The sirens captain, p.13
The Siren's Captain, page 13
“Better surrounded than dead,” she retorted.
Lord Peverell and his bride must have been waiting in the house rather than starting on their honeymoon, for they’d left their carriage at Quill’s disposal. He assisted Ree up inside. She lowered the window and gazed down at him. “Promise me you will take care.”
She knew exactly how to pitch that glorious voice. “I promise,” Quill vowed.
He stepped back and nodded to the coachman, then watched as the carriage trundled out of the yard. A cool breeze followed in its wake, and a chill went up his spine. Or had her words finally taken root inside him? Looking around at the trees, he found it impossible to imagine someone was watching him, waiting for the least opportunity.
But he could not deny that simply walking down to the Siren felt as dangerous as sailing into Alexandria’s harbor with Napoleon’s fleet in port.
Nothing happened. No branches moved suspiciously as he passed. No crack warned of a gun being cocked. No smoke from an incendiary device drifted on the wind. The only noise was from the screech of a gull wheeling against a winter-blue sky.
As he reached the pier, Quill paused, widened his stance, and glared up the headland. “If you’re here, show yourself. I’m ready for you.”
The gull cackled a laugh.
“Captain?” Hugh asked from the deck.
Quill shook his head, turning. “Only a bit of fancy. I’m finding it hard to understand why our nemesis doesn’t take his opportunities when they are offered.”
“Could be he’s scared of you,” Hugh said, elbow rubbing at a bit of brass.
“Then he shouldn’t have taken this assignment.”
“Maybe he wasn’t scared until he met you,” Hugh countered as Quill swung himself aboard. “Easy enough, I suppose, for a Frenchman to think he can best an Englishman, or they wouldn’t have been fighting us all these years. But the idea of the enemy and a living, breathing fellow staring you down can be two things entirely.”
“True,” Quill allowed, remembering his first sea battle. Lobbing cannonballs at a vessel across the waves was one thing. Watching that vessel veer closer, seeing the crew lining the gunwales armed with cutlass and knife, was something else. “But if Napoleon thought enough of him to send him on this assignment, I doubt he’d be a novice.”
“You never know,” Hugh insisted, heading toward the wheel. “Perhaps he was scheduled for the guillotine. A man would promise most anything to escape that fate.”
“And just as easily change his mind once away from France,” Quill pointed out.
Hugh reached the stern and turned, face set. “Mr. Howland will be wanting his inventory. Best we get to it.”
They did just that, using parchment and pencil from below decks. Quill was thankful to find little damage among the bunks, the galley, his storage locker, the powder magazine, or the rest of the hold. He and Hugh completed the calculations and delivered the document to James before evening.
“I’ve lost my mainstays, half of my forestays, and the halyards, and my headsail has too many burn holes to patch,” Quill said. “I’ve a spare, but that’s still yards upon yards of rope that will be needed, and two of the blocks are charred enough I’d prefer to replace them as well.”
“The chandler says he’ll work with his suppliers to get you everything you need,” his friend told them. “He’s already alerted the ropewalk in Weymouth. I expect the first shipment Monday.”
They had much to do in the meantime. All the burned pieces had to be removed, the deck swabbed, and the soot polished off brass and wood. Quill, Hugh, and Alex worked most of the day Saturday, with Ike, Richard, and Arnie Williams pitching in when they could.
Quill was in his cabin at the stern later Saturday morning when Ree found him. She immediately put her hands on the hips of her green wool gown. “You are alone.”
“There are four other men above decks,” he said, gaze returning to the maps he had spread out on the small table beside his bunk. “I defy our nemesis to get through them.”
She wandered closer. He had to duck his head slightly to navigate the space under the quarterdeck, especially where the beams crossed the low ceiling, but she had no such trouble.
“Planning a trip?” she asked.
He smiled as she joined him. “Always. The coast of France near Cherbourg is favored with many coves. We try to vary our landings to keep out of sight of the Navy, English or French. The trick is to get word to our friends.”
“Royalists?”
She said the word casually, finger tracing the coastline on the map.
“Those who do not fully support Napoleon’s claims,” he agreed. “You must know a number.”
She turned to face him. “Yes, but I have lost touch with many who remained behind. I have been told most perished.” She pulled back her finger as if the map had grown hot. “I thought you should know that I strolled past Mr. Smith’s cottage today.”
He raised a brow. “Alone?”
“I took Maudie and Mr. Guthrie with me.”
He chuckled. “Protection indeed.”
“They thought so. And he seemed far more interested in Maudie than anything I might have been doing with Mr. Smith. The two of them seem to have settled into a courtship. She allowed him to hold her hand.” Her smile said the fact pleased her. But as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Unfortunately, we saw no one except the boy the magistrate asked to watch the house. Perhaps at church tomorrow.”
Somehow, he didn’t think French assassins attended English church services. Not at St. Andrew’s at Grace-by-the-Sea, in any event.
~~~
Could an assassin be sitting among the congregation? Ree craned her neck the next day before she and Quill slipped into a pew with the magistrate, his mother, and a curly-haired lady who Mr. Howland introduced as his wife, Eva. But Ree didn’t catch a glimpse of the redheaded stranger. Instead, she found herself enjoying the service, entering into the celebration of faith. And she only started a little when the first banns were called for her and Quill.
She forced herself to look around again as services ended. She must have been more obvious than she intended, for Eva leaned closer.
“Who are you looking for?”
Her sky-blue eyes crinkled up at the corners as if with mischief. The vibrant shade of amethyst of her redingote and the peacock feather curling down from her wide-brimmed hat said she wasn’t afraid to stand out in a crowd. As the wife of the magistrate, surely she knew everyone in the village.
“A gentleman that the captain and I keep running into,” Ree admitted. “About his height. Stocky. Red hair.”
“Hm.” She glanced around as they followed her husband and Quill out of the pew and joined the throng heading for the doors. “The only people with red hair in the area are Mrs. Kirby and Abigail Bennett.”
“So I keep hearing,” Ree said. “But I doubt he is related to either. He seems to be a Newcomer. A former Army officer.”
They had just stepped out into a drizzling morning. Eva pulled up short so quickly, Mrs. Greer, walking behind them, bumped right into her and huffed.
Eva sent her a contrite smile before seizing Ree’s arm and drawing her against the building out of the rain. Quill and the magistrate kept walking, as if assuming that the ladies were right behind.
“Abigail has a brother,” Eva said hurriedly. “He was posted to India. She and her mother wrote to him for years, but they haven’t received word in months. Her husband has written to colleagues concerning him, and everyone keeps hoping he’ll reappear in the village one day. Do you think he could be your redheaded Newcomer?”
Quill must have noticed Ree’s absence, for he turned, gaze swinging around the churchyard before he strode back in their direction.
“If he has family in the village, why lease a cottage?” Ree asked Eva. “And for someone from the area, he is as skittish as a colt. He refuses to speak to anyone.”
Eva frowned as Quill bore down on them. “And Abigail and her mother could talk to anyone, for any length of time. No, it couldn’t be him, worse luck.” She brightened. “Oh, hello, Captain St. Claire. Come to collect your bride?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Quill said, holding out his hand to Ree.
“Mrs. Howland was just telling me about Abigail Bennett’s red-haired brother,” she explained, putting her hand in his.
“Please, call me Eva,” the magistrate’s wife said. “And we don’t actually know whether Gideon Archer has red hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture. I’ll ask Abigail.” She trotted out into the rain, heedless of the feather bobbing in her hat.
“A power unto herself, that one,” Ree said, watching her with admiration.
“You could say that about most of the ladies of Grace-by-the-Sea,” Quill said. “Eva was an heiress, used to managing her own affairs, before coming here and marrying James. They seem to be good for each other.”
Ree patted his hand. “Some husbands and wives are. My father was devoted to my mother. She passed when I was eleven, but I remember them holding hands, heads close together, smiling. It was very sweet.”
“Some ladies inspire devotion,” he said, tucking her arm closer. “Why else would Shakespeare have penned so many sonnets? ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”
The warmth in his voice sent tingles through her. “I would accept lovely, but I do not see myself as temperate.”
“No indeed,” he agreed, leaning closer. “You are passion, a fire blazing to light the night.”
She couldn’t speak as his lips moved closer to hers.
“Captain St. Claire, how goes the repairs?”
He broke away to smile at the vicar, who had come out onto the stoop to say farewell to the last of his congregation.
“Quite well,” Quill said. “I am blessed with a willing, able crew. I understand you sail, Mr. Wingate. Perhaps you’d like to join us.”
Ree cast him a glance, surprised, but the vicar’s narrow face turned a pleased shade of pink before he demurred and sent them off with the loan of his umbrella.
She managed to persuade Quill to stay at the cottage for the rest of the day, but when she woke to only a soft mist on Monday, she knew where she’d find him.
Maudie had mentioned the way up behind St. Andrew’s to the Lodge, so, after stopping by the bakery to purchase a bag of rolls, Ree followed the path onto the headland, crossed the grounds, and skirted the rambling manor house for the rear yard. There she found another member of Quill’s crew, Mr. Catchpole, unloading a wagon of massive coils of rope, black with tar.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Fortier,” he said with a nod as he handed a pile to Alex.
“Good morning, Mr. Catchpole, Mr. Chance,” she greeted them. “These must be the ropes the captain has been awaiting.”
Alex was eyeing the sack in her hands. “And that looks to be something from Mr. Ellison’s bakery.” He licked his lips.
She laughed. “Bring down your ropes, and you can have some too.”
“Aye, Captain Fortier,” Alex said with a grin.
“Mademoiselle Fortier!”
Ree turned at the call to find Elizabeth Peverell hurrying toward her, the skirts of her black redingote spreading like the wings of a crow.
“Miss Peverell,” she greeted with a curtsey. “I’d forgotten today was to be our visit.”
She waved a graceful hand as the men returned to unloading the wagon. “Think nothing of it. I know repairing the ship must take precedence. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Quill had said her father had had yachts. “Do you know much about ships?” Ree asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve certainly heard a great deal about them from my father and oldest brother, but I fear I’ve been more passenger than sailor. Still, I’d like to be of assistance.”
“Begging your pardon,” Mr. Catchpole put in, “but I imagine the captain and the rest of the crew would be thankful for more than a bite of Mr. Ellison’s treats now and again.”
She smiled, brightening her pretty face. “Right you are, Mr. Catchpole. I’ll speak to my chef this very moment. Mademoiselle Fortier, perhaps you could ask the captain if he keeps regular hours for his dinner.”
“I will,” Ree promised. As the viscount’s sister hurried off, Ree turned to descend to the pier.
Hugh was touching up paint along the top of the hull.
“You would hardly know she had been injured,” she told him.
He too eyed the sack. “You would if you look closely. She’s missing too many lines. But that will all change soon.”
“It will indeed.” Quill strode down the deck toward her, dark hair smoothed back from his face, coat off as if to give him ease of movement. The breeze pressed the lawn against his chest. Ree swallowed, then thrust out the sack as he came closer.
“A gift, from Mr. Ellison, for the valiant crew of the Siren’s Call.”
“Kind of him,” he said, slinging one leg over the rail. “And you. Still, I didn’t intend to put you to work.”
“I don’t mind,” Ree said, catching her breath as he opened the sack. “I like to be useful. And so, it seems, does Miss Peverell. She’s volunteered the use of her chef to cook your meals while you’re working.”
“Kind of her too.” He took a bite of the sweet roll and heaved a contented sigh.
Hugh sidled closer as if determined to snatch one of the rolls himself.
“Normal hours?” Ree asked, reaching for the sack. “She’d like to know when to have the food ready.”
“Whenever it pleases her,” Quill assured her. “Call from above, and we can come up.”
She handed Hugh a roll, and he gobbled it up. “And how can I help?” she asked. “Mrs. Kirby sent the list of cottages, but I’m not sure we need that now.”
“Lots of cleaning still to do,” Hugh said around a mouthful.
“I’m willing,” Ree insisted.
Quill inclined his head, smile hitching up. “You might change your mind when you see the whole of it.”
She didn’t. Not even when Hugh set her to polishing brass with a flannel cloth. The process of repairing the ship was simply too fascinating.
Over the course of the next few days, Mr. Catchpole delivered what seemed to be an endless supply of rope, which must be carried down to the ship. Darnell, the Peverell groundskeeper, helped, stopping after each delivery to eye the ship as if assessing her for salvage value. Hugh, Alex, and Quill worked at splicing pieces together where needed, fingers and shuttles flying. Then Alex and Quill climbed the remaining rigging to thread the lines into place.
Following Quill’s movements among the tarred lines was like watching one of the acrobats at Mr. Astley’s Amphitheatre. He scrambled up ropes that did not seem strong enough to hold him, swung on others to reach his target. Under his direction, the stays and halyards bloomed around the masts once more. She only wished her long skirts didn’t keep her anchored to the deck.
Miss Peverell came down to the ship with her maid to watch as well, bringing lemonade for the thirsty workers. By Wednesday, she and Ree had agreed to call each other by their first names, and by Thursday, Ree was taking her breaks in the Peverell withdrawing room.
One of them, anyway. There appeared to be at least three such rooms. She’d never visited such a sprawling house before.
“I have a map, if you like,” Elizabeth said as if she’d noticed Ree glancing around in bewilderment.
Ree blushed as they entered a pretty green room overlooking the Channel. “If you need one, I do not feel so bad.”
“I did at first,” she admitted, taking a seat on the sofa, her grey skirts dark against the floral pattern. “Rob and I lost our way more than once when we were children. It’s easier this visit, as we’ve only opened a few rooms.”
“This visit,” Ree repeated, sitting on the chair opposite her. “Then this is not your ancestral seat.”
“No. The Lodge, if you can believe it, is our summer cottage.”
She could believe it. Each of the comte’s houses had been impressive. “But it is no longer summer.”
“Rob intends to stay through the winter.”
And she did not sound pleased by the fact. “You would prefer London, perhaps?”
She cocked her head. “Yes? Maybe? With Rob marrying, I’m not sure what to do with myself.”
She could not be much more than five and twenty. Still, many aristocratic ladies would have been married long since.
“Surely suitors are waiting,” Ree teased.
“I sincerely hope not.”
When Ree raised a brow, Elizabeth hurried on. “I am not opposed to marriage. I just have high ideals. When I meet the right gentleman, I want to be amazed, awed, unable to speak for a moment by the sheer splendor of it all. Wasn’t it like that when you met Captain St. Claire?”
Ree laughed. “No, not at all. I found him handsome, commanding, and unreasonably arrogant. I have since amended my impression. He is merely a little arrogant.”
Elizabeth laughed as well. “Well, then, I suppose I must keep looking. I’ll have to see what I can do at the spa. Mrs. Denby is a matchmaker, I hear. Perhaps she has advice.”
Chapter Fourteen
The days passed quickly as the ropes—lines, Quill explained—were returned to their rightful places, threading up from the deck to the sails. Eager to know more, Ree listened as he taught her the names of various parts of the ship, how they worked, and what must be done to keep them in top shape. She couldn’t wait to see everything come together.
Hugh tended to whistle as he worked, first one song, then another. She found herself humming along as she shoved the thick rope mop over the wood of the deck.
“You missed a spot,” the bosun said, passing her for the stern.
“Hugh,” Quill chided as he jumped down beside her. “Be thankful for the help.” He bowed to her. “You wield a sword better than that mop, mademoiselle.”
She laughed. “I never liked this part of housework. But here, it is not so bad.”
