Almost a Lady (9 page)

Cosimo was suddenly beside her. “All right?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said, dazed and a little deafened by the racket. She glanced at her arm with some surprise. It didn’t hurt, but a jagged splinter of wood stood out from her forearm, blood welling around it, staining the now torn lace-edged sage green silk sleeve. “Oh,” she said, frowning in something like disbelief.

“Go below and get David to see to that,” Cosimo instructed brusquely.

Meg thought of the cramped and noisome sick bay and the injured men already there. “It’s just a scratch,” she said. “I’ll pull the splinter out and wrap some of this torn lace around it.” She was about to yank the piece of wood from the wound when she became aware of an ominous silence. She glanced up at Cosimo.

He was looking at her, his eyes that glacial blue she’d encountered once before. “You have a very short memory, Miss Barratt,” he stated softly.

“On the contrary,” Meg retorted, refusing to be discomposed, “my memory is remarkably acute.” She backed away, still holding her arm, and refusing to drop her own gaze until she had to turn to go down the companionway. On board his ship one had to watch oneself around Captain Cosimo, she reflected as she made her way along the passage to the sick bay, cradling her arm that was now beginning to throb uncomfortably.

She climbed down into the dark confines of the sick bay. It seemed crowded and she assumed that the second barrage had caused some other injuries. David Porter was putting a splint on a man’s foot, while three other men, one bleeding copiously from a gash under his eye, sat on barrels against the curved bulkhead waiting their turn. Meg looked down at her arm, which was still bleeding sluggishly around the shard of wood. She had the uneasy feeling that the wood was somehow preventing a fountain of blood.

David glanced across at her. “Hurt?”

“Just a scratch.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll be with you.”

Meg shook her head. “No, please . . . there’s no hurry. Look after the men first.”

He left the man on the table and crossed towards her, head bowed below the low ceiling. “Let me look.” He lifted her arm.

“No, really, it’s not a problem,” she protested. “Please look after the others. I wouldn’t have come down except that . . .”

“That what?” he prompted when her voice trailed away.

“Cosimo gave me his look,” she said flatly.

David looked momentarily startled, then gave a guffaw of amusement. “Oh, that look. Questioning an order, were you?”

She shrugged. “It seemed unnecessary to burden you with a scratch when there are others more seriously hurt.”

He let go her arm and gestured to a sack spilling what looked like beans. “Take a seat over there for a few minutes. And whatever you do, don’t pull that splinter out.”

Meg obeyed. Her choices on this ship were annoyingly limited. Down here in the bowels of the ship she felt disconnected from the action above. The ship’s motion was very different and the immediacy of the danger was somehow distanced, although realistically she knew that they were not in the least insulated from cannon fire or anything else here below the water level. In fact she was hard pressed to keep panic at bay at just the image of water pouring into this space where elongated shadows flitted against the walls as the lamps swayed violently whenever the vessel changed course.

She played with the beans, trawling them through her fingers, fighting to regain her composure. When David called to her to come to the table she had the panic well under control. Her arm was now hurting badly and she had to fight the urge to yank out the foreign body.

She perched on the edge of the stained table while David looked at her arm. “Cosimo knows what he’s talking about when it comes to wounds,” he commented in a casual tone as he took up long tweezers. “They get infected very quickly if they’re not cleaned promptly and properly.” He took hold of the splinter between the tweezers and pulled steadily. “I can see that his manner might put your back up if you’re unaccustomed to his authority, but as a general rule his reasoning is faultless.”

“One might agree to that if one had voluntarily submitted to his authority,” Meg pointed out with a touch of acerbity. It helped take her mind off what David was doing. She watched with an almost detached interest as the long piece of wood was withdrawn from her flesh. Immediately the blood flowed quickly, dripping onto the silk skirts of Ana’s gown. David seemed not to notice, or not to care, and began to wash the wound with a vinegar-soaked cloth that made Meg inhale sharply and bite her lip. He probed a little further with the tweezers and pulled out several small splinters.

“I think that’s the last of them.” He staunched the flow of blood with a pad also reeking of vinegar. “We all find our own ways of adjusting to Cosimo.” He reverted to the earlier topic in the same casual tone and as if there’d been no intervening time.

“Sensible if one’s
obliged
to do so,” Meg returned, pressing her other hand hard on the pad as David indicated that she should.

He gave her a lightly quizzical smile that nevertheless held a hint of concern. “I don’t believe Cosimo means you any harm, Miss Barratt.”

Meg met his gaze frankly. “Maybe not,” she said. “But two days ago I did not expect to find myself trapped on a ship engaging in an act of war with the enemy.”

“No,” he agreed rather helplessly. “I can see your point, ma’am. But it was an unfortunate accident.” He reached over for a strip of the linen that Meg had worked on earlier. He was regretting having started this conversation. Cosimo could defend himself. And if, as he’d hinted to David, he might make use of the unfortunate accident that had dropped an unwitting Meg Barratt onto his ship, David wasn’t sure he could defend him anyway.

“Please let’s drop the formalities, David,” Meg said, sensing the man’s sudden unease, although his fingers were deft as they bound up the arm. “My name’s Meg.”

He smiled at her. “Well, Meg, I don’t think that’ll scar. It might throb for a while, but I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”

“If we get through the night,” Meg said, grabbing the edge of the table as the ship lurched beneath her.

“Have faith,” he responded, bracing himself easily against the motion.

“We’re luring the frigate,” Meg informed him rather pointedly, sliding off the table. “But I’m not certain what to.” She regarded him closely in the wavering light and saw a quick frown cross his eyes. So he was not quite so placidly unquestioning about his captain’s plans as he’d implied.

But apart from that fleeting frown he gave nothing away. “Would you like me to fashion a sling for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be careful.” She set off cautiously towards the ladder leading to the decks above.

“Try not to knock it.”

Any reply she might have made was lost as a clatter of feet in the corridor above heralded the arrival on the ladder of two men carrying a third between them. “Cannon got loose, sir,” one of them said, coming backwards down the ladder supporting the legs of the groaning man. “Crushed Sly against the fo’c’sle. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

Meg stood aside as the other bearer supporting the man’s head and shoulders inched down the ladder. There was little room now in the confined space and she decided she’d only be in the way if she offered to help. Besides, they didn’t need it. The man was already on the table, his breathing harsh and ragged, and David was already stripping away his shirt, giving rapid-fire instructions to the boy who acted as his assistant.

She made her way back up to the fresh air. Strangely her fear had vanished and she was now only curious to see what was happening on deck, and how things had changed since she’d gone below.

At first glance everything looked the same. Cosimo was back at the wheel. The French frigate was still in pursuit, but at a slightly greater distance. Meg saw that all the sails were once more set and the
Mary Rose
was speeding over the waves. Ahead the spume from the breaking waves against the rocky outcrop seemed much closer and she felt something clutch in her throat. They seemed on a collision course. But it was clear to her now that Cosimo did not intend for his own ship to founder on those rocks. He was leading the enemy.

But why didn’t they notice? she thought, going to the rail to stare out at the pursuing vessel. They had charts. They must know where they were heading. But perhaps they were so eager for the prize that must seem within their grasp they weren’t concentrating. Perhaps they assumed that the
Mary Rose
knew where she was going and wouldn’t deliberately put herself in danger. Perhaps the French captain didn’t know these waters as well as his English counterpart.

But it was useless speculation. Rather tentatively she approached the helm, keeping out of Cosimo’s line of sight in order not to distract him. But he was instantly aware of her. His gaze flicked for a second over her pale face, down to the bound arm, then returned to his scrutiny of the sails. “Does it hurt?”

“Throbs,” she admitted. “Are we going to run aground on those rocks?”

“O ye of little faith,” he scoffed lightly.

Meg swallowed. “Are
they
going to be wrecked?”

He glanced at her again with a slightly mocking glint in his eye. “I assure you they’d have no more sympathy for us were the positions reversed than I have for them.”

Meg shook her head in mute denial of such callous pragmatism.

Cosimo said, “If it makes you feel better, there’s a sandy shoal just before the rocks. That’s where they’ll run aground. Now, you’re distracting me.”

Meg left at once, taking up her station against the deck rail. Things were happening fast now. Cosimo was calling out orders, his feet braced against the deck, his hands on the wheel as he swung it around. She could see the sudden tensing of his shoulders as the wheel fought him, then the ship began to turn, the boom swinging overhead, the sails cracking as they slammed across to the other side. The
Mary Rose
caught the following wind and leaped forward, leaving the frigate still plunging forward towards the rocks.

Meg could hear the cries and shouts from the frigate as they saw what was ahead of them. She had a fair sense now of what the scurrying, clambering sailors were doing as the enemy ship tried to go about, but she was much bigger, much more cumbersome than the dainty sloop and the turn took much longer. There was a great rasping and crashing of timbers filling the stillness of the night air, and the frigate came to a shuddering, straining halt.

The
Mary Rose
danced away towards the open sea and Cosimo after a minute handed the wheel to Mike and came over to Meg, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve. Despite the cool wind the physical effort of the last fifteen minutes had made him sweat.

“What will happen to them?” she asked.

He smiled. “They’ll stay there nice and secure until the navy turns up,” he told her, sounding, she thought, rather smug. “There are two English men-of-war somewhere out there in the Channel. They’ll come this way sometime after dawn. And they’ll find a nice fat prize all wrapped up and beribboned awaiting them.”

He looked up at the sky, noticing the first faint graying in the east. Meg followed his eyes. “It seems to have been a very short night,” she said, even as she thought that an eternity seemed to have passed since they’d shared that electric supper under the stars.

He nodded. “You’re tired. Go below and get some sleep. We’ll be making for harbor within the hour.”

Meg after a second’s reflection decided not to say that she wasn’t particularly tired. Or even that she’d prefer to stay on deck. One of those looks in a night was quite sufficient. She made her way to the cabin, where Gus squawked a “G’day” at the sound of the door opening. She took it to mean that he was ready to face the light and removed the silk cover on his cage. He greeted her with a beady eye and hopped along the perch and out of the cage, then he swooped onto the windowsill and regarded the growing light with an air of intelligent interest.

Meg scratched his poll and then stretched out on the cot, careful not to jolt her bandaged arm. She didn’t bother to take her boots off; she’d go back on deck shortly.

She didn’t hear the door open an hour later, and was unaware as Cosimo removed her boots and spread the coverlet over her. He stood watching her sleep for a few minutes, a considering frown in his eyes.

Meg Barratt had carried herself well that night. She’d shown less wild exhilaration than Ana would have, but she’d managed her apprehension well. She would not cave under danger, he decided. But she showed some awkward scruples. Ana wouldn’t have spared a moment’s anxiety as to the fate of the enemy vessel and those aboard her. Like him, she had thought only for their goal. The enemy was just that, and all was fair in war.

Could Meg Barratt be persuaded to lend herself to the plan in hand? She had an unconventional streak in her, that much was very clear. She was no ordinary maiden lady. But that aside, she had been sheltered for the most part from the harsh realities of life at war. Could she accept an assassin’s task? Understand the need for it?

He pursed his lips. He couldn’t act precipitately. He needed to tread carefully, to take his time to learn her, but the devil of it was, he had no time to spare. He was scheduled to remain on Sark for no more than three days, waiting for any dispatches that he could pass on to Admiral Nelson’s fleet when eventually he caught up with it. And in those three days he would be hoping against hope that he would get some clue as to Ana’s fate. After that, come hell or high water, he had to continue his mission.

Chapter   6

M
eg was aware of pain, at first vague and unspecific, as she swam groggily back to consciousness. She lay still for a minute with her eyes shut, feeling the deep throbbing ache in her arm. The events of the night came back vivid in every detail and the acid reflection occurred that the last time she’d awoken in this narrow box-bed she’d also been groggy and in some degree of pain. Sailing on the
Mary Rose
didn’t seem particularly conducive to health.

Finally she opened her eyes. Judging by the brightness of the sun, it must be well past mid-morning, she reckoned. Hardly surprising that she’d slept so late considering how she’d spent the greater part of the night. The ship beneath was rocking gently at anchor, and when she dragged herself up in the cot, she could see through the open window green hills in the distance. The air was a delicious mélange of seaweed and salt, and the sound of voices reached her through the window.

Land, Meg thought. The recognition galvanized her and she swung herself out of the box-bed and stood up, holding her arm gingerly against her chest. The bandage was bloodstained but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The green silk gown was ruined, sleeve torn, the skirts and sleeve stained with blood, which was a pity since she’d rather liked it. Well, there were other garments in the cupboard.

She knelt on the window seat and gazed out across a narrow expanse of water to a quay where fishermen were mending nets. A huddle of cottages crowded behind the quayside and above them rose a green hillside. A slender cart track wound its way up from the hamlet towards the summit of the hill and she could just make out the roofs of several cottages scattered across the hillside.

Hot water and then breakfast seemed the order of the morning. Without much expectation she peered into the head and to her delight saw two water jugs, steam still rising from their contents, and a pile of fresh towels. She glanced once towards the closed cabin door, then shrugged and reached behind her to unfasten the gown. It was impossible to do with one hand and her other arm was stiff and useless except for her fingers.

She struggled in increasing frustration and only succeeded with an unwary stretch in opening the wound on her arm. Absurdly she felt like weeping at her helplessness as she stared at the seeping blood, then with an exclamatory curse tried again with her good hand to undo the top button between her shoulders. Cosimo’s familiar knock came as her oaths became more vigorous.

“Oh, come in,” she called impatiently.

Cosimo entered with Gus on his shoulder. “What on earth are you doing? It sounded like a bad morning in Billingsgate just then.”

“I am trying to unbutton this damn gown with only one hand,” she told him through clenched teeth. “And now the other one’s bleeding again.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake why didn’t you come and find me?” he demanded, sounding somewhat impatient himself. “Come here.” He moved behind her and swiftly unfastened the buttons before pushing the gown off her shoulders.

His hand brushed the skin of her back and Meg closed her eyes on a jolt of quite unlooked for and at this point unwelcome arousal. He was so close to her she could feel his breath rustling the top of her head. The gown lay in a puddle at her feet.

She stepped away from it and, keeping her face averted, said, “Thank you. I can manage now.”

“Are you sure?” he asked with an apparent solicitude that didn’t fool Meg one bit. He had enjoyed that moment of contact, whether it had affected him with quite the same jolt she couldn’t be certain. But she knew absolutely that her reaction hadn’t escaped him.

“The buttons on my chemise are in the front,” she pointed out acidly.

“Ah. Pity.” His eyebrows lifted. He came up behind her and, reaching over her shoulder, caught her chin on his fingertips, turning her head sideways. For an instant his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “Are you quite certain I can’t help?”

“Positively.” Meg didn’t bother to pretend outrage at the familiarity; she was growing accustomed to Cosimo’s flanking maneuvers, although not entirely sure what he hoped to achieve by them. They seemed more teasing than serious. Anyway she was determined that if and when
she
decided to consummate this attraction, it would be at
her
orchestration. And that wouldn’t happen until her situation was clarified and she knew she had a means of getting back to England. Quite apart from the fact that bleeding and grubby as she was now, she couldn’t imagine a less enticing moment.

“Very well.” Somewhat to her perverse chagrin he sounded perfectly content with her refusal. “I’ll leave you then. I’ll send David to look at your arm in about ten minutes. I expect you’ll need some assistance dressing and he’ll be an unobjectionable lady’s maid.” With that he left the cabin to a chorus of
g’byes
from Gus, who had taken up residence on his perch.

Meg swore under her breath and the macaw cocked his head as if trying to catch what she’d said. “So far I haven’t heard you swear,” Meg declared. “And I don’t think you’d better learn it from me.” She managed to undo the buttons and ribbons of her chemise and get rid of garters and stockings. Naked she managed to sponge herself one-handed and then struggled into clean linen. She took out the bronze gown that she’d worn the previous day and shook it out. It would do. But doing it up was beyond her.

Fortunately she didn’t have long to wait before David’s cheerful voice asked permission to come in.

“Yes, do,” she said, adding ruefully as he entered, “I need help.”

“Yes, Cosimo said you were having trouble.” David set down his bag. “Let’s take a look at the arm first.”

“It opened up again.”

“Mmm.” He said nothing further as he worked and then when the arm was once more tightly bandaged said, “Now, what else can I do for you?”

“Button me,” she said. “I’d ask Gus, but I suspect it’s one of the rare tasks that might be beyond him.”

David laughed and obliged. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “No, but thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He picked up his bag and made for the door.

“David?”

He stopped, his hand on the latch, and looked questioningly at her.

“Cosimo said he would send a pigeon with a message to my friends.”

“Yes?” His tone was still inquiring.

“It really can be done?”

“My dear ma’am, if he says it can, it most certainly can. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never known Cosimo to make a promise he couldn’t keep.” With another nod, David left her.

Meg wondered why she’d doubted Cosimo, and yet she knew so little about him. In fact she knew nothing about him. Oh, he had twin sisters, he was thirty-seven, he was a skilled and ruthless privateer who relished danger and adventure, but
who
he was remained a mystery. He frightened her a little, and he attracted her a great deal more, but the two were somehow intertwined. This didn’t surprise Meg; she knew herself and her own predilection for men society would consider dangerous. But Cosimo was in a different category altogether. There was nothing ordinarily unconventional about him.

Absently she combed her hair, thankful for the fashionably short crop that at least meant she didn’t have to wrestle one-handedly with hairpins. She was hungry but more important than food was getting her message to Arabella, who would be a less emotional recipient than her parents, and then finding a fishing boat to take her back across the Channel. Stockings required two hands, so she opted for sandals and bare feet and went in search of the captain of the
Mary Rose
.

She found an orderly scene on deck, two sailors scrubbing the planking with holystones, several others polishing the brass rails. The appetizing smell of frying bacon came from below. The ship was anchored about a hundred yards from the quay, a dinghy tethered to her stern.

Meg looked around for someone in authority. One of the identical cousins, or Mike the helmsman or the grizzled boatswain. Even as she looked around, Miles Graves materialized from somewhere in the bow and eagerly skipped over rope coils to reach her. “Morning, ma’am. The captain said I should look after you. Is there anything you need?”

“Morning, Miles,” she returned cheerfully. “Yes, I need to go ashore. Could someone row me in that dinghy?”

The eagerness left his face to be replaced with a look of acute embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but the captain’s not on board. He’s gone ashore,” he added rather obviously.

“Really. Well, I wish to do so too,” she said, still smiling.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, it can’t be done.” His pink cheeks were flushed with discomfort. His uncle had instructed him to take care of Miss Barratt and see to her needs, but there’d been no mention of going ashore.

“Why can’t it? The boat’s there. Surely one of the sailors could row me the short distance to the quay.” Meg was puzzled and beginning to feel annoyed.

“Not without Captain’s permission, ma’am,” Miles confessed. “No one leaves the ship without his say-so.”

“Ridiculous,” Meg scoffed. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“No . . . no, ma’am . . . of course not,” he said hastily. “But you can’t go ashore without the captain’s permission.”

“Is that what he said?” she demanded, incredulous, her annoyance now edged with real anger.

Miles scratched his head, reflecting that Miss Barratt was becoming rather alarming. “He hasn’t authorized shore leave for anyone, ma’am,” he said eventually.

“For the men who work for him,” Meg said with an attempt at patience. “But I don’t. If I choose to go ashore, that’s my business. If there’s no one available to row me to the quay, then I’ll row myself. That way none of the men can be accused of disobeying the captain’s orders.” Belatedly she realized what an empty threat that was. With her bandaged arm, she certainly couldn’t pull an oar, or even manage to tie up the dinghy single-handed. In fact she wasn’t entirely sure she could manage to get herself down the precarious-looking rope ladder that hung over the stern just above the bobbing little boat.

Miles merely looked at her helplessly. “Ma’am, I can’t let you have the dinghy.”

“Well, it’s moot anyway,” Meg stated in unconcealed frustration. She walked away from him to the deck rail and gazed at the fishermen mending nets on the quay. There was a tantalizing number of fishing boats tied up at the quayside, one or two of them surely big enough to make the voyage to the English coast. It wouldn’t be as comfortable a sail as on the
Mary Rose
, but she could handle a little discomfort.

“Ma’am, I’m really sorry.” Miles spoke from behind her and she turned again towards him.

Poor lad, she thought. He was really between a rock and a hard place. An angry woman on the one hand and the prospect of one of Cosimo’s looks at the very least on the other. “I understand, Miles,” she said with a slight shrug and a smile. “I’ll settle the matter with your uncle.”

Miles looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Breakfast,” she said, settling for the mundane and easily achievable. “I’m famished.”

“Right away, ma’am.” Beaming, he sprinted across the deck towards the companionway, leaving Meg to resume her watch on the tantalizingly close but unattainable quayside.

Cosimo climbed the hillside behind the village, his long stride easily covering the springy turf. He’d disdained the gravel track that took a more winding and circuitous route to the gray building that crowned the hilltop, and every once in a while paused and turned to scan the blue waters below with his telescope. He wouldn’t be able to see the French frigate until he’d attained the brow of the hill and could look out the other side of the island, but he was looking for any sign of the naval men-of-war. If they’d missed the prize awaiting them, they could be alerted by a signal from the hilltop.

He saw nothing but a few fishing smacks, curlews, and seagulls, however, and continued on his way, arriving at the open door of the gray cottage. It was an anonymous-looking building, indistinguishable from the other cottages on the small island, but an armed guard in navy uniform appeared from nowhere as Cosimo approached.

“Oh, it’s you, Captain,” he said, offering a rather halfhearted salute that he knew wouldn’t be returned.

“It is indeed,” Cosimo agreed. “Is the lieutenant ashore?”

“Aye, sir.” The guard ducked into the cottage. “Sir, the captain of the
Mary Rose
, sir.”

The young lieutenant in command of this small outpost of the British navy adjusted his tunic and straightened his shoulders just as Cosimo ducked through the lintel and entered the gloom of the almost windowless cottage.

“Ah, Lieutenant Murray, nice to see you again,” he greeted pleasantly, extending his hand.

The young officer stiffened and saluted with rigorous attention to form, then hesitantly shook the proffered hand. Cosimo knew he was an affront to the navy’s hierarchy, not least because he refused to observe even the most elementary rules of naval etiquette, but he had the king’s writ and a reputation for successful if dubious enterprises that earned him grudging respect.