Bride of a Distant Isle (20 page)

“Just what is going on here?” she demanded. Had Maud not known? Had she not, indeed, sent Mrs. Watts to assist me?

“I believed you over busy and thought to assist,” Mrs. Watts said. As housekeeper, she and Maud were of nearly the same standing, but it would not be appropriate for her to have taken over Maud's responsibilities without direction.

“If I require the assistance of a housekeeper, I'll ask for it,” Maud said. “Until then, kindly leave my charges be.”

Mrs. Watts opened her mouth as if to utter a rebuke, then looked at me, bowed her head, and left. I felt rather sorry for her; I imagined doing hair and talking of gowns was more amusing than inventorying what remained in the butter larder. I didn't exactly relish a future as a governess, truth be told. But there was a place for everything, and order must rule. I sought to soothe Maud.

“She filled in nicely, but I shall be glad to have your assistance after we return this evening. If Clementine can spare you, that is.”

She seemed calmed. “Of course. Do you require anything else?”

I shook my head no, and she left, pulling the door closed behind her. I took one last peek in the mirror before following her downstairs.

Mrs. Watts was a genius. My hair had never looked more alluring!

O
ur carriage pulled up at the yacht club just ahead of the Somerfords and the Leahys. I had not known that Elizabeth would be joining us, and my feelings were mixed. I was delighted to have her company, but I hoped that she would remain discreet about my letter mission.

“Miss Ashton, my husband, Lord Leahy. Lord Leahy, Miss Ashton.”

“How do you do?” Lord Leahy's eyes were warm and twinkly. “My wife has said you've become a dear friend to her. Captain Dell'Acqua had mentioned that we might be able to do some good for the local men, joint investments, and kindly invited us to his ship.”

“How do you do?” I responded. Edward, standing next to me, looked pleased and smug. He was never happier with me than when I'd presented him with something of value, and this friendship certainly hit the mark.

Elizabeth leaned over toward me and whispered, “I sent the letters straightaway, on my own letterhead. One holds especial promise.” I squeezed her hand in return.

We made our way along the harbor toward a fine ship in the distance. It was not large, as it was not meant to hold a numbered crew; larger ships would follow when the investment arrangements were completed.

As promised, commanding the ship's bow was the Greek god Poseidon. Carved on the prow, all sinew and flex, his body was
somewhat
draped for modesty, which just barely did the job. His hair was a tangle of twists, and his beard appeared to be made of snakes. In his hand was a trident, and his look conveyed that he ruled the sea. I was so occupied staring at him that I didn't see the captain approach.

“Everedge, Mrs. Everedge, welcome aboard my ship,” he said smoothly, and then I took him in. His clothing was a combination of the finest gentleman's wear and the rough garb of the sea; he did not mind appearing different from the others present. It occurred to me that the unlikely blend in both attire and manner might be just what I found so compelling about the man.

I'd admitted it. He was compelling.

Dell'Acqua greeted Lord Leahy next and then led us onto the ship. The top deck had been carefully swabbed, and the sails were neatly furled. Long stretches of rope were tightly coiled, and about eight men stood at the ready. We ducked down the first narrow stairway to the first deck below. Men tended to the neatly aligned quarters and storerooms. Forward was the captain's quarters, and that was where he led us.

Perhaps a half dozen other guests socialized and when Dell'Acqua entered, all took a seat. The cabin was larger than I'd expected, painted yellow with gold gilt on the chair rails. There was a deep window seat—which had been covered in ivory silk, smooth and taut as the skin stretched across a young woman's collarbone—beneath the stern gallery windows, which had been opened to inhale the night breeze and exhale our spent breath. The room was well lit with lamps, and the oil used to fuel them had been scented with something exotic and earthy. The effect was enchanting. In a display case, in pride of place, rested a perfectly rendered model of his ship.

Marvelous.

Dell'Acqua had placed my name card to his right, a place of honor. I noted that others had remarked upon it, too. Should that place have been reserved for Lord Somerford? I looked at Lady Somerford, who smiled at me, offering both encouragement and approval. At the foot of the table, next to Edward, remained an unfilled chair. Morgan's. His delay must have been at the last minute.

The meal was splendid, all meat courses, naturally, because when the men were at sea it was fish and fish alone. I had never had meat prepared quite so, basted with oils I had not tasted and roasted herbs I could not remember but savored, all delightfully moist and washed down with fine Italian wine. Dell'Acqua conversed as comfortably with the Englishmen present as Edward did, and perhaps more confidently. We made pleasant, superficial conversation as was appropriate, and I mentioned that my Maltese honey had run dry.

“I shall have some sent to you,” he promised. The courses changed and with that, I was now required to speak with the person seated to my other side.

Dell'Acqua stood after dinner. “I should like to introduce you to the
Poseidon
. Because ships have narrow passages, I've divided us into groups to view different parts at different times. Then, I've arranged for musical entertainment on the beach nearby.”

He separated us into groups with officers as guides. Edward tensed when he realized that I would not be joining the group that he and Clementine were in. He relaxed, though, when he saw Lady Leahy was to accompany me, along with Dell'Acqua.

The captain bragged from stem to stern, and Elizabeth and I were appropriately admiring. Once, he ordered his men, in English, to move some crates out of the way. I saw the way one looked at him, half obeying, half smirking, until he barked his order in rough Maltese, which caused immediate compliance.

It was not easy for Dell'Acqua—son of Malta, son of England, son of no one—to bridge two cultures, either.

We progressed to the nearby beach, which had been smoothed. The heels of our slippers pushed into the sand, nearly causing Elizabeth to twist her ankle.

“Why not be Maltese!” the captain asked. “Bare feet!”

We looked at each other and giggled. Could we, would we, do it? We would! I took one slipper off and so she then dared, and we both took the other off and stepped toward the water's edge, laughing like young girls on our way to build seashell castles.

Some yards away, a string quartet played softly, and there were perhaps two dozen chairs scattered along the long stretch of beach. Torches dotted the landscape here and there, and waiters circulated with cooled water and cooled wine.

“Let's put our toes in,” Elizabeth encouraged me. She walked near where the water met the land, salt lightly drifting across the sand like a thin shimmer of summer snow.

“What?” It would not be done to remove our stockings, but they were already wet.

“You insisted on taking off the slippers . . .” she challenged me. I could not let such a challenge go unmet. Captain Dell'Acqua turned his head as we rolled down our stockings and let the cold water lap at our toes. After the confines of the captain's quarters, that cool refreshed me all the way up. Within a minute or two, we made our way back to a set of three chairs near the edge of the water.

“I believe I should like to be back from the water a bit more,” Elizabeth said.

“
Ecco
, we can move then,” Dell'Acqua offered.

“No.” She held up a hand. “You two remain here and I'll be there in a moment.” She sat some yards away, within sight but not within hearing distance, thoughtfully taking the third chair with her so no one could join us. My chilled toes reminded me of the pleasures of spontaneity, and her friendship.

Dell'Acqua spoke first, and when he did, the distantly genteel tone he'd used at dinner was replaced by a softer, more intimate tone. “I was disappointed, when I was last at Highcliffe, to hear that you were unwell and unable to join us for dinner.”

“It was a disappointment to me as well,” I replied, matching his warm voice, but I did not elaborate. The others had not arrived at the beach, and I wondered if he'd instructed his men to take them on a more elaborate and lengthy tour than he'd taken us on.

I pointed toward the exterior of his ship. “What am I to make of the devilish pitchfork, Captain Dell'Acqua, which your figurehead has in hand? An indication of your character?”

He smiled wickedly, and my heart and breath quickened. “A trident, Miss Ashton, not a pitchfork but a trident.”

The captain reached over and impulsively touched one of the crystals in my hair. It was unexpected and personal, intimate. The feel of his touch traveled down the strands of hair to my scalp, causing it to prickle, and then that prickle rolled like the surf upon my whole body. “Like the stars,” he said, “but more beautiful. And when I lean near you, I catch the scent of ash and honey and oranges, the orange trees of Malta.”

“It's neroli,” I said softly. “From Italy.”

“So unlike the English girls,” he said, “who wear frivolous violets.”

“I am an English girl,” I reminded him.

“I stand corrected.” He moved his chair as close to me as, I imagined, he dared.

I did not chide him. Very soon, I should enter service as a governess, or perhaps would have to marry Mr. Morgan, unless . . . I looked at him but dared not hope. I would snatch bits of life and liberty here and now to treasure in my heart, later. “Your cologne. Likewise not English. Italian? Maltese?”

“Ah.” His eyebrows raised. “You've noticed the thieves!”

“Have I been introduced to thieves and not realized? Pray tell!”

He grinned. “In the Middle Ages, there were three thieves who robbed dead victims, those who had died of the plague. It couldn't hurt, isn't that so? They were dead and did not need their worldly goods any longer.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Maltese thieves?”

“Of course not,” he said. “They were perhaps French, or more likely English.”

I swatted at him with my fan. “Go on.”

“They were caught, and in exchange for their freedom, they shared the formula for a blend of oils that protected them from the plague, which then helped many others. A mix of herbs and cloves, camphor and musk. Thieves' oil. It's healing and aromatic. Do you like it?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say more. Healing indeed—to my spirit, but endangering to my heart! He laughed. “Then it has done more good for me than keeping away illness. As my story proves, even thieves may do good.”

“Is that a confession, Captain?” I waved my fan in a delicate circle.

He grinned and shrugged; his eyes remained guarded. A long pause held with only the lapping surf and the lament of the cello strings to break it. Finally, he spoke. “Do you know any thieves, Miss Ashton? Perhaps smugglers?”

I caught and held his glance. Was he asking after Edward? Was Edward still smuggling? “I shall answer you by way of an English tale, Captain Dell'Acqua.”

“Please,” he said, leaning near me so our arms merged. Mine prickled again, at his touch. “Use my name. Marc Antonio. Marco.”

“I cannot call you Marco!” I exclaimed.

“And I shall call you Annabella.”

“You shall not!”

“Then even better . . . Bella.”

Bella. In Italian,
beautiful.
It was a most promising corruption of my name, and I adored him for speaking it.

“What will Clementine think?” I asked. “Or Lady Leahy?”

“I care not.”

“But I do!” He did not realize how carefully a woman like me, born out of wedlock, must protect her reputation.

“I shall refer to them as Clemmy and Liz,” he said. “And they shall blame the foreigner for my poor manners.” At that, I grinned.
This is what comes of allowing myself to walk slipperless. Self-restraint has fled!

I rather enjoyed it.

“My story, Captain,” I said.

“Marco,” he whispered, his dark eyes holding my gaze.

Dare I?

“Marco,” I whispered back and his face flushed with pleasure. “My story!” I redirected. “You are half English, you know; it's time you come to know our history, as well as exercise some English self-control.”

He nodded compliantly but with a wink. At that moment, the others began to filter onto the beach.

“There is a tale of the Moonrakers,” I began, looking out upon the beach, which grew wider as the tide receded. “Poor, hungry villagers, eager and desperate, as many of our English people are, had buried barrels of brandy under the sand near the beach, waiting to ‘harvest' them at low tide. All of a sudden, the revenue men came upon them as they dragged the rakes against the sand. ‘What are you doing?' they demanded.”