A Different Sort of Perfect (27 page)

If only he could lock her down there. But with her
determination, she'd break through the best-battened of
hatchways.

Frantic minutes passed, measured by heartbeats,
rigging completed line by line, and grains of sand trickling from
the glass. The crimson flickers deepened to flashes, lurid behind
the concealing clouds, and the whispered, individual thunder-like
bangs merged into a continuous, pounding roll. The glass was
turned; the Marine sentry rang six bells; the carpenter reported
the ship pumped dry; the bosun rigged splinter-netting. Teasing
cat's paws rippled the sea and flapped the maincourse, and
Topaze
sighed as she eased toward the battle one frustrating
inch at a time. Every spare hand scratched the closest backstay,
and every crewman's lips pursed in a silent, desperate whistle.
Surely they'd get a wind, a good wind abaft the beam, before it was
too late for that ferocious little brig. But the right-sided cannon
fire stretched out, the pauses longer between the sharp little
bangs, while the larger ship continued to fire a steady, rolling
broadside. The growling along the deck intensified, the crew's
anger deepening.

Lady Clara's lips pursed, too, but in concentration
as she followed him about the bustling deck, scribbling his
comments to write fair into the log and for his official report
after the battle. With her pale yellow hair glowing in the golden
sunlight, she seemed heartbreakingly young, younger than Staunton,
and too young for what he knew was coming. During their last
cruise, Staunton had grown up in a single hour, ripening from a
carefree lad to a stern midshipman in the battle with the Spanish
privateer. But Lady Clara perhaps didn't have the depth of
character Staunton had shown from his childhood. In comparison she
seemed brittle, more likely to shatter instead of strengthen, and
he'd hate to witness that catastrophe. As much as the gallant brig,
Lady Clara was his responsibility; somehow he had to save them
both.

To do so, he had to find some way to convince her to
seek shelter below before he could take
Topaze
into enemy
fire, and he shouldn't be worrying about that nor her at the
moment, but about preparing his ship for the pounding that was
surely coming. But her image, like a worshipped idol, hovered at
the edge of his thoughts, and not only because she trailed him from
party to working party. Even when his back was turned, even when
she held discreetly quiet and the scratching of her pen was muted
by the racket all around, he felt her presence.

Bad enough he'd been stuck with her. Worse that he'd
no choice but to carry her with him into battle. Worst of all that
now, with
Topaze
drifting closer to danger with every
despicable, wanton breeze, he couldn't clear his mind. Her somber,
intense gaze, head bent over her book as she waited for his words,
riveted him whenever he glanced over his shoulder and then followed
his thoughts back around. He couldn't afford to think of her. He
couldn't forget her. And he didn't want to consider why not.

Another breath of wind rattled the maincourse;
longer, less teasing, more resolved. His pulse quickened. The trade
winds remembered their duty. It wouldn't be much longer before he
could set tops'ls and clew up the mains'l, clearing the deck for
fighting. The gunner's mates filled the shot garlands, served out
small arms to the sharpshooters, and positioned pikes, boarding
axes, and marlinspikes along the deck between the guns.

"On deck there!" yelled the lookout from the fore
crosstrees. "The storm's clearing! A ship and a brig yardarm to
yardarm, dead ahead!"

The storm's trailing edge rippled, convulsed, and
swept aside like a curtain from a stage. The battle's thunder broke
free into a ferocious roar, echoed by every hand on deck. Behind
him, Lady Clara gasped and cried out.

The
Flirt
it was, but staggering like a
punch-drunk fighter on the ropes. Her foremast was gone, chewed off
and sagging forlornly over her starboard batteries, her sparkling
gold leaf was black with soot, and her larboard side had been
savaged until three gunports collapsed into one massive hole. A
lone four-pounder barked, still spitting fire. The ball punched the
side of the frigate towering over her, a frigate seemingly little
touched by the desperate battle. All her masts stood proud, the
insignificant holes in her woodwork didn't dip to the waterline,
only a handful of rigging lines waved cut ends, and all her
starboard guns spoke, answering the
Flirt
's defiance with
bitter thunder.

Fleming gripped the shrouds. "Lady Clara, note the
time."

"I have it, Captain."

Topaze
's mains'l flapped again, a drawn-out,
quivering sound that didn't quite die away, and this time he felt
the wind's sigh across his cheek. His heart rose through his anger.
"Mr. Abbot, let's set the tops'ls and stays'ls, clew up the
mains'l, and then pipe the hands to breakfast." Unless that
capricious breeze strengthened considerably within the next few
minutes, it would take a good hour for
Topaze
to cover the
league remaining between them and the battle; no sense sending the
crew into combat with empty bellies, and the activity would keep
them from becoming nervous. "And then I believe we may beat to
quarters."

Before he'd quite finished speaking, the bosun's pipe
whispered a muted call. But the hands were already moving; in the
way of a well-founded, happy ship's crew, they'd predicted his
orders and positioned themselves accordingly. It sliced minutes off
the maneuvering time. Sailcloth opened above
Topaze
like a
white flower, the tops'ls high above the deck and the triangular
stays'ls parallel to the keel, out of the gunners' way, while the
large, lower maincourse tucked up against the yardarm. The frigate
sighed and leaned from the wind, whispering to the waves as she
slid through the water. Her speed increased; often the higher
breeze was steadier and stronger than what was felt on the
deck.

"On deck, there—"

Fleming hissed. "Quietly, man! They haven't smoked us
yet." Neither the frigate nor the brig showed any sign of noticing
Topaze
sneaking down on them, although the distance had
narrowed to no more than two miles.

The bellow shifted to a minor key. "—
Flirt
's
striking her colors."

Again the crew growled, disbelief and outrage flowing
from the fo'c'sle aft. Fleming leaned on the starboard bow chaser
and let the sound engulf him. There was no dishonor for Lamble,
striking to such a formidable enemy, and he'd clearly fought until
the most forlorn hope had died. But to surrender — surely something
within Lamble had to be dying, as well. If he still lived.

Armide
fired again, a full rippling broadside
into the surrendered ship. Fleming straightened, his heart thudding
painfully. It could only be a mistake. No captain of honor would
continue to fire on a defeated enemy. But as the final bang rolled
across the gently lapping waves, the for'ard-most eighteen-pounder
thrust its muzzle back through the gunport, then the next and the
next, until all fourteen long guns had returned to the ready
position. They fired as one, a sheet of red ripping from
Armide
's side and slamming the
Flirt
. The brig
staggered, fell away, yawed. Her main topmast wavered, creaked, and
finally cracked, tumbling overboard and dragging at
Flirt
like a sea-anchor.

The guns ran out again. And fired. Again. And again.
Flirt
staggered from each successive blow. Her guns,
rigging, upper deck, and quarterdeck, all were abandoned and
still.

Topaze,
too, fell silent, only the whispering
ocean breaking the bitter calm. As well as his own, Fleming felt
his crew's fury, a sort of radiant energy hotter than the tropic
sun. No one paused in his work, and no one spoke. But all knew this
was despicable behavior. Hateful, criminal, cowardly murder. Such a
ship, crew, and especially captain deserved neither courtesy nor
pity. From the Topazes, they'd receive none.

Suddenly beside him, Abbot swept off his hat.
"Sir."

"Yes, Mr. Abbot?" Surprising, how ordinary his voice
sounded.

"The hands—" Abbot paused, cleared his throat. "The
hands have requested, sir, that they not be sent to breakfast.
They'd rather stand to the guns and be ready should the breeze pick
up."

And with the words, the wind sighing through the
rigging rose a note. The sailcloth ceased flapping, bellied from
the masts, and the deck leaned into it. Finally, across the water,
a voice shouted and the cannon fire died away.

"An excellent notion," Fleming said. "Beat to
quarters."

The call to action rang out and both decks erupted
like a stomped-on ant mound. Fleming turned and ran into Lady
Clara. She still stood a step behind him, pen poised over her book
and chin tucked. She'd been so astonishingly quiet since the storm
had swept the battle into view, he'd forgotten all about her. And
that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

But he was out of time. He'd delayed this
conversation earlier. He could do so no longer. Fleming took her
arm and guided her through the rushing sailors back to the
quarterdeck.

"It's time for you to go below."

She froze. Her eyes widened, turned even darker, and
in their depths a fire smoldered. "And that child, Staunton? Does
he go below as well?"

The master at the wheel never glanced aside. But
Fleming didn't need any evidence to know their conversation was no
longer private. He led her to the hatchway and lowered his voice.
"Mr. Staunton is a midshipman. He must manage his battery."

"As I understand it, I am the captain's clerk and I
must stand with you on the quarterdeck."

"Lady Clara—"

"Are you saying that I am not, after all, a member of
your crew?"

He took a deep breath. Hoist on his own silly petard.
This would require even more patience than he'd imagined. "No, you
most certainly are a full member of this crew, on the books and in
the minds of the sailors. And as a member of the crew, you must
obey the captain's orders."

The fire in her dark, dark eyes could light sparks in
the rigging, could set off the stern chaser beside them. "You are
ordering me below."

If he ordered, she'd obey. But it was the wrong tack
to take, for she'd have difficulty forgiving him. And it would
likely be the last time she'd obey him without question. That
change in their relationship he did not want. Fleming sought
desperately for something to say, something that would convince
her. But all he could think of was the simple truth.

"I am asking you as a friend." Hennessy appeared
beside him, carrying the heavy cavalry saber from the great cabin's
wall decoration, the one with the lion on the hilt. Fleming buckled
it on. "I cannot concentrate with you beside me. And I could not
bear it were you to—"

He couldn't complete the sentence. But her sparks
flared even more hotly. "I cannot imagine—"

"Please."

Her mouth snapped shut. For three heartbeats she
stared at him without flinching… four, five. Then she sucked in a
deep breath and turned away. Carefully she stoppered the inkhorn
and tucked her pen into its slot. With gentle breaths she blew on
the book, tested the ink with a finger, then closed the covers. She
didn't look at him as she crossed the quarterdeck, the book hugged
to her chest like a child's toy. Only when she stood on the ladder,
peering above the hatchway, did she meet his gaze, and the
smoldering flames in her eyes blew all thoughts of children from
his mind.

Except for creating them.

What had been on his face, in his expression, during
their stare, to bring forth such a heated, silent response from
her?

"Captain."

He had to clear his throat before he could speak.
"Yes, Lady Clara?"

"The breakfast table would be far less entertaining
were it lonely."

He swallowed. Creating children. Again, and again,
and—

Then she vanished below, and he knew their
relationship could never be simple again.

She'd nearly refused.

She'd wanted to refuse, wanted to stay on the
quarterdeck, at her post, by the captain's side during the coming
battle. But the heated intensity of his stare, the martial fire
flaring within his eyes, had made Clara pause even as an answering
fire had flared in her middle and spread all the way to her fingers
and toes. That powerful, floating euphoria had begun to follow. But
as soon as she'd recognized the sensation of that female allure,
she'd broken their gaze and settled herself by fussing with the
penner and book.

Captain Fleming needed to concentrate on the ship,
the crew, the enemy — the battle to come, whatever it actually
entailed. Not on her.

He was right. With this inconvenient fire growing
between them, erupting at the oddest moments, she would distract
him merely by standing at his side. And while of course
Topaze
would win the battle, distracting the captain would
not be the best contribution she could make to their victory.

She could argue against the captain's orders in order
to remain at her post. But he hadn't attempted to order her.
Instead, he'd said—

—he'd said—

Without warning, Clara shivered all over.

She could not refuse a friend.

No one could possibly have ever felt this way before,
angry, uncertain, confused, hot and cold and trembly, like a
snowfield ablaze. She shivered again and sucked in a hard breath,
redolent of burning slow match, ripe gunpowder, and masculine
sweat. Oh, that exciting, dizzying smell — the gun deck, ready for
firing. Not this time in practice, but with murderous intent.