The Bastard (15 page)

“I have to go,” he said tersely, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

The tattered strips of fabric lay on the floor. Recovering them, he tied Jeannette to his trunk again. “That ought to keep you here until I get back.” He tested the knots to be sure they’d hold, then gazed down at her with an unfathomable expression. Finally, he took the letter opener, dirk, and pistol, dressed, and left, slamming the door behind him.

Treynor stalked down the corridor, tasting the blood on his lip and chafing from the feel of his heavy uniform on his lacerated back—all thanks to the she-devil in his cabin. But his stripes didn’t bother him half so much as what had transpired in the past ten minutes. He’d never forced his attentions on a woman before; he’d never even wanted to. Jeannette drove him wild.

How could a slip of a girl with chopped-off hair and sailor’s garb inadvertently trigger such desire? She was rich and spoiled—a lady of his mother's ilk and French to boot. The pretentiousness, the haughtiness, the lies: He despised it all.

A muscle began to twitch in his cheek as Treynor tried to distance himself from the pain associated with any reminder of his mother. Captain Cruikshank wanted him. He had to keep his eye on his duty if he was ever to prove to himself that he needed nothing, and wanted even less, from Lady Bedford.

As he emerged on deck, Treynor felt the sprinkle of a light rain on his face. The sea was calm, a steady wind rocked the ship as gently as a cradle, and only a few lamps competed with the stars that glimmered through the thin clouds overhead. Such mellow weather was rare this time of year and offered hope that the morning would be clear and bright: a perfect day to set sail.

“Evening, Lieutenant.”

Treynor nodded as one of the ship’s carpenters saluted.

He needn’t worry about Jeannette, he thought, moving on. He’d return her in a matter of hours, possibly search for Dade, since the party he had sent out for him earlier hadn’t been able to find him, then be on his way. The hope of prize money should they capture a French or other merchant ship would keep him occupied until he eventually achieved his long-coveted promotion to the rank of post-captain. His career had always been enough before.

Cruikshank glanced up when Treynor entered the cabin. Along with Cunnington, two other lieutenants, and a couple of midshipmen, the captain sat at a table in the center of the room. Two cannons, a rolltop desk, several cushioned bench seats with plenty of storage beneath, and a bed filled the rest of the space. The rear of the ship rarely came under fire, so this cabin had windows as well, to give the captain a good view and to let in as much natural light as possible, although dawn had not yet arrived.

“Lieutenant Treynor.” Cruikshank hefted himself to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace between the two cannons on opposite sides of his cabin.

“Captain, sir.” Treynor saluted and nodded to the others.

Toddy Pratt and Richard Knuthson, the third and fourth lieutenants, greeted him, along with the midshipmen, making an effort to treat him as though the flogging had never occurred. Cunnington, on the other hand, relished the memory. The first lieutenant sat erect, watching him with a hawk’s eye, so well groomed there was no way to tell he’d been summoned from his bed in the middle of the night.

Fleetingly, Treynor considered his own appearance. No doubt he looked like he’d been dragged behind a horse. He certainly felt like it.

“You sent for me?” he asked, curious as to the significance of this late-night gathering.

The captain pivoted to face him, pursing his lips until the lines around his mouth deepened into grooves. He motioned toward the table, where Treynor spied a folded piece of foolscap. “A courier has delivered a letter via boat. It is from the Baron St. Ives.”

Treynor took this information in, but kept his expression impassive.

“Mayhap you are familiar with the name,” the captain continued. “His estate is not far from Plymouth.”

“I am sure the lieutenant would have no opportunity to associate with a nobleman,” Cunnington interjected.

Pratt and Knuthson and the midshipmen looked slightly uncomfortable as Cruikshank sent his first lieutenant an irritated glance. “St. Ives is a Tory. The government being what it is today, he wields significant power in Parliament and, hence, the navy.”

“I know of him,” Treynor admitted. Although the captain had just presented him with the perfect opportunity to divulge Jeannette’s identity, Cunnington’s manner, as always, incited Treynor’s temper. He wanted to hear the captain out before he did anything. “The baron married last night, I hear,” he added, smiling at Cunnington as he took the seat opposite him. “My mother was in attendance.”

“Maybe your father was there, too,” Cunnington said. “But who can say? Even you don’t know who he is.”

“That’s enough,” Cruikshank barked. “It seems that his young wife disappeared after the wedding feast. Lord St. Ives has traced her movements to Plymouth, and because we were slated to put in at London, where she has family or friends or somesuch, he thinks she might have boarded the
Tempest
.”

“A baroness stowed away on a frigate?” Lieutenant Pratt exclaimed.

“Ludicrous,” Cunnington said and the midshipmen seemed to agree.

“She must be insane to run away in the first place,” Cruikshank countered. “When her husband gets hold of her, no doubt she will have the devil to pay. But here is my dilemma: We have received new orders. We no longer need to pick up that diplomat in London. It seems the
Phoenix
can take him in our stead.”

“Which means what?” Pratt asked. “We head straight out to sea?”

“Aye.” The captain took up a pipe from his bureau and added tobacco from a pouch in his pocket. Although smoking was banned as a fire hazard, no one was going to remind Cruikshank of that. “Admiral MacBride wants us to join the Western Squadron south of Brest. There is an American convoy on its way to France, and the blockade is stretching thin.”

“A blockade that extends all the way from the North Sea into the Bay of Biscay needs every ship it can get,” Treynor said. “But what of the baron?”

“He wants us to allow his men access to the ship come morning to search for her. But I do not take kindly to the thought, I will tell you. We must stop that grain convoy. And if we are forced to wait here, we will probably miss it.”

“Our duty to king and country is far more important than a baron's silly wife,” one of the midshipmen agreed.

“Indeed.” The captain stroked his chin.

“Does he think the war will wait until he solves his domestic problems?” Pratt asked.

“The war might not wait for the Baron St. Ives, but we had better,” Cunnington said.

The captain shook his head. “I have no sympathy for a man who cannot keep track of his wife for one full day.”

“While we were in town yesterday, I heard he was to marry a woman less than half his age,” Knuthson said. “He’s probably furious that she robbed him of his wedding night.”

“He has every right to drag her back, kicking and screaming,” Cunnington pointed out. “Legally, she belongs to him.”

Cruikshank drained the glass of brandy that awaited him on the sideboard. “True. So do we stay?”

“I say yes.” Cunnington flicked a spec of lint off his uniform. “If she is here and we do not allow the baron his search, then we have made a powerful enemy.”

Every time Cunnington spoke, Treynor found his support shifting more firmly in Jeannette’s favor. But he was already naturally inclined to sympathize with the underdog, especially when it sounded as though the Baron St. Ives expected the world to stop spinning if he only asked. “What if we formed our own search party?” he asked. “The tide should be in our favor for seven hours. We could spend a short time looking and then, if the wind holds and we don’t find the lady, we set sail as scheduled.”

“That just might mollify the baron without causing us any delay,” Pratt said.

Cruikshank nodded slowly. “Perhaps that is best.”

“Or I could search for her myself,” Treynor said. “I am not up to much else in my current condition.”

When Cunnington smiled at the reference to his stripes, Treynor smiled, too, but only on the inside. With any luck, he’d just distracted the first lieutenant from what he really hoped to accomplish-and that was to obtain the search detail. He wasn't completely sure he would keep Jeannette’s secret in the long term, but he found he wasn’t quite ready to reveal her, either.

Cruikshank lit his pipe before sitting heavily in his chair. “Why don’t the seven of you see what you can find? If we discover any evidence to indicate the baroness might have joined us, we will go from there. If not, we are clear to sail. But we haven’t much time, so you had better be about it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Lieutenant Cunnington stood, saluted, and moved toward the door. Knuthson, Pratt, and the midshipmen did the same.

“Is there something else?” Cruikshank asked Treynor when he made no move to follow them.

Treynor hesitated. He didn’t want to get more involved in Jeannette’s problems than he already was, but the thought of her with a man like the baron bothered him. St. Ives was ancient; he’d dabbled in politics far longer than Treynor had been alive. Marriage to such a man seemed like a travesty, considering Jeannette’s youth and vivacity.

“What if the baron’s wife
is
here, and she doesn’t want to go back?” he asked.

“We have no choice but to return her,” Cruikshank replied. “You heard Cunnington. She belongs to St. Ives, just as surely as his house and his lands belong to him.”

“We could put her off the ship discreetly.”

“Why, when we could collect the reward?” Cunnington had paused at the door.

“What about Dade?” Treynor asked, stalling for time to think.

Cruikshank scowled. “If we took the time to search for every man who ran off, we would never leave England. Forget about Dade. Sometimes you take your duty too seriously, Lieutenant, if that’s possible. Is there anything else?” A look of impatience etched itself into the creases of the captain’s face. Treynor glanced over his shoulder to see that Cunnington still watched him, as well.

“No, sir. I will start looking immediately.”

Silently calling himself a fool, Treynor’s tongue played with the small cut Jeannette’s teeth had left in his lip as he brushed past the first lieutenant. He was making a mistake, but for some reason he couldn't give her away. Not yet.

Before returning to his cabin, Treynor visited the bosun and his wife to ask Mrs. Hawker to keep her silence and to alter a set of clothes to fit Jeannette. Then he headed back, wondering at the reception he’d receive when he told the baron’s wife she’d be a passenger on the
Tempest
for a while longer.

He smiled to think of Cunnington searching for the very woman who was safely ensconced in his cabin, but that smile froze on his face when he opened the door. The cloth strips he’d used to tie Jeannette up were once again piled on the floor.

Hunching her shoulders and keeping her head down, Jeannette hurried along the companionway. There’d been no time to bind her breasts, and she was only too aware of her bosom bouncing as she walked.

Fortunately Treynor’s shirt was even baggier than Dade’s. Despite having rolled the sleeves back several times, the cuffs fell to the tips of her fingers. But at least the lieutenant had had plain clothes in his trunk.

The predawn light was dim below the gun deck, despite the open gun ports. Only a few whale-oil lamps illuminated several sailors as they began the daily ritual of scrubbing the decks. Immersed in their work, they scarcely glanced up when she passed.

Jeannette was grateful for their preoccupation and this bit of housekeeping. Maybe it would alleviate some of the more pungent smells. Except that the constant washing never allowed the lower decks to dry, despite the use of portable stoves.