The sirens captain, p.14
The Siren's Captain, page 14
“Wait until you have to wipe down the entire deck, every day,” Hugh told her, passing with his arms full of more line. He started whistling again.
“What is that song?” Ree asked, leaning on the mop handle.
He dropped the coil on the deck. “Nothing good enough for a lady.”
“Don’t be modest, Hugh,” Quill chided. “Let’s see if I remember it.” He threw back his head, and a warm baritone flowed.
“Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain
For we’ve received orders to sail to old England.
We hope in a short time to see you again.”
Hugh moved up beside him and joined in the chorus.
“We’ll rant and we’ll roar, like true British sailors.
We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England
From Ushant to Scilly ‘tis thirty-five leagues.”
They were strong, sure, their feet planted and their heads high as they launched into the second verse about heaving the ship to with a wind at the southwest. When they hit the chorus again, Ree threw her voice in with theirs. The song echoed over the waters and rang from the cliff until she was certain the Siren’s Call trembled beneath her feet.
“Now, there’s a song,” Hugh proclaimed as the echoes faded. “Fit to work to, aye.”
Quill glanced up at the black lines soaring above them. “And the work will be done by the end of the day tomorrow, unless I miss my guess.”
Ree beamed at him. “It seems you have your ship back.”
He slipped an arm about her waist. “All thanks to you, Hugh, and Alex. You deserve a reward for such effort. Care to sail with us to see how she does?”
Would she! The very idea set her to trembling as much as the deck.
She saluted him. “Aye, Captain. Ready when you are.”
He chuckled. “Saturday, then, on the outgoing tide. If the winds are favorable, we sail at noon.”
She could hardly wait for Saturday!
In the meantime, there was the matter of her attire. The dress she’d been wearing to work on the ship had come from when she’d kept her father’s house. She always brought one with her on her trips for comfort’s sake. It wouldn’t be nearly warm enough out on the waves. Her performance gowns were designed for show, with trailing veils and miles of gilt braid. Terribly impractical. At times she’d donned breeches and a long coat to slip through the London night in the service of the War Office, but she could hardly walk through the village that way, even if she had brought the outfit with her! In the end, she chose her green wool gown and fur-lined short jacket. With her eyes shaded by a broad-brimmed straw bonnet tied firmly in place with a silk scarf, she was ready to brave the waters.
More men than she had expected were waiting. She knew Hugh, Alex, and Richard Catchpole, and she’d met Ike Bascom, Lord Peverell’s footman. With his lordship on his honeymoon in the Lake District, Ike claimed to feel comfortable joining them for the afternoon. Also with him were one of the men who helped put out the fire. Quill introduced him as Mr. Williams, who cooked at the Mermaid, the other inn in the village.
As soon as she was aboard, Ike cast off the last rope holding the Siren to the pier, then leaped aboard as the outgoing tide began to push her away from the headland. Quill had taken up his place at the wheel on the raised deck at the stern, the quarterdeck. “Give me sail, Mr. Baffin,” he ordered.
“You heard the captain, you powder monkeys!” Hugh roared. “Man the halyards!”
Mr. Catchpole and Hugh went after a thick line on one side of the mainmast. Mr. Williams and Alex grasped another on the opposite side.
“Haul!” Hugh shouted, and they grunted as they pulled down on the line, hand over hand.
Canvas blossomed, white against the grey of the sea, surging up to fill her view.
They moved to the foremast next, pulling its triangular sail into place along the mast.
“Mr. Chance, the bow,” Hugh ordered as Mr. Catchpole tied off the halyard. Alex jogged to the front of the vessel to let out the new headsail along the bowsprit.
Throughout it all, a satisfied smile sat on Quill’s face. The sea breeze tugged at his hair. His dark eyes roamed over the ship, as if taking in the direction, the speed, the cant of the hull, and the activity of each of his crew.
“All sails out, Captain,” Hugh reported, joining him. “She’s running at full speed.”
It was like flying. The rushing wind, the splash of the waves, so smooth, so effortless.
“You should have named her the eagle,” she told Quill. “She soars.”
“She does indeed.” Each word was filled with pride.
Alex climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck. “Orders, Captain?”
Keeping a hand on the wheel, Quill stepped to one side. “Take us east to Worbarrow Bay, Mr. Chance. We’ll tack back.”
“Worbarrow Bay, aye, Captain.” With a grin to Ree, Alex took control of the wheel, both hands anchored on the polished rungs. He swung it to the left, and the ship began to turn.
Ree lost her balance and collided with Quill. He caught her and held her, grin as broad as his first mate’s.
“You love this,” she accused.
“I do,” he agreed. “There’s something about seeing nothing but waves and sky, the stars at night.”
“Does it make you feel small?” she asked. “Compared to all that vastness?”
“No,” he said, gaze going out over the waves. “It makes me feel free.”
They stood for a moment, watching the progress of the Siren’s Call. The mist against Ree’s lips tasted of salt. The wind chilled her cheeks, but she was warm in his embrace. She could have stayed like this forever. He seemed content as well.
After a while, however, he took her hand and led her down onto the main deck. Mr. Catchpole and Mr. Williams moved about their duties, checking lines, eyeing the sails. Hugh whistled as he walked past.
Ree leaned against the bulwark. “You said you were raised in London,” she told Quill, wind snatching at her bonnet. “Small wonder escaping it made you feel free. Being at sea must have seemed limitless after all those narrow warrens. Did you always want to be a sailor?”
“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t have a plan beyond surviving the foundling home. I suppose I thought I’d end up a carrier, lugging things all over the City. There was a kind of freedom in that too.”
She cocked her head. “And then your benefactor saw you enlisted in the Navy.”
He leaned against the gunwale and twined an arm around a stay. “I still remember that day at Eton. Our don called me into his quarters and informed me I had been given a berth as a midshipman.”
Ree straightened. “As easy as that?”
“As easy as that. Someone high in regard had arranged it. I’d never thought to be a sailor, but I knew the opportunities. Men in the Navy rise by their own initiative, and there can be prize money involved. I accepted the position and never looked back.”
“No regrets?” she pressed.
“None,” he said. “I’ve made friends like Captain Dorland and the rest of Nelson’s Band of Brothers. I’ve won my share of prizes. Some paid for this ship. Others are carefully invested for my future. If I hadn’t been wounded, I’d be serving now.”
The longing in his voice was palpable. It was possible he would never be happy on land.
Why did that thought trouble her?
~~~
It was hard to remember a finer day. Quill and his men put the Siren through her paces, and she performed as perfectly as she always did. They were ready to return to their dangerous game with the tyrant.
Why did that thought not thrill him the way it used to?
He suspected it had something to do with another Siren, the dark-haired beauty walking beside him as they returned to the village Saturday evening. Her wide-eyed gaze, her excitement at each new vista, had only reminded him of why he loved sailing. He could imagine her beside him on other voyages, perhaps to the Mediterranean to bask in the sun, or even across the mighty Atlantic to see the Americas.
But those were thoughts about a real wife, not a woman to whom he was pretending to be betrothed.
“When will you come for me for services tomorrow?” she asked as they neared the Swan.
“A quarter hour before the start,” he promised. “And thank you, Ree, for coming with us today.”
She looked surprised, dark brows going up. “I should be the one thanking you. It was delightful. I hope we can go again sometime.”
So did he.
He watched as she went inside, then turned to meet Hugh, who had been walking a ways behind them. Quill glanced around, out of habit more than anything else. The redheaded stranger remained a mystery. Charlie Lawrence, the jeweler’s youngest son, had been keeping an eye on the house, but Mr. Smith was invisible. Eva had sent word earlier in the week that Abigail only had a drawing of her brother when he was a lad, but that his hair had been as red as hers when he’d left the village more than ten years ago. No one else had mentioned seeing the fellow.
Until the next day.
Ree turned to Quill with a smile in St. Andrew’s that Sunday as the two of them sat with Maudie, Mr. Guthrie, and Alex. The grey-haired author had held the prayer book for Maudie, their heads close together. Ree was right. The two were endearing. Now Ree’s lovely lips barely moved as she leaned closer to Quill and whispered, “Across the aisle. Red hair.”
Quill smiled back at her but let his gaze fall past her shoulder, to where a slender man had ventured to sit just behind the mighty Earl of Howland. His hair was a red-gold that gleamed like a guinea in the light streaming through the stained glass windows beyond him. The shade seemed brighter than Quill remembered, but perhaps that was because it wasn’t covered by a cap this time.
“Interesting,” he murmured to Ree just as the vicar started the service.
He did his best to keep his gaze from wandering in the stranger’s direction too often, but twice, he caught the fellow gazing back at him, his eyes narrowed speculatively.
As the service ended with the second reading of the banns for him and Ree, and the congregation turned to take their leave, Quill bent toward her. “Walk with me to the door. As soon as he’s outside, I’ll corner him.”
She laughed as if he’d said something clever, then latched onto his arm. “Where you go, I go.”
Quill nodded, resigned, and they stepped out of the pew and started down the aisle, following Maudie, her swain, and Alex. The stranger fell into step behind them.
Quill strained for any sense of the fellow. He couldn’t pick out footsteps over those of the other people around them, but he caught the scent of a spicy cologne. It reminded him of one the boys at Eton had favored, though most hadn’t started shaving yet. Bay rum?
They walked out into the sunlight. He counted their steps—one, two, three. A little farther. Then he dropped Ree’s arm and whirled.
The stranger pulled up short, blue eyes widening. Up close, Quill could see he had a decent chin above a perfectly tied cravat. And not a scar in sight.
“Who are you?” Quill demanded.
The fellow glanced at Ree, then touched the brim of his tall hat as he inclined his head. “Julian Mayes. At your service, sir, madam.”
Mayes? Wasn’t that the name of the solicitor James had hired to look into Quill’s benefactor?
“And what brings you to Grace-by-the-Sea, Mr. Mayes?” Ree asked with far more charity.
“I have a report to make to a client,” he said.
“James Howland?” Quill pressed.
Again he inclined his head. “If you have further questions, I suggest you direct them to him. Good day.”
The words were calm and polite, but steel lay beneath them. He strolled out of the churchyard without a backward glance.
“Well,” Ree said, watching him go. “With those blue eyes and no scar, he clearly can’t be our fellow.”
“No,” Quill agreed. “But you can be sure I’ll have a word with James about the matter nonetheless.”
She cast him a glance, and he willed her not to ask. Indeed, he wasn’t sure how he’d answer.
He was even less sure when James sent word to Dove Cottage that afternoon for Quill to come talk with him on Monday. If the cottage had felt confining before, it was a veritable prison the rest of the day.
He was ten minutes early for his appointment with James. He still found Mayes there ahead of him. Indeed, the fellow stood on the same side of the desk as James, and it was a question which was more properly dressed in their navy coats and fawn trousers.
James nodded Quill into the seat in front of his desk. “I understand the two of you met yesterday.”
He sounded the slightest bit amused. In other circumstances, Quill might have found the humor as well. At the moment, his entire life lay in question.
“I take it Mayes learned something about my benefactor,” he said, deigning to sit.
The solicitor gave him a bow. “It took some doing, but I managed to set the matter to rights.”
Cold ran up his spine. “And?”
He glanced at James, who nodded. “Tell him everything.”
Mayes swiveled to face Quill fully. “Magistrate Howland informed me that someone intervened in your life a number of times over the years—seeing you placed in the Royal Foundling Home, sending you to Eton, and ensuring you received a commission in the Navy. Neither you nor Mr. Howland has been able to determine the identity of this benefactor.”
“That’s right,” Quill said, throat unaccountably tight.
“He also informed me that papers left by the late Earl of Howland indicated a possible connection.”
The air seemed to have left the room. “So James told me,” Quill acknowledged, crossing one leg over the other with practiced skill.
The young solicitor squared his shoulders. “I can confirm that connection. I followed bank records and interviewed staff and administrators at various institutions. The man who took such an interest in you was the former Earl of Howland, father of the current earl and distant cousin to the magistrate here.”
Quill drew in a breath and asked the obvious question. “Why would the Earl of Howland take an interest in a foundling?”
“That is more difficult to confirm,” he admitted, hands going to the pockets of his satin-striped waistcoat. “The best I could learn was that, about three decades ago, rumors circulated that the earl had a mistress, an opera dancer of some fame. The lady in question left England in something of a hurry. I traced her to Italy, where it appears she married a count. Both she and her husband have died since, with no issue. But it is possible she was your mother.”
Quill rocked back against the hard wood of the chair, hands gripping the arms. His father, the earl? His mother, a countess? He started laughing. “I really was the son of nobility.”
“Or at least the aristocracy,” James agreed. “In fact, it appears we are cousins.”
Quill met his gaze. “Does Howland know?”
“I haven’t told him yet,” James said. “I’m not entirely sure how to have that conversation.”
Neither was he.
Chapter Fifteen
Quill was uncharacteristically quiet when Ree ventured up to Dove Cottage Monday afternoon. She’d thought to see how Hugh’s practices were going. The fellow couldn’t have had much time with the work he’d been doing on the ship.
The bosun answered her knock with a frown. “He’s plotting something. Be warned.”
Ree raised her brows, but she went to the sitting room to find Quill standing by the window, gazing down at the cove as if memorizing the shape of every ship that rode at anchor. He must have heard her enter, for he turned, and she saw what Hugh meant. Thoughts were flying faster than gulls behind those dark eyes.
“Come to give Hugh time to himself?” he asked.
“Come to see how his sword skills are improving,” she said, dropping her reticule onto one of the chairs by the hearth. “No attacks, I take it?”
“None, not since the fire on the Siren. I begin to think our enemy has decamped.”
He sounded decidedly put out by the fact. “I also find it odd he has shown such hesitancy,” she told him, going to join him by the window. “I arrived more than two weeks ago now.”
“And you can’t stay here forever,” he murmured, gaze brushing hers softly. “You were made for something finer than Grace-by-the-Sea.”
She looked out over the village with its thatched cottages, its cluster of shops, and its elegant spa. “I rather like our little village. Everyone here has made me feel welcome.”
“I take it you’ve decided to accept the countesses’ offer of tea, then?” he asked with a smile.
She nodded. “Tomorrow afternoon. Would you care to accompany me? I mentioned you might in my note of acceptance.”
“I’d be delighted.”
She had a hard time imagining him seated in a more formal withdrawing room, calmly lifting a cup to his lips and talking of commonplaces. She returned her gaze to his. “What are you up to, Quillan St. Claire?”
He took a step back. “Me? I am an innocent soul, I promise you.”
“Hardly innocent, pirate that you are,” she said. “But you know how to keep a secret, I grant you that. Why do I feel as if you are keeping one from me now?”
“Must be the hint of winter in the air.” He took her arm and escorted her closer to the hearth. “What about a nice cup of hot chocolate to warm you?”
“You have chocolate?” That also didn’t fit her picture of him.
“Freshly purchased from the Inchleys,” he promised.
She smiled. “I would love some.”
“Hugh!” he called, and his bosun poked his head out of the kitchen. “Two cups of hot chocolate.”
Hugh lifted his gaze heavenward as if begging for help, then let the door swing shut behind him.
“He told me you were plotting something,” Ree said as she took a seat on one of the chairs by the glowing fire.
