Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (13 page)

He crooked his finger under her chin,
tipping her head back, but even so, she turned toward the wall,
refusing to look him in the face.

“These are not today’s injuries.”

“No, my lord.”

“Your father?”

She nodded shortly, but wouldn’t meet his
gaze, so he added, “Brothers?” The lump in her throat seemed to
double in size. “Did Lady Effingale have any part in this?”

Her eyes snapped to his instantly. “Aunt
Minerva? No! She’s not—I mean… she only…”

“She only beats you down with her
words.”

Bella nodded. His thumb brushed across her
cold, white cheek and the lump melted under the tears beginning to
roll silently down her face.

“I begin to regret leaving England so soon.
Would that I could avenge every one of these wounds,” he said,
gently pulling the dress off, leaving her in her chemise and
slippers. Bella should have felt ashamed of being undressed before
a man at midday, but his touch was no more threatening than a
physician, sure, firm, and curiously gentle, with no hint of
titillation. His hands felt like Uncle Howard’s had, the first time
she had run to the manor house in the dead of night when she was
nine, covered in at least as many bruises on a much smaller frame.
He guided her to a chair, then covered her up with a blanket.

“Remain here, my dear, while I retrieve the
doctor.”

Between the fear of being left alone in an
empty cabin and the fear of being seen in
dishabille
before
any man on the crew, she flew up out of the chair, begging him to
stay.

“I don’t mind, my lord. I’m used to it. The
marks will be gone in no more than a fortnight, and you’ll not hear
me complain, nor will I shirk my duties to you. Please, my lord.
Please. Do not let him in here.”

“Lady Holsworthy,” he pronounced, proving
beyond doubt he had discovered the tone of voice that would cow her
whenever required, “You will see the doctor immediately, in my
presence and under my protection, and you will follow his
instruction to the letter. Is that understood?”

Thoroughly intimidated, at the same time
oddly cherished, she nodded and pulled the blanket tight around her
arms, curling up into a ball in the chair.

“Will you return quickly?”

“Yes, my dear, in only a moment,” he
replied, kissing her hand, “and I shall lock the door when I
go.”

An hour later, the doctor had prescribed
plenty of rest until she was properly healed and regular
application of a tincture of arnica, with which Bella was
well-stocked in the coffer of salves and tinctures she had prepared
and transported from the kitchen garden at Brittlestep Manor. Myron
had enforced a soak in a hot hipbath, with fresh water from a stock
he admitted he had brought on board purely for her convenience.

Bella sat quietly at the mirrored table
built into the wall, dressed—at her husband’s express command—in a
heavy flannel nightrail, woolen stockings, and Myron’s banyan,
pulling a boar-bristle brush through her fine, straight hair, from
the crown to the tips that fell past her waist.

“Your hair is the precise color of the
candle flame,” he said from the doorway between her cabin and their
sitting room. “It glows… it is quite… breathtaking.”

He was a bit breathtaking himself in what
Uncle Howard would call undress: a loose linen shirt, ties undone
at the throat, no jacket, waistcoat flapping open, and nankeen
breeches. His cravat had been untied and hung over his shoulder,
hair falling from its queue, long, grey locks draping over his
face. He reached up to brush it back at the same moment he caught
her eye in the looking glass.

She had thought she would be jumpy and
nervous considering they would share a bed within the hour. All day
long, she had been hoping for
mal de mer
to reappear and
delay the inevitable, but she had felt nothing but the tiniest bit
of queasiness—the same weakness and upset stomach she had
experienced after every beating of her life, easily managed with a
cup of peppermint tea. It seemed she might turn out to be a good
sailor after all.

Now, though, her nerves had been shot by the
horrible experience with Hawley, and she was far more frightened of
being alone than being bedded. It helped that her husband had been
nothing but solicitous since the moment, one week ago, that he
handed her down from the carriage at his parents’ farm in Saltash,
but the past two hours had proven to Bella, unequivocally, that he
would always act as her champion. It was time she demonstrate her
gratitude by doing her duty by her lord.

Her fingers began the familiar ritual of
braiding her long hair for nighttime.

Myron, for his part, was removing his heavy
boots, having already stripped off his waistcoat. As the second
boot thumped to the floor and Myron stretched his legs to rid
himself of stiffness, Bella asked, as casually as she could, “Will
he really be flogged two hundred times, my lord? Will that not kill
him?”

“Aye,” he answered carelessly, “if Our Lord
has any sense of justice, and I believe He does. Though Johnson has
successfully argued to halve the strokes, which is still no surety
he will remain among the living.”

She tipped her eyes away in the mirror,
hoping he would not see her upset. “Nautical retribution is
unforgiving.”

Forcing eye contact in the looking glass, he
said, voice deep as a grave, “While I recognize the sin in it,
I
am unforgiving when it comes to your care. Another such
violation, I can assure you, Hawley will not survive. I may yet
throw him overboard with my own hands.”

He turned her on the seat and gently took
her chin in his right hand, looking her in the eye with all the
solemnity of an undertaker. “No man on this crew—no man
anywhere—will lay a finger on you while I draw breath, Lady
Holsworthy. I am a peaceful man, in the main, but there is no
person I will not kill to ensure your safety, and you may rest
assured that, after thirty-five years aboard ship, I am well
equipped to do so with any weapon at hand, or none at all.”

She grabbed at his wrist with both hands,
pleading, “You must not kill him, my lord. You must not.” Kissing
his hands, she implored, “It will be a stain on your soul, and I do
not wish to be the cause.”

“You, my sweet, are not the cause of
anything. Hawley carried his own death warrant when he entered this
cabin with intent to harm my wife.”

“But I cannot in good conscience—”

He pulled away, sat back down on the edge of
the bed, and pulled his shirt over his head. Stealing quick glances
at his muscled chest and its thick mat of greying curls, she
blushed at the sudden thought of him taking her to bed.

“Steel yourself, Madam." She looked up,
wondering if he had read her mind. "Your presence will be required
when he is brought to account.”

Bella recoiled, all thoughts of romance
thrown out of her head. “What?! Surely, you cannot expect me
to—”

“I can, will, and do expect it.” He raised
his eyebrows and punctuated his points with a fingertip. “Do not
mistake my intent, my lady. I do not mean to torture you, but
should these men believe you cannot stomach the sight of the
captain’s discipline, they will find reason to court your favor by
means fair and foul. So, you will appear, head high, without tears
or carrying on, and you will accept the command of your captain, no
matter what might occur.”

Her throat worked faster, swallowing every
response before it could move from mind to mouth.

Taking pity, Myron picked her up, slid into
her seat and settled her onto his lap. He stroked her hair while
she tried to hide her face in his shoulder, twirling one fingertip
in the curls on his chest.

“Johnson will lay down his life to protect
you, and so you must do anything he requires to assist that effort.
In this instance, you will watch your attacker be flogged, perhaps
to his death, to show the rest of the men you are not
squeamish.”

She mumbled against his neck, “But I am
squeamish.”

Myron’s volume rose just slightly, and his
gravelly voice deepened, but he stroked his hand down her shoulder,
displaying no more rancor than he ever had. “You will not be on the
morrow.”

She turned her head away, but didn’t change
her position on his lap, and didn’t remove her small hand from his
very large chest. One fingernail scratching along a scar on his
collarbone, she gave the only possible answer: “Yes, my lord.”

He held her hand tightly and kissed her
fingertips. “Now then, though I find you enchanting with your hair
and eyes aglow, and would gladly keep you close the night through,
I will not endanger your person further by my indecorous
attentions. I shouldn’t like to cause you inadvertent pain.”

She sat back and tipped her head
inquisitively, her hand curving around his wide shoulder. She had
never considered he might delay the consummation of their marriage
simply because she had a few bruises, though she understood why
three days of vomiting had put him off. She didn’t understand his
motivations in the least.

“My lord, I… I mean to… do my duty…”

“Your only duty to me now is providing me a
strong, healthy wife as soon as possible. As such, I will delay the
pursuit of an heir for the nonce.”

No man of Bella’s acquaintance would have
done such a thing. But then, no man of her acquaintance had ever
taken the trouble to lie about her being enchanting or say she was
a wonder. This new husband was certainly a cipher.

He grinned and moved her hand to meet his
lips, pressing a warm kiss into the palm. “Do you play backgammon,
Lady Holsworthy?”

She shook her head.

“Excellent. Then I will be sure to win. Have
you any hairpins to wager?”

The following morning, the sun rose high in
the clear blue sky, no rain, as Bella had hoped, to keep Hawley in
the brig and give her a reprieve from the horror about to occur.
Not that she was at all certain rain would be a deterrent.

“One hundred strokes,” the captain told the
assembled crew. “And double it should any of you attempt such a
thing again.”

The cat o’ nine tails sat soaking in a
bucket of salt water, and when Bella whispered, “Will the salt
not—?” Myron answered tersely, “Yes.”

Every man cringed and much muttering arose
until the captain took a slow walk across the deck, eyeing every
man to impress the lesson of the discipline on each in turn.

“So, this is the way we welcome the master’s
bride—a new crew member, and an important one at that—to the
flagship of Seventh Sea? I’d hang Hawley from the yardarm,
gentlemen, but Her Ladyship begged mercy for his worthless
hide…”

Her Ladyship started when she heard that, as
she had been precisely told not to ask mercy for his worthless
hide. Hawley was not a popular man, Bella noted, judging from
concern for work details, not his health and safety, but from the
looks she got from the men who had not yet met her, it would tally
up in her favor if she had championed his cause.

“To be clear, so no one on board can say he
did not know, you address Lady Holslworthy respectfully at all
times and keep your hands well away from her person. She is Her
Ladyship, my lady, or Lady Holsworthy, and nothing else. She is not
an object of lust or derision; she is the mistress of this ship and
has more influence on the man who pays you than even I, so were I a
sailor on this crew, I would treat her with the same respect and
dignity you consistently show the ship’s master and to me. Is that
understood?” Slowly, one tar at a time, men began removing
head-coverings, giving quaint bows or respectful nods in her
direction. She wasn’t sure how to react, so she did what she would
do if they were tenant farmers in Evercreech. She inclined her
head, but did not smile. They were here to witness a flogging;
surely, it was no place for charming introductions.