A Different Sort of Perfect (4 page)

She slid from her hideaway. Before she found her
bearings, though, the deck rolled, hard enough to tumble her
against the cannon that loomed an arm's length away. The lanterns
swayed, sliding shadows from one corner to another. But to her
surprise, she didn't fall. Instead, her knees bent on their own,
absorbing the plunge. The
Topaze
splashed into the wave's
trough — Clara felt it through the deck's downward sweep and sudden
shudder, knew it as surely as if she stood at the rail watching it
happen — and when the deck began its heave higher her balance
automatically shifted again. Timbers creaked, a rising, questioning
sound, then with a shake of her head — again felt rather than seen
or heard —
Topaze
rolled over the wave's crest and down the
other side. The shadows again cascaded, the hanging chair nudged
against the backs of Clara's knees and twirled aside, and the ropes
holding the cannon to the ship's side groaned.
Topaze
shouldered her way through the waves and the swell, and cantered
on.

No, this was no complaining cart horse, but a bold,
highly-bred charger, fit for the most discriminating rider. Even
when the smooth roll abruptly jerked, as if
Topaze
had been
thrown off her stride by a rogue wave, Clara's knees needed no
assistance and merely shifted to follow. Like when the workers had
entered the warehouse and carried away the hanging chair with her
in it, her natural affinity for the ship's motion seemed an omen, a
sign. She was meant to be here.

She'd made the right choice.

Her heart lifted and expanded until she filled the
room — no, Papa had told her years ago it was properly called a
cabin
. And this one, larger than she'd imagined possible in
a small ship, surpassed even the Mallorys' formal parlor in beauty.
The sidewalls sloped in as they rose, making the bare rafters a
smaller space than the deck underfoot, and the light oak paneling
forward, pierced with two matching doors, shone with polishing. But
the back — the
stern
was dominated by a line of small-paned
windows, arching up and curving out, a padded window seat and
lockers along the entire bulkhead, three swaying lanterns flashing
golden sparks from the brilliant glass onto the writing desk below.
Beyond was unallayed night.

It was far more comfort, more contained elegance,
than she'd ever expected. No better, more inviting place could
exist for reading, napping, lace-making, dreaming. It was
breathtaking. Perfect.

Topaze
shuddered and jerked again, sending the
lanterns spinning. The sailor or steward who'd discovered her
reached for Clara's elbow then hesitated and drew back, throwing a
disconcerted glance aside. The right-side door was now open —
somehow she'd missed its motion — and an officer stood framed
there, blond curls brushing the timbers. Indignation seethed from
his erect bearing and lowered brows. Of course, he didn't
understand yet. But he looked every inch a gentleman, dark
broadcloth coat tailored and silk stockings discreetly gleaming.
Once she'd explained her distress, surely he'd do whatever he could
to help; perhaps her castles in the air weren't so farfetched,
after all. And to think she'd considered speaking out, alerting the
workmen to her presence within the hanging cot!

"Oh, this is wonderful! It's better than any ball!"
Clara could no longer resist. She twirled, joining in
Topaze
's dance, although her walking dress would never do it
justice. For this she needed a ball gown of silk and crepe, a
petticoat edged with ivory Irish lace, her lightest slippers. The
deck rolled beneath her, handing her through a quadrille figure,
chassé, glissade,
jeté.
Topaze
made a
wonderful partner, as good as — well, that was a silly thought.
She'd nearly said, as good as Phillippe. And that was a worse
thought — she'd totally forgotten him in that shining moment. She'd
also forgotten Papa. "How could my father have given this up? It's
perfect!"

In the doorway, the officer tilted his head. "Perhaps
he preferred his ballrooms unmoving and out of range of enemy
carronades."

She was dancing and he was staring. Embarrassment
won. Clara froze, staring back. The light from one lantern fell
fully onto his face, highlighting the planes of his cheeks and
forehead. His strong, winged brows and chiseled nose spoke of
patrician breeding, perhaps even noble blood at one or two removes,
and his baritone voice rang rich with education and culture. But
patently false gaiety edged his thin-lipped smile and no humor
lightened his expression, despite the ingrained, slanting grooves
separating his lips and flushed cheeks. His pale eyes were
angry.

The ship's pitching and rolling didn't disturb him,
either. Although he was so tall his curls brushed the open rafters,
his shoulders, broadened by gilt epaulettes, shifted above his
white breeches without any visible effort on his part, as if he'd
been moving with fractious vessels for so long that even the worst
couldn't surprise him now. Such long-taught grace would make him as
delightful on a dance floor as his ship, surely?

She had to be tired. Where else could these silly
thoughts be coming from?

"You must be the captain." She didn't really need to
ask; his innate elegance and air of authority made him a match for
Topaze
. But the awkward silence was stretching and she
needed to say something, no matter how inane.

His eyebrows rose in the middle of his forehead,
above his nose, and slanted down near his temples, exaggerating
their gull-wing break above those pale eyes. But he didn't
introduce himself. "What gave me away? The epaulettes?"

That was twice he'd said something faintly ridiculous
and wholly sarcastic, catching her off guard and flustering her
thoughts. He still hadn't given her his name. And their mutual
stare, intense on his side to an astonishing degree, had lasted too
long for propriety. Aunt Helen's training and Harmony's teasing
censure demanded she turn a demure gaze to the deck. But the velvet
night beyond the stern windows drew her, and she clasped her hands
rather than flatten a palm to the spotless glass.

"Captain, I need your help."

His chin drooped. "Who are you and what are you doing
aboard my ship?"

His
ship. She'd been right. "Under the
circumstances, I suppose I must introduce myself. Lady Clara
Huckabee, of Plymouth." She curtsied.

He bowed in return, his movements automatic, as if
his body went through the socially necessary motions without his
mind's engagement. But some improper imp possessed him and he still
hadn't broken his stare. Perhaps he was transfixed by her beauty.
It happened all the time in the novels Diana read.

"Wait, you came aboard in the furniture? In the
hanging chair?"

"Yes, and I apologize for the deception, Captain…?"
She'd thrown out sufficient hints prior to this.

"Oh. Yes. Fleming. Alexander Fleming."

No, he seemed befuddled rather than entranced, and
after sitting cramped inside the hanging chair all day, she must
look a disheveled fright. He wasn't transfixed, but more likely
wondering what on earth she was doing there.

"You must be wondering what on earth I'm doing
here."

His gull-winged eyebrows swooped up again. "I'm
wondering when you'll get around to explaining it."

Dratted man. If she didn't need his help… but she
did.

"I desperately need your help." He opened his mouth
but she rushed on before he could make fun of her again. "I'm
searching for the man I love."

"And he's aboard my ship." It wasn't a question, with
the rising note at the end, but a flat statement of disbelief.

Dratted unromantic man. "No, he's aboard a French
ship. He's a French captain and we met during the peace—"

Captain Fleming straightened suddenly and a loud
thunk
startled her into breaking off. He winced, his hand
started to rise then fell back by his side, and he withdrew into
himself by an inch, so that his blond curls again brushed the
rafters.

"Oh, dear." That had to hurt. "Are you all
right?"

"Sterling," he snapped, "I thank you. Lady Clara,
this is not a private yacht. I cannot break off my assignment—"
Silence fell. His jaw continued working and his lips formed words.
But a magic spell had stolen his ability to project sounds, and
only the rushing of water and creaking of timbers whispered through
the cabin. The intensity of his stare had not diminished.

"Are you making fun of me again? It's very rude to
make fun of a lady, you know."

His mouth and eyes closed. He certainly wasn't
transfixed now, if he ever had been. The expression on his pinched
face reminded her of Uncle David, mustering the final reserves of
his patience. "Perhaps if you didn't make it quite so inviting." He
raised a hand, stopping her retort before she began. "Lady Clara, I
must return to sailing my ship and I must consider what you've told
me."

Well, that was a good thing. "You aren't sending me
back to Plymouth?"

"Without the man you love? Heaven forbid." Captain
Fleming turned to the sailor who'd found her, standing in the
cabin's deepest shadows with a perfectly blank expression on his
face. "Hennessy, I must ask you to see to Lady Clara's needs. She's
to be given my sleeping cabin and shown every courtesy. Move my
dining table into the great cabin—" he winced again "—and sling a
hammock for me there. My lady, we'll speak further in the morning."
He bowed, withdrew through the still-open door, and closed it
behind himself.

As if escaping from her presence.

Definitely rude. And unromantic. And dratted. But he
hadn't sent her ashore and that had to be worth something.

Now, if she could only convince him.

Cats.

Fleming paced the weather-side quarterdeck. Nineteen
steps for'ard, brushing his scraper against the mainmast shrouds as
he turned. Nineteen steps astern, to the carved, curved taffrail.
Once, as a mathematical exercise, he'd calculated that one thousand
seven hundred and sixty steps equaled a rough mile, and twelve
steps into the ninety-third length of the quarterdeck gave him the
benefit of that much exercise. Of course, it was other captains,
less physically active ones or those who dined to excess, who
needed such benefit, and not him. But the common sailors, the
fo'c'slemen and reefers and waisters, were hidebound and
superstitious to a fault. They liked what they knew, knew what they
liked, and considered anything else unlucky. During the last
cruise, the Topazes had grown accustomed to seeing their captain
pacing the weather-side quarterdeck while he planned the next line
of attack. To keep them happy, he'd pace the weather-side
quarterdeck until he dropped.

Calico cats. Orange tabbies. Purring kittens or
yowling barnyard bruisers, sailors as a rule didn't like cats. Cats
were considered unlucky at sea, and while Fleming had known notable
exceptions, felines of almost every description unaccountably
vanished during long voyages. It was a wonder the balmier Pacific
isles and the Canaries weren't swarming with former ships' pets,
scrambling into cutters and launches for rescue when frigates sent
boats ashore for watering.

Clergymen, too, generally weren't welcomed aboard and
most captains refused them passage. Blue-light captains who felt
their faith strongly learned to camouflage their parsons as clerks,
pursers, or schoolmasters for the midshipmen — anything except what
they actually were. Better treated than cats, they weren't often
abandoned ashore, but shipping a clergyman tended to create an
unhappy crew.

And corpses. Unluckiest of the three unlucky Cs,
carrying a corpse darkened a ship's spirits dreadfully. During
battle, it wasn't unusual for sailors to tip the fallen overboard
rather than hold them for a funeral service. Even a former best
mate wasn't safe once breath left the body.

Nineteen steps for'ard. Brush the shrouds in the
turn. The dim quarterdeck, lit only by the stern lantern and the
few stars not yet eaten by the clouds marching down from the north,
stretched ahead of his restless feet. Fleming paced on.

A Jonah approached the summit of unluckiness aboard
ships, but most sailors were hard pressed to define just what the
term entailed. It might be a failed master's mate, a
thirty-plus-year-old "young gentleman" passed over without
promotion to lieutenant, either from poor understanding of a
seaman's job or a lack of influence within the Navy Board. It might
be a survivor from a mutiny, who'd managed to convince the
court-martial captains he'd been knocked unconscious, awoke to find
the ship had been seized by the crew, and no blame could attach to
him. Whatever the Jonah's past circumstances, everything bad always
seemed to happen on his watch, to his gun or mast, when he was
around. And once a man — sailor, warrant officer, or commissioned
gentleman — was branded a Jonah, his days aboard ship were
numbered. His life continued only if he found his way ashore, post
haste.

Fleming paused, gripping the taffrail. The dwindling
breeze caressed his left cheek and only a few stars still gleamed
in the south, behind him and over the Brittany peninsula. The wake
had waned as
Topaze
lost speed, but in the glow of the stern
lantern its remains still bubbled, white and frothy, below his
position.

The most unlucky cargo of all, for any warship, was a
woman.

His fingers tightened around the carved wood. Unlike
the other sailors' superstitions, there were practical reasons
captains preferred not to carry women. Through no fault of their
own, they nevertheless distracted the crew, aroused envy and
bitterness between the officers, and in time could lead to the
disruption or collapse of naval discipline. A sturdy gunner's wife,
round and good-natured, to care for the youngest mids, the
"squeakers" — that was to be expected, and such a woman was
welcomed aboard most fighting ships. But a lovely young
gentlewoman, especially one with a bold, determined eye and an
inability to take no for an answer — that was another matter
entirely.