A Different Sort of Perfect (36 page)

Finally she sat up, gasping. "Oh. Oh, dear. I
thought…" She paused, as if unsure how to continue.

He nodded to fill in her blank. "Yes, I thought
they'd say it, too."

"No." She tried to sit up and finally, still weak
with laughter, succeeded in pushing herself straight. "I meant to
say, I thought I loved him."

Fleming froze. Her words seemed to slip around him
like a warm blanket, twisting the conversation he'd thought they
were having into something else entirely. "You came all this way to
find him."

"Yes, I did. Silly, wasn't it? I don't love him. I
didn't, not even then. I only thought I did, and now I know the
truth: I was enamored, I was bewitched." She paused and hauled in a
breath. "I was silly."

Time seemed to stand still around them, as if the
water splashing along
Topaze
's side represented not distance
travelled but a sort of living and sailing in place. Between them
on the rug, her hand rested, fingers so relaxed they curled
naturally around her palm. Almost as slowly as he'd stalked the
sword, he took her hand and folded it between his own. Her eyes
widened, fastened on their clasp, raised and met his.

And widened further. As his heart began to beat
faster.

"You were a child then. Now you are a woman."

Her sideways look twisted to the wry side. "I hope
you aren't giving me too much credit."

Her palm was so soft. He could imagine it against his
bare skin… no, better not. At least, not yet. "A child would not
have grabbed the rammer and helped work
Biting Bruiser
while
standing in full view of an aroused and hate-filled enemy." He
didn't want to, but he settled her hand on her lap. And withdrew
his hands to his knees. Not hers. "Mr. Abbot told me what happened,
how the French gunners tried to turn their cannons on you
specifically and how he had to convince them that was a bad idea.
He said you never flinched. From him, that's the highest
praise."

A ruddy glow warmed her cheeks. Behind her eyes, a
lamp began to burn, hotter and brighter than any flame.

And clearly I no longer consider you a child.
Clearly I respect and approve the woman you've become.
But the
understanding, the sheer unmistakable knowingness in her
expression, negated any need to speak his thoughts aloud.

Instead he pushed up from the cabin floor and dusted
off his seat. "The parrots are drinking your coffee, you know."

She glanced at the dining table. All three of the
rascals stooped over her cup, beaks dripping. Red Spectacles stood
on the saucer's rim and bobbed his head up and down as if
demented.

More demented than normal.

Which was saying a lot.

"The good news is," Lady Clara said, "I believe we
completed that dratted report."

Until he could think of something else to add, for
purposes of claiming her attention. No, that juvenile tactic was
best abandoned. It had served its purpose, and now he could only
wait.

He'd made his message clear. Now he'd have to live
with the results, be they lady or tigress.

Or disappointment.

The lush night blazed with stars, except for one
small drift of clouds across the fat, full moon, a hand's breadth
above the horizon. Clara stood at the taffrail, watching the wake's
glittering phosphorescence, the night beating in her very blood.
The wind in the rigging sounded like some whistling sort of harp,
the water along the sides added depth, and the Atlantic rollers
provided an underlying, felt-rather-than-heard rhythm. The music of
the nautical night was so beautiful, her bones ached within
her.

Someone stood beside her; another pair of hands,
hard-worn and strong, gripped the rail alongside hers. Captain
Fleming, too, watched the wake, his expression thoughtful, even
distant. But that underlying rhythm added some unseen, unseeable
depth to him, as well, and it glistened in his eyes.

When he held out his hand, hers met it halfway, as if
they'd practiced the move for hours, and when he turned her onto
the poop deck, she understood his purpose without a conscious
thought.

In this dream-like haze, they danced.
Topaze
guided them through the steps, as she'd done the first moment
Clara's slipper had touched her deck. When
Topaze
dipped to
port, Clara retreated, allowing Captain Fleming to advance; when
the deck straightened, they reversed. The night's music accompanied
them as they gave both hands across and turned, balanced back,
crossed and went below, and repeated, with a
chassé
back to
position.

Her few remaining hairpins refused their duty, their
pressure against her scalp slipped, and her knot collapsed onto her
shoulder, unfurling over her sailor dress. When they interlocked
for the arm-right circle, he reached across and fingered her mane
as they spun. Something swelled within her, the night sharpening as
if coming into focus. If this was a dream, she wanted to never
awaken.

But in her heart, her soul, her dancing feet, she
knew it was no dream.

His stare intensified, his gaze boring into her, and
her steps faltered.
Topaze
dipped again, but instead of
continuing the dance, he paused beside her, his arm slipping from
hers, his hand running down her arm and closing around her fingers.
And the searching depth within his eyes drew her in. For some
reason, her heart began beating again, louder, more quickly than
usual, almost as if it sang along with the night.

"I suppose you'll be happy to see home again."

Before she thought it through, before he'd even
finished the words, her head was already shaking. "I never want to
leave."

The edges of his lips turned up and his eyebrows
lifted with them. "You like us that much? Shipboard life, I
mean?"

She knew what he meant; shipboard life, forsooth.
"You — and the officers and crew, of course, have done so much to
welcome me aboard that I feel this is my home now."

"But you have a home in Plymouth, you've said?"

"A house, yes."

"Ah." He lifted her hand. Did his lips actually touch
her skin, or was that his breath, blowing across the back of her
hand? She shivered, one long, delicious sensation that rattled her
insides to hot jelly. "You know, you've only been on one short,
very short cruise. You've no idea what it's like, running short of
water and rationing it in the tropics, running out of stores in the
Indian Ocean and eating the same slop as the crew, fighting
assorted insects for stale hardtack. Perhaps you should take some
time and gather additional experience before you make a hasty
decision."

But her head was already shaking again. "As Mr.
Chandler reminds us, there's a clear difference between enjoyment
and fulfillment, and sometimes one must be sacrificed for the
other." She turned over their hands, still clasped; calluses
roughened his fingers and palms. He could hold onto the prickliest
rope, among other things, without suffering injury or pain. "We've
never spoken of your home, you know." Oh, her words sounded
shameless, and in that moment, she realized that she was.

She
was
.

And she didn't mind her shamelessness. Nor did his
answer matter. No matter what assets Phillippe could bring along,
Captain Fleming offered something Phillippe would never have.

Her heart.

He didn't seem to mind, either, and shrugged. "I
don't keep a permanent one. My elder brother inherited the
property. When I'm ashore, I sometimes stay with him, or in
Plymouth, or even London. Sometimes it's best to remain near the
Admiralty and pepper them with requests for a ship."

"Are you ashore much?"

"Not more than six months at a time since I was a
mid. I contrived to make as few enemies as possible on my way up
through the ranks, so I've been able to get employment with a fair
regularity."

"Six months. Sufficient time for a London season and
six weeks with family. Perfect." She couldn't believe those words
left her mouth. Then she looked into his eyes, saw the glee
residing therein, and believed it. She laughed.

Exultation swept across his face. "So you will,
then?"

Too
easy, cully.
"Will I what?"

Those incredible eyebrows folded in the center and
soared. "Now, don't be like that."

"Like what?" she said, but before her dignified words
were complete he'd stepped nearer, so very much nearer, far too
near for any sort of propriety, but when she tried to step back his
hands slid around her waist —
her waist
— and held her in
place. Her heart beat faster still, as if it would explode from her
chest. "You — you take far too many liberties, sir."

"Indeed." His voice was the barest whisper. He bent
nearer, still nearer, his gaze never wavering, and all thoughts
vanished from her head; the night, the moon, the heart-stopping
beauty, all of it vanished. There was only him, his dazzling eyes,
roughened skin, curving, softly parted lips that came closer and
closer until—

She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers.
Delicate, soft, less than the touch of a feather, his kiss slammed
throughout her body with the force of a lightning strike. Her knees
trembled, threatening to deposit her on the quarterdeck. She didn't
care. Her nerves hummed, singing like the rigging, like an
intricately played harp. Oh, he could play her—

Shameless. Yes, because love had no reason for shame.
It conquered shame, dignity, and anything else that stood in its
way.

Being shameless with the man she really loved was
nothing to be ashamed of.

She didn't reopen her eyes. "Will I what?"

Another feather-touch, on her forehead; another, on
her cheek; and a gentle rasp as his bristly chin brushed her ear.
"Will you marry me, beautiful Clara?"

The last of her tension left her. She leaned against
his chest, letting him take her weight, and his arms wrapped about
her as if he'd never let her go. "Oh, that? Of course I will."

His arms tightened. "Then we have a decision to
make."

"Oh? And what might that be, captain of my
heart?"

"Do we wait to be married ashore, or do we ask
Captain Lamble to perform the honors?"

She withdrew and smiled. "Why not both?" On its own,
her hand stole up and brushed the stubble on his cheek. "My Uncle
David is going to approve."

For the first time, hesitation showed in his eyes.
"You've no doubts?"

"None." She snuggled back into his arms. They felt so
heavenly, entwined about her. Probably scandalous behavior for the
quarterdeck, but just this once couldn't damage discipline too
severely. "Because you aren't Phillippe."

Topaze
swung to her mooring,
Armide
alongside and
Flirt
beyond. Half the three towns, it seemed,
lined the docks, hands gesturing toward the French tricolor beneath
the red ensign on
Armide
's masthead. Clara's heart swelled,
threatening to burst from her chest. The cruise was over, the
Topazes' assigned task completed, the Indiamen saved — from this
menace, at least; the other perils, from Malay pirates to the
Indian Ocean's caprices, the merchant ships would have to weather
on their own.

Best of all, although she stood on the quarterdeck,
in full view of the docks — no one pointed at her.

Captain Fleming, her own Alexander, had convinced her
to wait for Uncle David's blessing before committing herself to
marriage. The delay still seemed overly cautious, of course Uncle
David and Aunt Helen would see for themselves precisely how perfect
he was, but if a wedding in St. Andrew's would please him more than
one on
Flirt
's poop deck, then she'd let herself be
persuaded. Although it still entertained her, imagining returning
home married to the perfect man, only days before her birthday. But
instead she'd return home engaged to the perfect man, with two
weeks to spare.

Beside her, Staunton cocked an eyebrow. "So you've
made it back home safely. Surprised?"

She scoffed. "Not in the slightest. In such capable
hands? I always expected to return home safely."

And the beauty of it was, every word was true.
Mostly.

Across the water, a voice cracked out an order, and
moments later, a captain's gig rowed from behind
Flirt
,
crossing the Hamoaze and heading toward the docks. A round head,
bisected by a scraper worn fore-and-aft, topped a round-shouldered
body sitting in the stern. Captain Lamble, whose ship and crew had
suffered so much under
Armide
's assault, and who had dealt
the battle's final blow, carried the two captains' reports to the
Citadel. Everyone said it would make his career; then they'd all
hurriedly added, it wasn't going to hurt anyone else's, either.
Clara smiled. As if she, or Captain Fleming, had anything to worry
about.

He clattered up the ladder to the quarterdeck,
wearing his elegant shore-going rig, his lion-hilted sword swinging
at his thigh and a smile curving his lips. As it had done the night
of her disagreement with Phillippe, natural authority radiated from
him, making him seem taller, stronger, more imposing, even more
dreamy. Hennessy followed behind, carrying the log book and ledgers
that she'd helped maintain for eight thousand miles and which she'd
helped balance over the past five days.

Beside her, Staunton straightened and removed his
scraper. If he breathed, it didn't show.

When Captain Fleming reached for her hand, hers met
his halfway.

"My lady, I must go ashore and settle accounts," he
said. "Do you wish for an escort to your home? I'll join you as
soon as possible, although it may not be until this evening."

Before he finished speaking, she shook her head. "No,
I'll be fine with this scamp for a few hours." Staunton's elbow dug
into her ribs. She returned the gesture with interest. "I'd much
rather we arrive home together."