This Perfect Kiss (8 page)

“I am sure Lord Carrick has her safely tucked in the pilot house,” Christel replied as she put away the sweater in the cupboard.

“Of course he would,” Mrs. Gables agreed. Christel turned her head and found that Mrs. Gables was watching her. “You give my heart a jolt every time I look at you,” she said. “You resemble her, but only a fool could ever mistake you.”

Mrs. Gables's gown of black bombazine trimmed in white lace did little to distract from her stern visage, but on the rare occasion she actually smiled, her features softened to a motherly countenance. “Oh, my,” she said. “There I go doing the same thing I detested others doing to me. I once had a younger sister that people always mistook for my twin. On closer inspection, most found
her
to be the one more beautiful. An annoying custom to have one's physical attributes compared to another and then to be the one found lacking.”

“What happened between you and your sister?”

Mrs. Gables laughed. “I met my husband.
He
could tell us apart. To my sister's ever-loving chagrin, he fell in love with me. Of course, I had pursued him relentlessly. I knew his character. We were very much alike, you see. He would never have been happy with my sister. We were wed for twenty years.” She smoothed her hands over her lap. “He died of the cholera while we were posted in India.”

Christel lowered her gaze. “My condolences.”

“That was ten years ago,” Mrs. Gables said.

“Have you been in his lordship's employ long?”

“Eight years,” Mrs. Gables said. “Lord Carrick's ship had been the one tasked with bringing back many of the wives and children from my husband's company after the cholera outbreak. One hot and humid night I found his lordship on deck pacing while we awaited the wind to freshen the sails. I guessed that he must have a young one on the way, as he was clearly most anxious to return to England. I had never seen a more restless papa-to-be than that one. He had seen me caring for the younger children on board the ship, some of whom were quite ill. He knew I had been hired as a nursemaid to the earl of Eastland's brood. He made an offer to me, I could not help but to accept, and he brought me up from London. We arrived some weeks after Lady Anna had been born.”

Her expression fell subtly, and she turned her attention to the teacup. “I am not a servant, so I am not privy to the gossip below stairs. But her ladyship was also most beloved to me. She was the truest of ladies . . . kind to everyone. I think I am correct in believing you are much like her, despite your desire to prove differently.”

“Nay.” Christel shook her head. “I am not like her. Much to Grams's disappointment.” Christel started to smile, but the memory of Lord Carrick's conversation with her the other night sobered her. “I did not see my cousin in the nine years I was away. I wish I had returned sooner. She was like a sister more so than mine ever could be.”

She had not meant to say the words, but there they were, out for a stranger to dissect. But as Mrs. Gables continued sipping her tea, her boot button eyes revealing no more than a gentle patience to listen, this woman, whom Christel had judged disparagingly for complaining about her dog, suddenly seemed understanding and selfless.

Indeed, with whom could she talk? She had no close friends to share her thoughts with. She belonged to no place and to no one anymore. Mrs. Gable's simple kindness enveloped her.

“Will you be staying in Scotland long?” Mrs. Gables asked.

“My home is there. Seastone Cottage is the most beautiful place in the summer,” Christel said.

“Then Rosecliffe is not your home?”

“Rosecliffe is my grandmother's home. You have probably met Lady Harriet on occasion. I fear she and I did not leave on the best of terms.”

“I would not presume to know Lady Harriet, but having another granddaughter home can only ease an old lady's heart. She has rarely set foot in Blackthorn Castle or seen Lady Anna in a year.”

“Surely Lord Carrick would not keep her away.”

Mrs. Gables shifted in the chair. “The fault does not lie with his lordship, no matter what you may hear, Miss Douglas.”

Her answer, as cryptic as it was vague, was unmistakably colored by her loyalty toward Lord Carrick.

Loyalty that appeared to go beyond monetary dependence on him.

Christel was as bewildered by the woman's devotion and affection toward Lord Carrick as she had been by Red Harry's. She did not understand what could possibly inspire it, but she had seen it before when she had worked in the field hospital outside Yorktown and her uncle had brought in survivors from his ship. There had not been one single soul who had not inquired to the welfare of their captain.

The older woman leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. “I should be awake when his lordship returns with Lady Anna, but I fear I am suddenly quite sleepy.”

Christel rose and prepared the bunk for Mrs. Gables to rest. “I will look to Lady Anna. You need not worry.”

C
hristel had no opportunity of speaking to Lord Carrick as it was Red Harry who brought Anna back to the cabin.

“The wind's picked up,” he said. “Himself says to stay below.”

“Mister . . . er . . . Red Harry,” she called after him, pulling the cabin door shut behind her as she stepped into the companionway for a private word. “I know 'tis none of my concern, but I imagine it never bodes well when a revenue cruiser stops any vessel.”

“Normally I would say you'd be right. But the cap'n of the
Glory Rose
knew his lordship—”

“The
Glory Rose
?”

“Ye are familiar with the ship, lass?”

“I am a colonial. I am familiar with revenue ships,” said Christel. “But surely since Lord Carrick is a former Royal Naval captain—”

“A bloke's naval pedigree only means he can sail a ship, lass.”

He seemed preoccupied with the ship's chores and was soon on his way.

The
Glory Rose
!

She knew the captain of that ship. One of her closest friends had married him three years ago. Her friend was a patriot and he a staunch Tory, and they had somehow found peace in a world that had seemed to have briefly lost itself. Peace that had forever eluded her.

All afternoon she paced her cabin, thinking about
him
. Yet as much as she wanted to avoid him, she had been bothered by the thought that it was the
Glory Rose
that had intercepted the
Anna
.

Later, Christel had been arranging the sewing box when she heard Lord Carrick's voice topside. She'd procrastinated long enough and now didn't have much time left before sunset swallowed the sea.

Restlessly, she returned to Lord Carrick's quarters for a cloak. Finding one in the armoire, she threw it around her shoulders. It was made of heavy wool and brushed the floor, but she welcomed the warmth even as she caught the faint scent of French perfume on the dark wool. She pressed her nose into the cloth. This cloak was the one he had been wearing when he had arrived on board. Not that it should matter to her with whom or where he spent his time. She hated that it did matter.

Pulling up the hood, she made her way out of the cabin, crisscrossing her way with the ship's movements in the corridor. She shoved her shoulder against the stout wooden door that opened onto the deck and stumbled over the coaming. The ship rose and dropped into a trough of sea, sending a rainbow of salt spray over the deck. The wind filled the sails and tore at her skirts and heavy cloak.

Clutching her hood with one hand, she stole a glance at the weathervane. Long spears of ice clung to the rigging and glittered amber in the sunset. With all sails braced, the
Anna
lay over steeply, plunging through the sea, sending spray aft in the sheets and making the weather rigging sing. The ship was running close-hauled before the wind, and the sight could not have been more beautiful.

“Our captain is very good at what he does.” Mr. Bentwell stood near the capstan, holding a brass telescope. “That is why we are flying like a pretty bird over the waves.”

“ 'Tis breathtaking, Mr. Bentwell.” Grasping her hood with one hand, she caught her balance on the door and looked around the deck, hoping to see said captain of the ship.

“If you have come topside to see his lordship”—Captain Bentwell pointed behind him—“he is there in the wheelhouse.”

She couldn't see him until she walked around the capstan. Her heart bumped against her ribs. For the briefest of seconds after she found him talking to the helmsman, she thought about abandoning her want to seek him out, but she hastily refrained from leaving. He stood over a chart with a sextant in his hand. When he saw her, he stopped talking, his hesitation barely discernable, yet blatant enough that the helmsman turned his head. Lord Carrick said a quick word to the man and he returned to the wheel.

The wheelhouse was sheltered from the brisk wind. He looked busy and, with his dark sweater and slicker, as unapproachable as the night.

“I hope you do not mind, but I borrowed your cloak.”

He returned his attention to the sextant and the chart. “You could have asked Red Harry for something more suitable in this weather.”

“Woolen breeches and underclothes would be the most suitable. I dare say women are at a disadvantage in the cold weather.”

Her attempt at frivolity only made her reasons for being on deck more blatant in her mind. She pretended interest outside. “I have enjoyed the time I have spent with Anna.”

“Is that why you came topside?” he asked while drawing a line from one place on the chart to another. “You could have saved yourself from freezing and told me tonight.”

She gazed reproachfully at him, hardly realizing she was staring until he lifted his head and their eyes met. Just that fast the rest of the world vanished and it was only them in the wheelhouse alone in the middle of the sea. Something hot and fierce settled in her chest. He gave instructions to the helmsman, then put away the sextant and took her arm, guiding her to the door. Holding the brass telescope in one hand, he waited like a proper gentleman for her to pass from the wheelhouse first.

The wind caught her hood and pulled it from her hair. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked after he came to a stop at the rail.

“You tell me. Have you?” he said, raising the telescope to his eye.

He could have been talking about the weather for all the inflection in his tone. She stared at his profile, lost momentarily between her heart and dread. “ 'Tis only that you seem . . . distant. I thought we had come to an understanding.”

“Then why the subterfuge . . . Mrs. Claremont?”

Her hand came to rest on the rail, as if that would keep her standing. She was not interested in either defending herself or in lying, so she elected to say nothing of the turmoil roiling within. Yet another part of her was relieved that he knew.

“No denials?” His sober voice inserted itself in her thoughts, and she saw that he was not looking at her but north. “Are you not curious who was on that cruiser?”

“I know who captains the
Glory Rose
. . .” She suddenly lost the ability to think.

“Your husband's family is concerned about you. Why did you not tell me you were married, Christel?”

Anger flashed through her. She was weary of people interfering with her life, following her about as if she'd been a dog on a leash, trying to shelter or coddle her. “My reasons are none of your concern.”

“I beg to differ. You sailed across the Atlantic under the pretense of accepting a position in my employment—”

“ 'Twas not pretense—”

“Not
just any position but that of governess to my child. Your subterfuge is relevant to me and speaks to your integrity.”

“My integrity?” To Christel, her honor and integrity were sacrosanct. “You know nothing about my life. Or me. Nothing.”

“You are correct about that, Christel. And what I used to know had borne out to be a lie.”

She stepped past him, but his hand snapped her around. Her hood fell down upon her shoulders. “Tell me who you are,” he rasped. “I do not even know why you left Scotland, Christel.”

The wind whipped her cloak around his legs. By nature, she refused yielding to weakness on any terms. It smacked of defeat and cowardice and all manner of vile emotions she'd buried for years.

She had no idea how the truth would serve her. Her reasons for leaving Scotland were as irrelevant to her current status as was the very question itself and were none of his concern. Her life was her own, bought and paid for with her soul. She had lost everyone she had ever loved, so she had ceased loving anyone. No softness was left inside her, no room for doubt. Yet she was terrified of cracking beneath the weight of his iron gaze, which bored into hers with a gentleness she did not expect.

“Please loose me now.”

His iron-muscled grip on her wrist loosened but he did not release his hold, and she made no move to snatch back her arm. “Whether you like it or nay, you are my responsibility,” he quietly said.

“I am no one's responsibility. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” There was the hint of steel in his voice. He released her arm. “Like you took care of those who killed your husband?”

She snapped her gaze to his. “I am no murderer,” she said softly, but fiercely.

But this time, the weight of his gaze was too much for her to hold. She looked past him and found the horizon her focus. “They died in a fair duel,” she managed blandly. “Unlike the fight they gave Daniel.”

“Fair? As in you allowed them the chance to kill you—?”

“Dueling is not illegal. They cannot hang you.”

“What should I say to that, Christel?”

“Say that you will never question my integrity or honor again. Say anything except what is clearly in your thoughts.”