“Thee’ll say no more about it, by God, and that be an end to it, by God!”
Liza smiled complacently to herself. Now, who’s it to be? Not that Nagrek Thumb, by God. Who? Young Sinclair? No brass, and too hoity-toity and churchy. But sound as a bell and a future, no doubt, and in the counsel of godrotting Longstaff. Nothing like a Reverend’s son in a family. Possible. The American, Jefferson Cooper? Better. Rich enough. Powerful enough. But a bleedin’ foreigner wot hates us English. Even so, Brock and Coo-per-Tillman joined together be making a nice knife in the gut of The Noble House. Gorth’d be good, but he be her half brother so he be out. Pity.
Her mind ranged over the many that would make good husbands. The man had to have money and power and potential. And an iron will and a strong arm to control her. Yes, Liza thought. That girl’ll be needin’ a good belting on her buttocks from time to time. She be as willful as they come. And not an easy one to tame. Longstaff would be perfect. But he be married, though I heard his wife be sickly and in London, so mayhaps we should wait.
The list whittled to two. But which?
“Tyler?”
“For the luv of God, won’t thee let a man sleep? Wot is it now?”
“Wot’ll that devil do to Culum Struan?”
“Doan know. Kill him, mayhaps. I doan know. He’ll be doing something terrible, that be certain.”
“Culum be a gutty young spark to stand up like that’n.”
Brock laughed. “I wisht thee’d seen Dirk’s face. That bastard were rocked solid. Rocked solid he were.”
“The boy were right smart to give the land to the Church. He saved his da’ from danger. An’ thee.”
“Ridikilus, woman. Not me, by God. Dirk be awantin’ that hillock desperate. He’da bid and bid and I’da stopped when he were strangled by the price. Weren’t for that whippersnapper, Dirk’d be on his knees right now. Busted.”
“Or Struan’d let thee strangle. Likewise.”
“No. He be wanting that hillock.”
“He be wanting thee wrecked more.”
“No. Thee be wrong. Go t’ sleep.”
“Wot’ll he do to Culum?”
“Doan know. He be a vengeful man. They two’ve hatred between ’em now. I never seed Dirk so riled. A feud ’tween him and the boy could work nice for us’n.”
For a moment fear swarmed through Liza. Fear for her man. Fear of the violence between him and Struan. Enmity that would end only in the death of one. Or both. Dear Lord above, she prayed for the millionth time, let there be peace between them. Then the fear left her and she said to herself as she had always said, “Wot’s t’ be is t’ be.” And this reminded her of
Hamlet, and of Will Shakespeare who was her passion.
“Why not build a playhouse, Tyler? On Hong Kong. We be staying here now, baint we?”
“Yus.” Brock brightened, his mind taken away from Struan. “That be a good idea, Liza. Right good. Afore that sod think of it. Yus, I be talking to Skinner tomorrow. I’ll start the fund. An’ we be sending for a group of players. We be putting on a play for Christmas. You think wot it’ll be.”
Liza held her tongue. She would have said
Romeo and Juliet, but that would have been stupid for she knew that her husband would see instantly through her purpose. Yes. Tess be the key to the Brocks and the Struans. But the match be not ending in tragedy. Not like them Montagues and Capulets.
“If Gorth had done that to thee, taken thy knoll, wot would thee have done?”
“Doan know, luv. I’m glad it weren’t Gorth. Go t’ sleep now.”
Liza Brock let her mind wander. Now, which of the two’d be best? Best for us’n the best for Tess? Culum Struan or Dirk Struan?
The fog crept down on the ships at calm anchor. With the tendrils came a shadowed sampan. It nudged the anchoring fore hawser of the
White Witch momentarily. Hands held the hawser briefly, an ax rose and fell, and the sampan vanished as silently as it had appeared.
Those on deck, the armed seamen and Nagrek, officer of the watch, noticed nothing untoward. In fog, without a shore or other ships to judge by, a faint wind and a calm sea and a gentle tide would give no hint of movement. The
White Witch drifted shoreward.
The bosun sounded eight bells, and Nagrek was filled with panic at the risk he was about to take. You cursed fool, he thought. You put yourself in mortal danger making tryst with Tess like this’n. Doan go! Stay on deck—or go to your bunk and sleep. But doan go to her. Forget her and forget today and forget last night. For months Nagrek had been conscious of her, but last night, during his watch, he had peeked through the porthole of the cabin she shared with her sister. He had seen her in her shift, on her knees beside the bunk like an angel, saying her prayers. The buttons of the shift were undone, her nipples taut against the grasp of white silk. After she had finished her prayers she had opened her eyes, and for an instant he had thought she had seen him. But she had turned her eyes away from the porthole and had gathered the nightgown into a bustle, molding it to herself. Then she had moved her hands over herself. Caressingly. Languorously. Breasts, thighs, loins. Then she had slipped out of the shift and stood in front of the mirror. A tremble had run through her and then she had slowly dressed herself again, and sighed, and blown out the lantern and slipped into bed.
And then today, watching her run down the beach, her skirts flying, watching her legs and wishing himself between them, he had made up his mind to have her. This afternoon on board, helpless with terror and longing, he had whispered to her and seen the blush and heard her whisper back, “Yes, Nagrek, tonight at eight bells.”
The new watch came on deck.
“Get thee below, Nagrek,” Gorth said, stamping up to the poop. He relieved himself in the scuppers, then yawned and took his place on the quarterdeck by the binnacle and shook himself almost like a dog.
“The wind veered to the east.”
“I felt it.” Gorth irritably poured himself a tot of rum. “Cursed fog!”
Nagrek went to his cabin. He took off his shoes and sat on the bunk, the sweat chilling him. Choked by his stupidity but unable to control it, he slipped out of his cabin and noiselessly tiptoed aft down the corridor. He stopped outside the cabin. His hand was wet as he tried the handle. Hardly breathing, he entered the cabin and closed the door behind him.
“Tess?” he whispered, half praying that she would not hear him.
“Hist,” she answered, “or you’ll wake Lillibet.”
His dread increased—his mind shouting “Leave!”—his ache forcing him to stay.
“This be terrible dangerous,” he said. He felt her hand come out of the darkness and take his and guide him to the bunk.
“You wanted to talk to me? What did you want?” she said, fired by the darkness and the secrecy and Nagrek’s presence, terrified by the fire, loving it.
“Now be not the time, luv.”
“But you wanted to talk secret. How else can it be secret?” She sat up in the bunk and pulled the clothes tighter around her, and let her hand rest in his, her limbs liquid.
He sat on the bunk, choked with desire. His hand reached out and he touched her hair, and then her neck. “Don’t,” she murmured, and shivered as he fondled her breasts.
“I want to marry thee, luv.”