Almost a Lady (13 page)

It was a new technique for Meg, who was accustomed to thin pronged forks when it came to eating shellfish, but she adapted swiftly, using her bread to sop up the garlicky vinous liquid, chasing it with deep gulps of the rich brown ale.

Cosimo reached over and scooped an errant trickle of juice from her chin with his finger. He sucked it off slowly and the suggestive little game moistened her loins. Her half smile was alluring as she dipped her bread in the cauldron again and held the succulent morsel to his lips. He took her fingers into his mouth with the bread, and their eyes held, promise dancing between them.

Meg wondered fleetingly what any watcher would make of this little seductive play and then dismissed the thought. It mattered nothing to her. She was unencumbered. No one here knew who she was, and for the moment she was responsible to no one.

It was late afternoon when they got up to return to the ship. Meg felt a certain reluctance to leave the sun-drenched quay and return to the
Mary Rose
. Cosimo was different on land; the watchfulness that was a natural part of him when he was on his ship was relaxed somewhat. On board she had seen how he was constantly on the alert, despite the apparent relaxation of his manner, but the underlying tension in his frame had been absent once they’d left the pigeon cottage . . . except for that one moment, she amended. She wondered if the inevitable constraints of the ship, the confined space, the presence of others all dependent on Cosimo’s authority, would also constrain their time together. Well, she’d discover soon enough.

Cosimo lifted Meg down into the dinghy with a lack of ceremony that earlier would have offended her. He untied the little boat and pulled for the
Mary Rose
, where a waiting seaman grabbed the rope Cosimo threw up and made the dinghy fast. “I’m assuming you’ll scorn the lady’s seat,” Cosimo remarked, indicating the swing still in place against the deck rail.

“You assume right,” Meg said, although she regarded the ladder that hung a couple of feet above her head with some dismay, unsure how she could one-handedly grab it and swing herself up.

“I’m also assuming you won’t scorn my helping hand,” he said with clear double entendre and a skimming brush of his lips against her ear.

“No,” she agreed.

He lifted her onto the ladder and she climbed up with some difficulty, favoring her injured arm and not refusing Frank Fisher’s assistance over the rail and onto the deck. Cosimo swung himself over the side beside her.

“Captain, there’s a message from the
Leopold
,” Frank said. “It arrived an hour ago.”

“Good,” Cosimo said, and as she’d expected or feared, it was as if the last couple of hours had never existed. “Is it in my cabin?”

“Aye, sir.”

Cosimo nodded and strode off to the companionway. Meg, after a moment, followed him. She still felt uncertain about her position on this vessel, and its captain hadn’t done anything to clarify it for her. Indeed, if anything, he’d made it more confusing.

“Cosimo, what do your crew know about me?” she asked, closing the cabin door behind her.

“Nothing,” he said, breaking the wafer on a sheet of paper. “Why?”

“No reason.” Meg turned her attention to Gus, who was exhibiting considerable pleasure in their return. Or at least Cosimo’s, she amended, scratching his poll. “Were they expecting Ana, or just any woman?”

He looked up from the paper, his eyes sharp. “Does it matter?”

She had told herself that this was a short, limited liaison. Why should it matter what anyone on this ship thought or knew? “No,” she said decisively. “Of course not.”

He smiled slowly. “It shouldn’t. I’m invited to dine with the commander of the
Leopold
this evening. Do you care to join me?”

Meg frowned. It was one thing not to care what the sailors on the
Mary Rose
made of her presence on board in the captain’s cabin, quite another for the outside world. There was no knowing who the naval commander was acquainted with. Could she risk the story of her sojourn with the privateer becoming food for the social gossips? No, she had never been foolish in her indiscretions and she wasn’t about to start now. Arabella and Jack would scotch all rumors unless they became unscotchable. She was not going to allow that to happen.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t do that unless I was asking for their official protection. I’d have to explain how I come to be in need of that protection.” She raised her eyebrows in quizzical fashion. The die had been cast in the pine copse. Obviously, asking for the navy’s protection and assistance in her return to English shores was not consonant with a liaison, however brief, with the privateer.

“I’ll return to England as clandestinely as I left,” she continued. “The fewer people who know anything about this misadventure, the better.”

Cosimo would have liked her to have thrown her hat over the windmill and propriety be damned, as Ana would have done. But Ana lived outside society and was not subject to its rules. Meg Barratt, for all her unusual conduct, still belonged to an unforgiving world. He couldn’t at this point expect her to do anything that would instantly ruin her reputation. She hadn’t thrown in her lot with him, merely tacitly agreed to a short, discreet, mutually satisfying liaison.

“I see your point,” he said. He contemplated declining the invitation for himself but he was interested in knowing where the frigate’s orders were taking them. He might need assistance getting out of Toulon once his mission was accomplished, and it would be useful to know what ships would be in the area.

“I wish I didn’t have to go, but I must. I’ll be back before midnight.” He lifted her chin and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. “Try to stay awake.”

“Oh, I will,” she declared. “If only to discover the tricks of activity in a hammock.”

“Then you’d better take a nap beforehand,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “It could be an energetic night.”

“That had better be a promise,” she returned, her flat palm stroking the significant area of his britches. “I too have a promise to keep.”

He threw up his hands and stepped hastily away from her. “Enough, now. I have things to do on deck before I leave.” He left quickly before temptation got the better of him, but he couldn’t prevent a flickering smile as he climbed the companionway.

“Cap’n looks like he’s had a saucer of cream,” the grizzled boatswain murmured to Biggins, who was sewing buttons on a jacket in a patch of sunlight on the mid-deck.

“Oh, aye?” Biggins glanced up as Cosimo passed him. He grinned a little. “Oh, aye, that he does, Bosun, that he does.”

Seaman Hogan stood on the brow of the hill and watched the little gray bird beating its way steadily across the sea towards the island. The last rays of the evening sun lent a pink tinge to its wing tips. As it drew closer to where he stood it began to descend, catching a thermal for a moment and drifting with it, before swooping down, flying straight for the pigeon hut. It landed on a windowsill and folded its wings as fastidiously as a laundry maid folding a tablecloth.

Hogan lifted the bird and examined it carefully. The tiny identifying tag on its left leg was in place and he frowned at it for a minute. “Where have you been, girl?” he murmured. “We thought you were lost.” Its heart beat fast against his enclosing hand but it cooed in soft greeting as he stroked its throat.

He unfastened the tiny cylinder from its right leg, then took corn from his pocket, offering it in his cupped palm. The pigeon pecked delicately for a moment or two, then flew up and through the window to a resting place on one of the long perches in the dim interior.

Hogan went into the cottage to where Lieutenant Murray was finishing his supper. “Number 6 is back, sir.” He laid the cylinder on the table beside the lieutenant’s plate of bread and cheese. “I thought we’d lost her for good.”

Murray wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin and took up the cylinder. “It’s been what . . . six weeks since we sent her out last?”

“About that, sir.”

“Usually they send ’em back within a week,” Murray observed and then dismissed the puzzle with a shrug. “I expect they forgot she was there.” He opened the container and took out the near-transparent roll of onionskin. He held it up to the lamplight and examined the hieroglyphics. “For the captain of the
Mary Rose
,” he concluded. “Must be what he was expecting.” He rerolled the paper and inserted it into the cylinder again. “Take it down to the
Mary Rose
, Hogan.”

The seaman pocketed the cylinder, saluted, and loped off down the hill in the gathering dusk. A few lamps shone from the windows of the little hamlet but the narrow lanes were deserted. This was a community that lived by the sun. When he emerged from the clustered cottages onto the quay, he saw that the
Mary Rose
was lit by lanterns fore and aft, another two suspended from the yardarm. A couple of men leaned idly against the deck rail and the scent of tobacco wafted across the water.

Hogan caught himself envying them the apparent freedom from restraint. He’d joined the navy cheerfully enough, following in family footsteps, and his present post was far from uncomfortable, although a little isolated, but life on a privateer, or at least this particular privateer, had its appeal.

He put two fingers to his lips and sent a piercing whistle across the intervening water. One of the sailors raised a hand in acknowledgment and in a few minutes the dinghy was bumping up against the quayside.

“Message for your captain,” Hogan said, leaning over to give the canister to the oarsman.

“He’s on the
Leopold
,” the sailor informed him as he took the cylinder. “Is it urgent?”

Hogan shrugged. “No idea. The lieutenant said your captain was expecting it.”

“He’ll be back afore midnight.” The sailor raised a hand in farewell and pulled back to the
Mary Rose
.

Cosimo leaned back in his chair in the
Leopold
’s comfortable wardroom and took an appreciative sip of a rather fine port. “You live well,” he observed.

The little group of officers laughed in appreciation of the truth. “I doubt you live too badly on your ship, Captain,” the commander observed.

“Not too badly,” Cosimo agreed. He set down his glass on the highly polished table and pushed back his chair. Meg was waiting for him and now that he had the information he’d come for, his impatience was running out of bounds. “I thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen, but I must get back.”

“I take it you’re sailing for Brest,” the commander observed.

It was a reasonable assumption given the course the
Mary Rose
had been following, but Cosimo merely offered a noncommittal smile. “That rather depends.”

“Cagey bastard,” the commander muttered to his first lieutenant as they followed Cosimo back on board. But he was all polite smiles and renewed expressions of appreciation for their easily won prize as they made their farewells and the captain of the privateer entered the longboat with its bank of oarsmen that would take him back to his own ship on the other side of the island.

Cosimo sat in the stern, to all intents and purposes completely at his ease after a good dinner. He tilted his head back to look at the stars, and none of the oarsmen, or the young ensign directing the crew from the bow, could guess that he was very far from relaxed as he calculated and sorted through alternative courses of action. The frigates had orders to head into the Mediterranean to engage with the French fleet now mustering at Toulon. That was good news for him. Once his mission was completed he might well need all the support he could get.

It would take them close to a month to sail across the Bay of Biscay, around the tip of Portugal and through the Strait of Gibraltar, and it would probably take him almost as long to reach Toulon by his own route. His present plan did indeed entail making landfall at Brest and going overland from there to Toulon. He and Ana. But now he didn’t know. If Ana didn’t contact him, would it still be safe to follow the original planned route? It was a long haul overland across the rugged center of France, but not only could they keep away from major towns and military centers, it was such an unlikely route for an enemy agent to take, no one would suspect that they were anything but the casual travelers they appeared.

They.
For the mission to have a real chance of success, he had to have a partner.

The longboat rounded the corner of the island, rowing close in to the shore. The surf pounding on the dangerous outcrop of rocks farther out was deafening at times and a fine mist of spray dampened his coat.

A partner. He had a potential partner. Was she awake and waiting for him, eagerly contemplating the erotic prospects of the night ahead? Could he use that night to bind her to him in such a way that she would be willing to extend their love affair, to join with him in a very different enterprise?

He was so lost in the question that he didn’t notice immediately when the longboat drew alongside the illuminated
Mary Rose
.

“Good evening, Captain. Welcome back.” The fresh face of Frank Fisher hung over the deck rail as the longboat bumped against the side.

Cosimo shook himself out of his reverie. “Thank you, Mr. Fisher,” he said formally, swinging himself onto the rope ladder. He climbed onto the deck and raised a hand in dismissal to the crew of the longboat. “So, all’s well in my absence?”

“Aye, sir,” the young man said. “But this came for you.” He handed the cylinder to his captain.

Cosimo weighed it in the palm of his hand as his mind raced. Meg would be expecting him to go to her immediately but this couldn’t wait. He strode up to the quarterdeck and under the lamplight from the yardarm opened the canister.

Chapter   9

C
osimo unrolled the thin sheet and held it up to the light the better to decipher the faint scratchings. It was from Ana. He’d known that instinctively even before he’d opened it. Or at least, it purported to be from Ana. But she had not composed it even if she had physically written it.

He frowned down at the signature.
Anna
. The signal they had agreed upon as a warning of trouble. The message itself was brief, as it had to be.
Detained. Mission of paramount importance. Continue as planned. Bonne chance. Anna.

The message had come by pigeon courier. Had one of their own pigeons been captured by the enemy and used to bring a false message? It wouldn’t be the first time. French intelligence was as devious and cunning as the British. If they had taken Ana, they would have learned the details of the present mission, and they would be expecting him when he made landfall at Brest.
Continue as planned.

His lip curled. What arrogant fools. Did they really think he and Ana were such inexperienced simpletons that they would fall for that? They could force Ana to write it, to prime the trap, as indeed he had to assume they had, but how naïve of them to assume they would have no safeguard in place. Whatever they did to Ana, whatever information she was forced to give them, she would always find a way to outwit them.
Whatever they did to her.

He closed his mind to that thought; it would do neither of them any good. Before he jumped to any conclusions, he needed to talk to Lieutenant Murray, find out if there was anything different about this particular pigeon courier . . . any clues as to where it had come from, and if it was as he suspected, he needed to send an urgent message to his own spy network in England. They had to find Ana. And they would. They were all experienced agents, skilled at infiltrating the enemy networks. They would get to Ana.

He spun on his heel, intending to take the dinghy immediately across to the quay. Lieutenant Murray would probably be fast asleep, but that was just unfortunate. He’d have to wake up. Then he saw Meg standing a few feet away, watching him.

The sight of her startled him. He’d forgotten all about her in the last few minutes. Why hadn’t he heard her approach? How long had she been standing there? And now what was he to do? If he abandoned her at this crucial point, he would lose her. Their attraction was still too ephemeral to withstand such a seeming rejection. But he couldn’t afford to lose her. There was now much more at stake than a pleasant interlude. His mission now depended on gaining Meg’s cooperation. Murray would have to wait. The message to England would have to wait, much as he loathed the idea of wasting a minute in coming to Ana’s rescue. But Ana, he knew, would pour scorn on such concerns. For her the mission was always paramount; personal emotions had no place in her working world.

“I heard you come on board,” Meg said, not moving from where she stood at the deck rail. “I heard you talk to Frank. I came up to see what was keeping you.” His silence confused her. He’d uttered not a word of greeting. Her gaze was intense as she scrutinized his expression. It was unusually grim and his eyes were distracted. Something had happened, something important enough to drive all thoughts of erotic encounters from his mind.

“Just a message,” he said with an attempt at an apologetic smile. “I wanted to read it before I came to you.” He took the few steps necessary to reach her and pressed his little finger into the cleft of her chin. “I didn’t want anything to distract me.” His voice was a caress but somehow neither that nor the apologetic smile reassured Meg. He had completely forgotten about her.

“If you have business, you should see to it,” she said.

“You are my business,” he replied softly, pressing harder into her chin. “Tonight, you and only you, ma’am.” His eyes had darkened, his voice was smooth as molasses, and whatever he’d been thinking of before, it was clear that Meg now occupied his whole attention. Only passion was on his mind now.

His ability to switch moods so completely disturbed her. She had seen the shadow on his face, the grim set of his jaw. Where had it gone? It was unnatural to be able to dismiss a troubling thought, wipe it clean away, and replace it with a completely different side to his character. And yet she couldn’t find the words to say so. Once again she was confronted with the fact that she did not know this man, and she didn’t have the right to pry into areas he chose to keep private. Sexual attraction was no substitute for the kind of intimacy that would permit her questions.

Cosimo sensed the danger, felt her slipping away from him. He needed to do something to rekindle that erotic spark before it was too late. He took her face between his hands and kissed her, his mouth melting into hers in a long, lingering caress. At first, while she didn’t refuse the kiss, she was still and unresponsive, as if undecided. But slowly he felt her soften as he stroked her lips with his tongue, grazed her cheek with feather-light taps of his fingertips that made her smile against his mouth. The stiffness left her and she leaned into him, kissing him with increasing fervor.

“Come,” he commanded softly, taking her hand. He led her below, running his hand down her back as he eased her into the lamp-lit cabin ahead of him. His hand lingered on the roundness of her bottom and she could feel the heat through the thin material of her gown.

She turned towards him, her eyes now luminous in the golden glow from the lantern suspended from a hook in the ceiling. He held her hips as he gazed down at her, taking in the pearly pink tinge to her usually pale complexion, the scattering of freckles across her small nose, her moistly parted lips. He kissed the corner of her mouth as his hands moved to her back, his fingers deftly unfastening the long line of pearl buttons running from her neck to her waist.

“G’night . . . g’night.”

“Damn!” Cosimo exclaimed. “I forgot about Gus.”

“I can’t imagine how,” Meg said with a choke of laughter. “Can we put him out?”

For answer he picked up the macaw between both hands and firmly put him in his cage. He threw the crimson cover over it, saying, “Good night, Gus.”

“Poor Gus,” came the rather mournful murmur from beneath the cover.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I remember. I was unwrapping a present.” Cosimo reached for her hands. “New bandage,” he observed.

“David re-dressed it,” she returned, impatient at this mundane intermission and yet at the same time enjoying the suspense.

“Good,” he declared with an approving nod and then laughed a little, aware of both her pleasure and the impatience that exactly mirrored his own. He drew her closely against him, while he continued with the buttons. She could feel the hard lines of his body against her own softness. Her nipples hardened as she felt the back of her dress part and a coolness against her skin. He eased the gown off her hips to fall with a rustle around her ankles.

He kissed the hollow of her shoulder, before beginning on the tiny buttons that closed the bodice of her chemise. He appeared to be in no hurry, instead concentrating on his task as if it were the most delicate operation. She looked down with a curious sense of detachment at his nimble fingers as they worked and the bodice opened, revealing her breasts, their tips hard and tight. He slid his hands under the chemise to her shoulders and pushed the flimsy garment away from her so that she stood naked except for her sandaled feet and the puddle of material around her ankles.

His gaze, now alive with desire, flicked upwards to her face. He smiled slowly before he bent his head and kissed her breasts, cupping the soft swell on the palm of his hand, grazing the nipples in turn with his tongue. He painted a moist path down the deep cleft between her breasts, his hold now spanning her waist as he slid to his knees.

Meg inhaled sharply as his tongue dipped into her navel. She put her hands on his shoulders, heedless now of the slight throb in her arm, and shifted her stance, partly for balance and partly in involuntary invitation as his breath rustled warm across the taut skin of her belly. She was aching for his touch and yet she didn’t want it to come too soon.

“My turn,” she protested softly, twining her fingers into the wavy auburn hair that was tickling her thighs, trying to pull his head up before he did what she knew he was about to do.

He raised his head, looking up her body. “Ah . . . indulge me this once,” he murmured. “I need to know you, taste you . . . to savor the very essence of you.”

And in truth she had no real resistance. He parted her thighs, opened her with his fingers, explored the folds of her sex with his tongue, and she bit her bottom lip until she drew blood to keep from crying out with the pleasure of it.

And as the night in the gently rocking cabin continued, Meg didn’t think she had ever encountered a more selfless lover, or a more skillful. His touch was unerring, his awareness of her responses acute, and when at last he yielded himself to her she found nothing but delight in the shape, the scent, the feel of him. She moved above him, beside him, beneath him. His inventiveness matched her own, and when, exhausted, they fell asleep in a sweaty tangle on the box-bed just as dawn broke through the cabin window, she thought she could make love with this man for eternity.

Meg awoke alone in the sun-drenched cabin. She was sore, aching, and filled with a deep sense of bodily satisfaction. She hitched herself onto an elbow and looked around. Her own clothes that had been discarded in a heap on the floor last night were gone. Cosimo’s clothes were gone too. Gus’s cage was empty. How on earth had the privateer got up, dressed, and removed the incessantly babbling macaw without her hearing a sound?

She fell back again on the pillow, a forearm covering her eyes. She felt as if she’d been poleaxed now, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she’d been dead to the world before. Still, it would have been nice to have been awoken with a kiss. But then, the captain of the
Mary Rose
had more on his mind than dalliance. Presumably he had to deal with whatever she’d interrupted last night.

She sat up abruptly. She
had
interrupted something . . . something that, if she hadn’t reminded him of her presence, would have ensured that there would have been no lovemaking last night. She felt a slight chill at the memory of the way he had suddenly turned on that seductive charm, almost as if he’d had a reason for it. Oh, she was being overly sensitive. What if he had forgotten about their tryst for a minute? This was a man who dealt in covert intelligence, courier pigeons, the luring of enemy ships. A man who went by one name only. And all those were reasons why she found him so exciting.

That and his superlative performance as a lover. She maneuvered herself out of the box and stood up, stretching and yawning. She’d always loved the sense of repletion, of a well-used body, the morning after. It was very indelicate of her, of course, but that reflection as always made her laugh.

She found her nightgown in the cupboard, although there was no sign of the bronze gown and chemise she’d been wearing. Decently clad once more, she experimented with the little silver handbell on the table. It brought almost immediate results.

Biggins knocked and entered on her invitation. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Would it be possible to fill the bath?” she asked, wondering with slight embarrassment if he was speculating about what had occurred among the tangle of sheets on the box-bed. Was there a lingering aroma . . . some hint she couldn’t detect?

But his expression, as always, gave nothing away. “Don’t see why not, ma’am,” he replied. “The galley fires are lit. I’ll heat up water. What about breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” she said with enthusiasm. “I’m always ravenous these days.”

A glancing smile crossed his stolid countenance. The first she’d ever seen. “Sea air, doubtless, ma’am.”

“Doubtless,” she agreed, wondering at the significance of that smile. She wanted to ask where Cosimo had gone but in the face of that smile couldn’t quite muster the nerve.

“Cap’n says to tell you he’ll be back shortly. He had to go to the guard post,” Biggins offered as he left the cabin.

Meg went into the head, no longer surprised at her lack of concern for clearly defined privacy. The confined quarters of a sloop-of-war changed one’s conception of space.

Biggins returned with a plate of coddled eggs and a pot of coffee. “This do ye, ma’am?”

“Wonderfully,” she said, sitting down in front of the plate with an appreciative smile. “It smells delicious. Thank you, Biggins.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, ma’am. Thank Silas. He’s the cook around here.”

Meg paused, her fork in the air. “Then I will,” she said. “I didn’t know, but please convey my thanks.”

The man nodded, but for once she detected approval. “I’ll be fetchin’ that water then,” he said.

Meg ate the eggs, drank the coffee, and with each mouthful the night’s euphoria faded and reality reared its unmistakable head. Today was Monday. The privateer was leaving at dawn on Wednesday. Now certainly they could enjoy themselves for those two days, but she couldn’t let him go while leaving her here without any means to get herself back to England. She had only a few coins in her purse. A trip to the lending library didn’t require much in the way of funds. Cosimo would take care of the expenses of her return, she was sure. He hadn’t shown any serious inclination to deny his responsibility for her presence here, but he would have to help her find a way to get home before he left.