The Rogue's Return (18 page)

“Oh, cruel lady.”

Her eyes sparkled. She raised her other foot and began to slowly lift her skirts again.

Someone knocked.

She froze.

“Go away,” Simon called.

Footsteps receded. Her cheeks flamed. “They'll know. I mean, they'll assume . . .”

He grinned. “Yes. I'm beginning to think it would be worth the pain.”

She put her foot down, twitching her skirts into place. “We have the rest of our lives as long as you're careful now.”

“Spoilsport. Aren't you going to do the other stocking?”

“No. It gives you ideas.”

“My dearest love, the air as you pass gives me ideas.”

If eyes could kiss, hers kissed his, but she looked uncertain.

He held out a hand to her. When she took it, he said, “I forget how young you are. You should be just leaving the schoolroom, thinking only of dancing and flirtatious delights.”

“Silly.”

“No, it's not. I promise you dancing and flirtatious delights. And I'm sadly behind in my courtship.”

She touched one earring—“No, you're not”—and leaned to kiss him slowly, deeply. It was the stuff of heaven and the torments of hell.

As they rested cheek to cheek, he said, “Better let people in, my love. And you should go to your own bed. We need to be up early tomorrow to be on our way.”

J
ancy hadn't anticipated how hard and nerve-racking leaving Trewitt House would be. It was scarcely dawn and the wind blew sharp, which might have explained her shivers, but didn't.

She felt sorrow at breaking the final tie with Isaiah, but the shivers came from fear. The house had become a sort of fortress, and now they must leave and be exposed. When she'd seen Simon in the wooden armchair mounted with poles, her only thought had been that he made an excellent target.

The town was barely stirring, but the empty street felt threatening to her. They took a last farewell of the servants and then set off, Hal in the lead, Treadwell and Oglethorpe carrying Simon, and two of Mrs. Gunn's grandsons bringing their luggage in a handcart. It should be escort enough.

“Behold, the Grand Panjandrum passes!” Simon declared, waving to a passerby as he swayed down toward the wharf. “Bow down and worship.”

“Stop it!” Jancy hissed at him.

She'd persuaded him that all the men should carry loaded pistols, but he'd clearly thought her demented. “Who could possibly feel strongly enough to try to assassinate me as I leave, especially as they probably all want to see me gone?”

He was proved right. The few people they passed
either stared at the display or saluted in farewell, but they reached the ship without incident.

She hadn't thought to worry about the ship. It was very small and it bobbed against the wharf, already making her feel sick.

“Behold the good ship
Ferret,
” Simon declared. “Take me aboard, slaves.”

Jancy looked at Hal. “You've hired a boat called the
Ferret
?”

“I sailed on one called the
Weasel,
which seemed preferable to the
Haddock
. Ferrets are clever little beasts and skillful predators.”

Jancy wanted to roll her eyes at anyone teaching a Haskett about ferrets, one of the prime tools of a poacher, but mostly she was frightened. After the journey here, she hated ships.

The men were carrying Simon up the narrow, wobbly plank. Once he was safely aboard, she exhaled, but now it was her turn. Reminding herself that this was the only route to safety, she focused on Simon and rushed across the rickety plank.

A black-toothed sailor had to almost catch her, and he seemed typical of the small crew.

“How safe are
they
?” she muttered to Simon once she reached his side.

“I doubt they have mischief in mind, but if they do, we have five armed escorts.”

She hugged herself. “I don't like boats. They're just bits of wood and they go down all the time, even on the lake.”

Captain Norton was already aboard, positively gleaming in his scarlet-and-white uniform. “Hearts of oak and all that, ma'am,” he said.

“If the
Ferret
's made of hearts of oak, I'll eat my hat.”

“It probably is, you know,” Simon remarked. “One thing Canada does not lack is excellent timber. Try to relax, love.”

“I hate the way boats move. What if I'm sick?”

He took her gloved hand and squeezed it. “You're thinking of your cousin. That won't happen to you. I swear it.”

“Is Canute one of your ancestors, too? Are you able to control the waves? If God had meant people to go on the water, He'd have given us feathers and webbed feet!”

“Don't make me laugh.”

She made herself calm down. “I'm sorry.” She looked around. “So this is our domain.”

The men might be right that it was sturdy and safe, but the
Ferret
had little else to recommend it. The deck was dirty and crowded with boxes, sacks, and even crates of poultry and squealing piglets, so that there was little space for passengers at all. Perhaps the livestock explained the stink, but she suspected much of it was more established than that.

The one hatch in the middle of the deck was open, and the ruffian crew were lowering their luggage down there. She almost wanted to protest, but there was nowhere better. She hoped the
Ferret
didn't leak.

A wooden structure at one end probably contained the captain's quarters. There had to be a captain. She sought the man giving orders and found someone no smarter in appearance than the rest except for a battered old braided bicorn hat.

When the loading was done, he lit a long clay pipe, puffed on it, and came over with a rolling gait. “Angus Lawrie,” he declared in a thick Scottish accent, revealing only a half complement of teeth. “Welcome to the
Ferret,
sir, ma'am. She's a sturdy ship, and we'll have you safe to Kingston within the week.”

“What news of the weather?” Simon asked.

“Aye, well,” the captain said, chewing on his pipe. “The river's a wee bit ahead of itself this year. But don't you worry. It'll stay open for some weeks yet.”

Captain Lawrie turned away to bark unintelligible commands, and his men set about casting off. The plank,
their last link to land, was dragged in, leaving them at the mercy of the water.

Mrs. Gunn's grandsons waved and Jancy waved back, even though bile was rising in her throat. The ship was hardly tossing at all, so if she really was about to be sick it would be from fear of being sick. She focused on Simon. “How are you?”

“In perfect trim.” He was not, however, immediately attempting to stand, so she knew the journey must have been painful.

“Can you breathe properly?”

He inhaled in and out. “If I'd rebroken the rib and punctured my lung, I'd know it. Help me up.”

She wanted to protest but summoned Oglethorpe to help, for if Simon started to fall, she couldn't catch him.

Halfway upright he hissed, but he made it, and after a moment, he said, “That's better.” He made it to the rail, which gave him some support.

Jancy glanced at Hal and rolled her eyes, but she didn't blame Simon for wanting to be on his feet. She joined him just as the sails caught the wind, and the
Ferret
shuddered, as if excited to be off. The water between ship and shore lengthened. They were now truly at the mercy of untrustworthy water.

“I'll miss the colors,” Simon said.

She looked at him, astonished that he could be so calm—but then everyone was, from the pipe-puffing captain to the crew member who was coiling rope. She was the only one panicking. She clutched the rail and fixed her gaze on a scarlet tree.

She even began to appreciate the beauty. The rising sun broke through clouds, highlighting the town and garrison set against a glorious patchwork of greens, golds, yellows, and flaming reds. As they moved farther from shore, the scenery was reflected in the lake, creating a rippling tapestry.

“Better now?” he asked.

She smiled for him. “Yes.” She asked Hal, “Where are our accommodations? Simon can't go below.”

“If I have to . . .”

“Don't worry,” Hal said. “The captain has surrendered his cabin. It's not much, but it'll do.”

“Happy to oblige, ma'am,” the captain called in so cheerful a voice that Jancy was sure he'd been paid a ridiculous amount.

Hal opened a warped door that led to the hut, and Jancy went in, ducking slightly. She didn't need to, but the beams were low enough to make her feel her head was threatened. On shore, this space would count more as a hovel. It had two windows, both dirty. She tried them, and one actually opened. Thank heavens. The room had a sour, stale stink.

“It's not much, I know,” Hal said, “but the
Ferret
was the only possibility, and despite appearances it's said to be a sound ship and Lawrie to be a good seaman.”

“This room can be reached without a ladder and has fresh air. It's perfect.”

“You're very gracious. The
Eweretta
will be a grand improvement. She's famous for her comforts.”

He went back on deck and Jancy took stock of the room.

Much of the limited space was stacked with cargo, but at least there was no livestock in here. Some of the smell could be coming from the barrels and boxes, but she thought most was simply long-term lack of cleanliness. Regretfully, she closed the window. A black metal stove was providing heat and they'd need that.

She was tempted to roll up her sleeves and scrub, but it would be a labor of Hercules, and anyway, she was sure Mrs. Simon St. Bride wasn't supposed to scrub her own floors.

Remember your Haskett days,
she told herself.
Then this will seem like luxury.

At least they'd brought their own bedding. And the
bed would fit two—just. She pulled back the greasy gray coverlet, thinking things were looking up.

Someone tapped on the open door.

She turned to see Treadwell ducking in. “I'll do that, ma'am.”

Jancy stepped back, aware of a faux pas. She must learn to use servants, to assume they would do things rather than doing them herself. When he'd stripped the bed, however, she stared at the stained mattress. “I wish I'd brought our own bed.”

“Indeed, ma'am. Excuse me.”

He left and soon returned with a roll of canvas. He spread it over the mattress and tucked it in on either side. “A little trick I learned, ma'am. Ships always have extra sailcloth.”

Perhaps using servants would be wise. They were, after all, professionals. Jancy left Treadwell to his expert work and went back on deck to join Simon. “Shouldn't you sit again?”

She had expected a fight, but he agreed. Yes, he was in pain. The cabin, for all its shortcomings, would be theirs alone and quite far from others, but clearly there'd be no lovemaking yet.

“I feel like a decrepit ancient,” he complained as he sank carefully back into his chair.

“Consider yourself to be a Turkish pasha.”

He grinned. “What an intriguing idea. A pasha would have a hundred wives.”

“Which I'm sure would be a great relief to them, pashas being pashas.”

“And what do you know about pashas?”

“Nothing, but I assume they are all Grand Panjandrums.”

“With horses' tails instead of little round buttons,” Hal said.

“What?” Jancy and Simon said it in unison, turning to him.

Hal was leaning against the rail nearby. “I served for
a while in the eastern Mediterranean. The importance of a pasha is shown by the number of horse tails hanging from his pennant. If I'd known you were going to take this fancy, Simon, I'd have raided the stables.”

Suddenly everything felt brighter. They were away. The threat of York was shrinking with the town, and if the crew were ruffians, they wouldn't take on Hal, Norton, Treadwell, and Oglethorpe, not to mention Simon, who was probably up to a fight now if necessary.

Even nature smiled on them. There was just enough wind for steady travel without choppy waves and the sun came and went. And after days of terror and urgency, suddenly there was nothing to do. Soon, she suspected, she'd be bored, but for now, idleness felt like luxury.

The
Ferret
had an eating area belowdecks, next to a crude galley, but as Simon couldn't get down there, they ate picnic style on the deck and enjoyed it. They were all warmly dressed, and the simple food was surprisingly good.

Breakfast was strong tea, bread and butter, sliced ham, and hard-boiled eggs. For the midafternoon dinner they were served bread and stew, but good bread and stew, with apple pies and cheese for dessert. As the sun set, they were offered bread, cheese, and ale.

They'd brought their own supplies, so they had fresh fruit, wine, and coffee as well. Simon offered coffee to the crew, but they declared themselves happy with tea, ale, and grog—watered rum.

That evening, Jancy sat on the hatch by Simon's chair, sipping coffee and watching the sky pale as the sun disappeared. “It's like mother-of-pearl.”

“Nature's magnificence.”

When she turned to him, he was looking at her. “Don't.”

“You are magnificent, Jane. What remarkable courage and strength you've shown.”

She looked back at the sky. “I'm nothing out of the ordinary.”

“There's nothing out of the ordinary about the setting of the sun. It happens every day, yet people are regularly brought to awe by it. Like love.”

She turned back to him. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“It's common enough coin, there for the beggar and the king, the sinner and the saint. Yet wondrous.” He took her hand and carried it to his lips. She wasn't wearing her gloves.

“You're cold,” he said. “Do you want to go inside?”

To their private room with their private bed? Longings vibrated between them, but they couldn't. Not yet. “Of course. Do you want to walk there?”

“I believe I can manage that.”

Jancy gave him her arm and they made the short, unsteady journey. She knew Hal and Norton were standing by in case. They made it, however. Simon was getting stronger all the time. Was it possible?