Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (12 page)

“I think my stomach has made peace with the
ship, at long last.”

He leaned against the table and caressed her
cheek. “Thanks be to God. I am so happy to hear it, my darling.” In
a tone of vague apology, Myron added, “I hope you will not mind if
I tend to business while you accustom yourself to your new
surroundings.”

She rose and tugged at the ends of his
cravat until the knot came untied, “I will not mind, my lord, but I
have not yet fulfilled my duty to you.” At his stunned, wary look,
she said, “You asked I help you show yourself more as a gentleman,
so you must allow me to teach you to tie your cravat.”

“I have been tying my own neck-cloth for
forty years.”

She smirked and raised a brow. “How often is
a neck-cloth required aboard ship? Admit it, my lord, only when you
are forced to it, and no matter how often, you feel ham-fisted each
time.” His lopsided, boyish grin teased her heart, her fingertips
itching to pinch his cheeks. “If that is how you have tied your
cravat for forty years, then you have been doing it poorly for four
decades. You would be hopeless as a gentleman’s gentleman.”

“This comes as a surprise to you?”

Bella had learned the intricacies of a
nobleman’s wardrobe from her uncle’s valet and taught both of her
brothers and both of Charlotte’s. Bella considered it a skill
required of a gentleman: to present himself as one without
assistance.

He placed himself obediently before the
mirror, crouched down enough so she could demonstrate the task over
his shoulder.

“You needn’t learn more than one or two
knots, but you really must know them flawlessly, even to tie in the
dark, especially if you will live without a valet.”

She executed a
Trone d’Amour
knot
with alacrity, then untied it and made him tie it three times under
her hands and twice more on his own before she was satisfied he was
prepared to meet with anyone on a matter of business. Once she
declared him “fit to be seen in public,” he kissed the palm of her
right hand and said, “You will make a nobleman of me yet, my lady,
for who can resist such a sweet smile? I am pleased you feel so
much better, but aggrieved I must spend the day at business, not at
your side.”

“Of course you must not dote on me all day.
Only…” She picked at the knot she had just tied.

“Only…?”

She chose her words carefully, not wishing
to seem ungrateful or peevish. “Only, I am not sure what I am to do
all day. I wish to be of use, my lord, to you and your company and
the prince, but I know nothing of what is needed. I have no notion
of what I should
do
.”

He grasped her hands. “I see. You have only
risen from your sickbed. Might it be something to consider as you
gain your sea legs? You haven’t eaten a bite in three days, and you
were too thin before. You want feeding, Lady Holsworthy; I will
have Cook send you some porridge, and you must choose a novel and
spend the day in bed.” He tapped her on the nose with his finger,
but she frowned and stepped back.

“Perhaps I can make a list of my skills, in
case I might be missing how a proficiency can translate here.”

He brushed a thumb across her cheek and she
leaned against his hand, eyelids fluttering closed for only a
moment.

“You are quite serious about this.”

“I am, my lord. I cannot shirk duty in a
world where it is the central tenet. I must be of use, or I have no
right to the same rations as the crew.” She waved her hand at the
tray. “Most especially not special meals, hand-delivered to my
cabin three times daily. I am not a dimwitted porcelain doll. I can
be of use, if only you will help me discover how.”

He brushed his hand over her hair, pushing
loose strands off her forehead. “You are a wonder, Lady Holsworthy.
I will help you, and in short order, you will find your place on
the crew. You will not be treated like an ornament. I promise you
that. But on the morrow, I will have more time to be of use to you.
For today, I wish you would rest a bit longer before you undertake
to learn to captain your own vessel.” He tweaked her nose. “For
that is where I know you are headed with this nonsense, you bold
baggage. You will not stop until you are admiral of the high seas
and outrank Poseidon himself.”

“Don’t be silly,” she giggled. “I am hardly
a goddess, and surely there is some blasphemy in the suggestion. Go
be about your business, Husband. You needn’t constantly watch over
me. I will make my list and eat plenty of porridge, and I mean to
begin a journal of my travels. I had a set of blank volumes made. I
have plenty to occupy me.”

She reached up on tiptoe to place a soft
kiss on Myron’s cheek, the first time she had done so unprompted,
the first time since their only kiss at the chapel before they set
sail. He seemed dazed by this small attention, as if he had hit his
head on a deck beam. His fingers moved to his face to touch the
spot, then squeezed her hand in a fond farewell.

Bella went back to her room to dress. She
would stay in her rooms as he requested, but there was no need for
sloth. In truth, a husband who eschewed fancy fashions was a
perfect match for her, as she always felt like a fraud in the sorts
of gowns Aunt Miranda and Charlotte coveted. She pulled on the
fortune in stays she must be in the habit of wearing every day,
wisely re-designed by her
modiste
with front closures, then
a sage-green cotton day dress with side lacings, and the same
embroidered slippers she had worn the night she met Lord
Holsworthy. Her hair needn’t be artfully arranged, either, only
neatly braided and coiled in a bun at her nape. When marrying a
peer, she hadn’t thought to be spared the nuisance of a lady’s
maid, and was now pleasantly surprised at the informality inherent
in her new life. She needn’t pretend to be fashionably idle. At
least she wouldn’t after she found something to do.

She went to her trunk and pulled out the
first of the dozen blank books she had bought and had stamped, one
for each month of the upcoming year:

The Journals of Isabella Clewes, Baroness
Holsworthy

June 1805

She ran her finger across the gold embossing
on the leather, admiring her new name. No matter what happened in
the future, she never had to be a Smithson again.

In the writing desk in the sitting room, she
found quills, ink, and foolscap in a drawer, which she would use
when composing a list of what value she might offer her husband and
his business interests. But first, she had been filled with
impressions of the ship before she became ill, but for obvious
reasons, hadn’t written one word of her first three days away from
England. It would not do to fall out of the daily habit of writing
before she had begun it.

As she opened the cover and turned it back,
there was a knock on the door from the hallway—gangway, she
reminded herself. She called out, “Please come in,” but of course,
Myron had locked it when he left. She went to open it, and the door
let out a long, drawn-out screech. She suspected, with the damp and
salt air, a lot of creaking wood was in her future, though surely
hinges should be greased. She would make a note to have it
done.

“My lady?”

A scruffy sailor waited outside the door,
hat in hand.

When will that ever sound normal?
Bella thought. “Yes?”

He was unwashed, but that was a trait to
which she would have to become accustomed, as warm, freshwater
baths would be both rarity and luxury. His greasy hair might have
been any color from dark blond to deep chestnut, now sullied to
almost black. His most obvious feature was a lack of teeth on the
right side, more pronounced because he was otherwise a
young-looking man.

“Captain Johnson, he tol’ me to bring bath
water.”

He motioned to the floor at his feet, just
beyond the doorway, indicating cans of water he must have carried
to accommodate more of Lord Holsworthy’s demands for her special
treatment. She had to make Myron understand that it would make
things no easier if the crew were forced to wait on her hand and
foot. She had no idea how to accomplish it, but could at least now
rise from her bed and make a start.

Bella swung the door wide, smiling her
appreciation, but her friendliness fell away when the man pushed
her back into the cabin and shut the door with his foot, grasping
her hands and crowding her back against a wall.

Her breath came fast and shallow as she
tried to twist away, a scream caught behind her teeth. Before she
could express more than the tiniest squeak, the man’s fetid breath
surrounded her head and his growling filled her ear.

“No need for a pretty little dell to get
stuck with a starched old cove like Clewes.” His tongue slithered
into her ear, teeth catching her lobe, making her shudder and
struggle harder to free herself from his broad bulk. “Plenty of men
on this ship won’t mind keepin’ company when you tire of him, and
meself at the front of the pack. You and me, we come to an
understanding, and I could keep all them other dogs away from
you.”

With every syllable, Bella thrashed harder
and choked more, until, by the time he awaited her response, she
couldn’t breathe at all, flashes of light floating in front of her
eyes, darkness starting to overtake the edges of her vision. When
he snaked his hand up under her skirt, though, her mind cleared
straightaway.

In an instant, she remembered her brother’s
advice. She drove her knee, as hard as she could, into the soft
tissue between his thighs, and when he loosed his hold on her hands
to grab at his bollocks, she shoved him away.

Barely breathing, hardly moving but to
tremble, she didn’t know if she could bring herself to step past
the wounded animal at her feet, but she was certain she didn’t want
to be trapped behind his anger when he regained himself.

A quick dance step around him was not quite
fast enough to avoid his staying hand around her ankle, and she
tripped over his wrist. She would have fallen to the floor if the
door hadn’t opened, sending her flying into the solid, expansive
chest of her husband.

One look at the man’s hand on her leg sent
Myron surging into the room, but before he could take two steps
into the cabin, almost knocking her down in his haste, Bella threw
her arms around his waist, finally letting go of the sobs caught
behind the terror in her throat.

Myron’s body shifted back and forth with her
in his arms, almost as if they were dancing; he was clearly torn
between soothing his wife, an activity not at all comfortable, and
his more natural inclination, setting her aside to rip the sailor’s
head from his neck. If the heat of his glare over her shoulder
could have caught flame, the man would be cinders.

Myron held her close, his feet shuffling
side to side, and turned her away from the sight of the nameless
sailor. Stepping aside to let the captain into the room, they
traded rapid and significant glances over her head. Finally, he
said, “Just the man we were looking for. The example. And of
course, it is Hawley.”

Hawley, finally uncurling his body from a
tight ball, tried to scramble away when he heard he was to be made
an example, but found his back pressed to the wall. As he tried to
inch his way to a standing position, Johnson slammed a fist into
his mouth, sending blood and a few remaining teeth flying. When he
fell again, the captain slammed the toe of his boot between his
legs, sending him back into the fetal position, where Johnson had
perfect access to his kidneys.

Over the man’s tortured yelling, Myron
snapped, “That will be as nothing compared to two hundred
lashes.”

Captain Johnson nodded gravely, stepping
back from his victim. “Just the man for it.”

“Two hundred?! That’ll kill me!”

“Just as it will kill the next man to lay
hands on my wife. Slowly and painfully.”

“But… my lord…”

“If the Lord is smiling upon you, perhaps
you will bleed to death before the cat rips the flesh from your
bones. Though I cannot imagine Our Lord offering succor to a man
like you.”

Captain Johnson subdued Hawley’s last
attempts at escape with another fist to his face, then maneuvered
him through the door, closing it behind him.

***

As soon as they were alone, Myron’s fingers
moved to a bruise forming on her cheek. “Where are you hurt, my
dear?”

Her sobs had ended, but tears still dripped
down her face. “Nowhere particular, husband,” she sniffled, tugging
at her gown as if the high neck and long sleeves were at fault for
enticing the horrible sailor who would now probably die for the
shipboard crime of frightening her.

Myron swiftly untied the bow at her throat,
loosening the first few buttons at the neckline before she even
noticed, but as he reached her collarbone, seeking out any further
bruising, she yelled, “No!” She grabbed at her shawl, pulling it
tight, face lightening to the color of the chalk hills the ship was
passing.

With a concerted effort to moderate her
tone, she entreated, “Please do not force me to immodesty, my
lord.”

Holding out trembling hands, showing a lack
of weapons and a stricken countenance, he said, “I do not offer to
assault your dignity, Lady Holsworthy. You must allow me to assess
your injuries, and while I might wish to leave you at peace, there
can be no question of your compliance.”

Finally, she dropped the shawl, flinching
away, eyes shifting as though she expected to be hit, but could
still not justify disobeying. His large hands were clumsy on her
buttons, but gentle tracing the shoulder seam as he pushed it away.
What he found when he dragged the fabric away stopped him cold.

Bella cringed when he touched the days- and
weeks-old bruises layered on her arms and chest. She had hoped she
might be able to cover them with her nightrail and ask Myron to
snuff the candle before joining her in the nuptial bed, but now, in
the morning sun and under the light of half a dozen lamps, there
was no hiding. His calloused thumb ran lightly across a
particularly large, fist-shaped contusion between her breasts and
she hunched her shoulders to draw away.