A Different Sort of Perfect (33 page)

This late in the season, the doldrums weren't quite a
dead calm. A tiny, wafting breeze sighed through the rigging
overhead as if joining in her self-pitying misery, and she stood as
still as possible at the starboard railing, letting the air and her
horrid thoughts flow past her. The usual deck sounds seemed muted,
with so many members of the crew aboard the prize and the
Flirt
. The helmsman stood alone at the wheel, and the watch
on deck huddled in the fo'c'sle and lined the gangway rails.
Somewhere for'ard, murmuring voices discussed the maincourse's
trim. Chandler and the quartermaster? It sounded like their
voices.

She felt alone, as if she commanded the quarterdeck
of her own personal night-ship, charting a perilous course through
the world.

On either end of the taffrail the stern lanterns
burned, their flames small but steady, unmoving in the calm. For
some reason their image brought Captain Fleming to mind.
Dependable. A beacon. Comforting, in a way. Or at least no longer
so irritating. But not particularly helpful, either; just a small,
steady flame.

All through the tropics, a phosphorescent wake had
stretched behind
Topaze
, reaching past
Armide
and
Flirt
and back to the distant horizon. Now it was gone, just
like her heart. But perhaps a trace of it remained. She leaned
forward, over the taffrail—

—and beside her, a male voice exclaimed.

She started and whirled. Phillippe stood near the
port railing, as unmoving as she. He wore—

Good gracious.

He'd dressed for the heat. No coat nor waistcoat. No
hat. Not even stockings or shoes. Only an open-necked shirt and
unbuckled breeches, the absolute minimum amount of clothing for
basic modesty. Shockingly casual — was that manner of dress
practiced by all sailors when they were men alone? — almost
indecent. She looked away, grateful for the night's cover for her
flush.

Then he laughed, a low throaty chuckle that sounded
like honest amusement. She couldn't resist and stole a glance.
Phillippe bent over the taffrail, looking as she had planned into
Topaze
's little wake. The relaxed smile on his face,
highlighted by the stern lantern nearby, was one she hadn't seen
since the Plymouth assembly rooms, as if—

—as if no time at all had passed. As if her desperate
yearning, her search, the battle, his dishonor, her despair — as if
none of it had happened.

"Please, forgive my intrusion." He pushed his sodden
hair back from his eyes and held it off his forehead. "And my poor
wardrobe. My dress coat was not designed for the equator's heat."
Another chuckle, and he dipped his chin into his shirt collar. He
seemed flustered, his former cool arrogance stripped away and only
self-conscious embarrassment remaining behind. "I thought to stand
on deck in the silence and bring myself to understand where I have
gone so wrong. No one would be bothered by my presence on the poop
deck, I thought. And here I find the company of the one I have
wronged the most."

He stood hunched over, shoulders rounded, left elbow
leaning on the taffrail, right fingers tangled in his curls. In the
stern lantern's light, sweat gleamed on his temples, his cheeks,
and in little rivulets down his broad forehead. The white cambric
of his shirt stuck to his upper arms, shoulders, back, emphasizing
his build, and she didn't stop herself from tracing the line of his
taut white breeches behind.

A small eddy of interest stirred within her and the
flushed heat in her cheeks cooled, leaving only the tropical glow
behind. He at least saw her perspective, although he'd been worse
than a rum cove. And she still needed a husband. But a nagging
wariness would not allow her to approach him; after all, she was
not in love and while she might yet find herself cynically willing
to marry Phillippe, there was little sense in becoming enamored of
him twice over. Instead she turned away. The cascade of stars
blazed across the heavens and the flames of the stern lanterns
reflected flickering points of light in the sea below. Beyond
sailed
Armide
, white sails glowing in the night; not so
distant that a good shout couldn't reach her, rather as if Clara
could reach out and prick her finger on the bowsprit.

"You will not speak, Lady Clara?"

The best thing she could do was renew their bond:
discuss how he felt he'd wronged her, let him apologize and perhaps
grovel a bit, as Diana had taught her, and so bring him to heel.
Yes, that was what she should do. Amicable relations, or even just
surface good manners on her part, would harm no one. She drew a
deep breath and turned to him.

But the words that came from her mouth didn't allude
to their suspended relationship. Instead, shocking herself, Clara
asked, "Why did you fire on
Flirt
after she'd struck?"

He straightened and stepped back, eyes widening and
brows lifting. A sweaty trickle down his forehead changed course,
dribbling past his eyebrow and down his temple. "I've already
answered that question,
mademoiselle
." He laughed, but this
time she could hear no humor there. "For all the good it's
done."

The more she considered her unexpected words, the
more appropriate they seemed. How could she forge a true bond with
a man she couldn't understand? His answer to that repeated question
was what she needed to know, not how he imagined he'd wronged her.
No, she couldn't let it go now. Words bubbled from her, unnamable
emotions accompanying them, and all too many to speak. "Phillippe,
she'd struck. She'd quit firing. Surrendered. You had nothing to
fear from her—"

"You think not?" Angry now, Phillippe leaned over
her, barely whispering his words. His face was no longer handsome
but twisted, as if a civilized layer had been stripped away,
leaving bare something savage beneath. "Captured crews don't always
accept spending the rest of the war as prisoners and they've risen
against their captors before. I told you; you know nothing, nothing
really, of war."

The peaceful night seemed to shatter into hundreds of
sharp little pieces that whirled around her, dizzyingly fast, and
as each shard whizzed past it sliced into her mind, allowing a
myriad unconnected thoughts to flow free.
Phillippe. On deck. At
night. In one of the darkest, least populated parts of the
ship.

He still berated her, quietly carrying on like a
fishwife. "You think one battle, one miserable, tiny battle between
little ships, makes you an admiral? a general? You think you know
something of war?" He leaned closer, so close the flame from the
stern lantern reflected in his pupil, a pinprick of flickering
light. "If you think that, then you're a fool, little girl."

Wearing the minimum amount of clothing that could be
considered decent.

"You should return to your fireside, to your
knitting. You have no business at sea."

As if going swimming. The
Armide
, his ship,
his captured ship. A few hundred feet astern. And "captured crews
have
risen against their captors before.
"

"That's your plan, isn't it?"

His jaw snapped closed. "What did you say?"

"Your plan is to slip overboard and swim to the
Armide
. Earlier today we saw the rope trailing in the ocean
from a gunport. It wouldn't be difficult for one of your crew to
haul you in that way, and I know some of them volunteered to help
sail
Armide
in return for not being locked into the hold.
Once aboard, you intend to free your crew and retake the ship."

Breathing hard. Angrier than ever. But no longer
fiery. The little flame in his eye flickered and died as Phillippe
stepped close, closer, and the tint of moonlight turned the glitter
to ice. "And if it is,
mademoiselle
? If it is, what is
your
plan?"

He breathed in all the air on the poop, leaving
nothing for her. Her head swam. She tried to ease backward, away
from him, but he followed her, crowding ever closer. "I'm going to
stop you."

Phillippe chuckled. Closer still, and for a moment
their bodies touched. Clara shivered in revulsion and sprang back.
She slammed into the railing and he crowded her there. She had
nowhere left to escape. Scream. She'd scream, alert the officer of
the watch — Chandler? was it Chandler? How on earth could the
dratted maincourse hold his attention for so long, leaving the
quarterdeck and her undefended? Was the man at the wheel asleep?
They were right behind him — but as soon as she opened her mouth
Phillippe, still chuckling, clamped his hand across her face. His
body, all of his disgusting body, pressed against her. She leaned
back, away from him. But there was nothing there, just the open sea
behind her, and her back arched over the railing. Her feet left the
deck. He was pushing her overboard. She'd drown.

He leaned atop her, hand still clamped over her
mouth. "You should have married me, little Lady Clara. It was
always your only hope."

He was trying to kill her again. And this time, it
was personal.

She flailed, scrabbling with her hands for something,
anything, to hold onto. Lines. There should be lines there, rigging
belayed along the railing right within reach — but no, they'd
unshipped the t'gallant masts before the storm and never replaced
them, reducing the amount of rigging along with the sails. Nothing,
there was nothing but wood, and it was rocking, shifting beneath
her hands—

Belaying pins. Lined up neatly in their holes along
the pinrail. Twenty-one inches of solid hickory. Gripped tightly,
smooth in her palm.

She couldn't scream or run or escape. She could only
fight. And this time, it was personal for her, too.

"You and your precious Captain Fleming. We'll take
him and his pretty frigate into Toulon, and you can't stop it now,
little Lady Clara."

Clara slipped the belaying pin from the gunwale and
swung with all her might.

A hand pulled her back inboard, Chandler's uninjured
hand dragging her to safety and supporting her. Her pulse pounded,
her neck ached, and her heart felt as if someone had reached inside
her and ripped it out, still beating.
How could he? He was
supposed to be
perfect. My perfect.

The quarterdeck was suddenly in an uproar, the
helmsman glancing over his shoulder, the quartermaster hurrying up
the ladder, wide, silent eyes peering down from high above the
spanker. Phillippe sprawled in a graceless lump on the boards, a
spreading dark pool surrounding his head.

"Fetch the captain," Chandler yelled for'ard, "and
the surgeon, and a detail of Marines to guard the prisoner."
Sailors scrambled, running footsteps diminishing, dying away.

Her head swam, one spinning moment with deck and
sails in alien motion. But fainting was not appropriate behavior
for the captain's clerk. Clara shook her head, straightened, eased
her arm from Chandler's.
Topaze
settled back into her proper
position and the quartermaster stepped away, horror painting his
face in stretched-out strokes.

Even in the moonlight, Chandler's face glowed pale.
He yanked off his stovepipe hat and crushed it beneath his bandaged
arm. "M'lady… I mean, Lady Clara, I — I can't begin to apologize. I
was—"

Two redcoats, their shakos slanting different
directions, one with a crooked gunbelt, barreled up the larboard
ladder, straightening their accoutrements as they ran. They posted
themselves over Phillippe, muskets on their shoulders. Lieutenant
Pym followed them, bounding up the steps in two leaps. His sharp
face peered around, seeking a target, settled on Phillippe,
sharpened further, and he hurried to join his soldiers.

Now. When she no longer needed them. What was the
point in having Marines aboard, if not to guard them?

"—I was for'ard, seeing to the trim of the sails, and
I had no idea—"

Her aching throat constricted, as if she'd never
swallow again. Enraged pressure built within her chest, threatened
to force its way through her blockaded gullet, pour from her. But a
temper tantrum would be worse than fainting. She fought for
control, rubbing her throat. The bruised flesh already swelled
beneath her hand.

Captain Fleming, wearing breeches and ruffled shirt,
his feet bare, erupted onto the quarterdeck with all the captain's
authority scintillating around him. The quartermaster eased back
into his proper position without a sound; the Marines stiffened,
and Chandler's stammering apology stumbled to awkward silence.

Never had she seen Captain Fleming appear so tall, so
commanding. So furious. His gaze glanced off Phillippe, whipped
around the deck, and then locked onto her hand, still stroking her
neck. The coldness solidified in his visage, a mask of ice for a
masquerade ball. "Report."

Of course he barked at Chandler, the mate of the
watch. But she couldn't let him blame this on Chandler. He might be
an awkward lout, but he was their awkward lout, and that meant he
was hers, too. Before anyone else could speak, she did.

"Captain Levasseur tried to push me overboard."
Pointedly, she refused to grace the cull with his proper French
title; he'd dished his chances of receiving any courtesies from
her. "I believe his plan was to follow me over the side and swim to
Armide
with the intention of leading an uprising amongst the
prisoners. Whether he intended dragging me along or abandoning me
in the ocean to drown, I don't know, but the belaying pin and I had
no intention of finding out."

Captain Fleming blanched. But his fury remained.
Again he turned toward Chandler and opened his mouth. And again she
forestalled him.

"None of this can be laid to Mr. Chandler's blame. He
was for'ard tending to the ship's operation, as he should have
been. He returned in time to ensure I did not, in fact, fall
overboard." Should she mention that Captain Fleming himself had
told her they were seriously under-officered? The situation could
only be worse with Mr. Abbot, the bosun's mates, the gunner, and
the Marine sergeant aboard the
Armide
, leaving Rosslyn and
Chandler to manage as best they could. But perhaps not; hearing
what one already knew was irritating at best. Instead, she took a
deep breath, again stifling the insistent pressure building within
her, and glanced down. Phillippe stirred amidst his dark pool; it
glinted in the stern lantern's flame. "Mr. Chandler, I'm sorry. I
seem to have stained the deck again."