Almost a Lady (6 page)

Biggins reappeared with the youngster who’d helped with breakfast that morning. “Captain says he’ll be dining on deck in two hours when we drops anchor, ma’am,” Biggins said, while gesturing with an impatient hand that the boy should take the jugs into the head. “Looks like it’ll be a nice evening so he’d like to know if you’ll be joining him, or dining in the cabin, ma’am.”

Hadn’t she already decided that her hair would dry better in the evening air? “Please tell the captain that I’d like to join him on deck.”

“Right y’are, ma’am.” Biggins clicked his fingers at his companion, who backed out of the tiny space with the empty jugs. “We’ll be back in a couple of minutes, ma’am, with more hot water.”

Ten minutes later Meg was wallowing in the shallow tub of hot water, while Gus sat companionably in the doorway, keeping up a mindless series of phrases that thankfully appeared to need no response.

Chapter   4

M
eg found it difficult to keep her footing as she dried herself after her bath. The
Mary Rose
was skipping over the water under a stiff breeze and the sky beyond the cabin windows was darkening. Wrapped in the towel, her hair in a towel turban, she knelt on the window cushion and looked out. The sea had lost its sparkle and was now the color of pewter, the rolling waves tinged pink by the setting sun. She could see land more clearly now. A small rocky outcrop surmounted by green hills. It looked deserted from this distance.

Cosimo’s now familiar knock came at the door. “Just a minute,” she called, jumping off the cushion. The towel was no substitute for a dressing gown or even a nightgown.

“Forgive me, I thought you’d be finished with your bath by now,” he said through the door and Meg could hear the exasperating lilt of amusement in his voice.

She dropped the damp towel in the middle of the floor and yanked open the clothes cupboard. She grabbed the hooded cloak and wrapped it securely around herself. “All right,” she said somewhat grudgingly.

Cosimo came in. His eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s the most eccentric costume. A turban and a cloak? Is it some new fashion that’s passed me by?”

She glared at him. “You didn’t give me time to dress properly.” She pulled the towel from her head and shook out her hair.

“Why didn’t you say?” He bent and picked up the larger discarded towel from the floor.

“I assumed you had urgent business in
your
cabin,” she said, waving vaguely in the direction of the charts. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait,” he said, tossing the towel into the head. “Actually I merely came to fetch a cloak. It’s turning chilly up there. You’ll need one and something on your feet when you come up.” He was opening another cupboard as he spoke. He pulled out a cloak of serviceable dark wool and slung it around his shoulders.

Meg had resumed her seat in the window, hugging her own garment tightly to her. She could find nothing to amuse her in this uncomfortable situation, but Cosimo clearly derived some pleasure out of it. The sooner she got off this ship, the better, she reflected crossly. And then the question reared its head oddly enough for the first time. Where was he going to sleep?

“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked involuntarily.

“When . . . tonight . . . ?” He seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “In here, of course.”

In silence Meg looked at the narrow box-bed and then back at him.

“It is a little narrow for two,” he said. “Unless of course one is particularly fond of cuddling.” When she remained silent he said with a chuckle, “You need have no fear for your virtue, Miss Meg. I’ll sling a hammock.” He pointed to two hooks in the ceiling that she had noticed and wondered about. Then, whistling softly to himself, he left the cabin.

Meg felt she hadn’t come too well out of that encounter. In fact, she was beginning to realize that Captain Cosimo was playing with her. He seemed to enjoy teasing her, trying to discomfit her, throw her off balance. Was it simply because she’d annoyed him earlier by refusing to respond to his friendly overtures? If so, she wouldn’t really blame him. She’d probably have felt the same herself even though she’d have castigated herself for pettiness. But she didn’t think it was that. He didn’t strike her as a character who would indulge in pettiness. So what
was
his game?

Well, she wouldn’t find out sitting here hugging herself in a cloak. She went to the clothes cupboard again and examined its contents once more. The bronze she had worn earlier would do fine, but she’d just bathed and clean clothes seemed in order. She lifted out a sage green silk gown that seemed more formal than the others. Silver lace edged the three-quarter-length sleeves and a similar band decorated the narrow hem. She’d intended to find something that would allow her to fade into the background but something perverse prodded her to make more of an effort. She laid the gown over a chair and fetched clean linen and a pair of thin woolen stockings.

In fifteen minutes she was dressed. The only mirror was a small round glass set into the wall at the right height for shaving. Even to see her face she had to stand on tiptoe. Her hair was almost dry and she used a comb lying on the shelf below the mirror to bring the curls into some kind of order. The gown, like the one she’d worn earlier, felt a little big, but the addition of the leather buttoned boots gave her a little more height. The color suited her, it was one she often wore, so she would assume that her appearance was more than presentable.

Now, why that should matter was something else altogether. A loud clanging and scraping as of a huge chain being unraveled interrupted her reverie. She spun round from the mirror and ran to the window. The
Mary Rose
appeared to have stopped. The sound of running feet, shouted orders, and the squeak of bolts and halyards came from overhead.

“In port . . . in port . . .” Gus announced, hopping to the door. “G’bye . . . g’bye.”

So they’d dropped anchor. That would explain the noise and the bustle. And the macaw was now ready to leave the cabin. Well, Meg was ready too.

She slung the cloak around her shoulders and opened the door and Gus flew up to her shoulder and playfully pecked at her earlobe. “You do me too much honor,” she declared, but she was rather pleased nevertheless at this clear indication of the bird’s acceptance.

She climbed the companionway and emerged on deck, where the last bustle of furling sails and dropping anchor was almost finished. The light was fading fast now and the evening star shone low in the sky, a three-quarter moon climbing just over the horizon. She stayed at the top of the companionway, unwilling to thread her way to the quarterdeck until it was clear all activity on deck had ceased. Gus showed no such restraint. He took off from her shoulder and swooped towards the lowered boom. He walked along it as delicately as if it were a balance beam and then swooped down onto the quarterdeck.

Meg could see Cosimo at the helm, directing operations in a calm but carrying voice. His cloak hung loosely from his shoulders as he stood braced on the deck, and the evening breeze ruffled the long auburn hair that curled loosely around his ears and flopped over his forehead. There was something almost raffish about him, she thought. An air of careless competence that she knew in her heart of hearts could be her downfall.

His assessing gaze swept his little floating empire and then fell upon Meg in the companionway. He raised a hand in greeting and then gestured imperatively that she should come to him.

Meg obeyed the gesture and climbed up to the quarterdeck.

“Come over here,” he called softly. She stepped up beside him at the wheel. He called to the fresh-faced young officer, “Mr. Fisher, summon all hands, if you please.”

“Aye, Captain.” The young man left his position at the stern rail where he was directing the stowing of the mizzen topsail and came to the front of the quarterdeck. He took a whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill piercing note.

Men poured onto the mid-deck in a jostling yet orderly throng. They fell silent looking up at their captain and the rest of the little group on the quarterdeck. It was a curious rather than an anxious silence, Meg felt. And there was a touch of anticipation in the air as if they were waiting to hear something that would please them.

Cosimo spoke in what seemed like his ordinary voice but the words carried easily. “Gentlemen, as you know we’re waiting to make harbor on Sark. We shall be there a day or two. Miss Barratt will be our guest.” He put a hand on Meg’s shoulder and drew her in front of him. “You will, I know, do her every courtesy. Any questions? Yes, Bosun.” He pointed at a thickset man with a deeply lined face and a thick crop of iron gray hair.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, but where will we be going after Sark?” A faint stir among the men greeted the question and their air of anticipation grew sharper.

Cosimo laughed, the easy laugh of a man among trusted companions. “My friends, you will know that when I do.”

A knowing chuckle greeted this and many of them shook their heads in resignation. The bosun grinned. “Didn’t expect nothin’ else, sir.”

“No, I don’t expect you did,” Cosimo agreed. “We sail with the dawn tide, until then stand down. We’ve meat aplenty for a decent dinner, and a hogshead of ale.”

A cheer went up, and a couple of caps waved in the air. Cosimo raised a hand in dismissal and turned to Mr. Fisher, who stood ready with another young man who could almost be his twin, Meg thought. The same pink cheeks, still with a hint of puppy fat, the same wide mouth and the same brown eyes. Cosimo said, “Post a crow’s nest watch, Mr. Fisher. Let’s not forget we’re in French waters. And Mr. Graves, check the navigation chart and plot me a course that will take us through those rocks and not onto them.”

“Aye, sir.” It was said in unison.

Cosimo smiled, “Miss Barratt, allow me to introduce my lieutenants. Mr. Fisher and Mr. Graves.”

The two young men bowed. “Pleasure to have you aboard, ma’am,” Mr. Fisher said.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” his companion agreed. “Yours to command, ma’am.”

“Why, thank you . . . thank you both,” Meg said with a warm smile of her own. “I will endeavor not to get in your way.”

Both young men blushed scarlet and were rendered mute. Cosimo rescued them with a wave of dismissal and they backed away.

When they were out of earshot, Meg asked, half amused, half disapproving, “Shouldn’t they still be in school?”

“They are,” Cosimo said easily. “The sea is both their school and their tutor. But they’re older than they look. Just not very experienced in the ways of the world outside this one.”

“They could be brothers.”

“In fact they’re cousins.” He moved away from the wheel as the helmsman came up. “Lash it well, Mike. There’s a touch of mischief in the wind.”

“Aye, thought so meself, sir,” the man said, giving Meg a small nod. It seemed that now she’d been officially introduced, she could be noticed properly. She responded with a friendly nod of her own.

“Let’s watch the moonrise,” Cosimo invited, steering her towards the stern rail. Meg was aware of a bustle of activity behind her as she rested her forearms on the rail and gazed out over the water. A thin river of silver flowed over the surface as the moon rose.

“How do two nearly identical cousins come to be working on the same ship?” she inquired casually, enjoying the feel of the breeze rustling through her wonderfully clean hair.

“Families often do. You’ll find brothers on the same frigates and men-of-war all through the navy. The sea runs in the blood.”

Meg turned to look at him. “But this is not a naval ship. I suspect it’s a privateer, Captain Cosimo. Why would a family entrust their young men to a ship that has little if any legitimacy on the high seas?”

He chuckled. “Are you talking of the ship or of its captain, ma’am?”

“Its captain, of course.”

“Then there, my dear, you have your answer.” He said nothing more, merely gazed out towards the invisible horizon.

Meg contemplated this. He was, of course, telling her that he was the reason the families of his lieutenants had entrusted their scions to his ship. “Are they related to you in some way?” she asked.

He turned his head lazily and regarded her with an unsettling gleam in his eye. “You are very inquisitive, Miss Meg.”

“Why would it be a secret?” She raised her eyebrows and returned his look with a slightly sardonic air.

“It’s not. They’re the sons of my sisters. Tell me how else I may satisfy your curiosity.”

“Are they older or younger than you? Your sisters, I mean.”

“They’re twins, and they’re four years younger than I am.”

Meg nodded. That would explain the cousins’ physical resemblance. “So how old are your sisters?”

“I think you mean how old am I,” he observed, that gleam intensifying. “It seems I interest you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said acidly. “I’m merely trying to find out what kind of man has me imprisoned on his privateer. Purely in the interests of self-defense, you understand.”

“Tell me honestly, Meg, have you felt threatened even for a second on my ship?”

Honestly obliged her to say no. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that I’m here against my will and you refused to take me back once the mistake was realized,” she added.

Cosimo drummed his fingers against the rail in what could only be called impatience. “If it had been possible, I would have taken you straight back. But it wasn’t, as I’ve explained, so can we have done with it, please.”

Meg inhaled sharply at the asperity in his tone. She had been singing the same song, she knew, but it didn’t alter its truth or its relevance to her situation. She was silent and after a minute Cosimo said in a placatory tone, “My sisters are thirty-three.”

Well, that was a droplet of information. “How old are the cousins?”

“Seventeen.”

Meg reflected that she had just celebrated her twenty-ninth birthday and Cosimo’s sisters, only four years older, had seventeen-year-old sons. She found it an unsettling thought although she hadn’t considered herself anxious to be married or even particularly maternal. She was on the shelf and content to be so.
Or was she?