Her Master and Commander (8 page)

Prudence dragged a straight-backed chair to below the shelf, grimacing a bit when the legs scraped the floor. Once she had the chair in place, she tiptoed to the hallway and peeked out the door. Nothing. A bit of breathlessness left her. She returned and nimbly hopped on the chair, reached up to the shelf and found the cup.

 

To commemorate the bravery of the Victory and the final stand of Admiral Nelson, to Captain Tristan Llevanth, who stood true, fast, and brave even while wounded.

With admiration, from His Majesty, King George III.

 

That was certainly something! She traced the lettering, the etching rough against her fingers. Had King George himself presented the award to the captain? How odd to think that the king had once had his fingers right where hers now were.

She replaced the award and, reaching even further back, teetering on her tiptoes, her fingers grazed the next award in line. This one was a large gold cross, outlined with blue enamel and set with a single jewel. A huge blue ribbon threaded through the large loop at the head of the cross, so it was apparently to be worn over a uniform of some type.

She frowned. She’d heard of the St. Christopher’s Cross, given to seamen and soldiers who’d exhibited unusual bravery in battle. Could this be one? Whatever it was, it was a beautiful piece and quite impressive. She smoothed her fingers over the cool metal, admiring the color even as she glanced at the remaining awards and medals.

The captain had been no coward when it came to wartime activities. That could be very useful information, she decided. She’d have to be careful not to appear too confrontational in her manner; he would take it as a challenge, something he apparently enjoyed.

She pursed her lips. She supposed she didn’t blame him. She rather enjoyed a good row now and again herself. She lifted up on her tiptoes to replace the cross—

“What are you doing?”

The words snapped through the dead silence, so deeply spoken and so close, that Prudence took a startled step back—a dangerous move for someone balanced on their toes on the seat of a wobbly chair. The cross gripped in her hands, she gasped deeply, wobbling a second on the edge of the chair.

And then she fell, tumbling back, back, back…right into the arms of the man she’d come to conquer.

M
oments before Prudence’s fall from the chair, Tristan had been standing in the courtyard, glaring at the barn. His father’s servants were in there and it felt wrong somehow. He wanted no reminders of that dark part of his life.

Something brushed his leg and he glanced down. “Ah, Winchester.” The cat purred loudly, pressing its orange-and-white face against Tristan’s boot. He leaned a bit more heavily against the gate, his cane resting against his thigh as he scooped up the waiting cat and absently scratched one of its rather ragged ears. “Easy,” Tristan murmured to the cat. “It’s uncharted territory to be certain. But we’ve been in worse weather. We’ll come about. See if we don’t.”

Winchester flicked a nervous ear, so Tristan gave the cat’s head a brisk scratch before setting him back on the ground.

“There ye be, Cap’n!” Stevens said, coming up at a run.

“Aye, here am I,” Tristan said, his gaze fastened on the wide oak barn doors. From behind the doors came a myriad of sounds, hammering and sawing and all sorts of noises. What the hell was that man Reeves up to?

“Cap’n, ye won’t believe this, but—” An especially loud racket made Stevens turn toward the barn. “What’s that?”

“God only knows, although I am about to find out.” He grasped the handle of his cane and pulled himself from his leaning position against the gate. “Stevens, I am beginning to believe that allowing Master Reeves and his entourage to rest in our barn for a day or two was an error.”

“I am thinkin’ the same thing meself, Cap’n. What do ye think he’s doin’ in there?”

“I don’t know. Other than request permission to clean it up a bit, he’s asked for nothing more. However, I think it’s time to find out.” Tristan made his way to the door. Just as he placed his hand on the large, rusty iron ring, a shift in the wind produced a most amazing smell.

Stevens lifted his nose to the air, inhaling noisily. “Gor, Cap’n,” he said in a reverent voice, his eyes half closing. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Tristan said, puzzled. He swung open the door and stepped inside, halting in amazement.

The entire barn had been cleaned out; scrubbed from floor to rafter. All of the hay stores—what few there were—were neatly stacked against the far wall. The tackle and tack had been moved there as well, neatly hung on newly placed hooks. That left the majority of the barn empty. Or it would have been empty had someone not placed barrels at regular intervals with meticulously cut boards laid across them, end to end. The effect was a huge, table-like structure that ran the entire length of the edifice.

Reeves had turned the barn into a dining hall. Worse was the bustle of what seemed to be an army of liveried servants.

“Bloody hell,” Tristan said. What could Reeves possibly hope to gain with such a ridiculous thing as a dining table large enough to fit thirty or forty persons?

Stevens stiffened. “Cap’n, cock an eye starboard! ’Tis Toggle, the lazy shifter!”

Sitting at a barrel, plate before him, napkin tucked under his chin, was a large man with a round, roly-poly face. He wore a dirty white shirt that stretched over his paunch, which was only partially hidden by a long coat that draped down past his knees. His ensemble was only slightly less nattered than he, for his graying hair was roughly chopped about his melon head, a good bit of it standing straight up in the back, sorely in need of a good brushing.

His eyes widened when he saw Tristan and he stumbled to his feet, fork and knife still clutched in his fists, a shiny stain on his chin. “Cap’n! I didn’t think—I mean, what’re ye doin’ out here?”

Tristan clasped his cane tighter, but Stevens interjected, “Toggle, ye fool. Just whose barn do ye think this is?”

The former bo’sun’s mate looked around, his eyes wide. “It belongs to the cap’n, I’d think, seein’ as how ’tis in his own yard.”

“It
is
the cap’n’s, ye ninny!” Stevens shouted, face red. “Now put down yer fork ’n stand to like a real sailor, or I’ll have ye keelhauled and whipped within a day of yer life!”

“Master Stevens, sir! I—I—I was just—” Toggle realized he was gesturing with his fork and hurriedly returned it to the table. “I was just helpin’ Master Reeves test the cook’s new recipe fer—” He looked past Tristan and Stevens, a hopeful expression on his face. “Master Reeves, what’s this called again?”

“Beef polonaise.” Reeves walked past Tristan and Stevens to the barrel. He lifted the cover on the dish in the center, a mouthwatering scent rising through the air. “My lord. Master Stevens. Perhaps you’d like to test the recipe as well. It’s a wonderful wine sauce mixed with—”

“No, we would not.” Tristan glowered at the butler. “How many servants did you bring with you?”

“Twenty-one, my lord. It will take that many to set up a new household, although had I known you already had such a retinue, I might have left one or two of the footmen behind.”

“I did not give you permission to make a dining hall out of my stables.”

“No, my lord. You did not. However, seeing as how you are now the earl of Rochester, it seemed only fitting—”

“What?”
Stevens gaped. “The cap’n is an earl?”

Reeves nodded wisely. “Indeed. He has just become the
seventh
earl of Rochester. He stands to inherit a great fortune, as well.”

Stevens stepped back a pace, hand to his heart. “An
earl
!”

“Keep it down!” Tristan growled, glancing around, though only Toggle and Stevens were within hearing.

Toggle tucked his napkin more securely beneath his chin. “Master Reeves has been telling me all about the cap’n’s good fortune and how he’s one o’ the top peers in the land and how he can have this sauce fer every meal if he wishes it and—”

“That’s enough!” Tristan caught Toggle’s rather vapid gaze. “I don’t want anyone to know of this. Am I understood?”

Toggle nodded obediently, his attention already drifting back to his plate. “I won’t tell no one, Cap’n. Not a soul. Jus’…may I finish me rations?”

Bloody hell, was his entire crew to be won over by nothing more than a tasty sauce? What kind of men were they, anyway? “Reeves! I will not have this.”

The butler raised his brows. “Not have what, my lord? The sauce? Very well. I will tell the chef you do not care for beef polonaise, however I do think you might enjoy it if you had the correct wine and—”

“I don’t want any sauce, beef polonaise or not. Reeves, I want you and your men out of my barn.” Tristan sent a glare toward Toggle. “You! You may finish your rations, but that’s it. After that, it’s back to work with you!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Toggle sank gratefully back into his seat and began shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could.

Reeves sighed. “My lord, I fear you mistake my intentions. I just thought to bring your men a little taste of what could be.”

“You wished to win them over and thus win me.” Tristan thought to embarrass the butler, but all Reeves did was smile.

“Perhaps. I suppose it’s not to be, though. I shall have the men pack our things.”

Toggle made a sound of distress, but Tristan ignored him. “See to it that they do.” He looked around, frowning. “Where are your horses?”

“We made use of the sheds.” Reeves spread his hands wide as if to indicate he’d had no other choice. “It was better to keep the animals away from the kitchen area.”

“This is a
barn,
Reeves. A
barn
. Do you understand that?”

“Of course, my lord. It is whatever you say it is. After all, you
are
the earl.”

Damnation! “Look, Reeves—”

Toggle cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Cap’n, but Master Reeves and his men made the sheds as shipshape as they’ve ever been. He’s bloody good at organizing. He’d make a helluva first mate.”

Stevens gaped. “
What
did ye say?”

Toggle blinked. “Not better than ye, of course! I didn’t mean it that way, indeed I didn’t!”

Reeves bowed to Stevens. “From what Toggle has let fall, I know you to be my superior.” He fixed his calm blue gaze on Tristan. “Before I leave, I shall write down what I know so far of Master Christian’s whereabouts.”

Christian. How had Tristan allowed himself to forget that? He nodded shortly, a flush of guilt washing away his irritation. “That is most generous of you. I am sorry I cannot allow you to stay in my barn. I cannot have such upheaval—”

“My lord, please! There is no need for an apology.”

“Yes, well…you may take an extra day to pack, if you need it.”

“There ye go, Cap’n,” Stevens said, nodding as if he’d solved their difficulties for them. “We’re back on course!”

Reeves smiled at the first mate. “Master Stevens, I hesitate to ask, but would you like a bit of supper before we pack our belongings?”

Stevens looked at Tristan. “Would ye mind, Cap’n? I mean—me lord?”

“Stop that! I won’t have that ‘my lord’ balderdash spoken in my own home.”

Stevens’s brow lowered. “I don’t know that I can call ye Cap’n anymore. ’Tis an insult to the king, not to respect the gentry.”

Reeves nodded thoughtfully. “Rules have a place in our lives, do they not, Master Stevens?”

“Indeed they do.” Stevens opened his mouth to say something else when he froze, then slapped a hand to his forehead. “Gor, Cap’n! I almost forgot! Mrs. Thistlewaite is in yer study.”

Tristan straightened. “More sheep troubles?”

“She brought one of yer sheep with her; says ’tis the very one as has been breakin’ into her garden.”

The news transfixed Tristan for a moment. “She brought a sheep?”

“Aye, Cap’n. Tied her muffler about it and dragged it all the way from her house.”

Despite himself, Tristan chuckled.

“Goodness,” Reeves said, his eyes bright with interest. “Who is Mrs. Thistlewaite? She sounds like a lady of great resources.”

“Lud, Master Reeves! ’Tis the smoothest little schooner ye ever saw, smart as they come and trim as a gull! She and her mum wish to start a school for comportment near here, and we’ve all been waitin’ to see what happens. They’re widows, the both of ’em, but I’ve yet to hear a bad word spoke about either.”

“A widow, hm?”

Tristan shot a hard glance at Reeves. He didn’t like the way the butler said the word “widow,” as if it opened up a whole new avenue of hope.

But Reeves met his look blandly enough, so Tristan asked Stevens, “Where is that blasted sheep now? I hope it is not also residing in my library.”

“Lord, no! Although, I do think that’s what Mrs. Thistlewaite wished to do. But as soon as she crossed the front doorway, it took off for deeper water. Some of the men are chasin’ it now.”

“Good. I hope they may catch it so we can have it for dinner. Reeves, we shall speak more later of your use of my barn.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tristan turned and limped his way back toward the house. He reached the terrace and opened one of the doors into the study, then halted. There, balancing on a chair seat, was his neighbor and chief irritant. She stood on the edge, raising up on her tiptoes. One hand rested on the shelf above her, the other held something that glittered. But what interested him the most was that she was, for once, devoid of her cloak.

Tristan quietly closed the door. Stevens was right—the little widow was indeed a sight to behold. She reached up on the shelf, her gown pulled tightly over her generous chest, outlining the full swell in a way that made his body hum.

More tantalizing still was the way the light from the fire backlit her skirts until he could just make out the length of her legs and the seductive hint of her backside curve. His body tightened with need and he was assailed with a strong sense of vexation. “What are you doing?”

His guest took an instant and startled step backward, her foot coming precariously close to the edge of the chair. Tristan was there in a trice, dropping the cane and striding forward regardless of the pain, arms outstretched. He caught her just as she fell, collapsing into his arms, flailing wildly.

One of her elbows caught him in the chin. He blinked as white spots danced before his eyes, even as he pulled her tight against him, pinning her arms. For a heart-splitting second, he wobbled in place, struggling to gain purchase on his stiff leg as she squirmed against him. “Hold still, you fool!”

His harsh tone must have cut through her panic, for she stilled and looked up at him, her eyes wide. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, Tristan decided, fascinated once again with the slant of her brows. She was almost exotic in her features, and he liked the faint laugh lines that danced from the edges of her lashes, tempting him to try and win a laugh for himself.

Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

“Was I smiling?” he asked, turning on his good heel and sitting in the chair she’d fallen from. He nestled her in his lap, her scent tickling his nose. She smelled of fresh cut lemon and something else…Was it pastries?

“Captain Llevanth, you may release me now.”

“I could,” he agreed, noting how her hair shone in the light streaming from the windows. She was a trim piece, but rounded for all of that. He rather enjoyed the feel of her in his arms.

“Captain Llevanth!”

He raised his brows.

“You will release me at once, or—”

He waited.

“Or—”

Her expression went from outrage to irritation in the space of a half of a second. “Put me down this instant!”

He was well aware that he should do as she asked. But she felt so damned good, warming his lap, her lily-fresh scent tickling his nose, that he simply could not. Could not put her down. Could not even loosen his hold, not for a thousand pounds and ten earldoms. “I will put you down when I want and not a second sooner.”

Her mouth dropped open, all prim astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

Tristan couldn’t help himself; there was something irresistibly tempting about Mrs. Thistlewaite. “You may beg all you wish, sweetness. I won’t stop you.”