This Perfect Kiss (4 page)

“Do not leave this cabin.”

“I would not dream of it.”

His gaze dropped to her sassy mouth, and it occurred to him as he left the room that there was still much that was unsettled between them. And it had nothing to do with his marriage to Saundra or the fact that Christel left Scotland without ever telling him good-bye.

He had not known that she'd been in Yorktown that fateful year when tens of thousands of colonists had battled for the fate of a future nation. His ship,
Endurance
, had been one of the frigates in the British fleet that had gone to aid Cornwallis with a four-hundred-man crew. What had happened had been public record when the British had failed to break the French blockade.

What had not been public record was that most of the British fleet had become separated during a storm, leaving two ships behind and outnumbered nine to one come the dawn. There had been no chance for surrender. Rather than try to run, he had made the fateful decision to fight.

He'd lost two hundred souls under his command in the battle and would have lost his life, too, if not for the colonial ship that had fished the survivors out of the water. Captain Douglas's frigate had been a part of the battle that day, and first on the scene to pull many of the surviving British from the bay.

Camden had awakened in pain to Christel's voice in the field hospital outside Yorktown shortly before Cornwallis's surrender. He had spent weeks in and out of consciousness with her at his side, weeks more in interrogation before her uncle was able to get him put on a prisoner transport back to England. It had taken months to learn to walk again, and when he had, he'd faced an admiralty board and dishonor after the British defeat at Yorktown.

But even as life had a way of reminding him that everything came with a price, fate had worked itself out in the end. If Christel had not gone to Virginia, he would have probably died in Yorktown. And maybe Saundra would still be alive.

Chapter 2

C
hristel came awake that evening to the loud groaning noise from the ship's seams as it plowed through choppy seas. She had crawled into bed after bathing herself and the dog merely to get warm.

Raking back damp tendrils of uncombed hair from her eyes, she sat up to find that the dog had leapt onto the bunk and wrapped itself in Lord Carrick's thick feather tick. Everything smelled like wet dog and feathers. She gasped upon seeing feathers on the ground.

“Oh, bad dog.”

The hound licked her face. “Lord Carrick will kill us both. Off with you before someone finds you up here and banishes us both to the hold.”

The dog leapt off the bed, and Christel crawled out to check the damage to the blankets. Wearing nothing more than one of Lord Carrick's white cambric shirts, she was painfully aware of the cold as she cleaned up the mess and found her way to the washbasin behind a screen.

Pausing to confront the woman in the silvered glass above the washbasin, she touched her hair. Her wheaten curls, once her pride and glory, wilted unevenly at her shoulders. Cutting her hair before she had left Boston had not been the hardest part of this journey. Seeing Camden St. Giles again was like stepping barefoot into a room filled with broken glass.

Absently rubbing her thumb across the face of her necklace, she walked around the cabin, studying the books locked behind glass, touching everything else as if by doing so she could develop a bond with her new temporary world. It was something she had always done from the days when she was a child, a habit that had begun after she had gone to live at Rosecliffe when she was twelve. It was her way to feel a part of her new world, which did not welcome her or treat her kindly.

His chambers were more practical than luxurious, with their display of polished brass and leather-covered chairs bolted to the floor, and a Persian rug that gave character to the tastes of the cabin's male owner.

She saw nothing that might have once belonged to Saundra. No ornaments or color that bespoke a woman's gentle touch. Everything was shiny and new and in its proper place, ruthlessly void of softness, like the polished brilliance of a diamond devoid of warmth.

Like Lord Carrick.

Even his appearance had bespoken a calculated elegance refined by his dark tailored clothes. The man Christel had met early this morning was not that restless young naval officer she had fallen in love with those many years ago in a world so far separated from the one where he now lived. If she could have found another way home, she would have.

But the Barracuda was not all ice and teeth and did have a soft spot inside him. That morning she had heard him talking gently to a little girl in the adjoining cabin.

And just that fast it was as if the shadow had lifted from Christel's heart. Lord Carrick had not said Lady Anna was aboard the ship. That she might be so near raised Christel's spirits.

A knock sounded at the door, and Christel jumped back into the bunk as Lord Carrick's steward entered carrying a tray laden with food. He had introduced himself earlier as Red Harry. She had no idea why he possessed such a name, for there seemed to be nothing red about him except his nose.

He spied her awake. “I hoped ye be awake.” He set down the tray at the end of the bunk. “I brought ye some nice fried pancakes, eggs and kippers to fill yer belly.”

Christel pulled the tick to her neck as she attempted to maneuver nearer to the tray. It wasn't that she was shy. She'd bathed in streams with a regiment of soldiers a stone's throw over the trees. But she suddenly felt awkward and exposed wearing only Lord Carrick's shirt, sleeping in his cabin and his bed.

Red Harry chuckled as he turned to pick up the water tins littering the floor. “Ye need no' fear none over yer modesty,” he said kindly. “I been wed three times, mum. None of 'em was legal, mind ye, but the point bein', I seen my fair share of ankles and other female”—he cleared his throat—“whatnots.” He offered her a serviette. “The cap'n tasked me with yer care, so I am under me oath to be a gentleman.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. The tick fell to her waist as she moved the tray onto her lap and began to eat. Nay, devour. The pancakes were more like flatbread, the eggs were runny and the sweet coffee had thick grounds on the bottom of the cup, but nothing had ever tasted better. “Thank you.” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her finger and smiled. “You would not by chance have a cow on board. I would love a glass of cold milk.”

He chuckled, resettling the water tins in his arms. “No cows, lass. And you'll most likely be dinin' off pickled herring and hardtack the rest of the trip. The cap'n has closed the galley.”

Approaching darkness prevented her from seeing outside the window. “Where are we?” she murmured over a mouthful while sharing a kipper with the dog. He had somehow snuck back up on the berth to better observe her tray without her noticing.

“Jest near Dover, mum. And this mutt be?” Red Harry asked.

Scratching between his ears, Christel nuzzled her nose against his neck. “I have no idea. I only just met him on the docks in London.” With a mottled red-and-white spotted coat, he seemed to be a mishmash of breeds with perky ears and amber eyes and an equal need to belong. “He just found me.”

The weathered face of the old man turned fatherly. “Did he now?” he said approvingly. “A dog knows a lot about a person's character, ye ken.”

She patted the hound's head and fed him the last kipper from her tray. “Or perhaps he merely likes me because I feed him. Is that not right, boy? People oughtn't be so cruel,” she said as if to herself, still miffed by Lord Carrick's curtness with her this morning.

Red Harry sniffed. “If it makes ye feel better, his lordship be harder on hisself than he is on others, lass.”

It didn't make her feel better, but she finished her meal rather than state her sentiment aloud. “You have served Lord Carrick long?”

Red Harry closed the cupboard and walked past her with an armful of linens that had been behind the screen. “Been with his lordship from the day he took his first command ten years ago. Course he is no longer a captain in His Majesty's navy. . . . A lot has changed from those days.”

She hoped he would reveal more. He didn't.

“It has been a long time since I have been back to Ayr. Is it the same, then?”

He withdrew the tinderbox from the cupboard and began lighting the lamps. “Gossip never changes as far as I can tell. But there still be gels standin' in line to be the next Countess Carrick, and his grandmother still be wantin' him to wed and settle down at Blackthorn like a proper lord should. And him in London instead with that Spanish mistress hangin' on his arm and causin' one scandal or another, and him carin' about nothin' at all, 'cept maybe his little girl.”

The little steward snapped shut the glass casing on the copper lamp next to the door. “Me bein' only his lordship's loyal servant for nigh on ten years and savin' his life more than once, I am no' sayin' it be my business how he lives his life. People spend too much time sticking their noses in other people's affairs as is, and no one can accuse
me
of puttin' my nose where it does no' belong.”

“I am sure his lordship can handle himself, Mr. Harry.”

“My name be Red Harry.
Mister
makes me sound too old and formal. I be old enough without ye makin' me older than I am, and I ain't been a gentleman ever.”

She smiled. “Then we are kindred spirits, Red Harry, for no one can accuse me of being much of a lady.”

“Do no' fool yourself, lass,” he said, his brown eyes softening. “Ye be beautiful like his lady wife. Ye could be her, ye ken.”

Looking away, Christel tried not to resent the physical comparison. But she loved Saundra, and at once, she felt guilty for the thought.

“Mr. . . . er . . . Red Harry? Did you know my cousin, his wife?”

“Aye, I did, lass.” He hesitated, as if he would measure his words, then said no more.

Red Harry took the tray and returned to present her with a gown, an assortment of underclothing, including boned stays, a stiffened petticoat, and sturdy shoes. Then he surprised her with a sewing box that had once been hers but that she had given to Saundra on her eighteenth birthday.

She threw off the bunk covers. “Where did you get this?”

“It belonged to her ladyship, lass. She kept her embroidery needles and threads inside. Do no' rightly know why 'tis still on board . . .” His voice trailed, and he busied himself with the latch. “I thought ye could use something inside. The dress might need a bit of altering.”

She held the gown against her. A glance at herself made her laugh. “ 'Tis quite festive.”

At her age, she would never have chosen to wear such a piece of muslin frippery, with its enthusiastic flower motif, but she decided that she would welcome the bright colors on such a dower day even if it meant gophering the frilled sleeves and hem with an iron.

“His lordship said fer me to tell ye the dress be yours.”

She continued to gaze down at the gown. She had learned long ago never to accept charity from men without expecting to give something back. Yet, in this case, she didn't concern herself that Lord Carrick had designs on her person. He felt a responsibility toward her. And he
had
taken her clothes, after all. But that she found herself reminded of his benevolence bothered her as much as the fact that she was forced to accept it.

She smiled. “I am appreciative. I was not looking forward to arriving in Scotland barefoot and wearing only his robe.” She peered out the ice-encrusted window and asked, “Has he been on deck all this time?”

“Aye, lass.” Red Harry scratched his whiskers. “I do no' 'spect he will have the time even to eat. No' in this weather.”

C
hristel spent this period of involuntary confinement sewing. By early afternoon the next day, before the seas had become so rough that she could no longer work, she had already removed the bottom flounce of lace to shorten the gown three inches, adding it to the sleeves and bodice so that it would cover more of her bosoms.

She held the dress to her body and, looking this way and that in the glass Red Harry had found for her, concluded she was still an excellent modiste. She could not deny the dress endowed her with springtime cheer, even if she was feeling less than cheerful herself.

After a supper of dried biscuits and herring, and feeling distinctly queasy, she changed into Lord Carrick's robe and readied herself for bed. Rolling up the sleeves to her elbows, she struggled to clean the scraps of cloth off the floor and brought the sewing box to the window bench. She stowed it beneath and sat, the dog at her feet. The animal, having found a secure place on the floor to endure the storm, was far wiser than she.

Lacing her fingers tightly in her lap, she looked outward toward a turbulent horizon and could not tell where the churning sky ended and the waves began. The sea was a powerful, living current and had killed her father and her uncle. She couldn't understand how any man could remain on deck in this cold.

She spied a two-masted ship. At first, she didn't pay attention, but then she saw the ship again, right to windward under full sail, a tactic oft used when one ship was following another. She straightened.

She did not hear the cabin door click open, only saw the dog's head suddenly come up. Startled, Christel turned and caught a flash of movement near the bulkhead. The door swung on its hinges with the ship's movements. She balanced herself as she walked into the adjoining chamber, only to come to a stop as she looked around the bulkhead at a little girl hiding there. The child stood in a pale nightdress just outside the dim amber light cast by a single sconce next to Christel's head.

“Are you an angel?” asked the girl in a small voice.

Christel stared at the small oval face looking back at her with wide, light-colored eyes. Black curls bound by a white ribbon reached down the length of her back. Her white nightdress topped her ankles just above her bare feet.

“An angel? The only angel I see in the room is you. You must be Lady Anna.”

Christel knelt and placed her hands on the girl's narrow shoulders. “Look at you without slippers or a wrap. You are colder than an icicle.”

“Hoarfrost,” she said softly. “Mamma used to say I was colder than hoarfrost.”

Christel gently touched the ribbon entwined in Anna's silken hair. She might have Saundra's delicate build, but the girl had her father's blue-gray eyes, fringed in his dark lashes, his sable hair, and his beautiful mouth. “Hoarfrost it is, then. Come.” She led the girl to the bunk and pulled back the covers. “What are you doing out of your room?”

She wrapped Anna in the thick feather tick until only her delicate face showed in a fluffy mountain of white. She had aired the tick yesterday after the dog had slept on it.

“I woke up,” the girl said. “I got afraid. Nurse Gabby did not light the lamp. I think she is ill.”

Christel arranged the feather tick over the child's feet. “Does Nurse Gabby always take ill on rough seas?”

Christel would die if she had brought some plague aboard this ship. But to her relief Anna nodded. “Red Harry
tells
her to eat the dry toast he brings for her. But she never eats toast without her butter and orange marmalade, and Red Harry said since we do not have our ship's cook on board, no one knows where anything is and she would have to eat the toast without butter and marmalade. I do not like marmalade. I like strawberries the best.”

“I see.”

“Nurse Gabby did not eat the toast.”

“And now she is sick.”

“Terribly so.” Anna suddenly came to life. “Is that a
dog
?” She leaned over the side of the bunk and held out her small hand to the spotted hound. “I always wanted a puppy. Papa would never allow me to have a dog. What is its name?”