Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (15 page)

“You will not convince me to wear trousers,
even if we are nowhere near civilization.”

“M’lady, not meanin’ to be forward, but
‘twill be hard enough to teach you footwork ‘thout your dresses in
the way.” With an uncharacteristic squeak, more words rushed out to
explain away Myron’s suddenly dark countenance: “Not that I mean
nothin’ ‘bout losin’ yer dresses, m’lady… You could wear dresses if
you want…” He let out a sigh of relief at Myron’s curt nod.

The doctor agreed with Hawley. “I’d prefer
not to amputate your broken leg if you get twisted up in your
frock, my lady.”

Bella looked at her husband, but he just
shrugged. “I will not force you to it, but Captain Johnson has
convinced me of the wisdom, at least… as an option… in certain
situations… such as fencing lessons. And you should at least allow
the sailmaker credit for the work he has done.”

She nodded. “That is true. He is very kind
to take the time.”

“He will make time for anything you ask, my
dear, as will every other man on this ship. And he is skilled at
his trade; he will tell you himself. His father ran a shop on
Savile Row, where he worked for ten years before he was pressed
into the navy. He brought a selection of fabrics for you from the
Seventh Sea warehouses in London.”

She stood, wiping her hands on the long
apron she now always wore over her plain gowns. “You gentlemen are
very kind to me, and I do not wish you to think I do not see it. I
will go meet with him, then retrieve my Bible and return for your
first lesson, Mr. Hawley.”

After she left, Hawley said, tentatively,
“M’lord, ‘tain’t my place to say it, but you picked a right good
bride for a sailing ship. She ain’t no milk-and-water miss, that’s
certain.”

The doctor added. “I’d not want to meet her
on the other end of a grappling hook. A bit of skill with a knife,
and she will be a dangerous foe, indeed. In part, because you will
never see her coming.”

“She is quite something, is she not?”

“I admit,” Myron said, casting a satisfied
eye over her dark green woolen day dress, “I prefer you in a gown
to trousers. Hawley told me I was too old-fashioned.”

He tipped the coffee urn to pour himself
another cup, then spooned more stew into her empty bowl, buttered
another slice of bread, and placed it on her plate. They were
having their meal on the open gallery, watching the sun touch the
horizon, as had quickly become their habit at sunrise and
sunset.

Obediently, she picked up her spoon, her
left hand placed firmly in her lap. “Hawley should not be speaking
to you so disrespectfully.”

“So I said before I assigned him a week of
tarring and three days of slushing.”

He lifted his cup to take a sip, and she
lifted an eyebrow. He paused, put the cup back down and removed the
spoon. He started to set it on the tablecloth, but at a minute
shake of her head, he moved his hand to set it on the saucer. When
she smiled, he returned it, if a bit sardonically, finally able to
take a sip of his coffee. His lips twitched when her bowl shifted,
forcing her to reach up to steady it. His elbows on the table had
been a bone of contention until the first plate had slid into her
lap, but she had not yet broken herself of nineteen years of table
manners in favor of simple logic.

“Nevertheless, I must offer my thanks to our
resident tailor for the design of your coat. I believe if your… er…
trousers were more in evidence when you work above, I might not be
able to turn a blind eye.”

After lengthy consultation, two pair of
loose trousers had been designed, and two pair of breeches, topped
with outmoded frock coats that covered any womanly curves that
might otherwise be displayed more indecently than she’d like, not
that her body was particularly inclined to curves. Bella was first
disturbed, then delighted, that her unfashionably square form
looked extremely well in men’s clothes; better, she thought, than
any garments she had ever worn, to say nothing of how much more
comfortable they were to wear. Even taking into account her
ever-present bank-by-corsetry, with her hair tied in a queue and
the addition of a tricorn hat, she might be mistaken for the ghost
of her grandfather.

But at heart, Bella was not a boyish lass.
She preferred dresses, and so did her husband, so unless she were
engaged in tasks that called for breeches, like her fencing and
shooting lessons or climbing into the tops to look out over the
horizon, she wore woolen day dresses with linen cuffs and collars,
a full-length apron with pockets, and the
chatelaine
Charlotte had given her as a wedding gift. At this time in the
evening, though, she had rinsed and hung her apron, collars, and
cuffs and changed into cloth slippers from the sturdier leather
shoes she wore on deck. She had wrapped a heavy flannel shawl
around her shoulders, as it would likely prove a chillier night
than she had experienced at sea thus far.

“When next I speak to Bronson,” she began,
“I will ask him to consider your wardrobe for India.”

He set down his cup, eying her with more
than a bit of suspicion. “What is there to consider? I’ve a trunk
with attire for tropical climes.”

“Good. I will start there.”

“Where do you plan to end?” The mistrust in
his eyes might have given her pause if the prince himself had not
asked her to smarten up her lord.

In a voice too soothing to soothe, she said,
“While I am certain you have exactly the right choices in your
trunks for a sea-going merchant attending a dockside auction, I am
equally sure you are not adequately outfitted as Baron Holsworthy
taking possession of a sizable estate gifted by the prince and
claiming a position in the diplomatic corps.”

He pushed his chair back from the table.
“What do you intend, Wife? I’ll not be covered in frills and
feathers.”

She set aside her spoon and rose, picking up
the last of the supper dishes and stacking them to return to the
galley. She walked to the cupboard and removed the backgammon board
and brought it back. With her hand on his shoulder, she stood
behind him as he set up the tiles.

“My lord, you are a simple man of frugal
tastes, who abjures extravagance. Can you believe I will order
clothes that display you to the world otherwise? I would never be
so disrespectful of your nature.” She untied his shirt at the
throat and stroked her hand across the rough shadow of a beard on
his cheek, then crossed the room to bring his banyan and tuck it
around his shoulders. “It is my primary occupation, as your wife,
to see to the smooth running of your domestic life with as little
disruption to you as possible. You may be sure I do not intend to
disorder your every routine, especially not on board the
Amelia
, where life is lived so casually. But once we make
landfall, any clothing at hand in your armoire must and will
announce to the world you are a nobleman and an intimate of the
Crown.”

He groaned and scrubbed his hand across his
face. “Must it, indeed?”

She sighed and patted his hand. “One only
dies of being a nobleman if one chooses the wrong side, which you
have not yet done. You will survive the acquisition of a
fashionable wardrobe. I have seen to the most difficult part
already.”

“Yes?”

“Lord Pinnester’s tailor provided me with
your measurements, so you needn’t stand still for Bronson and his
tape until the first fitting.”

“First?”

“Husband, I do hope you will allow me to
help you make the changes that are needed, and trust I can manage
the tasks on your behalf, rather than questioning both my judgment
and the demands of your sovereign.”

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“Of course. Of course. Do you know, there are some days I wish I
had never met the King or the Prince of Wales?”

Laughing, she answered, “I daresay a great
many such days. But you have, and it has been more blessing than
curse, and I, for one, am grateful, for the association has
provided me an exemplary husband. There, you have rolled a six to
my four, so you go first.”

“You are right,” he grumbled, “I am churlish
to complain of God’s blessings.” He took his turn, brooding through
the opening moves, but brightening as the game grew more spirited.
It had not taken long for Bella to become a good challenge.

When they were well into the middle game, he
observed, “You have been aboard ship four weeks today.”

“Yes, my lord,” Bella murmured, bumping two
of his tiles out of the game. During the daytime, Bella could
display no timidity with the men on the crew, showing a firm,
competent face at all times, acting as the compassionate arm of a
triumvirate formed with her husband and Captain Johnson. When alone
with her husband, however, her shy nature was often still in
evidence, most especially when he exhibited a poor temper.

He took up the dice and smiled when she
looked at him through her lashes.

“If you call me ‘my lord’ when we are alone,
I will be forced to address you as Isabella.” She wrinkled her
nose. “Just so,” he said, nodding and raising a brow.

“Yes,
Myron
,” she began again. “It
has been four weeks.”

“Quite a champion you have now in
Hawley.”

Since her attacker had risen from the Prince
of Wales’ own bed, he had vowed to act as Bella’s stalwart
protector as long as he lived, prepared even to die in her
service.

“He is very sweet.”

“You are certain he has made no move
to—”

“Husband,” she said, with the air of
finality she was rapidly learning. She wondered if perhaps some
tones of voice were magically only available to wives. “His flesh
was flayed from bone, and he is only just walking. I hardly think
my, er, charms—such as they may be—are foremost in his mind.”

Myron tapped his dice cup on the table. “As
you say.”

He had consented, reluctantly, to allow her
as much license as he could stand to make a place for herself on
the crew. Since he had set the goal himself, before the unfortunate
incident, he could find no real reason to argue. He did, however,
find plenty of reason to remain nearby whenever she interacted with
the men. He had too much experience of sailors not to.

Half an hour later, when they had each won
one game of the three-of-five they had agreed, he took up her hand
before she could arrange the pips. Looking up at him with a
furrowed brow, she asked, “Is something amiss?”

Stroking the back of her hand, his voice
dropped in volume, became smoother, almost tender. “You are quite
healed of your injuries, are you not?”

Her mouth fell open until she snapped it
shut. She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let go,
only brought the fingertips to his lips and kissed them. She
whimpered, heat rising in her face so fast she was afraid her hair
might be set aflame.

When he kept looking at her across the
table, quietly stroking her fingers and wrist, she nodded swiftly,
turning her eyes away.

“I do not wish you to be afraid of me.”

“I am…” She trailed off with, “not.”
Gulping, she said, “Not precisely
afraid
.”

“The marital act is not… It is… well…” Now
he was blushing. “The Bible tells us we are to procreate.”

Staring at her lap, she agreed, “Yes. And I
do wish children. Very much.”

With a gulp, he forged ahead.
“
Pleasure
… as such… is not the intent… that is to say… I
hope no one has filled your ears with…” The suave tone in his voice
had been replaced with alternating high and low pitch, gruff to
placid and back again. His hand, rather than holding her gently in
the same reassuring grip, was very nearly convulsing around her
fingers. “I do not believe our Lord intended for… in any case… It
should not be so terribly… unpleasant… er… I will take measures
to…” He mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “there are… oils and
such…”

Finally, she grasped his fingers and held
his hand between both of hers. With courage she didn’t know she
possessed, she put her husband—her kind, caring, protective
husband—at his ease.

“We shall find our way in this as we have
each day since we were wed. I have never known a man I would so
trust with my… my person. I do not believe you will allow me to be
hurt, if it is within your power.”

He puffed out his chest a bit at that.
“Quite right. I would never see you hurt, Lady Holsworthy.”

“Of course not.” She patted his hand. “And I
believe now, of all times, you must call me Bella, my lord.” At her
wry grin, his shoulders unwound, and his thumb traced the back of
her hand. “Might I have a few minutes in my chamber?" she asked.
“To… er…” She wanted to swallow her words, but managed to
enunciate. “To prepare?”

He nodded, and she poured him the last cup
of tea in the pot before she left the room.