Becoming Lady Lockwood (12 page)

The gun salute was conspicuously absent, but it was wiser not to alert potential enemies to their position.

When the service ended, William commanded the lieutenants to dismiss their divisions. He and the other officers stood at attention until the last man had left to return to his duties. Amelia had gone below with Riley, and William determined to go after her.

A group of the lieutenants approached him. Sidney spoke. “I was thinking, sir. Perhaps that Frenchie captain’s had a change of heart after spending the night in the brig. With your permission, I’d like to question him again.”

“Very well, Mr. Fletcher.”

By the time William arrived at the lower gun deck where the sailmakers worked, Amelia was nowhere to be found. He descended to the orlop deck and looked in the sick bay and then the operating theater, but she was in neither place. As he walked through the doorway from the surgeon’s work area, he heard someone clearing his throat. The noise was faint beneath the creaking of the pumps and the carpenters’ hammering.

He stepped back into the theater for a lantern and then followed the noise into the dark area at the stern of the ship, above the hold. In the gloom, he saw Corporal Thorne standing at attention against the bulkhead. The marine presented his arms and saluted then tipped his head to the left. William’s gaze moved in the direction the man had indicated. The captain stepped closer and heard another sound, one that caused his gut to sink. He raised the lantern and saw that Amelia sat on the deck wrapped in her blanket, sobbing.

William crouched next to her, placing his hand upon her back. Gasping breaths wracked her body, and he felt completely helpless. “You need sleep, Amelia. Come.” He held on to her arms, but she didn’t try to stand.

She attempted to speak through her tears, and William understood nothing except for the word
nightmares
.

He stood, bending down to lift her, and then carried her through the ship, up the companionways, and across the deck to his quarters. She rested her head upon his shoulder, and he could feel the moisture from her tears on his neck. Sitting next to her on the sofa, he pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her. She wept against his chest as he smoothed her hair.

Eventually the sobs slowed, and William found himself muttering words that he hoped were calming. “Everything is all right now, Amelia. I have you.” He was amazed at the phrases that came from his mouth. He had never comforted anyone in such a manner. “Don’t worry anymore,” he soothed. “You will feel better once you’ve slept.”

Amelia whispered, “I am too frightened to sleep.” Her breath caught in a gasp. “When I close my eyes, I see . . .”

He understood perfectly. “I know. It is the same for any of us. War is hell, Amelia. It is my deepest regret that you witnessed it firsthand.”

“I just want to go home.” She spoke through her gasping.

“Shhh. You must rest. Shall I ask the surgeon to fetch something to help you sleep?”

“No. Please do not leave me, William.”

Shortly after, Amelia’s head grew heavy against his chest, and her breathing deepened. He waited until he was certain she was truly asleep then carried her into his private cabin and laid her in his berth. He arranged the blanket to cover her then carefully untied the laces and removed her boots. Dried blood was spattered on them and on the bottom of her skirt and petticoats. William lifted a strand of hair off her face, and Amelia sighed softly.

He stood for a long while, holding her small boots and watching her sleep. The things she had said warred with each other in his mind. “I just want to go home,” and, “Please do not leave me.” What were Amelia’s true feelings? Would he be able to make her happy in England? Between her father’s suit, a traitor, and the French battleships, would he even have the opportunity to try?

Amelia woke slowly, feeling as
though she had not slept at all. Her head ached, her eyes were swollen, and she was famished. Looking around the darkened room, she was confused. Where was she? This was definitely not her cabin. For one thing, there were curtains on the windows, and—She sat up suddenly, recognizing exactly where she was. She scrambled out of Captain Drake’s berth. Her heart was pounding.

William had brought her here while she slept? Tucked her into his own bed? Laid her head upon a pillow that smelled just like
him
. A hot blush stole up her neck and spread across her face.

She remembered her collapse after the funeral. It had been too much to bear—all the death, the pain of the injured, and the sorrow on William’s face. She had tried to remain strong and allow herself to shed a quiet private tear, but once she had let loose the tight hold she’d kept on her emotions, they gushed forth in a torrent that she had been unable to control.

And then William had been there. He’d held her as she wept and sobbed and generally lost all her credibility as a rational person. He had spoken soothing words, and in his arms, the fear of what she might see when she closed her eyes abated, and she’d finally allowed herself to sleep, knowing that he was near.

Hearing voices outside the room, she became self-conscious. She had behaved like a ninny. A woman taken with the vapors and prone to hysterics. She had always prided herself on the fact that she was not the type of woman to fall apart or to act in an insensible fashion. What must William think of her?

Amelia walked to the window and pushed aside the curtain. It did little to lighten the room. The dense fog continued to cover the skies. She wondered how long she had slept. Was it evening? Or had an entire day passed?

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the gloom, and she saw that her trunk sat next to the captain’s washstand. Checking once more to ensure that the door was firmly closed, Amelia quickly changed out of her bloodstained dress and petticoats and put on fresh clothing. She washed her face and hands, cringing when she saw the dark brown color of dried blood beneath her fingernails.

She looked into the mirror and took stock of her appearance. There was nothing to be done for the swollen eyes and splotches on her cheeks from her spell of weeping. She brushed her hair out and arranged it. A little water rejuvenated the curls around her face. Overall she felt much better and much more in control of herself now that she was fresh and clean. She searched around the room for her boots and found them next to the door, cleaned and polished.

Voices still carried through the door. She was reluctant to disturb them, but she was also quite hungry and curious about the state of the ship and crew after the battle. She pulled the door open and stepped into the captain’s sitting room.

William sat at the table, and his lieutenants sat in various positions around the room. The mood was somber and made even more so by the dark fog outside the stern windows. When he noticed her entrance, Sidney stopped talking, and all of the men stood.

“I am sorry to interrupt. I . . .”

Sidney smiled, and she was surprised by the weariness in the man’s face. “It is a welcome interruption.”

William stepped toward her, and she felt the familiar heart fluttering that always accompanied his presence. “You look much better this afternoon, Amelia.”

“I did not mean to displace you from your cabin, sir.” She felt very uncomfortable discussing her sleeping arrangements with all the men watching her.

“Please, do not concern yourself. Your own cabin is quite uninhabitable at the moment, and I have commandeered another for myself.”

“Mr. Fletcher’s, I should hope,” Amelia said, raising an eyebrow at Sidney.

The corners of Sidney’s mouth turned up in a tired smile.

“Naturally,” William said.

Amelia bobbed in a small curtsy. “Please carry on, gentlemen. I apologize for interrupting your conference.”

William walked with her to the door and opened it, following her out of the room and closing the door behind him. He nodded to Corporal Ashworth, who saluted upon seeing them. Amelia shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The dark fog that surrounded them muffled the noise of the waves. Looking across the ship, Amelia found she could scarcely see the main deck. The sounds of the pumps and flapping of sails were eerily disembodied and floated from every direction.

William’s brows were drawn together. “Please promise me you will eat, Amelia.”

“Do not worry yourself. I shall make my way to the galley immediately.” She laid her hand upon his chest. “And have you eaten today, William? Or slept?”

He placed his hand over hers. His eyes were tired, and beneath them, dark smudges stood out on his tanned skin. His face was unshaven, and she saw lines around his mouth that had not been there a few days earlier. “Yes. I have eaten.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Corporal Ashworth step discreetly away.

“Please take care of yourself,” she said. “A captain must have his wits about him.”

William lifted her hand and placed a kiss upon her palm. “I find that I quite enjoy knowing that you worry for me, Amelia. A very selfish thing, is it not?”

She closed her eyes briefly as the heat from his kiss spread over her skin. “It is not selfish, sir. Every person deserves to feel as if there is someone who cares for him.”

He held her hand, pressing her palm against his prickly cheek. “And do you care for me, Amelia?” His voice was low, and for an instant it seemed as if his confidence slipped, exposing vulnerability in his dark eyes.

“Yes. I believe I do.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek then turned and walked across the deck. Corporal Ashworth followed. Amelia glanced back once before descending the companionway, but the captain and the entire quarterdeck had been swallowed by the dark fog.

Amelia’s breathing was quick, and her cheeks were flushed. She paused to collect herself for a moment on the middle gun deck. Heat from William’s kiss still warmed her palm. And the memory of his face—how could she have ever considered this man cruel?

Once she was calmer, she noticed the men working by the lantern light to clean the decks with “holy stones”—so called because their shape resembled a Bible and the sailors kneeled as if in prayer as they scrubbed the decks. The holes she had seen in the bulkhead earlier were nearly all patched, and the carpenter’s mates were painting the new wood to seal it from the moisture that would settle and cause the wood to rot.

Amelia continued to the galley, and Slushy greeted her when she entered. “And how are ya, miss? A tough business yesterday. I’m glad to see ya safe.” He brought a basket of biscuits and set it before her with a jar of marmalade.

“Thank you, Slushy. I am glad to see that you are safe as well.”

Amelia rapped her biscuit on the table and began to eat. She watched the other mess captains and the ship’s boys working. There was no conversation, no friendly teasing, and Slushy’s singing was conspicuously absent. A somber mood permeated the entire ship. It was sobering to think that these men—and boys—had endured such a thing.

Leaving the galley, she and Corporal Ashworth walked to the surgery theater.

Dr. Spinner was folding the bandages they had washed after the battle the day before. “I thank you for your assistance yesterday, Miss Becket. It was much needed.”

Amelia acknowledged his thanks with a small bow of her head and a smile. “And how do you do today, sir?”

“I am well. We have lost three more patients since this morning, and there are some I fear will not last the night.”

Upon hearing this, Amelia’s heart became heavy. “And how can I be of use to you, Doc—” But her words were cut off by a crash that shook the ship and nearly knocked her off her feet. Before her mind had time to comprehend what was happening, another crash followed the first.

“We are under attack.” Dr. Spinner called over the crashes and sounds of men running and yelling. Amelia realized his arm was around her waist and his hand upon her arm, steadying her.

How could it be? There was no call to battle stations, no ringing of the bells.

Amelia joined the throng and ran up the companionway, the noise and smells of battle growing louder as she neared the main deck—irregular gunshots, the clang of metal upon metal, screams, and crashes.

“We’ve been boarded,” someone yelled.

When she emerged onto the deck, she saw in the fog the shadows of men hurling around. Some fought with knives, others with axes that did immeasurable damage. A musket fired near her, and she ducked. When she turned, she saw a man slash another with a knife and then fling him overboard as he screamed.

But she had only a glance before Corporal Ashworth caught up to her and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her back below deck.

Amelia fought against him, furious that he would stop her. “Corporal, you must release me. I must return to the deck.”

Corporal Ashworth did not answer. When they reached the orlop deck, he took Amelia’s hand and pulled her toward the stern and into the small, dark area above the hull. His grip was tight, and he pressed her into the darkest corner of the stern rather roughly.

“Corporal,” she said. “You are hurting me.” She strained to get past him.

“Apologies, miss, but I cannot allow you up on the deck. Not when men are fighting. They’ll cut down anyone in their path when they’re taken by battle madness. Even a lady.”

Amelia leaned back against the bulkhead, and Corporal Ashworth released her.

“What do we do, Corporal?” The images she had seen in her quick glimpse upon the deck swam before her eyes.

Amelia listened to the sounds of combat, attempting to hear anything that would tell her what was happening. Her heart was pounding. Sailors called orders, some in English, others in French. The sounds of battle drifted down to her—crashes of men and objects hitting the deck, the screams of the wounded. What of William? She had no doubt that he was leading the men. That he was fighting for his life this very minute.

Amelia hadn’t realized she was crying until she tried to speak. “We must do something.”

Corporal Ashworth only stood still, hands upon his weapon, listening.

As suddenly as it had begun, the commotion ended, and the silence that followed was nearly as terrifying. Footsteps sounded on the companionway steps.

“Your captain has surrendered the ship. All able bodies report to the deck immediately,” called an unfamiliar and heavily accented voice.

“Surrendered?” Amelia said. “Impossible. Captain Drake would never—”

“Come, miss,” Corporal Ashworth said, and the resignation in his voice caused a wave of fear to creep up her spine.

She followed the corporal up the companionways to the main deck, and the sight she witnessed caused her to cover her mouth with her hands.

Her gaze swept across injured sailors, blood, and shipmates lifting bodies and limbs. Large grappling hooks dug into the gunwale of the deck, scratching ugly holes in the wood and connecting the
Venture
to a French warship that floated disturbingly close but still partially concealed in the fog. The soldiers that stood guard around the deck wore the deep-blue, high-waisted coat, with its contrasting white lapels, and the white trousers of the French navy. Even as she stood next to him, Corporal Ashworth was disarmed and marched to join the other marines under guard beneath the quarterdeck.

But what caused her to tremble was the sight of the captain and the officers upon their knees with their hands tied behind their backs and French muskets trained on them. A man paced in front of them. With epaulettes on his shoulders and a rounded felt cockade hat that bore a red and white rosette, he was obviously the leader.

William was speaking, and from the expression on his face, he wasn’t complimenting the French captain on the curls at the ends of his long, thin moustache.

Bolstering her courage, Amelia stepped across the deck toward the man, just as he pulled back his hand and struck William across the face with enough force to snap his head back.

William glared at him, and Amelia stepped up her pace.

“Monsieur!” she managed to cry before she was stopped by a group of soldiers with their muskets pointing directly at her.

“What is zis?” The French captain waved his hand at the soldiers, and they lifted their weapons and stepped back. “Mademoiselle, I did not realize we had a lady on ze ship.”

Amelia’s gaze darted to William, and he narrowed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“Capitaine Philippe Valiquette at your service.” The French
capitaine
continued. “And may I ask who I have ze pleasure of speaking to?” He curled his mustache around his finger as he spoke.

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but William spoke first. “This is Lady Lockwood, bound for England. I hope you realize, sir, that you are transporting a foreign dignitary and will treat her as such.”

Amelia stared at William for a moment, trying to read his expression. The corner of his lip was split, and a trickle of blood dripped down his chin. He gazed back at her steadily, until her attention was recaptured by Capitaine Valiquette.

“Lady Lockwood.
Enchanté, madame.
I shall of course personally see to it that you are set aboard a neutral ship bound for England.” He held her hand and bowed over it. From the side of his mouth, he spoke to one of his officers in French, “After I have collected the ransom that the lady’s family will undoubtedly pay for her safe return.”

The other officer laughed, and Amelia smiled at them politely, giving no indication that she had understood, even though she was sorely tempted to rip her hand out of his and strike him the way he had hit William.

“Monsieur, Captain Drake has French prisoners that have been treated by the ship’s doctor and now rest in the sick bay. He has treated them with every kindness while in his care, and I am sure you are a gentleman that would reciprocate this courtesy to him and his crew.”

“
Oui
, madame. I should not want zem harmed before zey are taken to madame le guillotine.” He turned his face toward the English officers. “Especially zis brute of a captain.”