Laura Kinsale (16 page)

“And when you do?”

She looked up. “I’ll ask him to forgive me.”

He pulled at his whiskers and regarded her steadily. “Lady Tess, you’re not yourself yet. Perhaps you should wait—let your emotions settle. I want you to be happy, and I don’t see how such a course can bring you anything but grief.”

“Like marriage to the admirable Stephen Eliot?” Bitterness lent a sting to the words.

“Of course not. But I would not want you to mistake gratitude for love.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I understand too well. You think you love Frost. Perhaps you do. But the man who came to me in Brazil did not appear to return the sentiment. At all.” He frowned at her. “Lady Tess—please reconsider.”

Tess lowered her eyes. Mr. Taylor had been grimly honest in his assessment of Gryf’s attitude toward her. But she clung to the fact that he had gone all the way to Pará to inform her guardian of her folly, in terms strong enough to persuade Mr. Taylor to leave his ailing wife and sail to England with all speed. If not for Gryf, she would still be trapped in Stephen’s web. The story of illness her husband had put about would have spun into a permanent disability. She would have died there, locked away, while the few people who ever thought of her would have shaken their heads and murmured, “A tragedy…so young.”

After a long moment, Mr. Taylor said, “I see that you are bent on it.”

She nodded.

“Then let me conduct the search. The kind of places—” He stopped, looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid your Captain Frost does not normally move in the finest circles.”

Tess felt a tiny, incongruous smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “I’m aware of that.”

He frowned, with a severity that did not quite reach his kindly eyes. “This goes against all my instincts of what is proper, Lady Tess.”

She let the smile magnify. “I believe you like him as much as I do.”

“I do not,” he responded promptly. “I’m certain he is a complete rogue.”

“A scoundrel,” she agreed.

“He isn’t worth the ground you walk upon. Your position, your fortune, your breeding…”

“Will you find him for me?”

He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “I shall try, my lady. On my honor, I shall try.”

Gryf lounged back in the wooden booth, tapping a slow rhythm with his fist on the scarred table. The sour-sweet smell of stale wine and smoke permeated the close air, even though in the day outside the pastel plasterwork of Lisbon gleamed in the August sun. Across the table, his companion watched him through narrowed eyes. Gryf glanced up from the frowning contemplation of his hand and said, “I can do better,” in a mixture of French and English designed to confound the Portuguese squealer whom he knew to be sitting in the booth behind them.

“Very doubtful.” The answer was pure French, bizarrely cultivated for the present place and time. Through the beard and the rough-weather clothes and the knife at his belt, the man’s soft hands and stiff posture fairly screamed that he was not a seaman. The get–up annoyed Gryf—did the precious monsieur actually think he was fooling someone? Everybody in the place had spotted him instantly, and the farce drew unwelcome attention to Gryf’s presence. The Frenchman added, “We are willing to mount twelve nine–pound cannon—”

“That should frighten the U.S.S.
Rhode Island,
” Gryf said dryly.

“We do not anticipate that you will take on an American warship, sir.”

“Good. Because I don’t intend to,
mon ami.
”

The other sat back. “You are afraid.”

“Damn right,” Gryf said, in the Queen’s good English.

“We came to you because we had been told otherwise.”

Gryf gave him a sidelong glance and went back to the slow syncopation of his fist and his knuckles on the table, a rhythm which he was well-aware drove the Frenchman crazy. After a long pause, the man said, “
Ainsi soit-il.
Fifty percent.”

Gryf smiled and shook his head no and flirted with the tavern girl who came to lay down another two tins of dark ale, which his companion paid for. Gryf’s lack of interest in the proposal was not entirely unfeigned—he had little desire to become a privateer and less to do it at someone else’s behest. But he was broke. Worse than broke. The loss of two masts in a storm off the Straits had eaten up far more than eight months of meager profits, though he couldn’t take that problem to the ship chandler’s agent or the yardmaster and expect much sympathy when his receipts were already twice overdue. A writ to attach his ship was already in progress. Without adequate stores, he was stuck in Portugal, and the prospects there, over or under the table, were grim. One part of him wanted to lean over and shout, “I’m not a damned pirate” in this turnip-sucker’s face, while the rest, the part that counted reason and advantage and cold cash, angled to make a deal that would be worth selling what little was left of his soul. He tried to crush that faint voice, the last thin thread that reminded him he was becoming what he had always hated. Survival was all that counted now. Survival, and holding on to his ship. It was really no different than when Grady had been there, except that it was lonelier.

Just as the Frenchman was preparing to speak again, a new arrival caused heads to turn in the murky depths of the room. The figure that appeared in the doorway was worth looking at: the heavy flannel breeches, nailed boots, and canvas gaiters were absurdly out of place in this domain, not to mention in the warmth of a Portuguese afternoon. The newcomer was smallish, his cheeks pink with heat as he doffed a canvas hat to reveal a pale bald head. He squinted about the room like a mole come to light, and accosted the giggling tavern girl with unmistakably British formality. Gryf’s smile faded into mild astonishment as he heard the man ask clearly for “Frost.”

The girl directed him with a wave and smirk. All hope of privacy was lost when he approached the table and introduced himself in English, quite loudly, as, “Miles Sydney, sir. Your servant.”

The agitated look on monsieur’s face was compensation enough to Gryf for the unwanted attention. “Great pleasure, Mr. Sydney,” he said mildly. “What may I do for you?”

“I would like to discuss the possibility of chartering your ship,” Mr. Sydney announced.

Gryf raised his eyebrows, then nodded toward the Frenchman’s bench. “It seems the line forms over there.”

“Oh, me,” said Mr. Sydney. “Are you not available?”

“What is it you want to ship?”

“Myself. And a colleague of mine.”

“Just passengers?”

“Not precisely.” His face took on an enthusiastic glow as he leaned forward to explain. “I understand you have experience in conveying naturalists and their specimens, Captain Frost. That’s why I looked you up, and a devil of a time I’ve had finding you, if I may say so. My colleague and I are botanists, you see, and we
have been fortunate enough to gain the support of an excellent sponsor to make collections in the South Seas. It would be a voyage of at least eighteen months—hopefully more, if we have some success.”

“Naturalists,” Gryf repeated, and a sudden and unwanted image came into his mind. He rejected it viciously. “I’ve never transported naturalists.”

“Oh, yes—well, perhaps not on a collecting trip such as this, but I saw the condition of the Earl of Morrow’s specimens when they arrived at the Botanical Gardens. In splendid shape, they were, and I said to my colleague—Thomas Cartwright, you know, perhaps you’ve heard of him—I said to Tom, ‘
That’s
the kind of fellow who would devote himself to our cause.’ We too often find, I’m afraid, that the true value of our specimens is not fully appreciated by the maritime community. But you, sir—I took one look at those
Cecropia
saplings, and I knew you understood.”

Gryf’s shoulders tensed at the mention of Morrow.

“Mr. Sydney,” the Frenchman said impatiently, “I doubt you can pay the terms of Captain Frost.”

The little man turned. “Ah, are you his agent, then? But the pay is very good, let me assure you. And we will provide all supplies and ship’s stores.”

“He isn’t my agent,” Gryf said shortly. He gave Mr. Sydney a level stare. “I need eight thousand pounds before I can get her off the mooring.”

“Oh, yes, quite understandable, Captain. And a little more—say, another two thousand, to tide you over until midway in the voyage? I’m certain we can come to an agreement.”

Gryf looked at the Frenchman. “I think you and I have finished our business.
Pour jamais.
”

The man flushed beneath his fabricated beard. He took a breath. “Seventy-five percent, Captain.”

Gryf shook his head. Very slowly and softly, he said, “I’m not a pirate. For any price.” And felt a great weight lift off his chest.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Sydney affably. “Of course you aren’t, dear boy. May I sit down? Yes, yes, good day, sir.”

Sydney turned out to be much less a fool than he had initially appeared. By the time the
Arcanum
was provisioned and anchored at Le Havre, Gryf was convinced that the little man was not a fool at all. Beneath the fussy amiability beat the heart of a miser—salt beef came for half the going price, or not at all, and bullocks and sheep and poultry for the cabin cost no more than the rum and Spanish limes. All these miracles of frugality were accomplished through long sessions of mutual hand-wringing between Sydney and the chandlers, with frequent appeal made to Gryf as to the sad inevitability of not making this voyage at all. The one point in which Sydney had shown himself generous was in the fee promised to Gryf. That expense, Sydney assured Gryf, was well worth it, since the botanist placed complete confidence in the good captain’s concern and affection for the specimens-to-be.

They waited two weeks in Le Havre for Thomas Cartwright. Every day, Sydney promised that his colleague was “on his way, but he’s rather preoccupied, you know, and may have forgotten the date.” Gryf put his crew on leave and entertained himself prowling the booksellers’ shops, having budgeted a miniscule portion of the money which hadn’t gone to paying debts for books. The rest he placed in the ship’s safe, and sometimes in the middle of the night when he dreamed of pirates and Frenchmen and nine-pound guns, he would wake and get up and go look, to make sure that the coins were still there.

The price he paid for that feeling of security was remembering. The thought of Tess haunted him, brought to vivid life each time Sydney spoke lovingly of his specimens or insisted on some special arrangements for their protection. Gryf tried to banish it. A year ago he had thrust her out of his mind with savage determination, twisting his bitter hurt into fury to keep her out. But now the memories came back in an aching flood: her face, her voice, the feel of her in his arms. He remembered her laugh, rich and vibrant, and the imaginary echo made his own life seem bleak in its emptiness.

He missed her. God, he missed her. He had to drive himself to remember that fate had taken its ordained course, and left him wiser. He should have learned, long ago, that loving was the ultimate weakness. They were lost to him now—everyone he had cared for in his childish need. He would never allow himself to be that vulnerable again.

But in his loneliness, he thought of her still. She crept into his mind so softly that it sometimes seemed that she was there, with him, instead of a hundred miles away in another man’s arms. Standing by the rail on a paling summer eve, he could picture her: her dark hair ruffled by the gentle breeze, her slender hands resting on the polished wood. He tormented himself with the image, calling up every lovely detail and then tearing the picture apart, replacing beauty with ugliness and spite. She had chosen Stephen, and Gryf would never forgive her for that. Anyone else—anyone—he might have been able to bear, but Stephen Eliot…

No. He hated her, with a passionate, jealous malevolence. Of all his ghosts, she was the one that obsessed him beyond endurance, in his dreams and his heart, like a wound that festered and would not mend.

It was a relief when Thomas Cartwright finally ar
rived one morning while Gryf was ashore. He returned to the ship to find Sydney bustling about supervising the storage of a quantity of trunks and boxes. The little botanist was in a fever of excitement, taking time only to grab Gryf’s arm and say, “He’s come, he’s come—now we shall be on our way! I’ve put him in that second cabin, Captain, I hope you won’t mind. The other is full of books. Tom is a trifle—indisposed. I think the Channel crossing didn’t agree with him, and then that trip out here from the dock in such a dreadful little boat—well, I wouldn’t want to put a shine on the matter, but I fear poor Tom is not at all a sailor. I don’t imagine we shall see him out of his cabin soon.”

Gryf saw no point in mentioning that “the second cabin”—the steward’s—had been the one he’d been using himself. He had slept in it after Grady’s death, because it was one of the few places on the ship that held no vivid memories. But for the price Sydney and his friend Tom were paying, Gryf was happy to sleep anywhere. He found his kit laid neatly on the saloon table and moved it into the captain’s suite without comment.

He dispatched Mahzu to round up the crew. By afternoon, they were straggling back and sobering up, and Gryf counted each one of the eight anxiously, for the crimps were always on the hunt for unwary prey. If a sailor stumbled into the wrong house, his first sip of drink would be the last he took on dry land for a while, for he’d wake up in the wet forecastle of some strange ship with nothing to show for his former voyage but a headache and an empty pocket. Six of Gryf’s crew were aboard by nightfall, but Mahzu and old Gaffer remained missing, and Gryf sat up in the moonless darkness on deck and waited, impatient and worried.

Near midnight, the sound of oars made him leap up and go to the rail, peering down at the splash of an
approaching boat. At Mahzu’s low hail, Gryf let out a breath of relief.

“Gaffer?” he asked softly.

“They nearly got him, Captain,” Mahzu said from the dinghy. “There was a fight. He’s badly hurt.”