“Sir Lewis is my husband, Lieutenant. That you should have been told.”
Adam could feel the other woman watching him, and, he thought, enjoying his discomfort.
“I am Captain Adam Bolitho, ma’am.”
She stood lightly and pushed the hair from her forehead, all in one movement.
“There now, Captain. We all make mistakes, it would seem!” She looked around the cabin. “Yours, I believe.” It seemed to amuse her. “We are honoured.”
The other woman had managed to remove her shoe, and was staring glumly at her swollen foot. Lady Bazeley said gravely, “This is Hilda. She takes care of everything.”
She laughed, and the other woman’s face responded as if she had never learned to resist the sound.
The girl moved just as swiftly to the stern windows and looked at the panorama of masts and colourful lateen sails, then she faced him again, her body outlined against the blue water. “And this is a man-of-war.” She sat on the bench seat, the hair falling across her bare shoulder. “And you are her captain.”
Adam wondered at his own silence, his inability to answer, to be himself. She was laughing at him, teasing him, and probably very aware of the effect it had on him and anyone else she cared to confront.
She pointed at the adjoining sleeping cabin. “I see you are not married, Captain.”
He said coolly, “You have a keen eye, ma’am.”
“And that surprises you? Perhaps you take a dim view of a woman’s place in the scheme of things!” She laughed again, and did not wait for a reply. “You have been in a battle, I understand, and you have been injured?”
“Many were less fortunate.”
She nodded slowly. “I am sorry for it. I have not experienced war at close quarters, but I have seen what it has done to people. Those close to me.” She tossed her head, the mood passing as quickly. “Now you really must excuse me, Captain. I must prepare myself.” She walked past him, and he could feel the impact of her presence as if they had touched. She was lovely, and she would know it, and that alone must act as a warning, before he made a complete fool of himself. Bazeley was not the sort of man who would forgive even a casual offence.
“If you will excuse me also, m’ lady, I must prepare the ship for leaving harbour.”
She regarded him steadily, her eyes much darker in this confined space. Violet.
He glanced at the sleeping cabin, where his cot had already been folded away. Where he had dreamed, and remembered. He turned away from it. Where Lovatt had coughed out his life…
“My servant will assist you. He is a good lad. If you require anything else, my officers will do their best to make your stay aboard as comfortable as possible.”
“In the Cumberland, the captain said I was to ask him. Are the King’s ships so different?”
She was playing with him again. Was she so young that she did not understand what she could do, was doing? Or did she not care?
He answered, “Ask me, m’ lady, and I shall try to oblige you.”
She watched him, one hand resting on the empty sword rack, her eyes thoughtful.
“A duty, then?”
He smiled and heard the sentry move away from the door. To offer every facility.
“I hope it may also be a pleasure, m’ lady.”
He turned to the door and the pain hit him again like a bullet.
A reminder; if so, it was just in time. He walked quickly to the companion ladder, his mind clearing as the pain retreated.
Galbraith was waiting for him, with one of his lists already in his hands.
He said, “I’ve spread Sir Lewis’s people as evenly as possible amongst the warrant officers. Two will be in the wardroom.”
Rank and status. Always separated, no matter how small the ship. He heard her voice again, mocking him. Are the King’s ships so different?
Galbraith said, “Lady Bazeley is a very striking woman, sir. I shall endeavour to make certain that she is not offended by some careless word or deed.”
He was so serious that Adam wanted to laugh, and did, at the sheer absurdity of it.
“And that includes the captain, I take it?”
Acting-Lieutenant Bellairs heard him laugh, and saw the surprise and bewilderment on Galbraith’s face.
He thought of the lovely woman in the cabin; she had smiled at him.
And he was a part of it.
Adam Bolitho tried to ease the discomfort in his legs on the makeshift mattress and stared at the spiralling lantern above the chart table. It was an effort to think clearly, to determine each sound and movement. Here, in the chartroom, it even felt different. Like another ship.
He rubbed his eyes, and knew he would get no more sleep. He had already been on deck when Unrivalled had shortened sail for the night, and had sensed the growing strength of the wind, holding the ship over; the darkness had been filled with flying spray.
It had done something to clear his head. But not much.
He heard the muffled sounds of blocks, the stamp of bare feet somewhere overhead; even that seemed strangely distorted.
It was useless. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and felt the ship rising, rising, before ploughing down again. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he were up there with Massie. He licked his dry lips. The middle watch. How much wine had they had?
The three lieutenants, and O’Beirne the surgeon, sitting around the table in his cabin. Lady Bazeley’s servant Hilda had supervised the flow of dishes and wines, assisted by young Napier. Bazeley himself had been in good form, recounting his various trips, visits to other countries, and, in passing, his building of fortifications and harbour facilities under government contract. Most of the wine had been his, and he had insisted that they should try whatever they fancied.
Adam had been very conscious of the young woman opposite him, her eyes giving little away while she listened to each officer in turn. He had been conscious, also, of the lack of personal comforts in the great cabin; no wonder she had guessed he was unmarried. The women had probably laughed about it when they had been left alone together.
He felt for a beaker of water but it was empty. And there would be more incidents like the one which had so unreasonably disturbed him. Bazeley had left the table to select a particular bottle of wine, and had paused by one of the cabin lanterns to show them his own name, engraved on the medallion around its neck.
“A Chateau Lafite, 1806. Now this will appeal to you, Captain.”
The ship had been close-hauled, the deck rising and shuddering to the pressure of sea and rudder. Adam had seen Bazeley put his other hand on his wife’s shoulder as if to steady himself as he had stressed the significance of that particular chateau or vintage, Adam could remember neither. He had been watching the hand gripping her naked shoulder, the strong fingers moving occasionally like a small, private intimacy.
And all the while she had been looking at him across the table; her eyes had never left his. Not once did she glance up at the man by her chair, nor had she responded to his touch. Perhaps it meant nothing, although he had heard that they had been married for only six months.
He had tasted the claret; it meant nothing to him. It might as easily have been cider.
He had seen her hand move only once, to readjust the gown across her shoulder. And even then she had looked at him.
He saw the old sword hanging beside his boat-cloak, swaying with the heavy motion. Was he so stupid that he could not recognise the danger? A single wrong move, and he would lose everything. He reached out and touched the damp timbers. The ship was everything.
He stood slowly, waiting for the pain, but it did not come. He spread his hands on the chart table and stared at Cristie’s scribbled notes and the soft cloth he used to polish the ship’s chronometer, something he entrusted to no one but himself. A man who had grown up in the same streets as Collingwood; what would he think of his captain if he knew his weakness? Like a false bearing or sounding on a chart. Not to be trusted.
There was a tap on the door: someone needing to examine the chart, to make some new calculation. If in doubt, call the captain. That, too, seemed to mock him.