Sail Away (3 page)

He did have the grace to apologize, if apology it could be called, as Smith resumed his seat. “Cynthia is normally a sensible girl, but she's in a dither over leaving Trenton. Just like her mother; I suppose the ladies hate to pack up housekeeping. My dear Penelope raised a terrible fuss when we removed here from England, said she could never survive being so far away from her home."

"And she passed away within a year,” his mother said sharply. “Edward, if I didn't know you were the son of my body, I would swear the fairies brought you.” She raised an eyebrow at Smith, and he could swear she wanted to say, ‘
You see the situation? What are you going to do about it?'
“I hope you'll pardon an outspoken old woman, Captain. Raising four children and three grandchildren took a heavy toll on my patience. If you will excuse me?"

"Certainly,” he said, rising once again “It is I who should apologize."

"I regret if my presence has put a strain on your household,” he said after she had bustled out.

"No, no, nothing of the kind.” Lancaster went to the sideboard and brought out a brandy decanter. “l don't believe in arguing with the ladies, you know—unfair to ‘em, poor things, they don't have the same level of reason we do. Tell them how things stand, wait until the fussing and flapping quiets down, then follow through with your plans. You'd think they would realize that once these Rebels have been put in their place, I expect to return to the old firm. After all, how long can a few disaffected farmers stand against the finest fighting force in the world?"

He looked so smug that for a moment Paul wanted to toss the brandy across the table. But on sober reflection—he was a large man, and it took more than the two cups of ale he'd drunk with dinner to make him tipsy—Paul did see the logic of Lancaster's attitude. Like a ship with its captain, a household required a commander. But like a ship's captain, that commander needed to have a clear idea of the capabilities of his crew.

In Paul's family home, the chain of command had resembled an admiral's flagship. As Admiral, the Viscount had dealt with the world at large and made significant decisions, but his mother had been the flag-captain, in command of all decisions that affected the household. Circumstances were different, of course; even if Paul's father had wanted to relocate, the family home was entailed and could not be sold, and neither of his parents would ever dream of leaving England.

Smith knew that because of his attraction to Cynthia, his opinion of Edward Lancaster was not objective. And the man was correct—moving his business and his family out of jeopardy was a sensible course of action. If her father had presented the move to Cynthia as a temporary relocation, she would probably have agreed without demur. Paul thought it a pity that Lancaster gave insufficient respect to ladies as clearly intelligent as Cynthia and her grandmother, but he suspected that for their part, the ladies tended their household realm and ignored their Lord and Master as much as possible.

Lancaster proposed a game of chess, and Paul accepted. Through the course of the game, he learned that his host was a shrewd tactician but had a tendency to underestimate his opponent. Smith won the game, but narrowly, and promised a rematch after dinner the next evening. As he bade his host goodnight, he wondered whether he would have time enough for a cutting-out action in the days to follow ... and wondered if courting Miss Lancaster under these circumstance could be considered a dereliction of duty.

Cynthia stayed in her room until the sounds from downstairs made it clear that her father had gone to his study with their guest. She washed her face, put herself in order, and went down to discharge her duties, making certain that Noreen had left the kitchen in good order and that the fire in the parlor had been banked for the night. It was growing chilly downstairs, so she fetched a wrapper from her room after going upstairs, then went to visit her grandmother.

"Come in, child,” Mrs. Leggett called in answer to her gentle tap. She was sitting in a low chair beside the fire, and Cynthia pulled up an ottoman.

"Oh, Grandmama, how could I have been such a fool?"

"Really? When did this occur?"

"At the table, of course! Losing my temper in that way. He must think me a shrew."

"In that case, I believe the young man may be partial to shrews. You were not watching him when your father announced what he is pleased to consider your engagement. For a moment the Captain looked quite threatening, like a thundercloud. Then you set the matter straight and his face cleared."

"Truly?"

"Yes, indeed. Stir up the fire a bit, please, and help me change into my night-dress."

Cynthia did as requested, assisting the lady to shed her several layers of clothing and don her heavy flannel nightgown. When that was done, she slid the warming-pan with its load of hot stones out from between the covers and Mrs. Leggett, still quite agile at the age of sixty-seven, put herself to bed.

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she sighed comfortably. “Ah, lovely. A warm bed is one of life's great comforts, even if there's no one to share it."

"Grandmama, you are the naughtiest respectable woman I have ever met."

"Oh, child, you know I was never as naughty as I might pretend to have been. But I am not pretending when I tell you this—if you are seriously considering Captain Smith as a prospective husband, there is something you must consider. He spoke honestly when he said a sailor's wife has a difficult row to hoe. You would face all troubles on your own, your children would most probably be brought into the world without him there to give you support, and you might not even see him more than once or twice in a year's time, or even longer."

"I had not considered that,” Cynthia admitted. “He is so very
present,
it seems hard to imagine a room without him in it."

"Think on it,” her grandmother advised. “I know that Evelyn is not the man for you, but you've grown up in a home where the man of the house comes home every evening. Captain Smith is a man o'war, not a home-at-night-Johnnie. He would be gone for months at a time.” But her serious demeanor slipped for a moment. “The bright side of that is the happy return. When a sailor does come home, he is usually
very
pleased to see his wife!"

Cynthia could not help smiling, but said primly, “You are a wicked old woman, Grandmama. It must be the result of having had three husbands."

"My dear, I had them one at a time, not all together. Not but what that might have been entertaining, but Mr. Leggett would never have got on with your grandfather. Off to bed with you, and think on what I've said. I will do what I can in the next few days to give you and the Captain time to get better acquainted."

"Thank you, Grandmama.” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek, and made her way back to her room with much to think about before she fell asleep. She had just burrowed under the covers when another thought struck her—one that drove sleep from her mind.

Commander Smith was an Englishman. His parents, his family—they all lived in England. If she were to marry him—and yes, that was a terribly presumptuous notion, but if she put all maidenly modesty aside, that was what she was contemplating—it might mean that she would be able to leave the colonies forever and return to England. Her dearest wish might actually come true.

But that could mean she might never see her brother Geoffrey again—or her grandmother. There were cousins back in England, true, but after nearly ten years they would be virtual strangers. And, as Grandmama had said, the wife of a sailor was alone most of the time. Was the intense attraction she felt for this handsome gentleman enough to sustain her in the midst of that much solitude?
A voice that tickles her down to her toes.
Yes, and not only his voice. When he'd stopped her fall this afternoon, caught her as though she weighed no more than a feather ... how lovely it would be, to have a husband big and strong enough to treat a sturdy woman like herself as the dainty creature she knew she would never be.

But it was only in fairy tales that the prince came sailing over the horizon. Her father was probably right; a good marriage consisted of two healthy, hard-working people pulling in double harness toward a common goal. True love, and love at first sight, were probably no more real than mermaids and sea-serpents.

Still ... Commander Smith
had
seen a sea-serpent with his own eyes. There might be more in heaven and earth than Edward Lancaster could fit into his rational, businesslike philosophy. There might even be room for love.

Her namesake moon had risen high over the town and was shining brightly against her curtain by the time she decided that her hopes and fears really were just so much moonshine, and drifted off to sleep.

He climbed to the rail at the stern and dove, slicing into the water with hardly a splash. The sea was crystal-clear, the color of a sparkling aquamarine, and warm as the summer sunshine. Paul swam through it with steady strokes, reveling in the freedom. His own command! True, a sloop was not a man o’ war, but a small craft meant speed, maneuverability, and surprise. It was a first step, the chance for a second son to prove his worth. There would be challenges ahead, to be sure, but for now he was content merely to swim in the welcoming Caribbean waters, free as a gull circling in the sky, to go where he liked in this welcoming cove.

A beach stretched before him, dazzling white, and on a little rise at the water's edge he saw a figure waving to him. As he drew near enough to find solid ground beneath his feet, he was surprised to see that it was a woman—and not just any woman, but Cynthia Lancaster.

Her golden hair was down, flowing around her bare shoulders and covering her nearly to her waist. He came closer, hoping that she would let him brush that hair aside, and saw that what he had thought to be a skirt was in fact a long and elegant tail the same blue-green color as her eyes.

She laughed at his surprise. “You have found your mermaid, Captain!” Then she slid into the water beside him and pulled him down into her arms, bringing his mouth to hers for a deep, passionate kiss.

The sand dissolved beneath his feet. He found himself thinking that of course a mermaid's lips must be warm. Strange, how easy it was to breathe beneath the surface. Mermaid magic?

His hands slid down the silken curve of her hips as they drifted lazily in the water, and as they cupped her bottom he felt, with some surprise, that she did not have a fish's tail at all, but warm, voluptuous thighs that opened in welcome as his fingers slipped between.

His eyes flew open in surprise, and she was a mermaid again. She spun from his grasp and swam away, tail propelling her through the water at remarkable speed. But she stopped only a little way off and waited for him, her breasts peeking enticingly through the hair that floated around her. Just as he reached her, she flipped her tail and swam away again, laughing musically.

He chased her for a long time, knowing that if she really meant to escape he would have no hope of catching her. At last she yielded to his persistence, coming to rest at the edge of the cove. He took her in his arms once more, lying back on the sand and pulling her atop him. Eyes closed, he kissed her lips, her throat, felt that lovely round bottom settle upon his hips, with her legs on either side of his body. He could feel her human shape with his hands as well as his body, but as he raised his head to look, she placed cool fingertips upon his eyelids. “You cannot look yet,” she said in her calm, musical voice. “You must have faith and perseverance."

He nodded in agreement, knowing that if he could win her trust, he would be rewarded with her love. And rewarded he was, as her breasts floated across his face, inviting him to taste. The gentle rocking of the water moved them closer as naturally as the tide, and when they came together at last, he could think only of a ship returning home to port after a long journey. Home at last, at last...

A hideous racket brought him out of the dream and bolt upright. Paul was on his feet and reaching for his sword before he realized that he was not in his hammock, nor even at sea. The noise erupted again, and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. A rooster—damnation, why could the accursed fowl not have held his peace for just a few minutes more?

Just as well, perhaps. A few minutes more would have meant a bit of cleaning in this bed so generously given him. Perhaps he should have stayed at the inn, after all!

Facing Miss Lancaster across the breakfast table was going to be a challenge after cavorting so shamelessly with her in the ocean of his dreams. What a treat that would be, though. If they were to marry, and he was able to find a secluded spot, would he be able to persuade her to frolic with him in the water?

There could be only one way to find out.

Morning dawned bright and clear, with a tang of autumn in the air. The leaves on maples and chestnuts showed that the chill of the night before had been no illusion. Conversation around the breakfast table, as though by mutual consent, stayed on harmless topics. Cynthia was pleasantly surprised by the fact that every time she glanced in the direction of Commander Smith, she found him watching her with a distracted expression on his face. She did not want to jump to conclusions, but thought that perhaps her Grandmama was right about his interest. Grandmama herself chatted with that gentleman quite pleasantly, describing various local sights that he might wish to see during his visit.

Cynthia's father seemed uninterested in conversation. He ate his eggs and mush with a single-minded determination that suggested he had important business awaiting him. Mr. Lancaster ate quickly and rose, but just before he turned away, he mentioned offhandedly that he was planning to invite young Humboldt home for dinner. While he was off in his study fetching some papers he needed, Cynthia excused herself and followed him.

She rapped lightly upon the half-open door. “Papa?"

His brows drew together, but he said only, “Yes, Cynthia?"

What she had to say was incredibly difficult, so she took refuge in the commonplace. “Is—is there anything you would particularly wish me to prepare for dinner?"