Nicole Jordan (20 page)

The first was how to correctly tie a sailor’s knot. Fletcher showed her six different kinds and made her practice until she could tie them blindfolded.

Finally he nodded with grudging approval. “Not bad for a gel.”

Antonia grinned, considering that high praise indeed.

She saw something of her father in the crusty old seaman. Fletcher was blunt-spoken and hardworking, qualities her father would have admired. He was also an exacting taskmaster, but she found herself enjoying every challenge he threw at her.

Having observed her father’s designs for years, she knew the names of all the myriad sails on the schooner, but not how to haul on a line or to raise a sheet. Her hands were red and smarting by the time she completed those introductory exercises.

When Fletcher proposed she quit, Antonia declined, reluctant to end an afternoon that had been one of the most intriguing she could ever remember. She was also aware that Deverill had been observing her progress from time to time, and she didn’t want him thinking that she was giving up. Moreover, there was yet another task she had always longed to attempt: climbing the rigging.

Fletcher balked at that request, too, at first.

“Please,” Antonia pleaded. “I won’t try to wrestle with a sheet. I just want to know what it feels like to be up in the sky.”

She could see from his hesitation that he understood her longing. “Ye can’t go up in skirts,” he said at last. “Ye’ll break yer pretty neck.”

“Do you have a pair of breeches you could loan me? And perhaps a shirt?”

“Breeches?” He nearly squeaked the word. “For yerself?”

“Well, yes. It might be a bit scandalous, but I will be completely clothed.”

“ ’Tain’t right for a female to wear breeches,” he muttered, scowling at her.

“Perhaps not.” She sighed. “Deverill probably wouldn’t approve, either, but I intend to show him that I am up to the challenge.”

Fletcher’s scowl slowly faded, to be replaced by a sly look of glee. “I reckon ye’ve earned the right after today.”

From his sea chest in his own shared quarters, he fetched her a rough linen shirt and a pair of dark blue seaman’s trousers, along with a belt to fasten them. Antonia went below to her new cabin. When she returned, dressed as a young mariner, she felt several pairs of curious male eyes riveted on her.

Fletcher snapped at the crew, ordering them back to work, then instructed her how to securely grip the ratline—a rope ladder attached to the horizontal shrouds of each mast—and how to hook an arm or even a leg over to brace herself should she become unbalanced. He chose the shorter foremast so she would have a view from the front of the ship, and told her to pause upon reaching each of the five yards to make certain she could handle each height without growing dizzy.

Taking a deep breath, Antonia began to climb, with Fletcher following directly beneath her to prevent her from unexpectedly falling.

Exhilaration filled her with each step, along with relief that she had no trouble with the height. When she reached the top yard of the fore skysail, joy bubbled up inside her. She felt as if she were on top of the world, flying.

The view was incredible. Her spirits soaring, she gave a shout of pure jubilation, which startled Fletcher enough that he demanded to know if she’d gone daft.

It was a long while before he finally persuaded Antonia to come down from the rigging, and she was laughing with elation when she dropped the last few feet to the deck. And when she hugged Fletcher to thank him for the experience of a lifetime, he blushed to the roots of his grizzled hair.

“Now, there, enough of that, missy,” he muttered upon catching several crew members grinning at him.

He stalked off toward the galley to begin preparing supper, while Antonia went below again to change back into her gown, flashing a brilliant smile at Deverill as she passed.

He felt the impact like a sensual blow. He’d been keeping an eye on her instruction all afternoon. Even though he’d had reservations about letting Antonia go up so high, he trusted Fletcher to keep her safe. And seeing her spontaneous joy had been a sheer pleasure.

Being the recipient of her smile, however, made tenderness twist in his chest and desire stir in his loins. He did his best to ignore both responses but found it impossible. Just watching Antonia embrace life as she did was damnably arousing. So was seeing her in male trousers, her shapely derriere defined by the wool fabric.

It was remarkable, the hunger she roused in him so effortlessly. Remarkable and annoying—even if it did help him to forget the grim reason she was even on board the schooner with him.

Dinner that evening in the stateroom was just as disturbing to him, although they weren’t alone. Antonia peppered Captain Lloyd with questions about navigation, which stirred a distinct spark of jealousy in Deverill. He could have answered all her questions, but she still wasn’t speaking to him if she could avoid it, for she hadn’t yet forgiven him for snatching her away from the danger that he was convinced threatened her.

He would do it again in an instant, yet living in such close quarters with Antonia had made him continually aroused and short-tempered. His erotic dream last night about her had only increased his cravings, almost to the point of pain.

As soon as politeness allowed, Deverill excused himself and escaped up on deck, leaving her with the captain. He remained there until nearly midnight, at which time he retired to his cabin to sleep alone.

But her scent was on his pillow, and his body’s primal response was so keen that Deverill resigned himself to passing another restless night fighting his lustful urges.

Antonia, on the other hand, slept better than she had the previous night. And the following morning, she woke eagerly, looking forward to her next lessons with Fletcher. She didn’t even mind when he set her to mending sails.

He showed her how to repair rips in the heavy canvas with sheep-gut sinews threaded through a whalebone needle. The task further pained her hands, but she made no complaint for fear Fletcher would put an end to their sessions, which she found far too fascinating to give up.

To her delight, Fletcher became expansive, recounting tales of past adventures that Deverill and his crew had encountered on the high seas.

She was most interested in learning about Deverill. “Have you known him long, Fletcher?”

“Been with him since his first command, and I’m honored to serve under him. Saved me life more than once. A braver man ye’ll never find. His nibs is a legend, don’t ye know.”

“I’ve heard something of the sort.”

At her request, Fletcher told her of some of Deverill’s heroic exploits during his career of fighting pirates, primarily the Barbary corsairs in the Mediterranean, and more recently, in the Indian Ocean on behest of the British government. According to Fletcher, the danger Deverill regularly faced would have defeated any ten normal men.

“I know he bears scars,” Antonia confided quietly. “How did those come about?”

Fletcher abruptly scowled, while his tone turned grim. “ ’Tis not a tale fit for a lady’s ears.” For a long moment then, he remained mute, while his expression took on a faraway look.

“I heard it was Turks,” she murmured, a chill shiver sweeping through her.

“Aye.” Fletcher nearly spat the word. “The bloody Turks.”

From her smattering of history at school, she knew the rulers of the Turkish Empire had conquered many of the lands of the Mediterranean and remained to rule with iron fists. “So what happened? My housekeeper said Deverill’s crew was taken captive and . . . abused. Were you with him then?”

Fletcher nodded, a blaze of anger in his eyes. Yet it was another long moment before he spoke. “ ’Twas nigh on ten years ago. Cap’n Deverill—he was our cap’n then—had already made a name for himself thwarting pirates, confiscating their treasure and such. Earned their wrath something fierce. Well, he paid an official call on a local pasha who’d signed a treaty with Britain. Turns out the pasha wanted to make an example of the cap’n. When we put into port, his nibs and officers were invited to a feast, but ’twas a sham. Those bloody devils took ’em all prisoner, then boarded our ship and took the rest of us, too. Commenced snuffing us, one every few days, and made his nibs watch. ’Twere saving him for last, but they carved him up with one of those scimitars, a mark for each man who died.”

Fletcher squeezed his eyes shut, a shudder running through him as if he was remembering the horror.
” ’Twas two months of pure hell,” he whispered, “but it seemed like two years.”

Antonia’s heart wrenched. She felt herself shudder as Fletcher had, unable even to imagine what it must have been like to endure such agonizing torture. “But you somehow managed to escape?”

“Aye. The cap’n could barely stand for the pain, but he overpowered his guards and then made the pasha
his
prisoner. He could have escaped with his mate, but he wouldn’t leave any of us behind, though some of us were sorely wounded. We fought our way to the port and took back our ship. Sailed away—what was left of us, at any rate—and returned a month later with a man o’ war sister ship to raze the port and put a period to those bloody savages for good. I owe Cap’n Deverill me life, and that’s a fact.”

“It seems so horrible, what you all suffered,” she murmured in a raw voice.

“Aye, it was. Wounds of the flesh heal in time, but ’twas worse for Cap’n Deverill, since he was the captain and responsible for the crew.”

She understood what Fletcher was implying—the depth of guilt that must have racked Deverill ever since. His body bore vivid scars from the ordeal, and doubtless, so did his mind and heart.

Scrutinizing her, Fletcher spoke again gravely. “I’ll wager ’tis why he wouldn’t let ye jump ship t’other night. Yer his responsibility and he won’t give up. He’ll spend his last breath saving ye.” The old man let that sink in, then continued in a voice that held an odd note of pleading. “Ye shouldn’t be vexed at him, missy. Cap’n Deverill is only taking the course he feels is right. Ye can trust him with yer life, I swear to it.”

Looking away, Antonia bit her lip. She had always known Deverill could be trusted, that his honor and integrity were above question. It was just that she’d been furious with him for tricking her and for his high-handedness in thinking he knew what was best for her. Yet she could no longer deny he’d acted on his heartfelt conviction, taking her away from London and Heward for her own protection. And if his belief was true, what did that say about her father’s death?

For two days now she had tried desperately to ignore the damning possibility that her father had been murdered by her betrothed, for if she stopped fighting the notion for one moment, the full horror of it would seep into her soul. But she was losing the battle with herself.

It was a struggle for Antonia to force her agitated thoughts back to mending sails. And her mind was still in turmoil a while later, when Fletcher showed her how to tie off a line attached to the jib.

Distracted, she failed to give the task her full attention and thus was caught off guard when a sudden burst of wind caught the sail and nearly ripped the line from her hands.

Both her palms suffered stinging rope burns, while three of her fingers were scraped raw to the point of bleeding. The injuries stung fiercely, but she instinctively hid them from Fletcher, not wanting to appear a weakling. A half hour later, however, the throbbing pain in her hands was so acute, she could barely keep from moaning.

When Deverill came up to speak to Fletcher just then, he caught one glimpse of her face and demanded to know what was wrong.

“N-nothing,” Antonia managed, but her reply sounded breathless and shaky even to her own ears.

She tried to elude Deverill, but he caught her elbow and barked out a soft command, “Tell me, Antonia.”

Gritting her teeth, she turned her palms faceup to show him the oozing raw welts.

Deverill swore under his breath and threw a savage glance at Fletcher. “I thought I told you to keep her safe.”

“It was not his fault!” Antonia exclaimed, leaping to the old tar’s defense. “It was mine.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Deverill grated. “You were too intent on not showing any weakness to ask for a respite.” He grasped her elbow again. “Come with me.”

“Come where?” Antonia asked, trying to resist.

He steered her toward the companionway ladder. “Below to my cabin, so I can see to your hands.”

Antonia gave in almost meekly, feeling too much pain to argue.

When they reached his cabin, he made her sit at his desk while he gathered supplies, including a basin of water, some cotton gauze, and a jar of ointment.

“Evidently I was wrong when I credited you with a high degree of intelligence,” Deverill said, inspecting her hands more closely. “I should have known you would be this hardheaded.”

Antonia held herself stiffly, trying not to cry. “I don’t begrudge you your amusement at my expense, Deverill, but I would appreciate it very much if you would refrain from crowing just now when I am suffering.”

“I’m not crowing.”

“You aren’t?” Her tone held skepticism.

“No. I’m provoking you to take your mind off the pain. I imagine this hurts like the devil.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. The fact that Deverill sympathized with her plight helped somehow.

His touch was gentle, but she still gasped when he cleansed the savage weals. When he blotted the raw skin dry, unavoidable tears sprang to her eyes, and she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

Deverill glanced up at her briefly, his own jaw tensing. “This will take away some of the pain.”

He spread ointment over the raw flesh, thankfully bringing her hands a measure of cooling relief, and then carefully wrapped her palms and her three injured fingers with gauze.

Antonia tried to sniff back her tears, but Deverill’s kindness only made her feel worse. Here she was whining at her minor injuries when he had endured terrible torment that had left his body forever scarred. She wasn’t proud of herself, either, when she remembered how she had questioned his integrity, his very honor.