Almost a Lady (18 page)

She took the proffered hand and scrambled to her feet. “Why is it safe to make a noise now?”

“Because it is,” he said shortly, pushing her ahead of him on the path.

Meg paused, asking over her shoulder, “Did you discover what you wanted to find out?”

“No, not what I wanted to find out,” he responded. “Hurry up, Meg, we’re on enemy soil here, every minute we spend increases the danger.”

She said nothing more but increased her speed, trying to formulate the perfectly natural questions that he would have to answer in some form. How would he explain what had happened on the cliff top?

They reached the beach and found the dinghy once more accessible in the shallows. Miles said apprehensively, “I’m sorry, sir. Miss Barratt insisted—”

Cosimo cut him off with a gesture. “Yes, so I understand.” He picked Meg up and deposited her unceremoniously in the dinghy, then pushed it off the sandy bottom himself, climbing in over the stern once it floated free. He seemed unaware of his wet boots and britches and sat with his usual apparent calm as they were rowed back through the narrow gap into the open sea towards the dark shape of the
Mary Rose
.

Meg touched her neck where the skin seemed tight and sore. It was still sticky to the touch but the blood was drying. An involuntary shudder went through her. Cosimo shot her a sharp look, his face still grim, his eyes still cold, but he said nothing.

When they bumped gently against the side of the ship, he indicated to Meg that she should go up the ladder first. He followed close behind and as soon as their feet touched the deck he said, “Go below. I’ll come down in a few minutes.”

Meg didn’t argue. She was chilled and depressed, scared and angry all at the same time, and all she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and embrace the amnesia of sleep. A lamp, turned low, offered faint illumination in the cabin, and Gus was already tucked up under his crimson covering. She sat on a chair and wearily pulled off her boots. Her stockings were wet too and she struggled to unroll them without taking off her britches, which seemed too much like hard work in her present state.

Cosimo came in while she was looking at her cold white feet as if she’d never seen them before. He carried a flask and two glasses. He didn’t greet her, merely poured a measure of cognac into both glasses and handed her one, before going into the head, reappearing with a cloth soaked in warm water.

“Tilt your head.”

Meg took a gulp of the fiery spirit and then did as he said. He dabbed at the cut with the cloth. “Did you mean to cut me?” she asked.

“No, of course not. I knew someone was following me, but I didn’t know it was you. It didn’t occur to me that you would do anything so foolish.” His mouth was as grim as ever. “Perhaps you’ll remember in future that I move fast when I sense danger.”

That made some sort of sense, she supposed, and she would have accepted it without question except for what she’d seen afterwards.

“It’s only a surface scratch,” he said, taking up the cognac bottle and pouring a few drops onto the cloth. He held it against the wound and Meg drew a sharp breath at the sting. “It’s as good a disinfectant as vinegar,” he stated, tossing the cloth into the head. “Now, I would like an explanation, Miss Barratt.”

He perched on the edge of the table in his familiar fashion, one leg swinging casually. “Why did you follow me?”

Meg didn’t immediately answer. Her gaze was riveted on the narrow sheath fastened to his belt, and the silver hilt of the knife showing above. The stiletto blade, she recognized it.

“Well?” he prompted.

She shrugged and forced her eyes away. “I was curious. I had no intention of getting in the way.”

Cosimo sipped cognac, regarding her thoughtfully over the lip of his glass. Initiative and curiosity were all good qualities, but they had to be tempered with common sense, and her refusal to follow instruction boded ill for a partnership where he had to be able to rely absolutely on her compliance. It was no exaggeration to say that their lives would depend on each doing exactly as had been agreed between them. An unpredictable move on either part would be fatal. But, of course, at this point Meg had no idea of the greater purpose he had in mind for her, so how could she know how vital it was that she adhere strictly to a plan? Well, he’d have to teach her one way or another.

“Did it occur to you that I might have had my reasons for wanting you to stay with the dinghy?”

It did now, she thought bitterly. Of course he wouldn’t want a witness to his killings. But had he intended to kill those men? Had their presence surprised him? “Let’s drop it,” she said. “You needn’t worry, I won’t do such a thing again.” She touched her neck reflexively. “You spring some unpleasant surprises.”

“I apologize for that,” he said, his voice quiet, although his eyes were still that glacial blue. “I would not have hurt you deliberately for any reason.”

Meg took a deep breath. “What did you discover after you left me? Did you find out about Ana?”

“Not exactly,” he responded curtly. He stood up. “Go to bed now. You’re tired.” He picked up the flask of cognac and left the cabin without another word.

Meg stripped off the rest of her clothes, dropped her nightgown over her head, and turned out the lamp before crawling into the box-bed. She lay in the comforting darkness, buried under the covers, listening to the sound of the turning capstan hauling up the anchor. She heard Cosimo’s voice calling, “Make sail,” and then the snap of the wind in the mainsail. The
Mary Rose
listed to starboard, then righted herself and began to move steadily ahead.

Meg didn’t think she could bear it if he came to her bed that night. Her skin shrank at the thought of his hands on her, the feel of his body close to hers. He was still angry with her, and that would surely keep him away. She would have to find other ways to keep her distance until she could leave the ship at Bordeaux and somehow find her way back to England.

On deck, Cosimo drank cognac from the flask and watched the dark sea slipping past the bow. The Quiberon pigeons had been destroyed. He had found their bodies lying lifeless on the floor of the loft, their handlers, his own men, his friends, killed as they slept. The French had obliterated the outpost, which meant that either Ana had been compelled to give them more detailed information about his operation or someone had betrayed them. Either way, he was now working in the dark. He had no idea what the enemy knew. Had they also destroyed the outfit at La Rochelle?

He would find out only by seeing for himself. They should reach there in two days and there was no point speculating until then. He put the issue away in a separate compartment of his mind, to be brought out and reexamined at the right time. His main concern now was what to do about Meg. Had her actions tonight proved her dangerously unreliable as a partner?

“Penny for them, Cosimo?” David Porter stepped up to the rail beside him.

“They’re not worth a sou,” Cosimo said, passing him the flask.

David took a hearty swig and passed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did your mission prosper this evening?”

Cosimo’s expression was shuttered as he said, “No, it did not.”

David raised his eyebrows at the curt negative. After a minute he said, “If it helps to unburden . . .”

The privateer put the flask to his lips and drank deep before offering it again to his companion. “The French got there first. Destroyed the pigeons and killed my men. If there had been a message, or some news about Ana, it’s now in French hands. So, as you can gather, it’s an understatement to say my mission did not prosper.”

“I’m sorry.” David leaned his elbows on the rail and gazed out across the blackness of the sea. Cosimo rarely expressed dismay at the failure of an endeavor—he tended to change course effortlessly, moving in a different direction towards the same goal—but David guessed that not knowing about Ana’s fate, and therefore being unable to help her, was having a much more profound effect on his friend than any ordinary failure. Cosimo might not acknowledge it, but he was not always the callous pragmatist he made himself out to be.

“Why don’t you turn back and see what you can discover in England?” he suggested after a minute.

Cosimo glanced at him and gave a short mirthless laugh. “You’ll have to believe me when I say that’s impossible, David. I have something that has to be done and done within the next six weeks. Otherwise it will be too late.”

The surgeon absorbed this. He knew better than to ask what had to be done so urgently. “What about our passenger?” he inquired. “I understand you took her with you this evening.”

“And that was a mistake,” Cosimo said grimly.

David looked at him with interest, remembering an earlier conversation. “Are you saying this tool is unwilling, or can’t be sharpened?”

Cosimo drummed his fingers on the rail. “I haven’t decided as yet. I suspect the steel may need further tempering.”

“Sometimes you really chill me, Cosimo,” the other man declared, revising his earlier gentler assessment of the man. “Are you sleeping with Meg as part of this tempering, as you call it?”

The privateer’s fingers drummed faster. A few days ago he wouldn’t have denied the accusation; in fact, he would probably have laughed it off. He had always chosen women who enjoyed sensual adventuring without any need for an emotional mutual dependency. He had thought Meg fitted that bill perfectly: she had embraced passion with a lighthearted exuberance that promised the kind of useful and enjoyable partnership he had with Ana. He had certainly intended to use their liaison to draw her into his mission, so to that extent there was a pragmatic purpose behind their mutual desire, but for some reason he found that reflection unusually distasteful.

“I have no reason to believe she doesn’t get as much pleasure from it as I do,” he said, hearing the stiff, defensive note in his voice. “If you’ll excuse me, David, I need to set the watch. Keep the cognac, if there’s any left.”

He walked away, leaving the surgeon staring thoughtfully out into the night. Cosimo did not in general set the watch himself; that task fell to Miles or Frank. Neither did the captain of the
Mary Rose
usually sound uncertain of himself. Was Meg Barratt getting under his skin? David tilted the flask and drained the last dregs. A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth. It might not do the man any harm for once to find his emotional equilibrium a little off kilter.

Cosimo, fortunately unaware of the surgeon’s conclusion, discussed the watch with Frank, the course with Mike, and then took a restless turn around the deck, also unaware of the speculative glances his helmsman cast in his direction. Mike had sailed with the privateer since the
Mary Rose
had first set sail and very rarely had he seen any overt signs of agitation on her captain’s part. But something had disturbed the captain tonight, that was for sure.

Cosimo came back to the helm. “I’m going below, Mike. Send to me if you need me.”

“Aye, sir, same as always,” the man said with a laconic nod. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

The helmsman shrugged at his captain’s back as Cosimo strode off towards the companionway.
Why indeed?

Cosimo opened the cabin door quietly. The place was in darkness alleviated only by the grayness that filled the window. He couldn’t blame Meg for extinguishing the lamp, but it would have been friendly to have left a tiny glow. He stepped over to the cot and looked down at the formless shape beneath the covers. Her breathing was deep and even and she seemed to be taking up much more of the narrow space than was either usual or warranted by her small frame. Was it deliberate? Or had she been so exhausted she hadn’t thought to arrange her limbs in a more hospitable fashion to accommodate her sleeping partner?

He decided he didn’t want to speculate on that issue either and opened the cupboard beneath the bed and took out his hammock and a blanket. He slung the hammock from the hooks in the ceiling and sat down to take off his boots, still wet from splashing through the shallows to the beach. He pulled off his damp socks and britches and swung himself with the ease of practice into the hammock, pulling the blanket over him. The canvas bed rocked gently with the motion of the ship but unusually it didn’t lull him instantly to sleep. He turned over the events of the evening in his mind, experiencing again the sick desolation he’d felt as he’d looked at his murdered men, the slaughtered birds. Wanton destruction. They could have destroyed the post without killing.

Cosimo was a man who killed to order. He killed from necessity. And he abhorred the wanton infliction of death.

Meg kept her breathing deep and even, sensing that he was still awake. Her relief that he hadn’t attempted to share the bed was short-lived. He was still so close to her that he would detect the slightest change in her breathing, the slightest shift of her body that would indicate she was awake. She hadn’t the strength to talk to him tonight and for once she couldn’t imagine responding to his touch.

Chapter   13

M
eg woke dry-mouthed, head and body aching. She’d slept but it had been about as unrestful a sleep as she’d ever had. Images of cut throats, sprawled limbs, the privateer wiping his shining silver blade on his kerchief would not be banished. She knew she’d seen none of that but it didn’t seem to help. Nightmares always put pictures to amorphous horrors and she was in the grip of a thoroughly amorphous horror right now.

She hitched herself on an elbow and looked around the cabin. The hammock was gone; Gus’s cage was empty and there was no sign of the bird. And extraordinarily, the sun was shining and the
Mary Rose
was once again skipping on her way instead of lumbering through greasy swells. Unfortunately none of this seemed to help Meg’s sense of well-being. She lay down again, curling on her side to face the wall, pulling the cover up over her head. If she could stay like this until they reached Bordeaux, surely she could find passage home from there.

Biggins knocked at the door. Meg could now identify every knock on that cabin door. She debated ignoring it, knowing that he would go away, but then reasoned that coffee might help her aching head. She mumbled an “Enter,” and the door opened.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said without looking towards the bed. “And it’s a beautiful one. There’s coffee here, and Captain says breakfast will be served on deck. Silas is cooking up a nice dish of kidneys with bacon. I’ll be back with hot water.” He disappeared without waiting for or seeming to expect any response to this stream of information.

Meg rolled onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling. She couldn’t ignore what had happened, just maintain business as usual with the privateer. And short of jumping overboard, she couldn’t leave the ship. What had happened was no reason for her to commit suicide. She would just have to find some excuse to keep herself to herself until she could leave the ship and find some way home. In the meantime, the aroma of coffee was irresistible.

Biggins and his little assistant returned with jugs of hot water. “I took the liberty of washing what you wore last night, ma’am, but since it’s a nice warm day you’ll be comfortable enough, I reckon, in regular clothes,” Biggins informed her, still discreetly averting his eyes from the bed.

“Thank you,” she managed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the idea of this rough-handed sailor laundering her most intimate garments, but she couldn’t deny the convenience.

Once alone again, she got up, poured coffee, and took it to the window seat. She drank it gratefully, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it fell through the window onto the back of her neck. The skin still felt tight beneath her ear and she touched it tentatively, feeling the slight ridge of the scab. Cosimo had been correct, it was a superficial scratch. But it had still been made with the point of a stiletto. A quiver went through her at the memory of that moment of panic when she’d felt the blood trickle down her neck.

Her eyes fixed on the locked drawer beneath the chart table. Presumably the stiletto, cleaned of bloodstains, was back with its fellows.

She jumped up, discarded her coffee cup, and went into the head. How to explain her estrangement from Cosimo without letting on that she’d seen what he’d done on the cliff top? She poured water into the basin and dropped the sponge in, lathering it absently. Perhaps she could simply say that after the events of last night she had no stomach for this adventure anymore, that she’d misjudged herself, her own strength and courage. She’d lost interest in their liaison and she wanted to keep herself to herself until they reached Bordeaux, where she would try to find passage home.

It was plausible enough, and no decent man would argue with a woman who wanted to call a halt for whatever reasons to what had been a casual, opportunistic liaison at best. But it stuck in Meg’s craw. Apart from the fact that she doubted her ability to be convincing about her abrupt loss of passion, she had plenty of courage, and stomach enough for any adventure that didn’t include cold-blooded murder. But if she had to play the feeble little woman to escape gracefully, then so be it. She would play it to the hilt.

She sponged herself with the warm water, and the aches of a restless night dissipated. Once more attired, this time in a jonquil gown of dainty sprigged muslin, she began to feel almost hopeful that she could pull this off without stepping any closer to the brink of the privateer’s dangerous edge. She drank more coffee while combing her hair and then set her shoulders. It couldn’t be put off forever. She left the cabin.

The tantalizing aroma of kidneys and frying bacon assailed her as she climbed the companionway steps, and when she stepped out into the sunlight she saw Cosimo sitting at the table that had been set up on the quarterdeck. He raised a hand in greeting and crooked his fingers in invitation. Gus, perched on the rail, squawked a “G’mornin’ ” and unfurled his brilliant scarlet wings.

“Good morning, Gus.” She returned the greeting as she crossed the mid-deck. The sun caught the deep red glints in Cosimo’s auburn hair, his sea-washed eyes squinted against its brightness, and he looked the picture of relaxation. That now familiar current of desire jolted her loins and prickled her skin. Once again he was the image of the man Meg had known before the events of last night. And for a minute she was tempted to forget what she had seen. But only for a moment.

She stepped onto the quarterdeck and came over to the table, shading her eyes against the sun. “What happened to the weather?” It was a properly neutral greeting and she kept her tone of voice similarly so.

“It turned around,” he said pleasantly. “May I pour you coffee?”

“Thank you.” She took her seat and shook out her napkin. “I seem to be hungry.” Nothing dangerous in this social chitchat. Just keep it up, she told herself.

“After last night it’s hardly surprising.” He filled her cup and added milk, just the right amount for her taste.

Meg stirred the liquid. He’d brought up the subject and now she needed to pick up the ball. “Yes.” She gave an artistic shudder, her fingers quivering a little as she picked up her cup. “I’d rather not talk about it. I angered you by following you and I’m sorry for it.” She managed another shudder and lightly brushed the cut on her neck in emphasis.

A frown crossed his eyes, but he said easily, “I don’t allow myself to get angry, it’s a wasteful emotion, although I admit I was annoyed. But I don’t think of it anymore. Let’s agree to put it all behind us, Meg.” He reached over and ran his fingertips over her hand in a skimming caress. She froze beneath his touch and stared blankly over his shoulder. He moved his hand and sat back, frowning openly now.

Meg picked up her fork and began to eat, avoiding his gaze. She had only to think of those two men crumpling onto the grass to maintain her role. She cast about for some ordinary banal topic of conversation that would skate over the awkwardness but her tongue was tied. She had never discussed banalities with the privateer and didn’t know where to begin.

Cosimo regarded her in puzzlement. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.” She forced a smile.

Cosimo gave a half shrug and continued with his own breakfast, making no further attempt to break the silence that stretched between them until it was almost visible. Finally he pushed aside his plate and stood up. “Excuse me.” He walked away towards the bows, his brow deeply creased.

Why had she not responded to his overture? Cosimo wondered. If anyone should still be put out, it was he. Meg had jeopardized his mission, she had been in the wrong, not the other way around. He had hurt her, but not intentionally, and surely she knew that, just as she must have known the danger they were all in on French soil. It was a piece of arrant stupidity to have followed him. Did she think this was some kind of game?

But that deadness in her eyes, the flat tone of her voice, the way her hand had felt like a lifeless bird beneath his fingers . . . what was behind that? Something much more than an accidental cut for which she had been at least as responsible as he.

On the quarterdeck Gus flew onto the table and picked at breadcrumbs. He regarded Meg with one beady eye. “Mornin’.”

“We’ve already been through that, Gus.” she said, offering her forearm as a perch. She scratched his poll, murmuring, “I wish there was somewhere to go on this ship. Something to do.” She looked up at the rigging where two sailors were working on the ratlines. It was as hazardous as it looked far up against the mainmast but Meg envied them both the task and the excitement. She had never been bored before on the
Mary Rose
, but then the constant presence of the privateer had been more than enough excitement. Now it was something she needed to avoid, which in such close quarters was not going to be easy.

She got up and went back down to the cabin. One of Ana’s gowns had a loose button; it would give her some employment. But she found when she took out the gown that Biggins had been there before her and all the buttons were secure.

A letter to Bella. That would occupy her even if she didn’t know when she’d be able to send it. By describing to someone else the events of last night, the whole muddle of her present feelings, her fears about Cosimo and about the immediate future, she might gain some much-needed perspective.

The shelf above the chart table yielded paper, pens, and ink and Meg sat at the table, sharpened a quill, and began her letter. Once begun it was hard to stop and she’d covered three sheets when Cosimo entered the cabin for once without an alerting knock. She was so absorbed that the appearance of the main subject of her detailed correspondence caused her a guilty start. She jumped, dropping the pen, splashing ink over her page, which at least gave her the opportunity to cover her writing with a blotting cloth.

“What did I do to cause that?” he asked with a smile that did nothing to lessen the frown in his eyes. “I don’t normally have that effect on people.”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said lamely.

“I don’t know why not.” He came behind her and clasped her nape warmly. She stiffened, her body suddenly motionless, her hand on the cloth covering her letter. He let his hand drop and moved away as if he’d noticed nothing. “Whom are you writing to?”

“Bella, my friend. I assume there’ll be a way to send it, but if not I’ll just take it with me when I go home.” She took a deep breath. “I want to leave the
Mary Rose
at Bordeaux and go home on another ship. How long before we get there?”

“This is rather abrupt.” He leaned his shoulders against the bulkhead and watched her, his arms folded, his eyes sharp. “Why are you so anxious to leave me?”

Now was the moment. “I think this has run its course, Cosimo,” she said slowly. “It was amusing for a while to pretend that I was an adventuress, but after last night I realize I’m not cut from the right cloth.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” He didn’t move from his position but his voice had hardened, and the light behind his eyes was not particularly amiable.

Meg clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I thought I was stronger . . . had more courage than I do. It’s mortifying to acknowledge it, Cosimo, but I was terrified last night and I had the most dreadful nightmares. This life . . .” She gestured vaguely around the cabin. “What you do . . . in this war . . . this whole uncertainty. I’m frightened and I want to go home.” She gazed at him with what she hoped were limpid green pools of feminine frailty.

He continued to look at her, nodding slowly but with a disconcerting lack of conviction. “You do, do you?”

“Please,” she pleaded. “How soon can I get back to my world? I wasn’t bred for this and I’m too old to learn new tricks.”

The look in his eye changed. He stroked his chin, tapping his mouth with his forefinger as if deep in thought. Then he said, “Too old, eh? Well, Madam Methuselah, I see no way to let you off the ship prematurely unless we come across a naval vessel that will take you as a passenger. It seems to me you should have thought of this before we left Sark.”

Meg wanted to throw something at him but she kept her hands firmly clasped in her lap. “I couldn’t anticipate how I would react to something I’d never experienced,” she said, keeping her voice low and unprovocative. “And, be honest, Cosimo, you never told me to expect something like last night.”

“My dear, you were the one who insisted on joining us, if you recall.” Sarcasm laced his tone. “And, I might add, putting the endeavor in jeopardy.”

“I’m sorry for that. I didn’t understand the danger, and that more than anything made me realize how unsuited I am to this kind of existence. I’m not made to be a spy or an adventuress. I don’t like admitting it, but it’s true.” She tried for a rueful yet determined smile.

“Well, I don’t see that it makes much difference,” he declared, dropping his arms and turning to the chart table. “As I just said, barring the felicitous appearance of a ship of his majesty’s navy en route to England, you’re stuck with me. There’s no need for you to embark upon any more extracurricular enterprises.”

“But
you
will be?”