Almost a Lady (7 page)

Well, that was a question that might at some point require some soul-searching, but not at present. Her gaze fixed on Cosimo’s hands as they rested lightly on the deck rail. They were very brown and strong looking, the nails unmanicured, the knuckles rather knobbly. His fingers were long and his wrists surprisingly slender and supple. Their strength was taken for granted. Any man who could handle that great helm in the gale-force wind that had blown last night must have extraordinary strength in his hands, arms, and shoulders. Involuntarily her gaze ran up his body. He wore the cloak draped carelessly around his shoulders and the breadth of those shoulders was obvious to the most casual examination. She remembered her earlier covert scrutiny when he’d changed his shirt in the cabin, how she’d been so powerfully aware of the ripple of muscles along his back and in his arms.

Oh, dear. This was not at all helpful, she thought, searching for a neutral topic that would give her some distance from the disturbing proximity of his body. “What part of England are you from?”

He turned his back to the rail and leaned against it, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were narrowed and Meg had the absolute conviction that he’d been aware of every instant of her examination and her conclusions. “Dorset,” he said. “How about you, Miss Meg?”

“Oh, please don’t call me that,” she begged. “I hate it so.”

“Then let’s have a pact. If you never call me Captain Cosimo again, I will never call you Miss Meg. How’s that for a bargain.”

“A good one,” she said, responding willy-nilly to his smile. “And I come from Kent.”

He nodded, and the smile was still in his eyes as he said, “Now I’m a little stuck for a roundabout way to elicit the personal information you twisted out of me.”

“Let me save you the trouble. I am twenty-nine,” Meg responded readily. “I don’t subscribe to the school of thought that women should never reveal their ages.”

“No,” he said appreciatively. “I don’t imagine you do.” He had a slightly questioning look in his eye as he continued to look at her. Meg Barratt was a most unusual woman. Oddly attractive although not by any conventional standards;
jolie-laide,
as the French would say. But while the surface appeal interested him, he was intrigued by whatever lay beneath.

So far he’d seen intelligence and wit. A strong composure as David Porter had noted. She was stubborn and very strong-willed, she’d shown him that much. And she appeared to have adapted to her situation readily if not willingly. What would Ana think of her?

A shadow crossed his face. Ana was a good judge of character, and an expert when it came to assessing the necessary skills for the work she herself did.

“Is something the matter?” Meg asked, chilled by the sudden change in his expression.

He shook his head, saying curtly, “No, nothing at all.” He turned back to the rail and gazed out at the silver path of moonlight rippling on the black water. Ana was also expert at looking after herself, he told himself. She had been trained to withstand interrogation, to use information to her own advantage when under duress. He would hold on to that. And in the meantime, concentrate on the woman he had.

When he spoke again his voice was once more light and humorous and the shadows had left his eyes. “So, permit me another personal question, Meg. You talked of your parents, of your friends, but is there no one else who would be concerned by your absence?”

“A man, you mean?” She gave a slightly self-mocking laugh.

“You wear no rings.”

She looked at her bare hands. “No. So, no husband. A correct deduction, sir.”

“A fiancé?”

She shook her head. “No fiancé.”

“A lover?”

“This grows
very
personal, sir.”

“My apologies, ma’am, if it’s
too
personal.”

At that she laughed. “I have no secrets . . . and at present no lover.”

“Ah.” He absorbed this, most particularly the
at present.
It seemed to imply that Meg Barratt was something of a woman of the world. And that would certainly fit with what he’d observed thus far of her personality.

A cough came from behind them and they both turned. Biggins said, “Supper’s ready, Cap’n.”

“Thank you.” Cosimo offered his arm to Meg. “Allow me to escort you to the table, ma’am.”

It was absurd but she entered the game willingly enough. The quarterdeck had been transformed. Oil lamps hung from the yards, throwing a soft golden glow over a table laid with a checkered cloth, silverware, and glass. A wonderful rich aroma rose from a covered stewpot in the middle of the table. Meg realized she was famished. The sea air, she presumed.

The table was set for two and as she took the chair Cosimo formally drew out for her, she said, “What about your nephews and the doctor? Will they not be joining us?”

“The boys have work to do and they’ll mess with the men, it’s good for morale,” he said, taking his own seat opposite. “David has a permanent invitation at my table, but he rarely accepts it. He has a fondness for his books and his own company when at leisure.”

“I see.” She shook out her napkin and lifted her face to the night sky, now a mass of stars with the three-quarter moon throwing its light across the water. “What a glorious night.” There was enough of a breeze for her to be glad of her cloak over her shoulders, but not enough to need to wrap herself up in it. Gus came to land on the deck rail beside the table, cocked his head intelligently, and uttered something that sounded remarkably like agreement.

“Nights at sea usually are beautiful,” Cosimo observed, ladling stew into her bowl.

He passed her a loaf of bread and she took it and broke into it hungrily. It was still warm. How did they bake bread on the open sea? She didn’t need to know the answer. There was a crock of golden butter that melted into the wheaten bread and the mingled scents were enough to make her light-headed.

Cosimo poured wine and for a while they ate and drank in a silence that gradually, insidiously became charged. When he reached over to refill her glass his hand brushed hers and it happened as she had known all along that it would. A current of arousal crackled between them, jolting her belly and making her toes curl. It was not an unfamiliar sensation but always before she had been in control of the situation, had been able to play it according to her rules. With the exception of the gondolier, she amended. That had been way beyond her control and she hadn’t really understood what was happening.

But this was different. She knew perfectly well what was happening, knew that Cosimo knew it too. And she was not in control of any part of this situation. Well, that was not entirely true, she reminded herself. She could control her own body. Not her reactions, her lust, her arousal, but what she did about them. The question quite simply was:
what did she want to do?

He leaned over and brushed an errant curl from her forehead. “I was afraid of that,” he said.

It made it worse that he made no attempt to pretend he didn’t notice that charge of lust or to deny it. It was very ungentlemanly of him, Meg decided, but even as she thought that, she couldn’t help a soft laugh at her own hypocrisy. She didn’t fall into lust with
gentlemen
. Never had, and she suspected never would.

“Why afraid?” she demanded.

He leaned back in his chair again and cupped his wineglass between his hands. “Wrong choice of word, perhaps.”

Meg twirled the stem of her wineglass. “Maybe not,” she said. “I suppose it could almost be inevitable when two people are thrown together in these unpredictable circumstances.”

He shook his head with a soft laugh. “No, far from inevitable, ma’am, and you know it. Such sparks are few and far between in my experience.”

Meg pursed her lips a little. “I’m always attracted to unsuitable men,” she confessed.

At that he laughed outright. “And I’m unsuitable of course.”

Gus produced a near perfect imitation of the captain’s laughter and hopped onto the table.

“I’ve never met anyone more so, and I’ve met my share,” Meg responded, absently giving the macaw a crust of bread as she continued, “You’re a privateer who goes by one name only. You’re on some kind of secret mission of such urgency that you couldn’t put right a mistake that you called potentially disastrous. Your men don’t even know where they’re sailing to after Sark. David Porter said no one ever knows where they’re going when they’re with you, or why they’re going there. I’m beginning to wonder if even you know these things.” There was distinct challenge in her voice and eyes.

“All that is true,” he replied calmly. “Except for the part about my not knowing
why
. Believe me, I know my mission.”

Meg looked at him sharply and she glimpsed again that hard cool core beneath the careless, raffish manner. Cosimo knew exactly what he was doing and he had absolute confidence in his ability to succeed. She took a sip of wine.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman quite like you,” Cosimo observed. “You certainly appear to be a lady of impeccable breeding, but I can’t help feeling that appearances in your case are deceptive.”

Meg’s lips twitched into a grin. He was, of course, absolutely correct. She was no more a lady, as society understood the term, than Cosimo was a gentleman. “My parents wouldn’t care to believe that,” she said. “My breeding is certainly impeccable.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and then turned as Biggins’s step sounded on the deck behind them. “There’s rhubarb pie, sir, if you and the lady wish for it.” He set a brown-crusted pie on the table.

“Lovely,” Meg said enthusiastically.

“Lovely,” declared Gus, examining the pie with a beady eye.

Biggins cleared away the stew bowls and left. Cosimo sliced the pie and placed a large piece on a plate for Meg.

“You’re so skinny I can’t imagine where you put it all,” he commented, handing her the plate.

Meg realized she’d had two laden bowls of stew, most of the loaf of bread, and was now about to eat close to half of a rhubarb pie. “I seem to be particularly hungry this evening,” she stated a mite defensively. “I’m not usually greedy.”

“I didn’t say you were greedy,” he protested solemnly. “Merely blessed with a substantial appetite.” He took a forkful of pie.

He had barely carried it to his lips before a shout came from somewhere above them. “Sail on the port bow.”

Cosimo set down his fork very calmly, murmured, “Excuse me,” and pushed back his chair. He took up the telescope and went across to the port rail. In the silvery light of stars and moon, he could just make out the white shape on the horizon and then the dark bulk of a frigate looming against the night’s shadows. He had to assume that the
Mary Rose
had been visible to the frigate for no more than a few minutes.

Mr. Fisher came running up. “French or English, sir?” he asked breathlessly.

“I can’t tell yet,” the captain said, in a tone that held a hint of reproof. “Lower our flag and pennant.” If he couldn’t yet read the frigate’s colors, it was reasonable to hope that they hadn’t yet identified the sloop.

“Aye, sir.” The young man ran off with an air of what could only be described as excitement. He blew a series of notes on his whistle and two sailors appeared. Meg watched as they lowered the jauntily flying Union Jack and the ship’s own pennant.

“Should we fly the French colors, sir?” Cosimo’s other nephew, looking both excited and apprehensive, hurried up the steps to the quarterdeck.

“Lad, why would we do that if the approaching vessel is one of our own?” Cosimo inquired. “I’m not about to issue an invitation for friendly fire.”

“Sorry, sir.” The boy flushed crimson.

“Take the other glass and go up into the crow’s nest. As soon as you can identify the colors, shout.”

“Aye, sir.”

The boy hurled himself at the ratlines, pausing only when his uncle reminded softly, “Telescope, lad.”

Meg watched this scene with interest. Cosimo’s lieutenants seemed somewhat unversed in their duties and she wondered how reliable they would be in the event of an emergency. But she soon realized that the two youngsters were not of vital importance in the running of the ship. The grizzled bosun had appeared at the captain’s side almost by magic, and Mike, the helmsman, was already at the wheel. Other men, plain sailors as far as she could tell from their clothes, were simply going about their business, standing ready at the sheets, climbing up the masts to be in readiness to make sail, all without any apparent instruction. Cosimo’s ship ran on greased wheels.

Gus began to pace along the edge of the table with an agitation that she hadn’t seen before. Were his bird instincts telling him something not yet apparent to the humans? It wouldn’t surprise her, Meg thought.

She’d lost all interest in rhubarb pie but remained at the table until something decisive happened. The boy who seemed to serve as Biggins’s assistant appeared and with a mutter of apology began swiftly to clear away the glasses and dishes. Another youngster swept the cloth away and folded down the table in a few expert moves.

Meg stood up. Presumably the chairs must go too. She was right. The first child returned to carry them away almost immediately. The tension on the ship was now palpable. Everyone stood at their posts, waiting. She looked up at the topmost deck and saw men standing at the row of guns. They hadn’t run them out but they were ready to do so at a word. And now she didn’t know whether she was frightened or excited. If that was a French ship, would they do battle?

Hesitantly she went over to the port side and joined Cosimo, who was still gazing through his telescope. He said without lowering the glass, “You may stay on deck for the moment, but I’d be grateful if you’d go below the minute I say it’s necessary.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “If it’s French, will you fight?”

“If we can’t outrun her, we’ll have to.”

He didn’t sound as if the prospect troubled him in the least. Meg stayed at the railing until the piping voice of young Mr. Graves came from high above. “She’s flying the tricolor, sir.”

“Very well, gentlemen, make sail.” He barely raised his voice, his eye still glued to the glass. He said to Meg, “If you stay right here, you won’t be in the way.”