Sea Scoundrel (7 page)

“ungrateful, arrogant son of a—””

“That’s enough. I have a very good memory where our father is concerned, and I always took that particular taunt as a direct slur on our mother.”

“Do you doubt he meant it exactly that way?”

“Not for a minute.”

“She was a bitch, Grant, you must admit. A beautiful, spoiled bitch.”

“Yes, but one of her smiles and I would forget completely.” Grant hated when he remembered his mother. She’d been gone twenty-five years. How in hel could he stil feel like a desperate little boy who’d do anything if she would just love him? Love. Hah. He scowled into his port and downed it.

Shane watched him. “Do you ever miss it, Grant?”

“You mean the dissipated, worthless hel of a life we dragged ourselves up from?” He sighed and smiled in resignation. “The older I get, the stronger the pul . But I’m very good at ignoring sentiment. I wanted my independence more than anything. And I got it, by God. Our sire said we were no better than our roots and never would be. We showed him, did we not?”

Shane raised his glass. “Our father.”

Grant did the same. “The bastard.”

Contrary to the usual brisk sea wind, today, the heavy moisture-laden air on the main deck of the Knave’s Secret became an extra burden. Patience lifted the hair from her neck, desperate to cool it, but the air did not move.

The sailors’ grumbling added to her discomfort and made her want to scream.

When she’d arrived on deck, Sven, a Norwegian tar, looked to the heavens, as if for deliverance, and spat,

“Vimen,” in disgust. Others grumbled and walked away.

They thought the women were, jonahs, jinxes, pure bad luck.

Patience wiped the perspiration from her brow. They blamed her and her girls for every problem. As if it was their fault sharks fol owed the ship, or the flying fish weren’t flying.

True, Grace should not have left her book at the top of the ladder this morning. But the steps were steep and she’d planned to grab it once she was down. And Izzy
had
looked comical sprawled at the bottom, black tar crawling over his face and chest.

And the Boobies yesterday. How could it be their fault that a swarm of stupid birds took naps in the rigging? Hundreds of little brown fel ows had flown toward them as one, masking the sun as they came like a huge black umbrel a.

How appal ed the men had looked when the flock landed, and what a monstrous mess the little feathered creatures had made.

Blaming the women was so ludicrous, it might be funny, if it wasn’t so sad.

And, of course, today the sailors said it was the girls’ fault the wind had died. Who were they supposed to be, God?

Enough was enough.
Someone
needed to speak to his superstitious men. Ignoring the beads of sweat dripping between her breasts, Patience approached the Captain with singular determination.

But, he, leaning on the rail, staring into the distance, did not so much as acknowledge her presence with even a turn of his head.

“Captain, I must protest your crew’s disrespect toward the women.”

He acted as if he had not heard, and Patience itched to grab his arm and force him to face her. “Captain?” His brows furrowed and, without turning his head, he slipped an arm around her waist and pul ed her close beside him. “Look. Out there,” he said, pointing. “About ten miles distant.”

Patience ignored her heart’s quickening, something that occurred often of late. This, however, was most pleasant, because the Captain was neither yel ing nor growling, and she rather liked being just here tucked neatly into his side.

She considered this new teasing sense of belonging, and decided to enjoy it, despite it’s false face, for the Captain sought only to bring her range of vision as close to his as possible. His arm around her meant nothing, and she did not wish it did.

When, despite her ruminations, the object to which he pointed managed to fix itself in her sights, Patience gasped. “My God. It’s Aunt Harriette’s notion of judgment day.”

The Captain looked at her then and nodded ominously. “An accurate description, I’m afraid.”

Heeding his worried expression, she wondered how much danger they were in. The air around them could only be termed sultry ... and dead calm, like the ocean. But in the distance, even as they watched, two furious rain squal s met, head on. Within the silent col ision, a huge black cloud formed in the squal ’s center, tapering into a thin shaft. The tapered cloud then dropped its stem into the ocean stirring a turbulent whirlpool and sucking water up into itself. It grew larger and stronger, like a massive, black bal oon trailing its tail in a swirling sea.

“My God,” Patience whispered. “It looks as if the cloud, the rain and the sea are fighting.” She shivered.

The Captain pul ed her closer.

Despite her anger and fear, Patience was certain that Captain Grant St. Benedict would protect them al , even his women passengers ... especial y his women passengers.

“It’s not an ordinary storm, is it?” she asked.

“It’s a waterspout, and it’s gaining speed and strength and heading our way.”

“And?”

He looked into her eyes. “It could tear us in two.” His words told her they were in danger, yet his look remained intrepid.

“And we can’t sail away from it, can we?” He shrugged. “There’s not enough wind to fil the spritsail.

We’re becalmed.”

As the evil black bil ow came closer, the air temperature dropped and Patience appreciated the warmth of the Captain’s body beside her. “How far away is it, do you think?”

“About a mile I’d say, but at the rate it’s traveling, it’l be here in a few minutes. Are the girls below?” Patience nodded.

He pul ed her imperceptibly closer and tapped her nose.

“You go too. You’l be safer down there.” When he let her go, Patience stepped from his view, but she stayed on deck.

The Captain, in bearing as wel as name, examined flaccid sails, fore to aft, monitored the dangerous formation, and then considered the sails once more. “Let go your royals and t’gal ant-s’ls, and stand by your tops’l hal iards,” he cal ed.

Shane echoed the instructions.

The blocks choked a death rattle as the sails slipped down the mast. The sky turned a peculiar, bruised cast as the churning cloud severed the ship from the sun. As the spout twisted and spiraled pul ing itself into irregular shapes and masses, Patience held her breath, glad the girls were safe below and unaware of the danger.

So close was the tal hulking spout to the ship, Patience thought she could extend her hand and touch it. Then, as if from nowhere, icy wind whipped at her clothing, slapping the cloth against her arms and legs. Sails bil owed and snapped, and the
Knave’s Secret
rocked like a paper boat in a hand-splashed puddle.

Shivering, Patience heard the ominous creek of the vessel, smel ed the misty brine and wished the Captain’s arms were about her once more.

The ship listed. Patience lost her balance and fel against a rope coil, where she stayed, eyes closed, and prayed.

The Captain shouted frenzied orders. Stopped.

Silence.

Patience dared look. Fragments of the dark bil owing cloud glided up and away in al directions proving it was made of mist not menace.

Patience screamed. In happiness. In thanksgiving.

The Captain bent before her lifting her to her feet. He bestowed a rare, jubilant smile and practical y threw her into the air. The sun, freed of its black cloak, embraced them with its bril iance.

The moment etched itself on Patience’s heart.

Then, in a wink, the uppermost portion of the black cloud floated above them, blocked the sun and shrouded the ship in darkness. Rain came down in torrents.

Patience gasped.

Rivulets ran down the Captain’s surprised face, his wet shirt shaped every muscle. He grinned.

Patience did too; she couldn’t help it.

The Captain barked orders as the wind returned to drive their vessel. “Let’s get you below,” he yel ed over the torrent. Hand in hand they ran across the deck and down the ladder. “Go, put on some dry clothes before you get sick,” he said, launching her, with his hands on her bottom, toward her cabin.

Patience stored the shocking, tantalizing intimacy away for later scrutiny. She could not fathom him. He was as unexpected, mysterious and fickle, as that baleful black cloud. Fil ed with furor one minute, admitting the sun the next. Floating warm and carefree, or hard, angry and glacial

—al were facets of the same tempest ... al of the same man.

He was, in short, one of nature’s great puzzles, one she would like very much to solve.

* * *

That they’d been spared mattered not to the narrow-minded sailors. The waterspout was the worst kind of bad luck, they said, and to them it proved the women were Jonahs. And however much the weather improved in the days to come, the sailors’ il -humor did not.

Restricted now to a modest corner of the deck, where they could cause no incidents, Patience and her girls’ studied the drawings Rose had brought.

“Oh, what a beautiful baby,” Patience said, examining one, noting there were several others, as the babe had grown.

“Whose baby is it?”

Rose took the pictures and put them away without answering, handing Patience the drawing she’d just finished of her. Then she invited the sailors to have their portraits done. Brazen conduct for Rose.

She drew delightful exaggerations of each. She gave one big brute a twinkling hoop earring. On short, barrel-chested Izzy, she drew a black eye-patch. She posed a parrot spouting, “Vimen,” on the Norwegian’s shoulder, and turned his scowl into a huge, toothy grin. It made some of the men guffaw and slap their knees, especial y Sven.

Patience watched the Captain’s curiosity bring him across the deck, as far as a spar, where he leaned negligently to watch, much as he’d done the day they set sail. From his beard-stubbled chin, down his tanned throat, to his open-necked shirt exposing a vee of dark chest hair, she examined him, a distinct warmth purling through her. She became so heated, she began to fan herself with the drawing Rose made of her.

Angel’s words penetrated Patience’s lethargy at the same moment she realized the Captain had noticed her interest in him. “What Angel? What did you say?” she asked, very much aware the Captain could hear.

“I said tel Rose what Lord Andover looks like so she can draw us a picture of him.”

Sophie’s eyes twinkled and she clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, Patience, tel -tel . I’ve been ever so anxious to know what a man they cal
The Saint
could possibly look like.” Grace smiled. “Please, Patience. Everyone says how handsome he is. But I can’t imagine him.” Patience looked up, as if compel ed, and found herself the recipient of the Captain’s scoundrel smile. With one eyebrow raised, his grin was so mocking, as much as to say ‘I dare you,’ that she had no recourse but to begin. “He has black hair,” she improvised. “It ... curls slightly, if memory serves, and black eyes.”

“Eyes cannot be total y black, I think,” Grace said.

“Wel then they are so dark a brown as to appear black.

Perhaps it is his brooding expression and his way of frowning, by bringing his brows down to shadow his eyes, that gives them their ebony look.”

“I need shapes first,” Rose said. “His face, forehead? Once you give me those I’l fil in the eyes and hair.” Dark and broody was al she’d ever heard, so she made him up as she went. “A high forehead, a chin chiseled and square with a slight cleft in the center.” Accepting the square with a slight cleft in the center.” Accepting the Captain’s dare with bold eye-contact, she waited until Rose stopped drawing before she continued. “The perpetual shadow of a heavy beard mars the perfection of his face,” which Patience realized added fact to the word ‘dark.’ “A long straight, aristocratic nose.”

The quick scratching of Rose’s charcoal lul ed Patience as she warmed to her task. Sails flapped. Commands were exchanged in the rigging. The Captain’s blousy shirt bil owed in the wind.

“What else?” Grace asked, bringing Patience back to her purpose.

“Unmatched brows, one winged and one slashed, the second dipping lower than the first, so that even without a frown, a hint of disapproval remains.” The Captain’s startled expression distracted her, his wide-eyed look asking a question she didn’t understand. She stumbled in her description for a minute. “Um, ah, creases.

Laugh lines, I guess you’d cal them. Lines, you know, crinkles around his eyes and near his mouth—that show he smiles frequently, though not always with the best of reasons.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps we could cal them scowl lines or smirk marks.”

Sophie frowned. “Patience, for the love of Uncle Dewey, it’s a picture of the Captain.”

Surprised by Sophie’s words, Patience examined the drawing, herself. Sure enough, there he was, a rogue in truth, scowling back from the no-longer harmless sheet of paper. Oh, Lord, was she that taken with the man that she could think of no other to describe? Did he guess it? She examined the enigmatic look on his face, but could discern no specific emotion.

She shrugged and smiled wickedly. “Of course it is,” she said, as if she’d done it on purpose.

“I thought that’s what you were doing,” the Captain said, over her shoulder.

Startled, Patience dropped the drawing of her that Rose had done.

The Captain retrieved and studied it. He seemed so preoccupied with Rose’s talent, Patience guessed he hadn’t noticed
her
fascination.

“I’m disappointed,” Angel pouted. “Why ever did you describe the Captain instead of the Marquess?” Patience laughed, a sound, which seemed counterfeit to her. “You’l just have to wait and see about Lord Andover now won’t you?”

Their moans mingled.

To mask her blunder, Patience raised one eyebrow, a gesture she learned from the Captain, hoping it would produce the same confusion in him, as his matching expression did in her. “Surprises are such fun. Are they not, Captain?”

He stood stunned for a minute, then he gave over and chuckled as he folded her picture and tucked it into his shirt, nodded his good-byes, and walked away whistling.