A Woman Made for Sin (9 page)

The cook nodded in agreement, stray locks falling in front of his eyes. “Would be
best. I’ll get a calming salve and some clean rags for bandages.”

Aimee watched as the two men gathered what they needed. Collins looked at the cook
and said, “We best be quick. The captain will rise and be on deck within the hour.”

Jean-Pierre stepped past Aimee and out into the small hallway. “Put someone on guard
to direct zee captain elsewhere if need be. This way, mademoiselle. No use delaying
what must be done.”

Aimee swallowed and followed the thin man up the stairs and into the early night air.
Clouds covered much of the stars, but there was still enough light to maneuver. She
took a deep breath, surprised to discover how much the smell of the warm sea air calmed
her. On a crate a few feet away, Collins put down the glass container he carried and
began ripping strips of cotton.

Aimee pulled up a smaller box and sat down. It was then she noticed a hushed crowd
gathering around them. These were the men whom Reece depended on and who depended
on him. Aimee decided then and there that no matter what the pain, she would not scream.
Not a single man witnessing what was about to happen would remember their captain’s
future wife as a weeping female being held down by their chief mate in order to save
her life.

Collins had never been so nervous in his life. He would face a battalion of Frenchmen
rather than this lone woman, who suddenly appeared relaxed and prepared to face what
must be done. If the captain could witness her bravery, he would be incredibly proud.
Collins figured on telling him . . . one day . . . but far, far into the future.

Aimee held her wrists in front of her and nodded to JP. Seconds later, what felt to
be liquid fire smothered her wounds. Screaming would not have helped. Yelling would
not have helped. Nothing would have helped her endure the pain that was consuming
her. Tears blinded her eyes and she squeezed them shut. “Is it over?” she choked.

“Aye, my lady, the worst of it is over,” she heard Collins reply and then the world
went dark and she felt no more.

October 10, 1816

Aimee blinked twice and tried again to focus on the wood beams above her. She groaned.
The last thing she could remember was being out on deck, and it had been dark outside.
The bright light streaming through the window indicated she had been out for some
time.

Her arms were throbbing, but the pain was at least bearable. Grunting, she looked
down at the makeshift bandages and fell back against the surprisingly soft bedding,
sapped of energy. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own and was rejecting the
idea of doing anything that might touch, move, or disturb her throbbing wrists.

“Aimee Wentworth, you have just survived the worst of it, and you did yourself proud,”
she said, speaking sternly to herself. “Now unless you want Reece’s men thinking you
are a sad little pampered creature expecting to be catered to,
sit up
.”

Reece glanced at the wall separating his quarters from those of his chief mate. He
had been bending over his provisional desk, trying to discern a peculiar riddle regarding
one of their navigational charts, when he thought he heard Aimee’s voice. He stood
up and raked his hand through his hair. Had he actually gone mad?

Distance and time, he had told himself, would enable him to conquer his emotions and
physical craving for her, but neither had worked. Instead, they had driven him to
insanity. Too often he had imagined her on the boat singing, talking to him, sitting
with him, or being out on deck enjoying his beloved wind and sea, but he had always
known it was an illusion of his own making. And never did his fantasies include Aimee
scolding herself.

Reece froze, listening. When only silence greeted him, he shook his head a few times
and went back to the chart. The one on top was one he had made, and yet something
about it was different than he remembered.

Hoping that Collins would be able to identify the discrepancies, Reece rolled up the
parchment and went out into the narrow hallway to bang on the door to the room next
to his. “Collins,” Reece bellowed. “Open up, man. There is something wrong with these
charts.”

At the sound of Reece’s voice, Aimee instinctively sat up and hit her head on a low-lying
bag of . . . something. A voluble “bloody hell” came out before she could muffle her
response.

Reece looked quizzically at the closed door. “Did you just
sing
the words
bloody hell
to me, mate?”

Aimee sat frozen. It
was
Reece on the other side of the door. Worse, because she had said something, he believed
Collins was in the cabin. Looking around, she could find nothing sizeable to hide
behind or anything to duck under. Two seconds away from pure panic, Aimee heard Collins
join Reece in the corridor and sighed with relief.

“Can I help you, Captain?”

Reece looked at his chief mate, puzzled and suspicious. He then saw the latch on his
door was attached from the outside. “Did you bring a woman aboard, Collins?”

Collins looked at Reece, wide-eyed but unblinking. “Not I, Captain,” he grunted. “After
Rosita, I figured on spending a few cruises
without
female companionship, if you know what I mean.”

Reece grimaced and glanced back at the closed door. To pursue the conversation meant
talking about certain topics and admitting private thoughts he planned on taking to
his watery grave. “Um, I wanted to go over these charts with you,” he said, pointing
at the wooden door to indicate he wanted to step inside his chief mate’s cabin. “I
swear we are off course, not by much, but it is difficult to tell with the cloud cover
we have been having at night.”

“I’ve been following the course you laid out, sir. We’re heading south as you wanted.”

Reece frowned. The fastest routes from England to the Americas were not necessarily
the most direct. Going south toward the equator before turning toward the Indies allowed
them to avoid the strong current that flowed from the Americas across the Atlantic
toward Europe. And Reece had a particular route he liked to follow because it shaved
at least two days off the trip. “I know, but I sense we’re off. Get the log line and
chronometer. I want to know exactly where we are and get us back on course. Let’s
go in and take another look at these charts. I want to—”

Collins very nervously jumped in front of Reece to block the door. “Aye, Captain.
But I told Heilsen that I would be returning directly. Let me handle him, then I’ll
meet you in your quarters.”

Reece scowled at Collins. He was tempted to tell him that the second mate could wait,
but decided against it. He needed a change, and outside all he could hear was the
wind and the noises that actually belonged on a ship. “I’ll come with you. I’ve been
down here too long anyway.”

Aimee heard heavy footsteps walking away, and was just starting to breathe normally
again when she heard the rattle of someone asking to enter the room. Aimee swallowed,
but before she could answer, a burly, flaxen-haired man in his midtwenties shuffled
in and gave her a wide saucy grin. “Ahh, too bad yer awake, as the boss told me I
could throw ye over me shoulder if you weren’t.”

Aimee blinked at the cheeky sailor smiling at her as if he had just won first prize
in some popular event. Then he gave her a very low, showy bow, and she had to bite
her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “And just who are you, good sir, and why would
you prefer to cart an unconscious female over your shoulder?”

“Name’s Hurlee, miss, and it’s best not to ask questions when one of the bosses tells
ye to do somethin’,” he answered with a wink. “But if ye don’t mind, we need to leave
right away.”

Aimee released her bottom lip and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Hurlee.”

“Uh, Hurlee’s me given name, miss,” he clarified as he turned and left the cabin.

Realizing that Hurlee truly meant to leave at that very moment, Aimee scurried off
the bed and grabbed the loose slippers Collins had found with the other clothes he
had given her. Leaping over the doorjamb, she barely caught up to the surprisingly
nimble sailor before he disappeared down a set of stairs. She wanted to ask where
they were going, who he was, why they had to leave, and why so fast. But instinct
told her the answer to all of her questions was Reece and keeping him from finding
her. Silently, she followed the broad-shouldered seaman. It was not long before her
nose was able to discern at least one answer to her growing list of questions—they
were headed to the kitchen.

As soon as she was safely inside, Hurlee grabbed her hand, performed another awkward
low bow, and kissed each of her fingertips. “Ah, if only I could be yer One. Ye really
are one beautiful woman, miss.”

Aimee shook her head and smiled, unable to be affronted by the man when he was trying
so hard to flatter and impress her. But before she could reply, an empty sauce pan
whizzed by her head. “Out! Out! Out wiz you, and never come back. I only agreed
la dame
could come in here. Not you, you . . . you . . . obscenely large man. Out!”

Unoffended, Hurlee grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and quickly scooted out of the
small room, closing the door before another pan went flying toward his head. From
behind her, Aimee could hear angry mutterings mostly in French. “
Imbécile
. Pretty women always make men go crazy.” He paused to look at her. “But it’s zat
man Collins who is
fou
if ’e expects me to ’ide ye ’ere in me kitchen.”

Piqued, Aimee replied in English, “Since you feel so strongly, Mr. Jean-Pierre, maybe
you should
not
hide me. I have no problem leaving this kitchen and announcing my presence to Mr.
Hamilton. Of course, I’ll have to explain these.” She held up her wrists. “And, of
course, just how kind you were in cleaning them.”

The cook squinted at Aimee. Her face was bruised and her dress was ill fitting, and
yet the woman definitely outshone any female he could recall. Her pale golden tresses
and sharp, twinkling eyes could mesmerize the most hardened of men, and JP knew he
was far from immune. If only she would be haughty or proud, then he could easily spurn
her presence.

Instead, he took in a deep breath and turned back to his pots. “You must love ’im
deeply, mademoiselle. And I, being French, know better zan to contend wiz an emotional
woman. So stay if you must”—he waved his ladle as if splashing something all around—“but
be quiet
.”

Aimee gave him a mock salute and smiled. Finding a narrow, tall stool next to where
he was working, she sat down and propped her elbow on a bench, placing her chin on
her hand. “Mr. Jean-Pierre, whatever happened to the stew you were preparing?”

Jean-Pierre stood stock-still for a moment and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.
What had he expected from a woman who insisted on calling him
Mister
Jean-Pierre? That she would heed his simple request for silence? “It is
fini
, mademoiselle
.
Just like everyzing I prepare. I stir and combine and bake zee finest foods in zee
world and zose men,” he said through gritted teeth, using his ladle as a pointer,
this time toward the ceiling, “just gobble it up. No savoring. No enjoyment. Just
swallow is all zey do.”

“Oh,” Aimee replied, not even trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She
had no idea that nothing else could have captured the respect and the loyalty of the
thin cook more.

“You really like me stuff, eh?”

“Absolutely!” Aimee proclaimed. “You included paprika, and I have been trying to convince
our cook for ages that it would only enhance the flavor.”

Jean-Pierre’s eyes widened in appreciation and eagerness. “Ah, so you know something
about cuisine.”

Aimee watched as he moved a large bin of carrots and potatoes over to the table she
was sitting beside. “In truth, I know very little. Like you, our cook detests anyone—even
other cooks—being in her kitchen. But whenever she is on leave to visit her family,
I have been known to sneak into our kitchens and help with the pastries. Tilly, who
stands in for her, thinks it’s amusing.”

“I zought zee, eh, nobles did not like, ’ow do you say? Get zeir ’ands dirty. Cooking
can be dirty, eh? Especially zee pastry.”

Aimee got up and without thinking, selected a knife and began to assist with the chopping.
“It is only a little mess, and pastries are so fun to make. The dough is like a piece
of art begging to be molded.”

JP jumped as she slammed down the cleaver, cutting a large spud in two. She was right.
He did not like anyone—even other cooks—in his kitchen. But it was clear she was not
going to leave or just sit quietly. “Mademoiselle, zere is an apron be’ind zat cupboard
zere. Yes, zere. I ’ave no use for such zings, but you may want to protect your .
. . uh . . . your
robe
, since you insist upon interfering.”

Aimee grabbed the thick covering and put her arms through the loops. “As I have only
this gown until I can stitch the sides of another, I thank you and will be glad to
help
you in any way I can. Just what pastry are you making?”

JP shook his head. “Never ’eard ’ardtack called a pastry before,” he said, handing
her the bowl. “Keep adding a spoonful of water until it sticks togezer. Make it into
a ball, let it sit, and zen roll it out very zin for baking.”

Aimee did as she was told and started to add the water, but her dress was made for
a shorter woman, making it difficult for her to maneuver her arms.

JP chuckled. “So Collins gave you Rosita’s zings, did ’e, eh? If ’e ever tells you
zat you are a burden, just mention ’er name. I promise you zat ’e will immediately
be quiet.”

“But why? What happened to Rosita? And why did she leave her clothes aboard the
Sea Emerald
?”

“Ah, now, mademoiselle, I will not explain to you ze complexities of a man’s world.
Just know I ’ave given you ze keys to dealing wiz Collins.”

“You are an evil man, Mr. Jean-Pierre,” Aimee replied, smiling. “And I am glad that
you are my friend.”

JP froze for a second and then turned to look at her, twitching his mustache.
Friend?
How could she think that? They most certainly were not friends, and he did not want
a single seaman on this ship to think otherwise. Not only was she a woman, but an
English woman who, like all women, loved to talk. It was for his benefit—not hers—that
he had not thrown her out. He was about to explain all this to her when Collins opened
the door.

“My lady, I need you to come with me. You can spend more time with your new
friend
here tomorrow, if you are up to it.”

Realizing that Collins must have overheard Aimee and thought to tease him about it,
JP was about to remind the chief mate how unwise it would be to tangle with him. But
before he could do so, Aimee had leaned over the small cooking table and kissed his
unshaven cheek. “
Au revoir
, Mr. Jean-Pierre.”

If Collins had a death wish, he would have busted out laughing upon seeing the shock
on the old cook’s face. He had already pressed his luck by teasing him about his and
Aimee’s “friendship,” but he had not been able to help himself. She and JP had been
gabbing like magpies and everyone knew that JP demanded absolute silence when he cooked.
Collins had to hold on to the doorframe to keep himself from falling when he realized
the buzzard was allowing her to actually help cook! As if a noble lady knew anything
about the kitchen besides eating what was prepared there.

Collins maneuvered down one narrow corridor and into another, marching back as quickly
as he could to his cabin. Once they were inside and the door was closed, Aimee asked,
“Mr. Collins, whatever is the matter with you? You seemed much calmer before. I know
it was a little exciting earlier this morning with Mr. Hamilton knocking on the door,
but—”