A Different Sort of Perfect (7 page)

But that wouldn't serve his purpose.

"May I presume you write a clear, readable hand?"

The paltry sunlight couldn't conceal the
mystification spreading across her face. He hid a smile, but not
very well, judging by the irritation that followed.

"You may so presume."

"Because I need a clerk."

Her eyes flew open. His battle against that smile
turned desperate.

"Oh, do quit —
smirking
at me." She folded the
napkin and set it aside with a table-top slap. "You wish me to
work
my passage?"

Now for the tricky part. "It's an imposition, I know,
and I must beg your pardon for that. But I cannot possibly maintain
the mission, the books, the muster roll, the midshipmen's
education, and the ship itself, without some assistance." He poured
the last of the coffee into their porcelain cups and let her have
first crack at the milk; he'd drink it black for the rest of his
life if this worked. Allowing frustration to seep into his voice,
he continued, "And I can't ask Mr. Abbot, or Mr. Rosslyn, or either
of the midshipmen to help. We're seriously undermanned and
especially under-officered—"

"Under-officered?" She shook her head as Hennessy
removed the plates.

Hennessy would overhear, of course, and spread the
gossip throughout the ship. Which was exactly what Fleming wanted.
In other words, impeccable timing. "Yes, a ship the size of
Topaze
needs at least two more lieutenants and an entire
wagonful of midshipmen. We could have taken additional officers
aboard at Plymouth, but there were none available whom we knew, and
it can be devilishly tricky, working with strangers during an
important mission. So we chose to put to sea under strength and
work harder to make up for the lack." Of course, it didn't help
that Rosslyn was always desperately seasick the first week of every
cruise, but at least he'd improve and resume his duties at some
point.

She paused. An endearing pucker tangled her forehead.
"You're saying your ship and crew are undertaking an important
mission."

"I'm sorry, did I not explain that?" Good; he sounded
like an overworked, under-assisted captain, adding weight to his
persuasion. "A French frigate escaped from Brest and is sailing for
the Indian Ocean, presumably intending to intercept the East India
convoy. Our assignment is to stop her." He wouldn't mention the
Bonaparte spy who'd been captured in Devonport with the convoy's
sailing date clearly noted in his diary, nor the fact that British
naval intelligence had no idea how deep the rot went, nor that
they'd been ordered not to touch shore until the Cape, only pausing
to water at the Canaries, nor that they'd go into battle before
then if they caught up with the
Armide
. He wanted her
cooperation, not a panicky debutante screaming across the
table.

A pulse fluttered in her slender throat like the
wings of a delicate butterfly, fluttered again. For a moment it
seemed he'd made his case and convinced her; a conscious awareness
in her eyes, almost a knowingness, told him she understood the
depths of what he'd said, that she didn't need the horrid details
explained. But then her dark eyes clouded. She leaned over the
table, staring down into the linen. More wisps of pale, pale hair
fluttered free, surrounding her cheeks in a yellow cloud.

"And that's why you can't help me find him."

He nearly took her hand. Her little whisper, so
hopeless and breathy, aroused a wave of protectiveness and sympathy
within him, and he actually lifted his hand and began reaching
across the table to where hers rested, fingers curled as if all her
muscles had collapsed with her hopes. In the nick of time he
recalled himself, changed targets, and picked up the creampot
instead. A few drops trickled from it into his almost-empty coffee
cup, and he stirred it in to give himself time.

Lady Clara had him off-balance; that had to be it.
And it wasn't her, not exactly, but her presence here, aboard his
ship and sitting at his breakfast table, that had him acting
without thinking. Surely he was gentleman enough—
man
enough,
to conquer his baser impulses even when off-balance?

He had to admit, now she wasn't trying to rip his
head off, she was a lovely young woman: face, figure, charm,
manners, she had all the usual attractions, perhaps in greater
quantities than one normally saw. In particular, she held herself
well, with a healthy grace that was an elegance in itself. Now that
he considered it, he'd never seen her grab for support, no matter
how
Topaze
behaved, making her a natural sailor despite her
sex. And something about her behavior, that high-minded seriousness
she sometimes displayed, brought out the worst in his sense of
humor. Glib little teasing comments weren't the most amiable of
conversational gambits, but they'd do when he couldn't think of
anything better.

Oh, my eye and Betty Martin, too.
Who was he
trying to fool? This was the very reason captains and crews did not
like having women aboard. She'd turned his head and—

"Is there nothing you can do for me?"

Her chin drooped further, hiding her face. Was she
laughing at him? deliberately manipulating him?
Look up,
he
wanted to say. But in his head the words sounded so boorish, he
couldn't force his mouth to form them. He tried willing her chin
up, thinking strong thoughts, even urging her with his tightened
stomach muscles. But when she did, finally, raise her head, those
dark eyes had dulled to despair.

Desperately,
she'd said last night. She
desperately needed his help.

In his foolish heart, he believed her.

No matter what his wiser head might think.

"Perhaps we can work something out."

He didn't say that. He did not say that. But she
stiffened, jerked erect, leaned forward, and there was that
ferocious intensity again, staring back at him like a hungry tiger
scenting human flesh. Not the best image, perhaps. But horribly
apt.

"You mean it? Honest?"

Before he could be trapped further, Fleming raised a
hand and held it out, palm forward. "I said perhaps. After we've
found our marauding frigate, it wouldn't hurt to cast around a bit.
I presume you've some way of finding your captain?" He didn't want
to use the word
French
in relation to her quarry, not while
any of the crew were present. Some things it was better they simply
didn't know. Had Hennessy overheard that little detail the previous
night? Impossible to recall.

She nodded, two jerks of her head. All her grace had
vanished with the thought of her lover, leaving her brittle and
breakable, and so that arousal of sudden tension meant her thoughts
were centered on him. When he'd earlier mentioned discussing
business, she'd assumed he meant
her
business, not
his
. It figured.

Two different people resided within the same smooth,
ivory skin — the pleasant, pleasing gentlewoman and the starveling
tiger hunting for her mate.

The thought disturbed him. So did the eagerness
brightening her eyes and face. He'd offered the tigress a chunk of
meat; she'd willingly snapped it up. Even if it contained his arm.
Or poison.

But now he was being silly. Fleming shook himself
mentally and found a smile. "Then we have a deal? You'll join my
crew for the duration of the voyage as captain's clerk, and
afterward we'll do what we can to find your captain?"

Lady Clara paused, then nodded again. A hint of grace
seeped back into her motions. "Thank you, Captain, yes. We have a
deal."

All right, it was silliness at best to think of
taking the king's ship on a wild goose chase after a French captain
who might or might not wish to be found. Fleming would get the
necessary details later. For now, he had what he needed, a
captain's clerk and a woman who was no longer a woman but a member
of the crew.

Now to convince the rest of them.

A pipe shrilled a martial call on the deck above.
Clara slipped the knotted leather strap around her neck; a penner
inkhorn dangled from the end, and Captain Fleming had assured her
it contained the finest oak gall ink, as well as a crow quill and
white sand, before he'd hurried away.

As if chased by a bear.

Hardly complimentary to a lady, when a gentleman ran
from her presence. But he'd mentioned the first full day of a
voyage was a busy one, so perhaps he merely had work to do. Still,
he needn't have run quite so fast.

She scooped up the leather-bound book he'd given her
for keeping notes, although it seemed far too fine for such a
clerkly task. The great cabin, as he'd called it, stretched from
one side of the ship to the other across the entire stern, and it
seemed to be a sort of parlor and office reserved expressly for the
captain — and the captain's clerk, or so she hoped. Two cabins were
immediately for'ard, one to larboard or left, where Captain Fleming
had slung a hammock, and the other starboard or right, where she'd
slept with the hanging cot. No door communicated between the two
smaller cabins — just as well, there'd be less invitation for
gossip — but each of them had doors leading into the great cabin
and out onto the gun deck. He'd made no mention of moving her to
another location, so it seemed he wanted her under his protection,
which was also fine by her. She'd fantasized over shipwrecks,
storms, and savage natives wearing grass skirts during those giddy
hours huddling within the hanging cot, but there were some feminine
dangers that hadn't occurred to her.

Clara slipped from the great cabin through her little
sleeping quarters and out to the gun deck. A red-coated Marine
sentry stood outside the captain's bedroom door, stiffly at
attention and with a musket to his shoulder. His eyes were blank,
his face wooden, and he didn't turn her way. Would he answer if she
spoke? Was that even permitted, or would she commit some breach of
naval discipline with innocent words? Something else she'd have to
learn. She lowered her head and hurried past, climbing the aft
ladder to the quarterdeck.

Fog still enshrouded the
Topaze
; if anything
it had thickened, cutting them off from the rest of the world with
impenetrable walls. The swishing water along the ship's sides, so
loud the night before, made a quieter ripple of noise now, and the
deck held level and steady beneath her slippers. Only two sails
billowed overhead and they high on the masts. She craned her neck,
peering up; misty plumes drifted past the brilliant canvas like
grey ghosts.

Someone cleared his throat.

Captain Fleming, of course. He stood at the
quarterdeck's forward railing, with a carved wooden chair and Mr.
Abbot beside him. Of the two, the chair seemed happier to see her.
Staunton hung in the background, that grin permanently etched on
his face, watching the lot of them as if expecting some grand
entertainment. And beyond the railing—

—beyond the railing, the entire crew waited.

In a veritable sea of faces, a horde of sailors
crowded the frigate's left walkway, the larboard gangway, in a
disorderly clump. At the stern, the ship's opposite end, a unit of
red-coated Marines formed a block of brilliant color in the gloom.
They all stared. At her. And they appeared no happier than Mr.
Abbot.

She gulped.

"Lady Clara." Captain Fleming cleared his throat
again, as if his calm confidence was little more than a sham. No
hint of his previous teasing curve touched his lips. "Do you care
to be seated?" He gestured to the chair.

Shooting seemed preferable to approaching more
closely. Or flogging, or just about any other penalty that could be
imposed. But they were all watching her with grim eyes and it was
unwise to show fear to a pack of hunters. She forced herself across
the deck, step after mincing step, and took the chair Captain
Fleming held for her.

He leaned closer and murmured in her ear. "The old
muster list with all the sailors' names is toward the front of the
book. Find the page and, as I call out each name, make a tick
beside it if he answers."

His warm breath stroked her cheek, disturbingly
intimate and certainly improper. But gratitude for his assistance
outweighed any indiscretion. Still, her fingers fumbled through the
pages until she found the ones with long columns of names, the
first, longer part alphabetized and written in a crisp, flowing
hand, with other, more careless writing adding additional names to
the end. A lot of additional names, at least fifty of them. And in
no particular order.

She was supposed to sort this out? It would take a
good hour, and that without the entire crew watching her and
awaiting mistakes. But Captain Fleming straightened and called out,
"Edward Ackers," leaving her no choice but to swallow her panic and
scrabble with the penner.

As she dug out the crow quill, a trim young man,
short and wiry like a terrier and wearing white duck trousers with
a blue-and-white checked shirt, stepped from the mass of sailors,
clutching a straw hat. A long queue swayed behind him, the braid of
dark hair reaching to his waist. He touched his fingers to his
forehead and sloped across the deck to the opposite side.

Without taking his eyes from her.

Well, she'd asked for it by stowing away. She
shouldn't quibble now upon delivery.

She loaded the quill with the thick, smooth ink while
her eyes skimmed the list. His name lead off the alphabetized
portion, followed by the word "coxswain." She marked it.

Captain Fleming's eyes skimmed over the book, then
lifted back to his crew. "William Adams."

For a long moment no one moved. Then a crapulous
lower form of life stumbled from amongst the crowd as if shoved by
unseen hands. With his sharp, seedy jacket and tattered trousers,
he looked like a forlorn and not-very-lucky cockfighting sharp as
he straightened himself. He made a halfhearted gesture toward his
face with one hand and staggered across the deck to join Ackers.
But even when he stumbled on the main hatch covering, Adams too
never looked away from her.