The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood
Chapter 11
The door slammed behindthem with a bang. Philip heard objects being moved up against it.
There were small leaded windows on either side of the grand cabin door and Miss Gardner moved quickly to one of these, while he took up a position at the other.
“They are dragging him away. Captain Merriweather,” she said softly, resting her forehead against the pane. “He is dead then.”
Philip nodded numbly, still unable to fathom it.
“Do you think any of the other men were killed? Did you see Duffels?”
Philip shook his head. “There wasn’t time. Did you?”
“No, but I saw more fallen men. Like Captain Merriweather. I do not know if they were dead or not. And others, alive, being taken down below.”
“They’ll have confined them somewhere,” he said, absently. He wondered about the fate of the ships’ boys. They were so young. Surely some of the older crew would have protected or hidden the young lads.
Miss Gardner left the window and approached him, frowning up at his forehead. He touched a finger to his temple and it came away sticky and red.
“It seems to have stopped bleeding,” she said, turning to survey the room. “But we should clean and bandage it. Aha!”
She walked over to a small side table which held a basin of water. A tall jug stood beside it. She peered inside. “It is mostly full. At least we will not go thirsty.”
She came back carrying a wet cloth. “This would be easier if you sat down.”
Philip stared a moment, his mind still elsewhere, then nodded. “Of course.”
He crossed to the opposite side by the stern windows and sat down on a blue-velvet padded bench. At least here, Miss Gardner’s view would be less gruesome. Outside it was a perfect morning. The sun was shining over sparkling turquoise water.
At least he finally had Miss Gardner all to himself, he thought grimly. Though in less-than-ideal circumstances.
Who knew how long they would be locked in together? It could be hours or only a few minutes. Considering the irrational nature of the pirate captain, he might decide to return at any time.
Since Philip planned to allow Miss Gardner to be taken only over his very dead body and considering he was most likely to be outnumbered at least five to one when the pirates returned for them, he decided it was time to clear his conscience.
“Miss Gardner...” he began. “I would like to ask your forgiveness.”
“Oh? Yes?” She tilted her head to one side and blinked at him from behind those innocent golden-brown eyes. “For what?”
“Well...” He paused to clear his throat. “That is an excellent question. I suspect I am guilty of more than one offense. Perhaps it may be a blanket apology for any wrongs I have done you? I know there must be more than one.
“Unless you would like to clarify?” he added, hopefully.
She looked back at him expressionlessly.
“Or not,” he said, quickly.
She frowned. “Why did you call me such horrid names?”
“Why did I what?” He stared back blankly.
She took a deep breath. “I am not sure why you are pretending not to recall it. I am, of course, referring to the other night, when you called me a—” She lowered her voice. “—a minx. A vixen.”
He stared. Was she jesting?
No, the wistfulness in her voice said she was serious indeed.
“I hurt you,” he said, softly, understanding. “That was not my intention at all.”
“Then why such crass words?”
“To me, they were not crass. At least, they were not meant to be. Stupid man that I am, Miss Gardner, I was endeavouring to pay you a compliment.”
“A compliment?” She furrowed her brow.
“Yes.” He rubbed his chin. He was not sure how this would go. “You were so free, so passionate. I had not expected such a thing from a...”
“A proper, respectable, genteel young lady, is what I believe you were going to say?” She snapped. “For I am proper.”
She scowled. “At least, I was,” she acknowledged, glumly. “I suppose by coming aboard, I behaved less so. Proper young ladies do not travel alone. Proper young ladies not seek out adventure or dream of visiting foreign places. Proper young ladies most definitely do not consort with men in dark halls...”
“Nor do they risk their lives by boldly saving men from tempests like a beautiful guardian angel,” Philip said, gently but firmly. “And yet you did so. Most improperly, yet most courageously.”
“Beautiful?” She stared. “You think I am beautiful?”
“I do,” he said. “Very.”
He felt the urge to grin broadly and indulged it, enjoying seeing her eyes widen.
“But... I thought you despised me,” she said, with bewilderment.
He sighed. “I did not despise you. You simply... annoyed me. I am easily annoyed, as I am sure you have observed. And, I admit, I was shocked by your methodology when it came to setting off on your grand adventure.”
He saw the hint of a smile. “I must admit to being rather shocked by it myself,” she admitted.
She looked at him a moment, then bit her lip and glanced away. “Mr. Calvert, did you truly murder your wife?”
His jaw dropped.
“Did I murder my...?” He ran a hand over his face, then groaned, recalling his recent conversation with Cherry in his cabin. Had his sister actually repeated his claim to Miss Gardner? “Perhaps I have used words along those lines from time to time when upset. But if I did so, it was with my sister, in private. I do not recall ever doing so in your presence.”
“Yes, well,” she said, flushing deeply. “I was unintentionally eavesdropping again.”
“But you were fully clothed this time!” she quickly added. She put a hand to her mouth as her cheeks began to pinken, and he could not help but laugh.
He saw her smile a little from under the hand.
“Very well,” she said, picking up the cloth and dabbing at his head. “I suppose I owe you an apology for misrepresenting myself—even briefly—as your wife. It was very wrong of me and if I could go back and undo it... I would.”
Although that would mean she would not be here now.
And somehow Philip could not find it in himself to wish for that, in spite of everything.
“Do you forgive me?”
“I do,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.
She pursed her lips together, then patted at his head with the cloth again.
“Well, that is all right then,” she said brusquely, not meeting his gaze.
Her touch was soft and gentle. He closed his eyes and tried to hold still.
“What will happen now?”
“We wait and pray to God that James is as sharp-witted as he seems to be,” Philip said. “For their captain is a mad dog.”
“How long do you think they will leave us in here?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her more closely, seeing her clearly for the first time that dreadful morning.
Her long wavy hair had tumbled down from its pins and was hanging over her face. He found it charming, but as she was continually brushing it back, he assumed it was also an annoyance.
Now that she had put the cloth down, she was busily pulling the last hairpins out and tucking them fastidiously into her bodice. She did so unconsciously, unaware that she was drawing his attention to one of her most enticing features.
She was wearing the dress that had so undone him a few weeks before. Except now it was smeared and stained with blood. There were streaks of red across her chest, which she took up the cloth and began to wipe away.
“Is the blood yours?” he demanded, pointing.
She shook her head. “No. I think it is Captain Merriweather’s. I was trying to reach him, when... Well, it is no matter.” She looked up at him. “What are we going to do, Philip?”
She was trembling, he realized. A surge of protectiveness went through him.
He took her hands and pulled her towards him, clasping her tightly. She did not resist, but rather leaned her head against his chest.
He hesitated a moment, not wanting to risk her breaking off from the embrace, then finally putting his chin gently on top of her head.
He breathed in the smell of her—fresh and familiar, and waited as her trembling stopped and her breathing relaxed.
“You are a very strong man, Philip,” she whispered. “And you did everything you could. But even you could not stop him.”
“No,” he said, honestly. “I could not. But he will be stopped. He shall not remove you or Cherry from this vessel.”
She moved to look up at him. “You sound so confident.”
“I am,” he said forcefully. “I swear to you, Rosalind. You will not leave this ship. Until it reaches port,” he added, quickly, lest she think he meant to abduct her himself.
Her lips twitched. “Do you promise, husband?”
He tried to smile at her. “I do... wife.”
His heart began to race as the word passed his lips.
He felt as if a vow had been made—and not just the one she had asked for. Instead of the idea terrifying him, he felt incredibly light and happy.
He touched her cheek gently. “You look as if you need some sleep. I did not get much myself,” he admitted. “Will you lay down?”
“In Captain Merriweather’s berth?” She looked towards it with a troubled expression.
“It would be more comfortable than the floor.”
“Will you—” She hesitated. “—rest with me?”
His cock stirred at the idea of lying beside her, having her full and warm against him.
This was not the time, he told himself sternly, willing his body to obey his mind.
He walked over to the berth and lay down first, then patted the place beside him.
She climbed in and nestled up against him, resting her head in the crook of his arm.
“Sleep now,” he said gently, pulling her in more closely.
She must have been exhausted, for she complied. In a few moments her breathing slowed.
He watched her sleep a while, remembering how he had awoken in his cabin and seen her there asleep in the chair the night of the storm.
It seemed so long ago.
Why had Cherry told the captain that Miss Gardner was his wife?
Why had he claimed to be a duke?
They were a trio of terrible liars, that was what they were.
Had Captain Carew seen through them?
Was he capable of that much insight?
He seemed to be spiralling into even greater irrationality—and quickly.
James, on the other hand, might be convinced. If not that Philip was a duke, then at least that he was a rich and influential man—which was the truth.
Philip knew that given any opportunity, Cherry would work to convince the young first mate to help them—and she could be very persuasive. But if she had truly been brought to bed... He pictured her down below, in pain, all alone, without anyone to aid her and gnashed his teeth in frustration.
Carew had posed an impossible choice.
Although, at the start of the voyage Philip might have said there was no comparison and replied unhesitatingly, how things had changed!
Miss Gardner—Rosalind—was his wife. At least, for the next few hours, and in the minds of those brutal men who respected nothing and no one. She was his wife.
He looked at her, sleeping, and thought what a marvel it was simply to be holding a woman again in his arms. Not for any carnal purpose, but merely to hold and to keep.
He could hold Miss Gardner like this for a very long time, he thought. For many days and many nights.
She was soft, warm, and lovely. Her lush curves fit against him perfectly.
But she was more than simply desirable.
More and more, he was filled with a growing need to learn more of her mind and her heart.
She trusted him to protect her—even now, after all that he had said and done.
His hands tightened into fists. He would protect her. He would not fail in that. He would take any opportunity he had, no matter how violent. No matter how much it might hurt.
When he woke, it was still night.
At first, he could not recall where he was.
Then Rosalind stirred in his arms and he remembered.
It might have been a joyful waking had he not also recalled the ship was infested with pirates.
He heard her yawn. Then her body froze. He imagined her reorienting herself and remembering.
“What time is it?” she asked softly. The cabin was lit by moonlight and he could see the lines of her face.
“I am not sure...” He could rise and search for a time piece. There was sure to be one somewhere in the cabin. But that would mean leaving the warmth of the bed...and the pleasure of holding her.
“They have left us alone for so long, Philip. What will have happened with the others? Oh, poor Cherry. She must be frantic with worry.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “It is maddening to feel one can do nothing. But we cannot help them unless you believe you or I might fit through one of those windows.” He nodded towards the small leaded glass squares.
They were perhaps large enough for a small child, but certainly not a grown man or woman. “No? In that case—” He hesitated.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“In that case, let us pretend,” he whispered back, putting his lips to her ear.
He felt her shiver.
“Pretend what?” He smiled at the curiosity in her voice.
“Pretend we are truly married. For a few hours. Here—” He did not wish her to think he meant them to remain in bed. After the way he had frightened her off once with his foolish words, he was wary of making a similar mistake. He moved to rise. “—if you will permit me.”
He walked over to a tall cabinet and pulled out a bottle of madeira, then moved to the captain’s table where a platter still lay, untouched. It must have been John’s dinner the night before. The Witch’s captain must have fallen asleep before he had taken the time to eat it, then been roused by the boarding.
He would not think about how this was his friend’s last meal.
He looked over at her, and tried to smile. “We have wine, we have bread, and we have cheese. Simple fare but it will have to do, Mrs. Calvert.”
He had not called a woman by that title since Sarah... No, he could not remember using it even with her.
His make-believe bride was still reclined on the berth and watching him with interest, a hand propped under her head.
She looked so at ease. It was easy to pretend they were truly at home together, perhaps in a humble cottage somewhere beside the sea... and that she belonged in his bed.
Moreover, it was tempting to imagine her lying there without the dress. Her soft curves exposed in the soft moonlight. Her hand beckoning him to come to her quickly...
He averted his eyes. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” she said cheerfully, rising.
He put a portion before her as she sat down at the captain’s table and poured two goblets of wine.
“Thank you, husband,” she said, taking a sip, and glancing up with a small smile. Her face softened as she looked at him. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything for you, Mrs. Calvert,” he replied solemnly, intent on playing along.
He would do anything to distract her from their plight for as long as he could.
“Tell me a story?”
“A story? What kind?”
“About your life. Before this. Cherry has only told me a few details.”
“She has, has she?” Philip frowned.
“Yes, she has,” she repeated. “Because for some reason, she cares about you and wished for my opinion of you to be improved.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Was it?”
“Not really,” she said with a laugh. “But perhaps it will be now.” She took a little sip from her glass. “Especially since it has been established that you did not, in fact, murder your wife.”
He sighed and rubbed his chin.
“I am sorry, Philip,” she said swiftly, looking chastened. “That is a horrible thing for me to jest about. Please, forgive me.”
He shook his head. “It was I who made the foolish claim in the first place. Of course, it will remain in your mind for a while yet. However, perhaps now I may share the full story.”
He watched her a moment, sipping her wine, her face relaxed and her eyes bright. How natural it felt to sit here with her—as if they did so every night.
His throat constricted as he recalled their peril. Even if they escaped it, he had only a few days more with her.
Oh, how part of him wanted to tell her all. For both their sakes. If she knew, would it change anything?
“Your wife,” she prompted, softly. “She died in childbirth, I believe Cherry said?”
“Did she?”
“Was that not the case?”
“It was and it was not.” Philip grimaced. “Are you sure you wish to have this story told? I warn you, it is not a pleasant one.”
“I believe the more important questions are—will it trouble you greatly to speak of it? And do you wish to tell me?” she asked, gently, keeping her eyes locked on his.
“I find I do,” he said, shortly.
He picked up his goblet, refilled it, and drained it quickly. “I met my late wife, Sarah, before I had even met my own sister. Did Cherry tell you that?”
Her eyes grew large.
“I take it she did not.” He gave a short laugh. “My father, you see, did not think it fit to tell me I had a sister—a twin, in fact—or that my mother still lived. I grew up believing I was his only child and that my mother had died bearing me. It was only after his passing that Cherry showed up at my door. By that time, our mother was also dead. I had no opportunity to see her before she passed.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Or for her to know that I would have deeply wished to.”
“Sarah and I had been married nearly three years.” He took a breath. “Before that, I was mostly alone. Alone, with one exception. I had a friend, Miss Gardner. We had grown up together. He was the truest friend a young man could have had—or so I believed. We were like brothers. Indeed, before Cherry came along, I believed my bond with Martin was the closest one I possessed next to the one I shared with my wife.”
He fiddled with the stem of his goblet. “When I first met Sarah, Martin was with me. Martin Price is his name. Sarah was a stunning girl, charming and lovely. We were both taken with her. Martin and I had been living in a carefree way before that. We were spoiled sons. We did as we pleased with very little calling to account. Many would have called us young rakes. But when I saw Sarah, I decided it was time to settle down. My father had passed, our family businesses were in order. I was no longer such a young man.” He shook the madeira bottle. Nearly empty. “Although it was clear we were both taken with her, Martin was generous. He told me to go ahead—that there were other fish in the sea, and so on. When I proposed to Sarah, he claimed to be happy for me. Perhaps he was. I know that I was happy. I believed Sarah and I shared a rare thing—a true and lasting love.”
He looked at Miss Gardner. She was completely engrossed, her arms folded on the table, as she leaned forward.
“Well, years went by. Cherry arrived in England. She and Martin did not get along as well as I had expected they would. Cherry, as you have probably noticed, is an excellent judge of character. She saw something in Martin she did not like, I suppose. She did get on with Sarah—or at least, she tried. And Sarah tried. They were amicable.” He ran a hand through his hair. “About a year after Cherry arrived in London, I had to travel on business to France. We had interests there and properties which had not been examined in years. I was gone for about four months.”
This was the part he dreaded.
“When I returned...” He paused. “My wife was with child.”
He looked at her, waiting for her to understand.
“Yes?” she said, uncertainly.
“We had not been able to have children,” he said, curtly. “Four years had passed and we had not been blessed.”
“Did you want children?” she asked, tentatively.
“More than anything. I have always wanted a large family. To live in a house teeming with noise and activity was something I always dreamed of as a lonely boy growing up with a father who was always busy, always stand-offish. If he was not unloving, then he was at least a man who did not know how to show his love.”
“I do not see the problem...” She said slowly.
“I had been gone for four months. When I returned home, Sarah must have been six or more months along.”
He watched understanding dawn and a dismayed expression sweep over her sweet face. “You mean... She was unfaithful? And you believed you knew with whom?”
“I did. At first, I was simply heartbroken.” He grimaced. “The evidence was there before my eyes, but I could not believe it. I did not want to believe it. It was only when my sister forced the matter that I was compelled to accept the truth—that my wife had been seduced by my best friend, and was with child by him.”
He steepled his hands and leaned his chin against them. “Cherry suggested I had options. If I loved Sarah, she said, I could overlook the mistake. Go on with our lives together. Accept the child as my own. In time, perhaps grow to love it.”
“And the other?”
“I could divorce Sarah, forsake her. Abandon her to a ruined reputation and let her child be known publicly as a bastard.”
“But you would not have done that! Not to an innocent babe.” Miss Gardner looked horrified.
“Would I not?” He pursed his lips. “I was moving towards anger. But no, I was not angry towards the child. Nor do I think I would have abandoned it, if there had been a choice. The more I considered matters, the more furious I became with Martin. He and Sarah had always gotten on. At times I had even been jealous of their bond, their silly banter—though I told myself not to be. When I left, Martin began to spend a great deal of time alone with her under the auspices of taking care of her in my absence. He could be exceedingly charming. He had an expertise with women.”
“Your wife was not an innocent party either though,” Miss Gardner said softly.
“No, she was not,” he agreed. “What made it worse was that—” Even now the memory made his heart wrench. “—she truly did believe she loved him. And that he loved her.”
He looked down at the table, staring at the grained wood, seeing but unseeing. He could still remember Sarah’s tears, her agony when she understood the reality of her position.
“He had told her he would take her away, you see,” he said, quietly. “That they would always be together. He promised her he would be faithful to her. Always. Rather comical, isn’t it?”
“Heartbreaking,” she murmured. “Not comical.”
“Yes, well, I choose to find it comical now. I have had enough of heartbreak.”
It was a lie, but he would stand by it. He spun his goblet on it’s circular base distractedly, then watched as it fell and clattered to the table.
“He did not take her?”
“Hmm?”
“He did not fulfill his promise to your wife, I take it?”
“Oh. No. He did not. When he learned she was with child and that I had returned, I suppose he panicked. Even now I have to wonder if things might have been different if she had not been in that situation. Would he have followed through? Stolen her away without a word?” He shook his head. “I feel almost certain he had never truly planned to keep his word. In any case, he left London for his country estate, and left Sarah to my mercy. I am not sure what exactly he expected to happen next.”
“What did happen?”
“I found him, of course, and called him out.”
“You duelled?”
He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands for a moment.
“I am sorry,” she said, gently. “Shall we speak of something else?”
“No. I began this tale. I will see it finished.”
She nodded. “If that is what you wish.”
“It is.” He tried to smile. The attempt must have been rather pitiful. “We did not duel. We were prepared to. It was a foggy, rainy, miserable morning. We could hardly see one another across the field. Our seconds would have had us call it off. I believe Martin would have agreed. But I refused. I absolutely refused. We walked our paces, and then turned to fire. But...”
God, it was a horrid tale.
“Sarah ran onto the field. She ran between us. I believe she was running towards one of us. Towards Martin.” Oh, it stung. It stung even now that she had run towards her own death and away from her life with him. “He did not see her. Or perhaps he panicked and believed it was I who was running towards him. Regardless, he fired a shot.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, covering her mouth.
“God did not help Sarah,” he replied. “She fell on the field. We brought her back to the house. No, let me amend that—Martin did not. He did nothing to aid us whatsoever, nor did he wait for news of her condition. He left the field and, in the upset, I lost sight of him. I believe he must have left England soon after, if not that same day. John Merriweather was my second. It was he who helped us home. Surgeons were called, of course—the very best physicians. But it was soon clear there was nothing anyone could do. She was brought to bed early, which only served to worsen her injury. She died the next morning, a few hours after her little babe.”
He glanced across the table and was startled to see that Miss Gardner weeping, her hands over her mouth.
“My God, I am so sorry,” he exclaimed in dismay. “I should never have brought up the dreadful story...”
“No. Please. Stop, Philip.” She raised a hand to silence him, then wiped at her tears quickly, before pushing back her chair so abruptly it tipped over.
“Where are you going?” he asked in confusion.
“I must tell you something,” Rosalind said, distractedly.
“Tell me something?”
He looked so bewildered that her heart went out to him even more.
Did he not see that his tale had broken her into a thousand pieces?
That his words had shattered her?
But if he did not see, she could not tell him—though she longed to. There was convention. There was propriety. There were words which must not be spoken.
Even though she had been closer to this man in a way she had never been with anyone else before, she could not say she loved him.
But perhaps she could make him feel it.
He had begun to move his chair back and was rising to meet her.
Reaching him, she gently rested a hand on his chest, and pushed him back down into his seat.
“I have to tell you something,” she said again, more softly.
She hesitated, a moment, looking down. Had she truly ever found this man imposing?
When he looked at her now, she saw only tenderness in his eyes.
Of course, he would have forgiven his wife. Of course, he would have loved the child.
But he had not been given opportunity to do either one of those things.
Instead, he had been left broken and wounded—and the wounds had never healed.
She pitied him, yes. But more than that. Her heart ached for him in every sense.
She leaned forward and tried to tell him so with her lips.
If their first kiss—which he had commanded—had been one born of passion, then this one was of love and it was she who led.
She brushed her lips against his, lightly at first, then more firmly. She savored the rough feel of his jaw brushing against hers, the contrast of that strength and hardness against the softness and tenderness of his lips and his touch.
Everything was in that kiss.
All of the words she could not say, all of the apologies she wished she could make for things she had not even done but which had been done to him.
There was love in the kiss and there was a promise: I will never do you wrong, her lips said. Have faith in me.
She had caught him by surprise, but knew he had recovered when he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap.
She went willingly, sitting sideways, and immediately putting her arms around his neck and twining her fingers in his hair.
He was kissing her gently, tenderly, as if she were a rare and precious object to be treated with the utmost care.
But while it began softly, the longer they kissed the more heated it became.
He touched her tongue with his, delving into her mouth. She gasped at the welcome invasion, pleasure succeeding prudence, and ardency overtaking affection.
She met his tongue with her own, teasing and licking, her hands moving up and down the nape of his neck, twirling his thick hair between her fingers and caressing his skin until she felt him shiver under her hands.
She had power over him, she realized, and it was this which was so wonderful and terrifying—for he had the same effect on her.
The liquor must have loosened her inhibitions for she pressed closer against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest. Heat flushed through her whole body as she felt his immediate response and suddenly filled with utter wantonness, she barely resisted the desperate urge to hike her skirts up and straddle him, to wrap herself around him, press against him until they were as close as two people could be.
She had forgotten the pirates. She had forgotten the ship. She had lost all sense of self. Who they were and what they were and where they were going seemed wholly unimportant.
They were meant to be here. They were meant to be like this. It was right and natural, and it felt incredibly good.
Philip had been restrained in his touch, limiting his hands to her waist and her hips, where he stroked and caressed in a way that she found tantalizing. Now he began to move his hands up and over her back, her shoulders, roaming until he found the soft swells of her breasts. She quivered. She had felt his touch there before, and now she longed for it again.
Fumbling, he broke the kiss. “This clothing is...”
“Yes?” she said, breathlessly.
“Excruciating,” he said, groaning and grinning at the same time.
She brushed her lips to his and whispered against them, “I agree.”
“What can we do about this dreadful dilemma?” he whispered back, bringing his mouth close to her ear.
Shivers ran down her spine as his lips brushed the delicate skin of her earlobe, then ran down her neck. She felt his tongue licking and lapping ever so gently. Then he gave a playful nibble.
“Oooooh,” she sighed. “Do that again.”
He bit her harder, first in one spot, then another. Lower and still lower still.
“It buttons down the front,” she gasped, unable to keep temptation at bay.
He paused and looked up at her. “It does?”
He looked more carefully at her bodice. “It does.” She blushed, but delighted in the wide smile spreading across his face.
She had done that. She had made him happy.
With her breasts, with her body, she reminded herself. Was that all she could do? She wondered if she had conveyed what she had intended to, or had simply been successful in putting the past from his mind.
Did it matter?
She found it very much did.
He was working at the buttons, muttering teasing words as he went about what he would soon do to her, when she heard a noise.
“Philip,” she breathed, and put a hand on his. He stopped immediately and looked up.
The noise came again.
A scraping, then a clatter of wood against wood.
“It sounds like it is coming from...” she started.
“Below,” he finished for her, and lifted her up and off his lap. She straightened her dress while he began to look around
She glanced down at her wrinkled skirts and that was when she felt something brush against her ankles.
She gave a startled shriek and stepped back, then saw what had touched her.
“Philip!” She laughed in relief. “It is only Pippa!” She scooped up the cat and gently rubbed beneath her chin.
“Oh, the poor little lady. She has no idea she has lost her master,” Rosalind said, sadly, holding Pippa to her chest.
“Pippa, yes, I see. But no, I do not think that was it.” Philip was still looking around the room distractedly.
What else could it have been, she wondered, following his gaze.
That was when she noticed the little red hat poking up from underneath Captain Merriweather’s wide oak desk.
It was followed by a face she could not help but recognize.
“Gracie!”
When she had spoken so mysteriously and then come around the table, Philip had been baffled.
Did she mean to slap him? Scold him for telling her such a miserable tale? Weep over him?
What she did was far more surprising and far better.
The past fell away with the touch of her lips on his.
Yet as he responded to her with fervour, he felt a new sadness.
At first, he could not place the reason.
Then he understood.
The first time he had fallen in love, he had no idea what was happening to him. He had been in ecstasy over each feeling and sensation. It was all new and exquisite. He had hoped that feeling would never end—and for him, it mostly hadn’t. He would never know what Sarah’s experience had truly been.
But now, things were different. He was older. He recognized this feeling. He had felt it before.
Yet even so, it was different with her. Sweeter, more profound, and even more precious for he had not expected to ever feel it again.
The pang in his heart reminded him that it was almost certainly unrequited.
Miss Gardner was young, innocent, and merely moved by his story.
It was far too early for her to be feeling... well, love.
Soon she would be gone. He would remain. The cycle would repeat.
But did it have to?
He knew he didn’t deserve her.
But that still did not mean that he had to give her up.
Rosalind was stronger than Sarah had been, by far. Hers was a much different character—bold and forceful, where Sarah’s had been milder and more pliable. Much more pliable, he now understood. He had not seen the warning signs in his wife until it was far too late.
But Rosalind was different. She was fierce and intrepid, confident and opinionated. Somehow, he knew she would be loyal, too.
When he looked into her eyes, he could dream of a different future. He saw a woman he could share a home with. A woman who would faithfully return his love and devotion. A woman who would help him carry that love on to children of their own.
Or, if they were not so blessed, out into the world. For like a bright shining beacon, Miss Gardner shone with hope wherever she went.
Did she have enough to spare for him?
Or was it too late for him to change course from this path of bitterness and hate?
He forced himself to recall where he was headed and why: To face the man who had stolen his wife’s innocence, broken her heart, betrayed them both, and taken two lives. Martin’s crime had been accidental. That did not, in Philip’s view, make him less culpable for he had seduced a woman and forsaken her. Created a child with her and forsaken that child as well.
He and Martin had both run from their pasts for too long. Now it was finally time to settle this.
Did he really want Miss Gardner to be there watching when they did?
Not only that, but should his suspicions prove correct then Martin may also have been involved in the disappearance of Cherry’s husband.
If Charles had been harmed in any way—or worse, if Cherry was to be left a widow—Philip had already sworn to himself that Martin would not live another day.
Hence, the sound which startled them out of their embrace was in once sense a relief. If something had not interrupted, he could not be sure he would not have fallen to the same temptation as Martin and taken something infinitely dear which did not belong to him but which Miss Gardner might have felt coerced into giving.
He had no wish to share that similarity with his erstwhile friend.
“Ahoy, Rosalind!” the floating red-capped head said gleefully, looming out from a shadowy hole in the floor.
“The hatch!” Philip clapped his hands over his face. “The bloody, blasted hatch.”
“Yes, you built it, didn’t you?” Grayson said. “Duffels knew about it. He says he knows all of his lady’s secrets. He is right down below.”
Grayson’s head dropped out of sight for a moment.
“He wants to know if you’re both all right, and he says to tell you he sent me up the ladder because of his arthritic knees.”
“His arthritic knees!” Philip cried. “I’ll give him arthritic knees. Why didn’t he think to open the hatch hours ago?”
That being said, he knew he would not have traded those hours away for anything.
Miss Gardner was marching closer towards the hatch and to Grayson, her hands on her hips and a strange expression on her face.
“Grayson!” She said loudly. “Grayson!” With every iteration of the word, her voice became more shrill.
“Grayson!” This time it was practically a shout. Philip resisted the urge to shush her. He did not think she would appreciate his interference.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, standing over the boy.
“Doing here? I’m earning my pay, of course,” Grayson said, grinning.
Philip watched in confusion as Rosalind put her hands over her eyes. “This is a nightmare,” he heard her groan from beneath.
“Never fear, Rosalind,” the little boy said, cheekily. “I’m quite well and safe. In fact, I’m tip-top!”
“You won’t be tip-top for long,” Rosalind said in a menacing tone, stepping closer and closer to the hatch.
“Because I’m going to murder you!” She screeched and reached forward.
Philip quickly caught her by the waist.
“Here now,” he complained. “Grayson has come to aid us and you’re about to pummel him for doing us the service. What could you possibly have against this poor ship’s boy?”
“Not Grayson,” she said, through gritted teeth, struggling half-heartedly against him. “Not Grayson.”
“What is that now?” he asked, baffled.
“That is not a ship’s boy, Philip,” his red-faced lady-love exclaimed. “That is not a boy at all. That is my sister!”
Philip knew his face must have been an amusing thing to see. He spun around to examine Grayson.
The little chap was grinning back like a diabolical Puck.
“I suppose the jig is up,” Grayson said with a sigh, and pulled off his red cap.
“Now do you see?” Rosalind moaned, as Grayson’s long ash-blonde locks came tumbling down.
“You’re a girl,” Philip said in amazement. He released Rosalind and crouched down to have a closer look. “You know, there was a moment where I wondered. A very brief moment, but it was there. I cannot say I would have figured it out, however. You make a very convincing cabin boy.”
“Thank you,” the imp said, smirking. “You make a very convincing gentleman.”
“Gracie!” He heard Rosalind snap from behind him.
But he was grinning. He could not find it in himself to be angry. The entire thing was too absurd.
“I suppose this is the reason for all of your late night watches?” he asked, inclining his head towards the imp’s elder sister who stood behind him with her arms crossed.
“It was the easiest way to avoid my sister, yes. I’m very pleased to finally meet you properly, Mr. Calvert,” the girl said, with a wink. “I see you have been getting on well with Rosalind.”
“Just how long did you have that hatch up, Gracie?” Rosalind said, suddenly sounding panicked.
“Not long at all,” the boy named Grayson who was actually a girl named Gracie replied, soothingly. “I popped Pippa up first so that I wouldn’t startle you as much.”
“How very kind,” Rosalind muttered. “Well? What are we doing now? Do you have a small army down there or is it just you, the cat, and Duffels?”
“I’m afraid it is mostly just me and Duffels, for you have the cat,” Gracie reminded her sister. “Oh, and Perita, of course.”
“Perita! Of course!” Rosalind threw up her hands.
“How is Cherry?” Philip said suddenly, recalling their dilemma.
“She is as well as can be expected,” Gracie said, maddeningly obtuse. “By which I mean that she is alive and still on the ship. But her lying in has begun early. That is why I came to you,” she explained, looking at her sister.
“To deliver a baby!” Rosalind glared. “Not to rescue us?”
“I suppose we might be able to manage both,” Philip murmured, putting a consoling hand on her arm. He could swear she looked at him affectionately, and his heart swelled imagining how he might be able to touch her with such tenderness always, were they to go from their play-acting to the reality.
“Rosalind can deliver the baby,” Gracie announced. “Mr. Calvert and I will rescue us.”
“Oh, no!” Rosalind cried emphatically, shaking her head back and forth so many times that Philip lost count.
“You see?” Gracie complained to Philip. “This is why I couldn’t tell her. I knew that as soon as she found out, she would spoil all the fun.”
“Says the child who thinks that being boarded by pirates counts as ‘fun’!” Rosalind retorted.
“I am not a child. I am a ship’s boy. The best on the ship, Duffels says.”
“Oh, my God.” Philip put a hand to his head. “Please tell me that our first mate did not know you were masquerading when he hired you on.”
Gracie looked thoughtful, then ducked her head down into the hatch again.
They heard her bellow something and then a gruff voice mumbled a reply.
“No,” Gracie asserted, popping back up. “He says he just thought I was a pretty-faced boy who had a long way to go before becoming a man. I cannot tell if he is paying me a compliment or not.”
“And what would the compliment be?” Rosalind said, rolling her eyes. “That you are pretty or that you have the potential to become a man?”
“Is Captain Carew on board right now?” Philip was growing impatient. “Is James?”
“James!” Gracie’s eyes widened. “That is one of the things we wanted to talk to you about.” She looked between the two of them with an exasperated expression. “Well? Are you coming down or not?”
“Guess what Captain Carew was before he became a pirate,” Gracie said, as she jumped off the ladder and sat down on a barrel.
Rosalind stepped down after her and looked about. They were in an enclosed room filled with crates and barrels. No natural light came from anywhere but lanterns lined the wall at even spaces.
As Philip came down he closed the hatch carefully behind. From where Rosalind stood, looking up at the wooden boards, one would never guess there was a hatch there at all.
Gracie hopped back up to remove the ladder as soon as Philip stepped off.
“I don’t know,” Rosalind said, testily. “A cobbler. A haberdasher. A coachman.”
“You’re not very good at this. No, guess again,” Gracie said.
“We give up,” Philip said quickly, hoping to prevent bloodshed between the two sisters.
Now that they were together, and the two girls were seated beside one another, he could easily see the resemblance. Gracie was a smaller, younger, brasher version of her sister.
And as her sister was a bold young lady to begin with, that was truly saying something.
“A vicar!” Gracie crowed. “Would you ever have guessed it? James told Duffels and Duffels told me.”
“It’s true,” Duffels said, from where he leaned against a wooden post, looking doleful. “And if that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.”
“A sign of what?” Rosalind asked, curiously.
“That God has truly forsaken us,” Duffels proclaimed. “Sending an escaped vicar on a pirate ship to kill us all.”
“Oh, Duffels, don’t be silly. Duffles is just grumpy because Perita was hiding in his cabin and when we found her, she had already...” Gracie dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know. On his bed.”
“Invading my private space. Soiling my linens,” Duffels lamented.
“I suppose she remembers when you said you wished to throw her overboard,” Rosalind remarked, not looking particularly sympathetic.
“All right, all right,” Philip interjected. “Duffels, what is the state of things? Where is Cherry? Have either of you managed to speak with the Britannia’s first mate?”
Duffels and Gracie looked at one another. “Duffels won’t say it,” Gracie said, with a proud smile, “but he has actually been brilliant. He gets on with James splendidly. James says Duffels reminds him of his great-grandfather who had a sour face but a great big heart.”
“Sour face, indeed,” Duffels grumbled. “I calls it as I sees it, that’s the truth.”
“Yes, yes, Duffels,” Gracie soothed. “Anyhow, James hates Captain Carew. And he is going to help us so that he can get the crew to be good men again.”
“Or,” she amended. “At least not so bad as they are now.”
“Excellent plan,” Philip said. He frowned. “What is the plan exactly...?”
“Rosalind will go to Cherry,” Gracie explained. “James will send back the remaining pirates who Captain Carew told to stay. Then when only James remains, I’ll sneak onto the pirate ship, lure Captain Carew back onto this ship, and then—”
“And then?” Philip asked, looking grim.
“And then you will have to fight him to the death!” Gracie looked thrilled at the prospect. “Or at least tie him up and put him somewhere until he can face the full force of English justice and be hideously tortured before he swings. James told us all about your speech!”
“Oh, it stuck with him, did it?” Philip wondered whether James was helping them because he wished to move up the pirate chain of command or because he was reluctant to risk hanging after hearing Philip’s threats. Probably a mix of the two.
“You are going to lure the Mad Pirate King from his ship onto ours?” Rosalind asked, in disbelief. “Who thought of that part of the plan? They must have been madder than Captain Carew.”
“The Mad Pirate King would make an excellent ship’s name,” Gracie mused. “I shall have to relay it to James. He says I can come aboard the Britannia if Mr. Calvert won’t hire me on again as cabin boy.”
“Mr. Calvert will be doing no such thing,” Rosalind said, with exasperation. “And you most certainly will not be joining a pirate crew! Can you imagine? What on earth would I say to mother?”
“She would probably be proud of me,” Gracie muttered. “She always liked pirate stories.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes and pretended not to hear. “Well, clearly that part of the plan needs to change. But as for the rest?” She was looking at him, Philip realized.
“As for the rest,” he replied. “I suppose, if James is willing to help us, then we have a significant advantage. If we can get away from the Britannia, I’m sure Duffels and I can work together to get us to Tortola,” Philip said.
“And Captain Merriweather can help, once he recovers,” Gracie said, cheerily.
“Captain Merriweather!” Philip and Rosalind exclaimed together.
“What do you mean? John is not dead?” Philip cried.
“No, he’s not dead, but he’s been mostly-dead all night,” Gracie conceded. “We can see where you would have thought he was dead. I’m sure he will forgive you for not helping him.”
“Not helping him!” Rosalind gave a short laugh.
“Yes, I’m sure he will,” Philip said. “Where is he, Grayson? I mean, Miss Gardner.”
Gracie wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t start that. I would prefer Grayson. But—” She quickly added, seeing her sister’s expression. “—if you will not call me that, then please call me Gracie. And Captain Merriweather is with Cherry. She’s been helping him. Between her pains.” Gracie turned to her sister. “They’ve been coming more and more quickly, so perhaps you should go now?”
She smiled angelically at her sister and gestured to the door.