The Accidental Bride (27 page)

Cato took the tankard with a nod of thanks. The grog had a good spicy aroma, and its steam curled into the now chill air. He drew his cloak more securely over his shoulders, determined to remain on deck most of the night. Fresh air was the best antidote to seasickness.

They had reached the harbor bar and the oarsmen shipped their sweeps and swarmed up the rope ladders back on board the
White Lady
while the boats were winched up and secured on deck. Sipping his grog, Cato looked up at the masts as the sails were run up, bellying in the fresh cold wind. Phoebe would be asleep by now, snug beneath the feather quilt in the big four-poster at the Ship.

Cato sighed. He had hated to leave her, and the shadow of her absence was getting in the way of his clearheaded appraisal of the mission that lay ahead of him.

To
be absent from thy heart is torment. . .

Mother of God, why couldn’t he rid himself of that damned scene? The lines kept popping into his head completely unbidden. At least he thought they were unbidden. But supposing there was something over which he had no control . . ..

The captain said something and Cato banished introspection. “I beg your pardon, Captain . . .?”

P
hoebe remained in her cupboard until she felt the motion
of the ship change and its slow steady progress seemed to
a crack and sat down on the coils of rope, drawing her legs beneath her, holding the door almost closed, leaving just the tiniest crack for a reassuring breath of reasonably fresh air.

Phoebe lost track of time. Above her head the sounds of impending departure continued. She listened for the sound of Cato’s voice but it never reached her. Once she had a moment of panic, imagining what would happen if he’d decided at the last minute not to board the
White Lady
and she’d be heading off for Holland all alone. But no one came down to the cabin opposite to retrieve his portmanteau.

A great rattling sound from immediately below her startled her so that she jumped and banged her head on the cupboard’s low ceiling. A rattling, creaking, banging racket that set her perch shivering. And now the thudding feet above her took on a new urgency interspersed with voices raised in command. The ship began to move in what to Phoebe seemed a cumbersome swinging motion.

A
bove, Cato stood with the captain on the quarterdeck
, watching as the ship’s boats with their long sweeps of oars towed the
White Lady
to the mouth of the harbor. All around them ships riding the high tide were following the same course.

“What kind of a crossing are you expecting, Captain?” Cato inquired with an assumption of only mild curiosity, although his peace of mind, not to mention stomach, rested on the answer.

“Oh, quiet enough, sir,” the captain replied, gazing upward into the deep blue sky now thickly studded with stars. “We should pick up a brisk wind come morning for the North Sea passage, but it’s set fair for the moment.”

Cato muttered a response and turned to look up into the rigging where sailors were moving purposefully, preparing for the moment when they’d pass the harbor bar and the oarsmen would return on board, their boats winched after
have known where he’d died. Sometimes she couldn’t begin to understand why she loved him to such distraction.

I
t was gone midnight when Cato decided to go below. It
was too cold to sleep on deck, and the sea seemed calm enough for the most susceptible stomach. The captain had long left the quarterdeck to the quartermaster, who stood at the helm, whistling softly between his teeth as he steered by the North Star.

Cato bade him a courteous good night and descended the companionway. He entered the cabin, yawning deeply, to find it in darkness, the oil lamp out of fuel. By the faint moonlight coming through the small porthole, he struck flint on tinder and lit the candle that stood on the table.

His foot caught the stool beside the table and he glanced down. At first what he saw merely bemused him. A heap of clothes that were not his own had no place in his cabin. But there was something familiar about these garments. Something familiar. . .

With a creeping sense of inevitability Cato turned slowly towards the bulkhead, raising the candle high.

The golden light fell upon a tangled glowing mass of light brown hair, a pale cheek pillowed on the curve of her forearm, the crescent shadow of her eyelashes, the soft full mouth, lips slightly parted in sleep.

Cato regarded his sleeping wife in disbelief.

Grimly he picked up a copper jug that stood beside the commode and went back up on deck to the scuttlebutt. He filled the jug and returned to his cabin.

Phoebe slept on.

Cato dipped a towel into the jug, wrung it out perfunctorily, and approached the bunks.

Phoebe came to in a spluttering shower of cold water, arms flailing, incoherent protest on her lips. Her eyes shot
open and she found herself looking up into her husband’s flinty black eyes.

“Oh,” she said inadequately, trying to dry her drenched face with the back of her hand. A complaint about his method of waking her died stillborn as she absorbed his furious countenance.

“How
dare
you!” Cato demanded.

Phoebe wiped her face on the scratchy sheet, trying to think of something to say. Unfortunately she was still half asleep and words seemed to have deserted her.

“Come down here,” Cato commanded, tossing the soaked cloth into the jug.

Phoebe sat up properly and looked doubtful. It didn’t seem like a wise move in the light of Cato’s expression. “There’s not a lot of room. I’m sure we could have a more comfortable conversation if I stayed up here,” she suggested tentatively.

“Phoebe, get down here!” The softness of his voice did nothing to detract from its ferocity.

There seemed nothing for it. She pushed aside the thin blanket and wriggled around so that she could come down the ladder backwards. She tugged at the hem of her chemise, aware that it only reached mid-thigh and was riding up as she descended the ladder. It did nothing for her sense of vulnerability.

“I saw Brian on the quay. That’s why I came on board . . . to tell you that,” she declared in a rush, glancing hopefully over her shoulder to see the effect of her explanation.

Cato took her by the waist and swung her down the last two rungs of the ladder, setting her on her feet with a jarring thump.
“What?”
he demanded.

“Brian.” Phoebe tugged again at her chemise. “On the quay. He was talking with two men. I thought you’d wish to know.”

Cato stared at her. “Are you telling me you crept on
board, hid in my cabin, waited until the ship was well out of port, just to inform me that my stepson has found his way to Harwich?”

“Isn’t it something you would wish to know?”

“That’s beside the point.” Cato dismissed the question with an impatient gesture. “And don’t be disingenuous. If you wished to tell me something, just why did you wait until now to do so?”

“I was asleep,” Phoebe offered.

Cato drew in a sharp breath.

Phoebe, regretting her flippancy, went on the attack. She said hastily, “You told me you were going to Italy, and you’re not. Why did you lie to me? You could have been killed and I’d never have known where you died . . . always supposing someone bothered to tell me you were dead,” she added with undisguised bitterness.

“My destination had to be a secret.” To his astonishment Cato found himself on the defensive. “For safety reasons as much as anything.”

“But why wouldn’t you tell
me?”
Phoebe demanded. “I wouldn’t jeopardize your safety . . . or did you think I might?”

“That has nothing to do with it. A secret mission is just that. No
one
can know of it.”

“I’ll lay odds Giles Crampton knows,” Phoebe stated.

“That is different,” Cato said firmly. “Giles is my lieutenant.”

“And more important than your wife,” Phoebe retorted.

“In some matters, yes. But none of this is to the point. I cannot believe you . . .
even you . . .
would have the brass-faced nerve to do this, Phoebe. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? What you have put in jeopardy by your blind and utterly thoughtless impulses?”

“I saw Brian Morse on the quay and thought you ought to know of it,” Phoebe reiterated. “Does he know where you’re really going?”

“He didn’t. I daresay he does now,” Cato observed. “But that has nothing to do with you.”

“It does! Everything that concerns you is to do with me,” Phoebe said. “But you won’t understand that. You’re always telling me to sit at home and ply my needle—”

“I never said that!” Cato interrupted, thrown off course by this image. “I’d never say anything so ridiculous. Just the very idea of you plying a needle is an absurdity.”

“Well, you didn’t say that exactly,” Phoebe conceded. “But you told me my place is at home.”

“Which it is.”

“No!” she cried. “No, it’s not. My place is with you. You’re where my home is . . . it’s beside you.” Impassioned, she jabbed at his chest to illustrate her point.

Cato caught her wrist. He looked down into her flushed face, her fiery eyes. She was impossible to ignore, impossible to manage, utterly determined, and so very, very loving. There was absolutely no point in being angry. It was a complete waste of time and effort. All his legitimate fury simply washed off her like rain on an oiled hide. She was so absolutely sure of herself, of what she believed was right.

A deep sigh, almost a groan, of resignation escaped him. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he muttered, his fingers still clamped around her wrist.

Phoebe put her head on one side, her bright eyes regarding him just like the ragged robin he so often called her. “A very good deed once that you’ve probably forgotten,” she suggested with a smile that while tentative was also mischievous.

Cato put his hands lightly around her throat, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. “For two pins, Phoebe—”

The cabin floor suddenly shifted beneath his feet as the ship rolled violently. It seemed to hang in midair, then it pitched forward. The jug of water slid across the table, then back again as the ship pulled itself up and out of the trough.

Cato’s hands dropped from Phoebe and with an incoherent mutter he turned and half ran from the cabin.

Puzzled Phoebe stood with one hand unconsciously at her throat where she could still feel the warmth of his fingers. The ship rolled sideways again and she allowed herself to move with it, realizing instinctively that fighting the motion would only unbalance her.

Where had Cato gone in such a hurry?

She scrambled into her clothes and left the cabin, grabbing onto the doorjamb as the pitch and roll intensified. She made her way towards the companionway, holding on to the passage wall for balance, and climbed up onto the deck.

It was a brilliant, star-filled night but the wind was strong and cold. Phoebe pulled the hood of her cloak tightly over her ears and looked around for Cato. She couldn’t see any sign of him at first and watched for a minute as sailors swarmed the creaking rigging, taking a reef in the sails. No one seemed perturbed by the wind or the swell of the sea; indeed the men were chattering and laughing as they worked, clinging to the rigging as the ship rode the waves, as she plunged into deep troughs and hauled herself back up again.

Phoebe found it exhilarating as she stood braced against the wind and the motion, her feet planted well apart on the spray-soaked decking. A few curious glances came her way, but everyone seemed too busy to take much notice of this unknown passenger. Phoebe, assuming that Cato would have to negotiate passage for her with the captain once the bustle of present activity was over, looked around again for her husband.

She saw him eventually on the lee side of the ship, peering over the rail. She made her way towards him, holding on to the rail for safety.

“Isn’t this exhilarating?” she called enthusiastically as she approached him. “Do you think you should explain to the captain that I’m here?”

Cato didn’t respond. He remained hanging over the rail.

“Oh,” Phoebe said as she reached him. “You’re sick. I remember you said the sea made you so.”

Cato straightened as the wrenching paroxysms ceased for a minute. He wiped his mouth on the handkerchief he clutched in his hand and regarded Phoebe, radiating rude health, with considerable disfavor. “Just go below and leave me alone,” he said, then with a groan swung back to the rail, vomiting helplessly.

“But can’t I do anything?” Phoebe touched his back in anxious concern. “There must be something.”

“Just go away!” he directed when he could draw breath again. “I can’t worry about you at the moment, so get below and stay out of the way!”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Phoebe said in hopeful reassurance. “Indeed you don’t. I am worried about
you.
There must be something I can get you.” She put an arm around his shoulders, trying to support him through the violent retching.

“Brandy,” Cato gasped after long minutes. “In my portmanteau there’s a flagon of brandy. Sometimes it helps.” He hung over the rail again.

Phoebe flew belowdecks. Tossing neatly folded shirts aside, she rummaged for the flagon and found it at the bottom of the portmanteau. Then she flew on deck again, uncorking the flask as she went.

Cato staggered upright, supporting himself on the rail. He reached for the flagon and tipped it to his mouth. Sometimes it steadied his stomach and eventually it could bring merciful sleep.

“How dreadful for you,” Phoebe said sympathetically. “It’s strange, but I don’t feel in the least unwell.”

“How fortunate for you,” Cato muttered dryly, leaning back against the rail, holding the neck of the flask loosely between finger and thumb while the fiery liquid burned down his gullet and settled in his aching stomach.

“In fact,” Phoebe said with devastating candor, “I seem to find myself very hungry. Perhaps it’s the sea air.”

“Repellent brat!” Cato declared with some force, before turning with a groan to lose the brandy to the waves.