The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood

Chapter 4

The storm caught themall by surprise.

It had been a fine day, warm and sunny, and if there had been clouds in the sky, then they had been few and far between.

After dusk, the wind picked up and the sky rapidly darkened to an ominous shade of grey.

The crew had been through many a tempest at sea and were hardly perturbed by the possibility of another.

To the two women in the cabins below, however, the experience was quite novel.

At first, they were not frightened. There was something rather exciting about enduring their first storm at sea. Now the voyage had truly begun. They would come through no worse for wear as many travelers before had done.

Of course, there was always the risk of greater danger. But neither of the two women were the sort to fret or complain.

And so, they sat together in the little sitting room outside of their cabins making conversation. Pippa had selected Cherry’s lap that evening, and the woman was stroking the cat’s soft fur with a delicate touch as she and Rosalind discussed the book they had both been reading—the latest Waverley novel by Sir Walter Scott, aptly titled The Pirate.

Abruptly, a boom of thunder so loud that it shook the cabin sounded. Pippa leapt from Cherry’s lap and raced out the sitting room door.

“Confound it!” Cherry exclaimed. “I forgot to close the door. Oh, dear. Captain Merriweather had asked us to try to keep her down below.”

Pippa was a seafaring cat, but storms rattled her and she had been known to become a nuisance on deck as she sought out shelter in the most confined, secluded nook she could find.

This was no time to have a panicked cat underfoot.

“I’ll get her,” Rosalind said, already rising. “You stay put. With your feet up.” Rosalind pointed to the chest in front of Cherry’s chair.

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped out and walked through the hall as quickly as she could.

The ship was starting to lurch most unsettlingly, back and forth, and while she had been told this was normal during a storm and nothing to be concerned about, it was nevertheless a challenge to become accustomed to.

Rosalind lost track of the number of times she paused to brace herself against a wall as the ship listed and swayed, thanking God each time that she was not prone to seasickness.

When she reached the steps leading to the top deck, she paused and peered up. The hatch had been lowered and covered with a tarpaulin so it was difficult to gauge what was going on above.

Pippa may have run off somewhere else entirely. To a lower deck rather than above.

But the sound of a scuffle behind her took that hope away.

Pippa raced past, shooting up the stairs and wriggling through a gap in the tarp, escaping with such zest that one might think the devil himself was after her.

Turning back, Rosalind saw that it was not the devil—merely an overly-enthusiastic Perita. The large dog had been quickly accepted as a member of the crew by all but the ship’s cat. Perita had been trying ever since to force a friendship with the disinclined feline.

Now, Perita was forced to admit defeat as she reached the covered hatch. Whining and pushing her nose against the tarp, she was clearly seeking a way to follow her newfound beloved.

“You do know she does not return your affection, Perita?” Rosalind eyed the dog in exasperation. “She is fleeing from you, not playing tag.”

Perita looked up at her with wide innocent eyes and gave another plaintive whine.

“Absolutely not. You will remain here. I will fetch the cat. You have done quite enough damage already. Go back to the cabin.” Rosalind pointed authoritatively. “Go.”

Slowly, Perita crept past. When she reached the juncture, she looked back with a hopeful expression but Rosalind shook her head.

As soon as the dog was out of sight, Rosalind picked up her skirts and stepped up to raise the hatch.

What she saw was a scene of organized chaos. There was lightning hitting the deck with frightening frequency, followed by the heavy cracks of thunder. Water was pouring down in a heavy sheet of rain, gusts of wind blowing it across the deck in waves.

Breakers crashed up and over the sides of the ship, and while Rosalind knew it was not enough to sink them, the sight of so much water crashing across the deck was off-putting.

A handful of crew were still on deck, tying down equipment and carrying cages of chickens and pulling goats on tethers down below decks to safety for the duration of the storm. There were even a few deft-footed men still up in the riggings, taking down sails.

Meanwhile, the wind and waves were buffeting the vessel even harder. She watched in a kind of horrified fascination as each time the ship rode a wave and came crashing back down, the crew would seek out the nearest hand holds and brace.

There!

Across the deck, between two barrels, Rosalind spotted foolish Pippa, quivering in terror, having escaped one nightmare only to exchange it for another.

Rosalind was lifting the hatch to step out and grab the cat when a brown furry blur shot past.

“Perita! No!” But it was too late.

With a groan, Rosalind scrambled up onto the deck.

Fortunately, Perita had not noticed where Pippa lay hidden and was more concerned with not sliding across the wet deck.

Rosalind sputtered as a hard-blown rain blew across her face. She had been prepared to become wet, only not quite so quickly.

In the next instant, a gust of wind pushed a blanket of cold rain across the deck, showering her from head to toe.

By the time she reached Pippa, she was as thoroughly drenched as the cat, who had shrunk down to a fourth of her size and was looking exceedingly pitiful.

“Cats were not made for water,” Rosalind scolded, but she could hardly hear her own words above the sound of the storm.

Shaking her head, she scooped up the cat with one hand, resting the other on a tied barrel to steady herself. She braced herself just in time. A large wave crashed over the starboard side of the ship.

Rosalind was amazed she did not drop the cat as the deluge struck. She nearly lost her grip on the barrel at the impact, but managed to close her eyes and clench her fingers tight around the wooden edge. She hugged Pippa to her chest, knowing the cat must be even more terrified.

When the ship righted itself for a moment, she quickly made her way back the few feet to the hatch, lifted it, and thrust Pippa through.

Now for Perita.

She saw the next wave before she felt it. She had been standing close to the mizzenmast and this time wrapped her arms around the thick pole, praying it would not be struck by lightning.

When the ship settled again, she looked about for Perita.

“Duffels!” she cried, seeing the first mate hurrying past. “Have you seen that blasted dog?”

“Blasted dog indeed, miss. You should not be up here,” the first mate yelled over the wind, eying her disapprovingly. “If the dog was daft enough to come on deck, she’ll get what she deserves when she’s blown overboard.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am afraid of,” Rosalind muttered.

“Go back down below now. This is no place for you,” the first mate commanded, hurrying on without waiting to see if his order would be followed.

Rosalind looked around helplessly. Perita was nowhere in sight.

“There’s the dog, miss,” a young sailor yelled from across the deck. He stepped up to her and pointed.

There was Perita—cowering in a corner by the captain’s cabin.

“Yes, I see her! Thank you ever so much,” Rosalind shouted, trying to make herself heard over the roar of the wind. She touched the man’s arm in gratitude.

She hurried across to Perita and had just reached her when she saw the door to the captain’s cabin opening and Philip Calvert begin to step out.

“Not again,” Rosalind muttered grimly, moving swiftly out of the way.

There was no collision this time, but she saw Philip’s eyes widen in shock and then anger as he saw her.

“You should not be up here,” he shouted, his deep rough voice easily carrying. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, Miss Gardner?”

She could not imagine him ever speaking gently, though Cherry claimed he was very capable of doing so.

Simply not to her, Rosalind supposed, with an odd feeling of regret.

“I am rescuing the dog,” Rosalind shouted back, with all the dignity she could muster, pulling herself up straighter.

When she was faced with his towering bulk, she found herself wishing she was ten feet tall and as intimidating towards him as he was to her.

“The dog!” Philip scoffed, looking at her in disgust as if she was merely looking for an excuse to come up for a pleasure-stroll in a tempest.

Rosalind pointed.

At least Perita had the decency to look guilty.

In a moment, Philip had crossed to the dog, and grabbing her by the scruff tugged her across the deck.

“Be gentle with her!” Rosalind cried, indignantly, causing Philip to turn back.

“I have had many dogs, Miss Gardner,” he called over the wind, glaring at her angrily. “I assure you, I mistreated none of them. If you would prefer to retrieve this giantess yourself...”

A wave cut him off.

Rosalind clutched for a hand hold, but found none.

Her feet chose the absolute worst moment to slide out from under her and before she could even contemplate crying out for help, she found herself skidding across the deck.

As she sailed past Philip on her bottom, she decided this was how she would probably die—sliding from one end of the ship to the other, with that confounded man looking on in amusement.

She had closed her eyes and was preparing to crash against the rail, praying she would not break both her legs, when a strong hand shot out and gripping her upper arm, yanked her upwards and pulled her back until she hit a hard and familiar chest with some force.

That confounded, dratted, blasted man.

She did not wish to thank him.

She did not wish to touch him. Nor he her, she presumed.

But it could not be helped. He had saved her from an ignominious end and she was humble enough to acknowledge it.

“Thank you,” she managed.

Refusing to meet his eyes, she looked at his mouth instead. It was a beautiful mouth for a man, she had to admit. Full and sensual, yet masculine. A layer of dark stubble coated the bottom half of his face. Apparently, Mr. Calvert did not shave as frequently when he traveled. There was something rather erotic about the contrast between the alluring lips and the rough dark hair. Something which almost made her want to run a finger over his skin, to touch those lips, to feel that layer of stubble. Would it be rough to the touch or was it softer than it looked?

With a start, she remembered their first meeting and her irresistible urge. This man brought out something wicked in her. A boldness of spirit long dormant.

Then she realized his mouth was quirking.

“You odious man! Does this amuse you?” she cried, trying to push away from him. His grip was still tight on her arm. It was not painful, merely firm, and while she knew he was not trying to hurt her, only to keep her safe from harm, she felt infuriated nevertheless by his protectiveness, by the touch, and worst of all, by the fact that a small disloyal part of her was secretly enjoying both of these things. “Please release me.”

When he made no move to do so, she stamped her foot and repeated the demand again. “Release me! Now!”

“Would you prefer to slide across the deck on your... skirts...again?” Philip asked very slowly and with disarming civility. Drat the man, she could see he was trying not to laugh.

Rosalind lifted her chin. “Perita and I wish to go below.”

“Please,” she finally added.

“As the lady wishes,” he replied drily, beginning to lead the trio across carefully.

They had nearly reached the hatch, stopping to brace only once, when a voice from above rang out frantically, “Watch out! You below there, look out!”

Rosalind turned her head frantically and was just in time to see a large piece of timber flying through the air towards them. It must have broken off from the spar of a mast overhead.

“Philip!” she cried, ducking her head and trying to pull him down with her.

But she was too late.

There was a sickening thud as the wood hit connected heavily with flesh and bone.

As the timber fell upon him, Philip let go of his charges.

The impact swept him the last few feet across the deck and pressing him up hard against the rail.

Rosalind could see the blood already streaming from his forehead, running into his eyes and down his face. He put a hand out to touch his head and in that instant another wave struck the ship, tilting it portside.

Rosalind grabbed Perita and snagged a rope with her other hand, only to watch in horror as Philip remained frozen, his hand still to his head.

He had made no attempt to steady himself or to grab hold of the rail, despite it being so close. He was completely disoriented.

She bit her lip so hard she could taste blood. That cursed man was going to die and it would all be her fault. He would never have been hit if he had not been—in his own, distinctively infuriating manner—trying to help her.

And then her horror intensified as a second wave impacted. It felt as if minutes were passing as the water poured over her and the dog. Blinded by the deluge, she squeezed her eyes shut and held onto the rope with all of her might, chanting a silent prayer.

Perita huddled against her, trembling and yelping.

The ship felt as if it were spinning.

The sky was illuminated with lightening, followed by the loudest boom of thunder yet.

It felt as if they were in the very center of the storm.

And then there was calm and silence.

The ship had righted itself.

Perhaps it was her imagination but even the rain felt as if it had suddenly lessened.

Rosalind shook water from her eyes and turned to port.

Philip was not at the rail.

He was not anywhere that she could see.

He was gone.

He was going to die, he realized, as he fell backwards.

There was a serenity in the knowledge, in the inevitability of it all, and for a split second he felt at peace.

Then his body hit the water. The icy sea was a shock to every inch of his body as he fell into the depths, darkness closing in around him.

Time froze as he sank further and further into the black water. But when the momentum of the fall finally wore off, with his last breath he made a choice.

Kicking and kicking relentlessly, slowly he rose to the surface. He broke through the water with a sputter, gulping down the welcome air.

But merely rising to the surface had taken all the energy he had. He was depleted and weak as a babe. Leaning back, he tried to use his body’s buoyancy to stay afloat.

The blood from his face had been washed away and he could see clearly.

The ship was still there. Closer than he had anticipated.

But it would not be for long.

Lightning lit the tableau and he saw a figure up at the rail.

Miss Gardner looked down at him, her face a pale mask of horror.

She would blame herself. He understood, and wished it could be otherwise. Wished he could tell her not to concern herself for his sake, for his life had been over for quite some time and if he was finally getting his ending, it was a better one than he probably deserved.

He felt a pang as the thought of Cherry and her child. He would have liked to meet her babe. To have held a living, breathing child in his arms, even for a moment or two.

A wave crashed over him and he was pulled down again.

When he managed to cough up the water and take a breath, there were two figures at the rail. He could not make out who the second was.

He went under again.

This time the pain from his head was so intense he could hardly move his arms to struggle back up.

He felt the air on his face with a dwindling relief. He was still alive. For a few more moments. He took in breath after breath of air, gasping and sputtering.

His body wished to live, there was no denying it.

He glanced up at the ship again. The two figures at the rail had disappeared.

It was for the best.

He would not wish for her to see him die.

But then...

Something hurtled from the ship.

It flew through the air almost gracefully, diving down and towards him.

Not something, someone.

He must be nearer to death than he thought because for an instant he could almost have believed it was the shape of a woman.

But no man or woman would be enough of a bedlamite to leap off a ship in such a godawful storm.

Nevertheless, there was someone in the water with him.

He saw arms sweeping through the waves towards him and a little heart-shaped face, drawing near.

Her!

He tightened his jaw, imagining all that he would say to Miss Gardner if they both got out of this alive.

Suddenly, he wanted to live—body and mind—for that reason more than anything else.

Someone had to put a stop to this young woman’s ludicrous antics before she killed herself.

“Take the rope! Take the rope, Philip!” She was there, gasping out the words. Her fair hair hung around her face, long and tangled.

He could not look away.

He tried to lie, to tell himself she looked like a drowned rat.

But the truth was that her face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A vivid flash of lightening illuminated her.

Her eyes—so large and luminous. Had they always been so lovely? How was it that he had not noticed until now? A perfect shade of brown, with flecks of gold.

Her teeth were clenched together, her face a mask of pure determination. He felt a surge of emotion spread through him—something akin to pride.

A bedlamite she might be, but this woman was a worthy traveler on such a ship as the Witch. Her expression mirrored the mermaid figurehead’s—fearsome and fey, a true woman of the waves.

He grabbed the rope, his grip surprising him. His will to live surprising him more.

“Hold tight, and they’ll pull us up,” she commanded.

She looked at his hands with a displeased expression.

“You aren’t holding tight enough,” she yelled.

He nearly laughed.

He was holding it as tightly as he could manage. A few moments more and he was certain he would have no strength left to do so at all.

There had been no large waves in almost a minute and the blood was beginning to run into his eyes again.

A surprisingly strong set of female hands shot out and grasped his shirt, pulling him close. Her hands felt their way down his chest, then reached lower. She was trying to secure the second rope around him, he understood.

Her small, soft body pressed up against his as she worked. She was as wet as he, yet somehow there was still a heat to her. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of her against him.

If he could still desire, perhaps he could still live.

And not only for tonight.

A wave washed over them. Instinctively, he pulled her towards him, holding her jealously against his chest, and feeling her gripping him back. When the waters calmed, her hands returned to do their deft work.

It felt as if hours had passed though he knew it must only have been a few minutes.

She was shivering.

He tried to form words, to tell her to leave him, to call up to the crew and tell them to pull her up immediately, or so help him he would have all of their hides... but he suddenly felt drowsy and light.

His head was tipping backwards into the water.

“Don’t you dare, Philip!”

And then he was up in the air again.