For Love of the Earl (21 page)

Jane had always said that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
 
He sincerely hoped that that was true now.
 
He needed to get back to his wife.
 

Teyssier did not try to enter his quarters but stayed in the passageway, uncomfortably shifting against his crew member with the harpoon.

"And why is that, monsieur?"
 

Alec was unsure of what the captain meant by that question, but he tried to formulate a response.
 

"I am not certain what it is you believe to be happening about you, but I can attest to the fact that there are no secret plans of rescue that I am aware of.
 
I am completely useless to you, Captain."

Teyssier nodded, running his tongue over his lips.
 

Alec wanted to take a step back as his stomach rolled.
 
There was something about a person licking his chops in Alec's general direction that upset his constitution.
 

"Bon," Teyssier said, bobbing his head.
 

"Bon?" Alec whispered, not believing that the captain would be agreeing to his request.
 

"Oui, I agree with your reasoning.
 
I have no need to keep you here in my quarters if you cannot be of assistance."
 

Alec felt a flick of trepidation.
 
Something was not right.

The captain took one grimy finger and rubbed his front teeth with it.
 

"But not right now," the captain said, looking up and moving his tongue around in his mouth.
 

Alec forced his teeth apart and cursed himself for hoping it was that simple, that it was that easy to be taken back to the wife he had abandoned.
 
When this was all over, he was going to let Nathan shoot this man.
 
He bloody well deserved it.
 

"Right now you will stay here," the captain smiled, his teeth just as slimy and green as before all the apparent attempts at cleaning them.
 

"Why?" Alec asked.
 

"Because I say."
 

The door shut in his face, and a lock tumbled into place.
 

Alec stared at the door and cursed himself for not listening to Sarah when she yelled at him.

~

At the age of thirteen years and nine months she had started riding lessons.
 
At the age of fourteen years she had commenced Latin lessons.
 
At the age of fourteen years and three months she had taken up watercolors.
 
At the age of fourteen years and eight months she had broken her arm during aforementioned riding lessons.
 

Sarah lay on the bunk, her hands folded across her stomach, staring at the boards above her head.
 
She gave each grain of the wood a moment in her horribly sheltered and dull upbringing after she had been adopted.
 
She had only used up two boards.
 

And she still couldn't remember Alec.
 

At the age of fourteen years and eleven months she had stopped the Latin lessons because her tutor claimed she knew more than he did.
 
At the age of fifteen, she commenced being extremely bored.
 

So she took up shooting.
 

The lines of grain began to blur, and she rolled onto her side.
 
She kept her arms tightly around her stomach, unconsciously holding in the low burning pain that had begun the moment the door had closed on Alec.
 

Where was he?
 
What was happening?
 
Where was Thatcher?
 
He was supposed to go to London.
 
He was supposed to get help.
 
Was anyone coming for them?
 
Did anyone even know where they were?

She rolled to her other side, facing the doorway, watching the light of the swinging lantern cast menacing shadows about the room.
 
She listened to the sound of the waves crashing into the wooden sides of the ship and prayed that the sea wouldn't swallow them whole.
 
She thought a cruel jest, one God was not likely to play even on her.
 
At least, she hoped it was not.
 
But perhaps, God had a different sense of humor than she believed.
 
Would he take everything away from her when she had only just begun to enjoy it?

Her husband had made love to her.
 
Consciously made love to her.
 
He had initiated it in fact, and she wanted to laugh at her naive, frightened self of mere days before.
 
The one who feared waking in his arms lest she never feel it again.
 
The sensation of security and serenity brought about by Alec's embrace gave no comparison to the look in his eyes when he made love to her.
 
His eyes told her something no words in any language could ever begin to articulate, and the knowledge pulsed deep in her heart like a misplaced dream, faded with time but with a desire that still raged inside her.
 

And Alec.
 
Her
Alec.
 

She flinched at her own boldness, but there was something about the phrase that had to be used.
 
At least in her mind anyways.
 
And she would continue to use it until Lord Stryden decided to leave her.
 

The sound of the lock moving jarred her from her thoughts not unlike the icy fingers of the Channel had jabbed at her hours before.
 
She rose quickly and moved to the far side of the room, putting the lantern between herself and whoever was coming through the door.
 
It seemed ridiculous, but that lantern was her one and only defense.
 
And if she used it, she risked setting the entire ship aflame.
 
It was a risk she would be willing to take if it meant saving Alec.
 
If it meant saving them.
 

The door slowly swung inward, its hinges protesting the weight of the heavy wooden door.
 
A draft of stale air hit her in the face, and she sucked in a breath before she could stop herself.
 
One of the first things Alec had taught her so many years ago was to never show a reaction no matter how great the stimulus.
 
But Alec wasn't here now.
 
Sarah was on her own, and she needed to practice everything he taught her if she were to see him again.

For an absurd moment, Sarah actually thought it was Alec returning, that whatever terrible plan the captain had had not come to fruition, and Alec was being safely brought back.
 
Brought back to her.
 
But she knew too little time had passed for that.
 
She knew that it could not be Alec who came through the door.
 

And it wasn't.
 

It was the dark skinned man from earlier.
 
He shuffled under the awkward bent of his crooked back, his gnarled fingers gripping a jug between two hands.
 
He moved to the bunk, and Sarah counted the breaths it took for him to cross the small space.
 
It took four breaths.

"Sir?" Sarah said, unsure why the sound had come from her mouth.
 

She didn't have a question to ask of this man nor something to say.
 
Why she had tried to get his attention she could not be certain.
 
But there was something in that moment, in the movement of the swinging lantern against the crooked facade of this man that made Sarah speak.
 

"Sir, may I ask a question of you?"
 

The bent man turned to her, and Sarah thought his face likely appeared older than the man actually was.
 
But the man made no sound.
 
He simply stood, the jug held between his hands.
 

"Do you perhaps have the time?"
 

The question was utterly ridiculous in the extreme.
 
Both for the absolute non-relevance the answer to said question would have on her current situation but also for the fact, that it was unlikely a gentleman of his station would know how to tell the time let alone have a device on which to decipher it.
 
But a uncontrollable shake had started in her fingers and had moved to her arms.
 
She envisioned her person being swamped in the unconscious tremor in mere moments, and by speaking, she had hoped to stop its progression.
 
As unlikely and preposterous as that sounded.
 

But the old man did not criticize her for her question in either word or gesture.
 
He simply turned and set down the jug next to the bunk.

"What is it you truly wish to ask, my lady?" he said, the sound of his gravely voice dampened the tremors in her arms.
 
She welcomed the sound of it as it washed over her, and with it, the ethereal calm of distraction.
 

"I beg your pardon?" she said.
 

She knew what it was of which he spoke, but by evading, she could prolong this exchange.
 
She could savor the sound of his voice, let it cocoon her in a web of diversion until Alec returned to her.
 

"The time is of no importance to you, and I suspect you have never requested it of anyone in your life."
 

It was then that Sarah noticed with what regal cadence the man spoke.
 
She wasn't sure why this surprised her.
 
Either perhaps because she had not noticed it earlier or because it was at all.
 
She hoped it was the latter.
 
The former made her sound snobbish.

"Do you know where they've taken my husband?" she asked, and again, she did not know from whence the question came.
 

The old man looked to his right, back at the still open door.
 
Sarah suspected Harpoon Man lurked on the other side.
 
She hoped this would not prevent the old man from speaking.
 
Harpoon Man clearly did not speak fluent English.
 
He could not possibly understand what was happening in their exchange.
 

The old man turned back to her, his eyes suddenly cloudy.
 

"Your husband is in the captain's quarters, my lady.
 
He is unharmed."
 

The breath left Sarah in a single, seamless exhale so robust, she waited for her body to collapse with its absence.
 
But when her knees did not give way, she said, "Has he asked of me?"
 

The old man shuffled the barest of movements in her direction.
 

"Your husband has not left the captain's quarters to ask such a question, my lady."
 

Sarah nodded quickly, chiding herself for being so selfish.
 

"But that is still not the question for which you seek an answer."
 

Sarah looked at the old man again.
 
His back was still bent, and his face was still creased, but there was something in his eyes now.
 
A light of accusation without insult, a promise of understanding without criticism.
 

"I don't know what he meant," she whispered, as if the old man would understand of what she spoke.
 

She didn't even understand it.
 

"I do not know yourself or your husband, but I do know this.
 
You are both extremely skilled at speaking many words to each other, but your art of listening leaves much to be desired."
 

Sarah blinked.
 

To say she had not expected that answer was to marginalize a rather complex statement.

"I beg your pardon?" she said again.

The old man nodded even as he moved to the door.
 

"You should listen, my lady, instead of talking.
 
Perhaps you will
hear
the answer that you seek."

The old man disappeared through the door before Sarah had a chance to tell him that there was nothing there that required listening.
 
But the door snapped shut, and the lock slid home, leaving the whine of the lantern as it swung on its hook her only companion.

She sat down on the bunk, her foot bumping the jug the old man had left.
 
She kicked at it haphazardly, but its hefty size kept it from moving.
 
She looked at it as if it could provide her with answers to everything.
 
Answers to every last thing she questioned in her life, in her marriage, in the world.
 
As if a jug could give her answers.

Perhaps it had wine in it.
 
If she helped herself to a healthy portion, the influence of alcohol would be enough to loosen the hold her mind had on her memories, controlling and corralling them lest they hurt her.
 
She lay back on the bunk, letting her mind drift even as her eyes closed.
 
The tremor moved through her arms and into her shoulders.
 
She welcomed the vibrating sensation, welcomed the discomfort that came with it.
 

And she listened.
 

The sound of the water crashing reached her ears first followed quickly by the whine of the lantern.
 
She listened harder, willing her ears to reach out and pluck the sounds from around her as if they were tangible objects ready for her picking.
 
She heard a thud in the distance, like boots hitting the floor and then treading up wooden stairs.
 
The sound of water came again, and then the lantern swinging.
 
She listened more.
 
Somewhere in the ship a person sang.
 
She could hear the slurring of words grow louder before they drifted away from her, even beyond the reach of her ears.
 
And then there was nothing but water and the squeak of the lantern.