Regency Debutantes (13 page)

Georgiana’s sleep-fuddled mind could not comprehend what had happened, only that she now found herself staring up into Nathaniel Hawke’s handsome face. ‘Late, I’m late,’ she mumbled, and tried to disengage herself.

He gathered her slender body into his arms and held her against him. She did not protest further, just laid her head against his shoulder. Nathaniel swallowed hard. She was warm and soft. The effects of the brandy swam through his brain. His hand swept across her back, moving up to touch the delicate nape of her neck. No woman had ever felt this right. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, revelling in the sweetness of her smell and with great reluctance held her away. ‘You’re sleep-addled, George. It’s the dead of night, and you should still be asleep.’ His winged eyebrow twitched as he smiled down at her.

‘But I heard the hands piped.’ Her voice was sleepy and low.

Nathaniel drew his thumb gently against her cheek. The skin was still soft and white. ‘Perhaps in your dream.’

Georgiana could not move. Still heavy with sleep, she felt mesmerised by the man in whose arms she stood. His voice was gentle, and there was such kindness in his eyes that it gladdened her heart. Couldn’t her stepfather have desired to marry her to a man such as this? A man who was just and fair, a man who had risked his life and now jeopardised his career to save her. She sighed, as his warm hands held her from him. He would never be interested in the likes of her, even if she hadn’t made such a mess of things. Not when his father was the Earl of Porchester. For all his standing, Nathaniel Hawke would always do what was right.

‘Let me help you back next door.’ His voice was soft in her
ear as he lifted her up fully into his arms, her bare feet brushing against his breeches.

Georgiana was surely dreaming, and it was the same stuff that had filled all her nocturnal thoughts of late. His arms were strong and he carried her as if she were the merest featherweight. She laid her head against the hard muscle of his chest and felt the rhythmic beat of his heart. A lady would not have done such a thing, Georgiana knew that implicitly, but still she did nothing but revel in the warm languor that was spreading throughout her body.

Nathaniel pushed open the connecting door, pulled back the covers and carefully laid Miss Raithwaite upon the bed. The strength of the feeling she invoked shocked him. She should not have to suffer the rigors of ship life in the guise of a fourteen-year-old boy. The sight of her washing his shirts had worried him and he had resolved to speak to Mr Fraser to go easy with the lad. Her head sank into the pillow and he made to release her. It certainly would not do to linger in such a situation.

Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, even to herself, Georgiana succumbed to the mad impulse to wrap her hands around Nathaniel Hawke’s neck.

Nathaniel froze, the breath caught in his throat.

She thrust her fingers through his auburn locks as she had so longed to do, trailing them down to feel the taut muscles in his neck. ‘Closer, come closer.’ The words escaped as a whisper. The dream felt very real.

Nathaniel stared down at where he knew her face to be. He knew without seeing that her eyelids would have swept shut. Through the darkness he felt her rise beneath him, touching her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss.

‘Oh, God!’ The blasphemy tore in a gritty hush from his
throat. Never had a man been so tempted. Her soft cheek pressed to his and his body responded instinctively. His lips turned to seek hers and, upon finding them, possessed them with a gentle insistence. Their lips writhed in a torment of ecstasy until his tongue could no longer resist the sweet allure of her mouth and raided within, seeking its hidden intimacy with an increasing fervour.

Georgiana floated in a blissful haze of delight. Her hands slid of their own accord across the broad muscle of his back, basking in the heat of his skin through the fine lawn of his shirt. More, she wanted more of this strange enchanting feeling.

The cot swayed as he clambered upon it and lay his length against her. The wool of his breeches could not disguise the feel of her legs beneath him. He fumbled with her shirt and soon felt the satin skin beneath his hand. She made an inarticulate little noise, but did not draw back. His fingers wove their sensual magic across her stomach, swirling up towards her breast, only to meet with the coarse linen wrap of her bindings. It was enough to bring Nathaniel crashing to his senses. In that single instant he realised their predicament, and stopped.

‘Nathaniel?’ Miss Raithwaite’s sleepy whisper sounded through the darkness.

Hell’s teeth, it was enough to tempt a saint! Slowly, gently, he disengaged himself from the slender soft arms surrounding him. ‘You’re sleep-addled. Miss Raithwaite. I must not take advantage of a lady in my care.’ His teeth gritted in determination. ‘Please forgive me.’ And, so saying, he turned and strode briskly from the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the weeks that passed Captain Hawke took considerable care that just such a situation did not arise again. He threw himself into his work upon the
Pallas
and struggled to think of his ship’s boy as George Robertson rather than Miss Raithwaite. The task proved difficult, but not impossible. His illicit actions of that night had shaken him more than he cared to admit. For in acknowledging the young woman’s allure and his own inappropriate response, he felt that he had behaved as the singular debauchee his father thought him. He had embraced the role willingly for those tender few minutes, had revelled in Georgiana Raithwaite’s warm caress, until he’d realised the shamefulness of what he was doing. And the thought repulsed him. He thrust it away, determined to think no more of that night. Mercifully Miss Raithwaite had made no mention of the incident, and continued to adopt her guise of the ship’s boy, revealing nothing more by her outward demeanour. Perhaps the fates had been kind to him, and robbed her of the sleep-laden memory. It was a prayer uttered most fervently by Nathaniel, although he was not naïve enough to believe that it would be answered.

Georgiana had woken to a heaving frenzy of conflicting emotions. Not only did she have a very clear and precise memory of her actions of the previous night but she also had to admit to having experienced a distinct pang of disappointment when Nathaniel Hawke had behaved like the gentleman he was and refused to continue his interest. She, on the other hand, to her extreme chagrin, had behaved like a wanton and was subsequently reaping a much-deserved vengeance of guilt. It was her first kiss, the first tentative touch of a man’s body. How could Miss Georgiana Raithwaite have behaved like a veritable slattern? With her fancy schooling, formidable parenting and proper Christian upbringing, she was nothing but a drab. She cringed when she thought what she had tried to do, the blatant seduction of a man who had done nothing
but sought to help her. What must he have thought of her? Utter abhorrence, nothing less. Especially in view of what he thought she had been about with Mr Praxton in Hurstborne Park. Oh, Lord! She still had to face him. Confusion, fear and guilt vied in her breast.

With frank determination Georgiana pulled her fragmented emotions together, squared her shoulders and decided that she would pretend that the incident had never happened. It seemed the only way to survive the months that lay ahead. In all the days and weeks that rushed past with gathering momentum she threw herself body and soul into the role of the captain’s boy. Georgiana Raithwaite no longer existed, only the juvenile George Robertson. And through the boy she learned to quell the attraction she felt for Captain Nathaniel Hawke.

‘Take in all the canvas until she’s bare. We’ll have to try-a-hull. Have the galley fire extinguished and check that the magazines are secured.’ Captain Hawke lowered the small brass spyglass from his eye and turned to face Mr Anderson. ‘There’s a storm brewing, and from the cloud formation I’d say it’ll have its way with us if we’re not careful.’

‘Aye, Captain. It doesn’t look good.’

‘With the wind the way it is we can’t tack safely into it and any other move would have us well off course, or worse. Our best option is to weather the storm until it passes.’

John Anderson nodded his head. He’d trust Nathaniel Hawke above all others. The man had an uncanny ability for choosing wisely, even if it did appear sometimes slightly questionable to those who had neither his knowledge nor his experience.

The deck heaved beneath their feet as the white-crested waves buffeted the bow of the
Pallas.
The wind howled above
the roar of the waves. All around them timber groaned and creaked as the sails were retracted. Men climbed fast, loosing the ropes, securing them again when the canvases had been taken in. Spray stung at their faces, dripped from their hair, soaking their clothes and drenching the decks.

‘All men to stay below other than are absolutely necessary up here. I’d say we have twenty minutes at the most before it reaches us.’ Nathaniel’s face was grim.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson watched his captain’s determined stance, a shiver of apprehension snaking down his spine. ‘What’s so bad, sir? We’ve suffered storms before and faired well enough.’

He did not want to frighten the young man, but forewarned was forearmed. ‘Never a storm like the one that’s coming for us now. Pray to God, Mr Anderson, that it passes quickly.’

‘Promise me, George, that you’ll stay in my day cabin until the storm has passed.’

She could see the anxiety in that determined glare. For a moment she thought that it was true what they said—the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Nathaniel Hawke’s soul was concerned by whatever he had seen sweeping down towards them across the ocean. He cared no more or no less about any man aboard the
Pallas.
Each was a member of his crew; he saw every one of them as his responsibility. ‘Yes, sir. There’s darning to be done and I’ll keep myself busy with the linen repairs.’

Still he seemed restless and uneasy. ‘Promise me,’ he said, his voice quiet and insistent. Seawater dripped from dark, sodden hair to run down his cheeks.

‘I’ll give you no cause to worry more over me than any other man or boy aboard this ship. I promise I’ll do as you command.’

Lines of tension were deeply etched into the flesh around his mouth, his coiled energy palpable within the confines of the small cabin. She longed to give him some measure of comfort, some little encouragement in the task that lay ahead. Wanted to touch her lips to his and tell him that all would be well. But George Robertson could not. She forced a smile to her mouth.

He stood still, silent, and regarded her for a minute, a single long minute, with an unreadable expression upon his face. Then turned and walked towards the door, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Fraser and the others will keep you company. It’s going to be a very long day and an even longer night.’

The waves grew larger as the wind set up a banshee howl. Through the windows in Nathaniel’s cabin, ship’s boy George Robertson watched the cold grey sea whip into a fury of froth and lashing fingers. It attacked the ship with violence as the sky darkened to a deep lifeless hue, chasing the light away. Only three bells had sounded, but already they could scarcely see within the captain’s cabin. The
Pallas
pitched and rolled at the mercy of the roaring ocean, her pine structure creaking and groaning under the strain. The holed bed linen slithered to the floor undarned as Georgiana clung to the unlit candle sconce. Waves battered at the feeble glass of the windows until she thought they surely must shatter beneath the hostile assault. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, lurching and swaying with the convulsions of the ship, illuminating the captain’s servants as monstrous distortions.

‘How’re you doin', laddie?’ Mr Fraser’s lilting voice enquired. He raised his head from the game of cards that he was enjoying with Bottomley, the captain’s cook, and Spence, the captain’s steward.

‘Survivin', thank you, sir. Will the storm last long?’

The grizzled grey head concentrated upon his hand of cards. ‘As long as it has a mind to last, no’ a moment less.’

A wave battered the stern, sending Georgiana hurtling across the room.

‘Steady, lad!’ the valet exclaimed, reaching out a gnarled old hand and hoisting the boy back by the scruff of the neck.

Three books fell off Nathaniel’s desk and a silver wine goblet rolled across the floor. Bottomley stopped it dead with his toe. Just when Georgiana thought that things could not possibly get any worse, a torrent of rain was released from the heavens to beat the
Pallas
into submission. A sheet of driving shards lashed the frigate without mercy and a rumble of thunder cracked loud. Somewhere across the deep darkness a tiny flicker lit up the sky, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Dear Lord, nothing could hope to survive against such ferocity.

Fear twisted at Georgiana’s gut. ‘Where’s the captain?’

‘Up on deck.’ Mr Fraser’s single eye focused upon the boy and softened a little. ‘No need to worry, laddie. The captain knows what he’s doin'. Been through a hundred storms, he has, and never got caught yet.’

‘But shouldn’t we be helpin', sir?’ The thought of any man, let alone Nathaniel Hawke, out facing the wrath of the heavens was worrying in the extreme.

Mr Fraser shook his head. ‘We’d only create more hindrance than help. The captain’ll send for us if he needs us. Best to just stay out the way and look after his cabin.’ The boy’s eyes looked huge in the whitened pallor of his face. Poor lad. ‘It’ll pass soon enough, laddie. Best turn your mind to other things.’

A pile of papers slid off the desk and landed with a thud
by her leg. She grabbed them and crawled along the floor to stuff them inside a drawer. Mr Fraser was right. There was nothing any of them could do about it, other than wait for the storm to pass, and pray that the
Pallas’
crew remained safe.

The thunder rolled across the sky, masking the muffled knock at the door. A drenched seaman staggered in, dripping water across the polished wooden floor. ‘Man overboard,’ he said through gasping breath.