t you where you belong?”
The cit who paid too much for passage to Calais straightened and then pointed to the stern. “I came to tell you a ship is coming up awfully fast on your tail.”
“I am well aware,” the captain replied. “They’re carrying a message for us. They seem to think we’re in danger. Would you know anything about that?”
Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Danger?” he repeated. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze swept the horizon in the direction of their travel, although he couldn’t see much beyond where Miss Barbara Wycliff stood. Her arms were outstretched, an umbrella held up to shade her face from the sun, and her body was arched forward, as if she was the ship’s figurehead.
He had a fleeting thought that if she wasn’t careful, her generous bosom would pop out of her pink gown for everyone in France to see.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bimmington asked, his gaze having settled on the backside of their pink-clad passenger.
“That she might very well pop out of her gown?” Mr. Smith countered with a smirk.
The captain frowned and turned his steely gaze on the man. “That she might be the one in danger,” he said, his words clipped. He turned to Anders. “Could you have a word with Mrs. Smith? Let her know she might be in danger of falling off the ship should she continue what she’s doing?”
“Aye, Captain,” Anders said as he gave control of the wheel back to Bimmington. He made his way to the bow and gave a slight bow when the young woman noticed him.
“Oh, how do?” she said as she stepped back from the railing.
Almost disappointed that her generous bosom had not escaped the confines of her ridiculous pink gown, Anders said, “The captain thinks you might be in danger, Mrs. Smith.”
Her eyes turned to slits. “My name is not Mrs. Smith. I am Barbara Wycliff, daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff. I have been kidnapped and am being held for a ransom of twenty-thousand pounds,” she recited, as if she had said the words too many times that day.
“Be that as it may, he’s worried you might fall overboard should you lean too far forward like you was doing.”
Barbara allowed a heavy sigh and turned around. Her eyes widened when she saw the bow of another ship was nearly abreast of the stern of the Tuscan. “Does that happen often out here?” she asked in awe. The other ship was so close, she could make out the faces of the crewmen on board.
Shouts of “pirates” could be heard from the other end of the Tuscan, followed by running feet hitting the wooden planks.
“Not usually, Mrs... Miss Wycliff,” Anders replied, his own eyes wide. The other ship was nearly alongside them now, and one of their sails had been dropped so their speed slowed to match that of the Tuscan’s. “Hang on,” he warned. “In case they get too close and collide with us.”
Barbara did as she was told, but her attention was on the crew aboard the other ship. On the man who was dressed as a pirate. Wearing a cutlass and looking ever so rakish as his gaze settled on her. Looking exactly the same as the pirate with whom she had danced the night before.
“Blake!” she called out, waving with the hand that didn’t hold the umbrella.
“Barbara!” he shouted back. “Fear not, for I’ve come to save you!”
Fearing for his life, Anders blinked and stepped away from the young woman. He blinked again and hurried off to find the captain.
Apparently Miss Wycliff would be able to fend for herself.
A Devil is Spotted
A half hour earlier
Nelson watched his captain as Blake moved to the bow of the Molly, noting how the captain’s expression indicated he recognized the lone, black-clad figure that stood at the stern of the Tuscan.
“Now you look as if you’re seeing a ghost,” he accused.
“That’s because I am,” Blake said as he pulled a spyglass from his eye. He handed it over to his first mate. “The gentleman standing at the rail. Recognize him?”
Nelson frowned before he lifted the spyglass to his eye. “Looks like a... like a gentleman,” he murmured. “Should I know him?”
Blake took the instrument back, holding it to his eye and cursing as he watched Lord Dorchester struggle to light a cheroot. “That’s the kidnapper,” Blake said in a voice filled with menace. “Son of a biscuit eater took my Little Bo Peep right out from under me.”
Blinking, Nelson furrowed a brow. “While you were having a tumble with her? Blimey!”
It was Blake’s turn to blink. “No. Of course not. While I was at the costume ball. Looking for her. And for
him. He disappeared, and so did she, and now I know why,” he hissed. If he’d had a pistol on him, he would have aimed it in the direction of the baron and shot him.
“He took your Little Bo Peep?”
Blake stiffened, his anger growing by the moment. She wasn’t really his Little Bo Peep, but he did want her. More than he realized when he had first learned he was to retrieve her. “Aye,” he breathed.
Nelson gave the Tuscan passenger one more glance through the spyglass before handing it back to his captain. “Then it’s time we go get her. Shall I fire a warning shot?”
“And risk injuring her?” Blake countered. “Absolutely not. Pull up alongside, and we’ll forcibly board the Tuscan.”
Amused more than alarmed by his captain’s orders, Nelson said, “Aye, Capt’n. Should I hoist the skull and crossbones, too?”
Blake gave his first mate a quelling glance. “Not yet. But let them know we have a message. And tell them they’re in danger,” he ordered. They weren’t really, but if the crew of the Tuscan didn’t abide his instructions, he just might fire a warning shot. From a pistol he had stowed in his cabin.
Nelson hurried off to the main mast. He called up to Flinn, “Hoist the danger pennon and then put up the message pennon.” He had half a mind to order the red flag be hoisted after that—no quarter would be shown—but decided that one might be too much.
Flinn made a motion signaling he understood. A few minutes later, the red and white flag indicating the other ship was sailing into danger crawled up the rope a few feet. Then it paused as Flinn attached the pennon conveying they had a message. The two flags climbed to near the top of the mast as he pulled the rope and then secured it.
“Can you make out anyone else on board?” Nelson called up.
A spyglass held to his eye, Flinn let out a shout. “I see something pink near the bow. Looks like...” He lowered the spyglass and gave his head a shake.
“Little Bo Beep?” Nelson offered.
Flinn leaned out of the crow’s nest and flashed a huge grin. “I was going to say a tart dressed in pink, but, yeah, she could be Little Bo Peep. Although...” He paused and waggled his eyebrows. “Her bosom’s not so little, if you catch my meaning, but neither is her bum. And I don’t see no sheep.”
