The Lady and the Captain (7 page)

“But, sir,” she interrupted, “if having a lady on board is such a bother, why must I pose as your betrothed? Why not simply pass me off as a friend of your family’s or even a relative? Perhaps as someone who is visiting you for a brief time?”

At this remark he laughed derisively, a wolfish grin twisting his lips. A sparkle of manly humor appeared in his dark brown eyes. She was sitting demurely next to him, the sun lighting her hair from behind. He looked her over appraisingly. Pass herself off as a friend? Was she mad? When was the last time she looked at herself? She was a young woman and too comely by far for his men, let alone himself, to try and ignore.

The cool north wind had colored her pale cheeks to a becoming shade of pink. She was prettier than any portrait he’d ever viewed in a picture gallery. In his eyes she outshone those so-called beauties of the first circle,
le haute monde
, or high society.

The ladies who frequented the royal court and pleasure gardens were base and commonly coarse, in his opinion. The ladies of the upper echelon wore low décolletage and wetted gowns in fashionable salons in order to expose their voluptuous charms. By exhibiting themselves, they caused titters of scandalous delight among the English courtiers. They hoped to gain more notoriety and rich patrons in this manner. By comparison, this simply dressed Irish colleen in her homespun wool dress was one of the most naturally charming and desirable women he had ever encountered.

“As my friend,” he repeated softly aloud, with a hint of amusement. “Nay, ’tis not possible, dear lady. No one for an instant would believe it! You’re like a perfectly plump chicken, ready to be plucked and devoured.”

His teeth gleamed in the sunlight, lips smiling upwards in good humor. The charming minx was trying to dissuade him!

The tone of his voice darkened at the mere thought of her coming aboard as an unmarried spinster. What she was suggesting was entirely unthinkable and too dangerous by far, and with a killer running loose on board the ship, who knew what perils she might face? No, he had to protect her at all costs.

“My fellow officers, let alone my crew, would slit my throat if they thought you were anything else but my fiancée. Aye, you need to be good and tied to me in their thoughts by the sacred vows of God. If you come aboard as unspoken for . . . well, that Mistress Duncan, would be preposterous. The suggestion will not be contemplated.”

“I can handle myself, sir,” she said bravely, straightening her back.

She thought of the switchblade she kept hidden. It was strapped to her right stocking. She kept it as a safety precaution. One she did not wish to tell him about. She had once been forced to put it to good use.

“The minute your feet touch the top deck, you will become my betrothed,” he repeated in a voice that brooked no nonsense. It was said in such a stern manner, she was almost certain he made use of it on his crew. It was effective. It made her reconsider.

Silently, she mulled over the possibilities of defending herself against randy seamen. In close quarters it would be hard to do. If she were cornered by one of the men, where would she run? How would she protect herself if more than one became involved?

The frigate would be too small to avoid close contact with the hands. A large man could physically overcome her weapon and then what? She shivered, remembering that one time in Dublin when she had sliced the hand of a man who had attacked her from behind. Although she had managed to escape and run away, never again did she venture about without a paid escort. She also had to admit the lieutenant could not be expected to be always next to her. He had responsibilities, a crew and ship to command, as well as a villain to unmask. He could not be expected to play nursemaid and have her tied to him all day.

She shook her head, knowing the reality of the situation. No, she would have to take care of herself.

He put a hand beneath her chin.

She looked up into his eyes and met his even gaze.

“Please, don’t disobey me in this, ma’am,” he said. “I am now in command and it is you who must obey. Do you understand? I must be very firm about this before we board. This concerns your safety as well as my crew’s.”

He smiled, taking the edge off of his speech. “A beautiful lady can easily break half-a-dozen sailors’ hearts merely by smiling at them. And your smile, I daresay, could cause an epidemic of fatalities.”

He removed his hand.

“Will you do as I ask? And be kind to both me and my crew? So no blood will be spilled over you?”

“Aye, sir,” she replied softly, losing herself for a moment.

He’d just called her “beautiful.” She felt a delightful heat course through her entire body. And it was not the sun’s brightness that had brought about this sudden warmth. It was the afterglow of his compliment.

Slowly, she nodded in reluctant agreement.

“I will do as you wish, Lieutenant Smythe. I’ll pretend to be your betrothed.”

“Good,” he said, catching sight of the bow of a sleek modern frigate over her right shoulder. It was anchored in the near distance from the harbor.

A smile of pride lit his face. “Ah, there she is . . . The Brunswick.”

Sitting tranquilly anchored in the harbor was a British frigate with forty portholes for large metal cannons. It was a double-decked, fifth-rated sloop with an elegant modern hull designed expressly for speed. Even to Sarah’s inexperienced eyes, the warship appeared to be outstandingly modern compared to the other larger vessels nearby.

The frigate’s three masts stood tall and erect over the small Irish harbor. The mast to the right of the middle, known as the mizzen, was in the process of being repaired. A long piece of lumber, the size of a full-grown tree, was slowly being set in place

A crew of able-bodied seamen, she noticed, scrambled about on the top deck. An officer stood to one side barking out orders with the use of a brass, speaking trumpet. The men clambered agilely about the riggings making necessary repairs under the watchful eyes of the ship’s master carpenter.

The sounds of hands at work, sawing and hammering, along with the strong smell of pitching tar, filled the air around the frigate. They slowly approached it on the much smaller Irish fishing craft.

When they reached its starboard side, an “Ahoy” was shouted up by Lieutenant Smythe.

An answering crewmember’s head appeared over the stern. With a nod of greeting and the wave of a hand, the man acknowledged them. He disappeared from view and then lowered a wood seat suspended from two sturdy ropes, known as the baggy wrinkle.

The seaman clambered down the side to help them.

Robert greeted him with warm familiarity, handing over the small craft to be anchored. A hook was lowered and Sarah’s small traveling chest was attached. The wood container held a few worldly possessions, bottled medicinal herbs and oils, the basic tools of her profession.

Warily, she eyed the suspended wood seat.

Although she knew how to swim, she nervously rubbed her arms. Afraid, her heart quailed inside her chest. She had visions of herself falling from the small seat into the cold sea below.

Oh, no
.
Please don’t have them expect me to get into that flimsy contraption!

For a woman who had traveled through some of the most dangerous places in Ireland, she still had one great fear . . . she was afraid of heights. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d been brought up on Varrik Island’s lone, high hill. But she’d learned at an early age to hug the side of the dirt path, never looking down over the steep edge.

Gazing up the high, smooth side of the frigate made her queasy. The frigate was as tall as any church tower she’d ever seen. She realized how far up she was about to be dangled by the two ropes. She felt a lump of fear in her throat.

Noting her nervous expression, Robert said in reassuring tones, “’Tis perfectly safe, my dear. I’ll be there beside you before your feet touch the deck.”

The crewman looked up at the couple. A pleased smile spread across his tanned face. He tipped his hat at her.

“Excuse me for asking, sir . . . but are ye closely acquainted with the lovely lady, Lieutenant Smythe, sir?” he asked, staring with open approval, at the woman with shiny gold hair.

“Aye, Mr. Kelly. . . . I am so honored.”

Carefully, he steadied her as she stood. His hands solicitously helped her into the baggy wrinkle. “This is my betrothed, Mistress Duncan. I’m bringing her home with me to England for our impending nuptials.”

Without a word, he silently removed the Caddagh gold ring she wore on her right hand, turning the small band around then placing the ring back on. She was once again spoken for.

It tore a little at her heart. The ring, meant to be a symbol of love, was now being used as a ruse to help catch a murderous villain.

“If you are afraid, close your eyes on the way up. My men will see you safely aboard,” he said. “Nothing bad will happen to you.”

“Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, signaling the crew to begin pulling her up. The pulley’s wheels squeaked as they slowly moved her skyward.

Sarah felt a light sea breeze beneath her layers of wool skirts. They billowed out under her. The poignant sound of a flying seagull’s cry echoed in the sky as it flew by. If she hadn’t been so frightened, she would have opened her eyes and admired the view.

The Blasket Islands were dark green forms off in the near distance. They stood outlined in the hazy sunlight. Other boats, including light wooden framed currachs, small fishing boats covered in cowhide and painted with tar, were stacked on the shore. The small harbor dock of Dingle wasn’t as crowded with fishing or merchant vessels as it used to be. The thriving community was currently more involved in the weaving trade.

Butterflies flitted about in her stomach. She kept her eyes firmly shut, while she held onto the thick, prickly ropes with a white-knuckled grip. She felt her body swing slightly. It was now suspended high over the bay’s dark water.

The ropes ceased creaking. Strong hands reached out for her . . .

She felt herself being lifted up.

Once her feet touched the solid boards of the ship’s deck, she let loose a breath of relief. She hadn’t fallen. She was safely aboard.

Lieutenant Smythe swiftly climbed up the ship’s rope ladder. He emerged between the thick bulwarks on the top deck. Gently, he held her as she accustomed herself to the ship’s slight bobbing. She felt a warm tingling sensation of awareness course through her as his firm fingers touched her small waist.

His dark brown eyes looked down at her with concern.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine.” She smiled at him. She felt a tinge of blush creep into her cheeks. Her stomach did a small butterfly flip. It had been a long time since a man had showed any protective interest in her. It was pleasantly comforting and oddly natural.

A small whistle was blown, low, high, low. A seaman piped them aboard.

“Commander aboard, sir!” said a midshipman to an officer next to him.

Second in command, Lieutenant Litton’s round, cherubic face presented itself. Doffing his hat respectfully, he gave a smart salute of welcome to his commander. He waited, as naval custom demanded, for his superior officer to speak first.

“Ah, Lieutenant Litton,” Robert said, returning his salute. “I see she is no worse for wear from my absence. Aye, it would appear The Brunswick is becoming shipshape and seaworthy as per my orders.”

“Aye, sir. Good to have you back aboard, sir,” replied the technician as way of greeting. “And I see you’ve brought a guest with you, Commander.”

“Ah, yes . . . Mr. Litton, I wish to present to you my betrothed, Mademoiselle Sarah Duncan. She is to be my special guest. I asked for her hand in marriage yesterday at her mother’s home on Varrik Island. She has done me the great honor by accepting.”

The other officer raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner at this shocking bit of news. Sarah could almost discern his thoughts.

Undoubtedly, he was wondering if the first mate had lost his mind. Perhaps even been bewitched by the Irish woman into proposing. For how did the lieutenant expect to ever be promoted by having such an unconventional bride?

She knew the second mate dared not question the officer.

The dark brown eyes that met the mate’s inquiring watery blues were calm and detached. The commander’s manner was as it should be—confident and aloof. The protective manner he exhibited towards Sarah warned Litton against saying anything unseemly about the lady standing beside him.

This Irish wise woman, despite her lowly social status, was now under the commander’s protection. It would be suicidal to say anything careless. That is unless he was ready to cross swords with the seasoned lieutenant.

The second mate wisely kept silent.

Tipping his hat correctly in Sarah’s direction, he quickly recovered his composure. He gave her a genuine smile of welcome and bowed politely over her outstretched hand.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mistress Duncan, ma’am . . . aye, a great pleasure indeed to have Commander Smythe’s betrothed aboard.”

Other officers, upon hearing this remark, gathered around.

Soft murmurs of appreciation over “the beauty,” and conjecture of it being “love at first sight,” were heard. Lower ranking, noncommissioned seamen nearby also observed the comely Irish colleen their master and commander had betrothed himself to.

“Will miracles never cease?” one of the ship’s Irish gunners, a jolly man with red side whiskers, was heard to mutter. “It would appear that Lieutenant Smythe does have a beating heart after all.”

“Aye, and who’d have thought Mister Chastity Belt capable of picking out such a winsomely pretty coo of a dove, eh?” added another. “Faith, the lass does have a very trim hull and a fine set o’ rigging up front. Aye, the commander can easily lose himself in her.”

A Scotsman added with a touch of salty, good humor, “And smooth skin a man would enjoy in his hammock—” The seaman broke off what he was about to say next under the stern, reprimanding glance of the second mate.