Almost a Lady (19 page)

“I have one other stop to make.” He spoke casually as he applied the sextant to the charts. “But you will stay safely aboard.”

Meg swallowed and prepared for the final and most difficult declaration. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to . . . to keep to myself from now on.”

His put down the sextant and straightened, turning his head towards her. “What am I to understand by that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I made a mistake. I have to correct that mistake
now
. I need to leave this ship at Bordeaux and I want our affair to end
now,
Cosimo. It doesn’t feel right anymore.”

“I see.” His voice was arid as the desert. He returned to his charts, made a few more notations, and then left the cabin, closing the door softly behind him.

Meg let out her breath, realizing only as she did so how shallowly she’d been breathing throughout that confrontation. It was done, over with. He couldn’t refuse to honor her wishes. He could despise her for a weak-minded simpleton who hadn’t the courage of her convictions, but she could live with that and he would still leave her alone. The next few days promised to be tedious and awkward, but she could get through them. And she didn’t believe that Cosimo was vindictive; he wouldn’t simply abandon her at Bordeaux. He would help her find passage home.

On deck, Cosimo did something he now very rarely did. He jumped into the ratlines and climbed steadily upwards to the platform halfway up the mainmast. It was an insecure perch at the best of times but he balanced easily, leaning against the mast at his back, watching his men on the precarious footropes hanging over the deck as they worked the sails. No one paid him any attention, which was as it should be. One instant of inattention could mean death at that height. He enjoyed the cleanliness of the salt air, the swaying of the mast so high above the deck. It gave him detachment and he needed detachment to dig below the surface of Meg’s abrupt change of heart. What was behind it?

What exactly was she saying?

Not for one minute did he believe that flummery about being a weak and feeble woman who’d bitten off more than she could chew in a fit of,
oh, such understandable female confusion and uncontrolled impulse.

Meg knew exactly what she was doing and had known so all along. So what, that he didn’t know about, had happened last night to cause her to put on this farce?

And, as much to the point, how was whatever it was going to affect his plans? The difficulties of counting on her absolute compliance aside, what if she found the whole idea of the mission anathema? Cosimo believed in his own powers of persuasion, particularly when it was a woman he had to persuade. He’d never been given any reason to doubt that power, until now. It was a sobering reflection. At some point the sexual attraction he possessed was going to wear thin, and then what weapons would he have in his arsenal? He laughed with self-mockery. At some point he’d slow down in other areas too. His knife hand would not be so fast, his memory would slip occasionally, his timing would be off kilter, and he would die.

But not yet. He was at the top of his game. This mission was the most important of his professional life and he could not fail. And Meg Barratt was an essential tool.

He climbed down the ratlines to the deck, where his lieutenants pretended they weren’t curious about his ascent. “You should keep in practice too,” he said. “Both of you.”

They took it as the order it was and went up. Cosimo watched them, hands on his hips. “Good lads,” Mike observed from the helm behind him.

“Aye, but they’ve a lot to learn,” his captain said. “Frank in particular. He still doesn’t understand where his hands are supposed to be.”

“He’ll get it in the end, sir.”

“His mother will kill me if he doesn’t,” Cosimo remarked a trifle gloomily. “I’ll be below. Call me when we’re off St. Nazaire; we may encounter French shipping in the area.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cosimo paused outside his cabin, then, once again dispensing with his customary preliminary knock, opened the door. At first he thought the cabin was empty, and then Gus swooped onto his shoulder with an informative “G’night.”

Meg was asleep on the bed, the cover tangled around her knees, her head pillowed on her hand. Cosimo disentangled the cover and drew it up to her shoulders. She didn’t move, but he knew it was no feigned sleep. A pile of paper lay on the table and he went over, lifting the top sheet, which was blank. He caught sight of his name and immediately dropped the covering sheet into place. Maybe the clue to this mysterious behavior of Meg’s lay in that letter but nothing could make him read it. Which was interesting, since he spent most of his life decoding private correspondence and burrowing for other people’s secrets.

Cosimo glanced again at the bed. It would seem he’d developed a conscience, an ordinary human reluctance to pry into someone else’s secrets. Or at least, as far as Meg was concerned. And just how had that happened? He picked up the top sheet again, determined to read her letter, and then he let it fall. It couldn’t be done. Meg had to tell him herself.

He left her sleeping. If her nightmares at least had been real, then she probably needed a dreamless nap.

The naval sloop appeared on the horizon in late afternoon. She flew his majesty’s colors boldly and Cosimo sent Frank to act as signalman with the flags from the port bow.

“They say they’re heading for La Rochelle, sir,” Frank said excitedly.

“Mmm,” returned his uncle, who could read the signals at least as well as his nephew. If the British navy was making for La Rochelle, that meant that one of the fleets of the French navy was preparing to leave the harbor. His own landing point was two miles to the south of the harbor, but if there was going to be a heavy naval engagement, then he would be expected to offer support. But he couldn’t afford the time. He had to get to Toulon before Napoleon left.

“Is that a British ship?”

Meg’s voice startled him, he’d heard it only in his head for most of the day. He glanced over at her as she stood at the rail beside him. “I believe so.”

“Will they give me passage?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I suspect they’re on course to join the fleet going to Egypt.” He glanced at her. “Would you like to go to Egypt, Miss Meg?”

So they’d retreated to the old sardonic familiarity, and Meg could only be glad of it. It signaled a respite, an acceptance of her earlier statement. She shot him a withering look and ignored the question.

“Did you enjoy your nap . . . no nightmares?” he inquired pleasantly enough.

“None that haunt me. Will you hail that ship?”

“If you wish it. And how would you like to explain to the commander your presence on the
Mary Rose
?” Once again the question sounded pleasant but Meg wasn’t fooled.

It was an awkward question. She’d shied away from meeting the commanders of the frigates at Sark partly because of the possibility of scandal, and now she had to come up with a plausible explanation for her presence on a privateer in the middle of the Bay of Biscay. But she could give a false identity at least. That would be some protection.

“My name is Gertrude Myers and I’d been going for a pleasure sail with friends and we were shipwrecked just off Sark. A fisherman rescued me from the sea and took me ashore, where you found me, and being an upstanding English gentleman, you immediately offered your protection and assistance in returning me home,” she said.

Cosimo gave an appreciative whistle. “What a fertile imagination you have,” he said. “But I doubt there are too many pleasure sailors in the Channel at the moment.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Meg stated flatly. “It will serve. I’d like you to signal them, please.”

“Very well.” He beckoned to Frank. “Ask them to heave to.”

“Aye, sir.” Frank went to work with his flags. “They want to know why, sir,” he called back after a minute. “They’re in a hurry.”

Cosimo glanced at Meg, one eyebrow raised. “Are you certain you’re willing to interrupt the urgent mission of a ship of the line in wartime?”

Meg turned away and went below. She knew she couldn’t do that simply to get out of a predicament of her own making.

Cosimo waited until she’d disappeared down the steps to the mid-deck and then said to Frank, “Signal that we’re under orders to sail for Bordeaux.” That should be enough information to ensure that the commander wouldn’t expect the
Mary Rose
to join them in their present enterprise.

“They say
bon voyage,
sir,” Frank called out, but his captain had already read the signal and had turned away.

In the cabin, Meg sat on the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chest, and watched the great vessel sail with serene implacability into the now setting sun. She realized now that it was foolish to expect salvation from a naval ship. They would all be engaged in the vital pursuit of war. The chances of running up against a vessel that was returning to England were remote, and only such a ship would agree to take on a passenger.

A heavy sigh escaped her. She would have to resign herself to going all the way to Bordeaux, where she would have to find a commercial vessel. There would surely be one. There
had
to be one. Bordeaux was one of the great trading posts, even in wartime.

She wished she didn’t feel so low. It was unlike her to get depressed about anything, but nothing seemed right, not even her decision to abandon the privateer and his ship. It was an instinctive decision, a need to run away from a situation she couldn’t control. The problem was that deep down she didn’t want to leave the
Mary Rose
. She wasn’t ready to give up this passionate liaison with a man whose simple presence, let alone his touch, thrilled her to her core. And she wasn’t ready to give up the exhilaration she had felt at being part of an adventure.

But her revulsion at that cold-blooded killing on the cliff top cast such a shadow over her soul that she couldn’t see how she could possibly forget it sufficiently to continue with the idyll as if nothing had happened. Her own integrity would be compromised by condoning Cosimo’s actions. Oh, it sounded pretentious and self-important, but it was true. Every fiber of her moral being was assaulted by the images of those crumpled bodies . . . images she couldn’t imagine forgetting.

So there was nothing for it. She had to leave at the first opportunity.

Chapter   14

M
eg stayed below as evening gave way to night. Biggins brought her supper and she ate with desultory appetite, wondering where Cosimo was having his supper. The weather had changed again and a damp drizzle was falling, so she assumed he was not eating on the quarterdeck. Perhaps he and Gus were supping with David in the surgeon’s cabin. She would have welcomed Gus’s company; keeping herself to herself was a lonely business.

Meg pushed her half-empty plate away and rose from the table. The cabin felt suddenly stuffy and confined and she realized she’d had no exercise all day. She wrapped herself in the thick cloak and left the cabin. Immediately she was struck by an eerie silence and complete darkness. Usually there were voices from on deck or from the galley down the corridor. Always there were the sounds of feet on the decks above as sailors went about the business of sailing the ship. But she could hear nothing except the creak of timbers and the slap of water against the hull. It was as if she were on a ghost ship. And why was it so dark?

Intrigued and a little alarmed, she felt her way to the companionway. And then realized why it was dark. The hatch above was closed so that not even the faintest of star or moonlight penetrated. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sudden fear of being entombed. Why had she been left down here on her own without a word of explanation?

She had of course insisted that she be left alone. Cosimo was taking her at her word, but he was taking it rather too far. She set foot on the stairs and reached up above her head to see if she could push open the hatch. It didn’t move. She had seen them latch it closed in a storm, when the wind was really strong and the waves were sloshing across the decks, but there was no storm tonight. It was damp and inclement, certainly, but she’d never seen the hatches battened down for something as mild as a little rain.

Experimentally Meg knocked on the hatch and tried to push it up again. When nothing happened she knocked again, louder this time. And this time had results. The hatch was partially raised and the white face of Frank Fisher showed in the space. He mouthed a
hush
with an air of frantic urgency and Meg froze on the step. Then she tiptoed upwards and Frank lifted the hatch and held it open so that she could crawl out onto the deck.

She found herself in a world of gray wet fog, strands of it coiling around the mast and the deck rail. The silence was almost total, just the slap of waves against the hull. There was almost no wind and she could just make out the single foresail under which the
Mary Rose
sailed. As her eyes grew accustomed to the strange gray light, she made out the figures of men standing immobile against the rail and she could just see Cosimo at the helm, with Mike, as usual beside him. It was a ghost ship, she thought fancifully, manned by these still, silent figures.

Frank had his finger pressed urgently to his lips and she nodded her comprehension. She tiptoed across the mid-deck and up the steps to the quarterdeck. Heads turned towards her and she felt guilty that she was moving at all, but she was sure her feet made no sound as she crept across to the helm.

Cosimo was gazing into the wreathing fog ahead, his hands making minute adjustments to the wheel. He took his hand away from the helm for an instant and pressed his fingertips against Meg’s mouth. As if she needed yet another warning, she reflected. It would have been an acid reflection except that it was very clear something very serious was going on.

She moved her head aside and he returned his hand to the wheel. The
Mary Rose
sailed onwards and then Meg heard voices coming out of the fog. She looked at Cosimo, a startled question in her eyes. His shoulders had tensed, but his hands on the wheel showed no strain. A tiny smile tilted the corners of his mouth and it was one Meg recognized. It was that Mephistophelean smile that indicated pure, wicked, gleeful triumph.

She strained to hear the voices and realized with an initial clutch of alarm that they were speaking French. She couldn’t at first see where the voices were coming from and then just made out the dark shape of a ship about fifty yards away. And still the
Mary Rose
kept to her course, sliding over the smooth water under the faint breath of wind in her single sail.

And then a voice hailed them, booming out of the fog, and she guessed they were using a megaphone. It was a cheerful hail, the comment slightly ribald, the request for identification a mere formality. Not an eyelid twitched, not a muscle flickered as Cosimo called back in impeccable French.
“Bonsoir, copains. Nous sommes
l’Artemis,
en route à Belle Isle.”

Meg looked towards the bows and saw that the
Mary Rose
was flying the tricolor. It seemed she’d been missing a fair degree of excitement skulking in the cabin. All her earlier pleasure in the adventure returned in full measure. There was nothing hole-in-the-corner, knives-in-the-darkness about this. They were in the middle of the enemy, practicing a monumental deception. And it thrilled her. Her eyes were shining as she listened to the French response. A casual
Bon voyage.

Cosimo glanced at her and saw the sparkle in the lively green eyes. So all was not lost, he thought, his quiet smile deepening. He had not been mistaken, and Meg had most definitely been spinning a tale with her feeble-little-woman act. He could sense the energy coursing through her as powerfully as when they made love, and he had always believed that the vibrant pulse of danger was closely linked to the pulse of sexual passion. Once they were out of danger here, he would get to the bottom of whatever had caused her volte-face.

He took her arm and drew her in front of him so that she was facing the helm. In silence he put her hands on the wheel. She gave him one startled glance over her shoulder and then closed her fingers tightly over the smooth wood, feeling the ship beneath her feet. She watched the foresail, and when it fluttered, Cosimo put his hands over hers and adjusted the helm. After that had happened twice, she brushed his hand away the third time and made the adjustment herself. It was a little too far to port and the sail flapped. She swiftly brought it back again and the sail filled. His body was hard at her back, a strong reassuring presence, but Meg felt her own power in the way the
Mary Rose
responded to her hands. It was a heady power and in other circumstances she would have laughed with the sheer exuberance of it, but she was all too aware of the danger that lay around them, sinister dark shapes in the coiling gray fog.

And then the helm spun beneath her hands and she tensed her shoulders, forcing it back, but Cosimo had his hands on it now and she ducked beneath his arm and stood beside him once more. The fog was lifting as the wind got up and the foresail bellied. Cosimo gave no orders but his men needed none. The were scrambling up the ratlines, inching out on the footropes to hoist the mainsail.

The
Mary Rose
sailed out of the fog and into a clear starlit night without a ship in sight.

“What happened?” Meg asked, and then she looked behind her and saw a gray wall and understood. The fog hadn’t lifted, they had simply sailed out of it.

“That’s a notorious stretch of water for fog,” Cosimo informed her. “It was ill luck that we happened to hit it at the same moment as a French convoy.”

Meg shook her head in amused denial. “You enjoyed every minute of it, Cosimo.”

He laughed softly. “I suppose I did. The idea of slipping through an entire enemy convoy of men-of-war without their being aware has its funny side.”

For a moment it was as if their estrangement had never occurred.

“Take the helm, Mike. Hold steady on this course. With luck the trouble for the moment is behind us.” Cosimo stepped away from the helm. He took Meg’s elbow. “Let’s go below.”

Meg acquiesced. She had no idea how this situation would resolve itself, but she did know that somehow it had to. There had to be some way to maintain her own moral compass without giving up this adventure entirely. It would be so much simpler to sail back to England on the
Mary Rose
, according to the privateer’s original plan. Pragmatic considerations in this case had to take precedence. She couldn’t hang around the docks at Bordeaux trying to buy herself passage on a trading ship. It wasn’t feasible and she knew it . . . had known it all along.

She didn’t know why Cosimo had acted as he had on the cliff top. She’d just seen him steer his ship through an enemy convoy unscathed, and maybe she had to accept that this man was a warrior, fighting a war with unconventional weapons. If she could accept that, then she could manage to stay aboard his ship until they docked in Folkestone. And if making love with the privateer was necessary, then she would see it as payment for her passage.

She’d always wondered what it would feel like to be a whore. The caustic reflection was so far off course that she couldn’t help smiling. The fact was quite simple. She was no more ready to give up this passionate adventure than she was to hazard her chances on the docks at Bordeaux. It was a happy concatenation of pragmatics and desire.

Cosimo paused at the cabin door. “I could do with cognac.” He went off down the corridor towards the galley.

Meg went into the cabin, shrugged out of her cloak, and sat on the window seat. There was still no sign of Gus, which puzzled her. “Where’s Gus?” she asked as Cosimo returned with a flask and glasses.

“Below in the sick bay with David. He hasn’t understood the necessity for silence in certain conditions, and he speaks no French.”

Meg laughed and took the glass he offered her. “Why didn’t you tell me I was going to be battened down?”

“You’d made it fairly clear you wished to be left alone.” He perched on the corner of the table and sipped his cognac. “And now I’d like you to explain to me why that was.”

Meg swirled the golden liquid in her glass and watched the amber lights dance. What did she have to lose? She had no real choice but to stay on Cosimo’s ship until they returned to Folkestone. If he was angry that she’d followed him and seen what she’d seen, so be it. Maybe he’d give her an explanation that would help redirect her moral compass.

Dear God, she was more of a hypocrite than she’d known. Bella would laugh her out of court.

“Why did you kill those men?” She kept her eyes on the contents of her glass.

Cosimo looked astonished. “What men?”

“The Frenchmen on the cliff top by the ruined building. They were just talking together and you came up behind them and killed them.”

“I see.” He pulled at his chin. “So you followed me again?”

“Yes.”

It seemed Miss Barratt was incorrigible. He inhaled and blew out breath in a noisy exhale. “I’d like you to come here.”

Meg frowned, hesitating. There didn’t appear to be anything threatening in his tone or his posture. She got up and came over to him.

He stood up and said, “Turn around, please.”

Meg did so. She felt his hand on her neck, then a slight pressure just in front of her ear. “If I press here, you will lose consciousness,” he said in the level informative tone of a man giving a lecture to students. “Can you feel it?” He pressed harder.

Meg swallowed. Something strange was happening to her vision. “Stop it.” Instantly the pressure was released.

“It’s a very effective method of rendering an enemy
hors de combat,
” he continued in the same tone. “Quite silent, and it leaves no marks. When the subject awakes he has no idea what happened to him.”

“But you had a knife?” She turned slowly to face him, bewilderment in her eyes.

“Of course.” It was a matter-of-fact statement. “I don’t risk failure, my dear.”

“So you didn’t kill them?” she murmured.

“No. But they had killed two men, my friends, as they lay asleep. They slaughtered ten pigeons, took potshots at them while they were caged. You tell me, Meg, whether they deserved my mercy.” And now an unpleasant note of derision had entered his voice and she thought that he was challenging her with the realities of this dirty world, this even dirtier war that he fought.

“But you didn’t kill them,” she repeated quietly.

“I don’t kill for pleasure.”

It was with an effort that she kept herself from looking at the locked drawer that held the array of knives. He must never know of that prying.

“So that was behind all this nonsense,” he mused. “Well, I have to tell you, my dear, it won’t wash. I watched you with the wheel, Meg, and you showed not a quiver of anxiety. So could we agree that you don’t try to persuade me that you’re some weak and feeble member of your sex who couldn’t say boo to a goose? If you have concerns, then do me the courtesy of confronting me with them.”

There was nothing unreasonable in that. Meg said, “Agreed.”

“Good. And could it also be agreed that when I strongly suggest that you do something . . . stay somewhere . . . that you will give it your every consideration?” His eyebrows flickered, his query was lightly put, but Meg was in no doubt as to its gravity.

“Have no fear, Cosimo. I’ll be staying well clear of any of your extracurricular activities between here and Folkestone,” she said with heartfelt conviction. “I’m here only for my passage home, and any extra benefits that passage might afford, of course.” She came up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Do you have any requests, sir?”