Chapter 5
Pulse fluttering madly in his chest, Percy stepped tentatively closer.
Christ, but seeing Heather so soon after…
It was as though he was seeing her with new eyes.
Her hair glowed copper in the sunlight, her eyes glittered green, and her cheeks were flushed from the sun.
She was a vision. He now knew what her full lips felt like beneath his, how soft her skin was to his touch, and how damned good she tasted… His body hummed at her nearness.
“It’s good to see you,” she said breathily, taking in his bared feet and calves, his slops, his ill-fitting blue coat, and his loosened cravat.
He knew how he appeared. Not only could he not don his customary ocean-faring attire, but he was now a man in service to the Crown and would wear what his superiors deemed fit.
He mustn’t cause a disturbance. If he drew undue attention and they discovered the truth of who he was, they would likely have him keelhauled.
He cleared his throat. “I observed your disagreement on the docks. Was Cordelia unable to come aboard, or is she to sail upon the frigate that follows?”
Heather’s gaze turned stormy, and she gave a sideways glance to ensure they were unheard. “The earl barred her admittance on board entirely. It is just us two continuing the assignment.”
Pulse tripping again, he nodded once. “We must work quickly to find what you require.”
“Tonight?”
A shout came from behind him, and Percy straightened. “Aye!” He smiled apologetically at Heather. “I must go, but I’m off duty at dusk. Would you, perhaps, wish to play a game of cards?” He lifted an eyebrow in suggestion.
“I would be delighted,” she returned with a quirk of her lips.
With a tug of his forelock, he turned and found his post at the base of the mizzen-mast, gathering the ropes in his hand.
He turned his gaze upward toward the topmen who worked aloft, matching his movements to theirs.
The motions came naturally to Percy, having done the job for years before captaining his own ship.
Before then, he’d shared the role of topman, and then captain of the top, before he grew too large for the job.
Navigating the masts, rigging, and the watch from aloft required intelligence, agility, and strength. One mislaid line in the middle of a chase, high winds, or a battle could result in the loss of the entire crew.
On the Sapphire, Percy worked on deck, handling the lines and controlling the sails. It wasn’t an ideal job while he was attempting to aid Heather in uncovering the earl’s treachery, but he could certainly help while off duty.
His gaze drifted back toward her, where she stood at the rail and watched her homeland become but a blemish on the horizon. Christ, but he ought to have confessed that he was the man she’d—
But he hadn’t the faintest notion of how to tell her.
He’d thought about it for most of the morning while completing menial tasks, but he couldn’t devise a single method of telling her that wouldn’t see him slapped or spurned.
The woman deserved to know, blast it. He detested the thought, however, that she might believe he’d deliberately sought her out to relieve her of her maidenhead.
Indeed, she had to know—particularly if their encounter resulted in her getting with child. A shiver raced down his spine. The thought of becoming a father was terrifying, but he would stand by his morals. Whether or not she was pregnant, Heather would have him by her side.
The orange glow of the sun gently faded into dusk, forcing Heather to squint at the pages of her book.
She’d been able to bring only a select few volumes on the journey, and this was one of her favourite books on horticulture.
Leaning closer to the page, she ignored the ache in her back and the numbness of her bottom as she sat upon the hard planks of the quarterdeck.
A shadow approached, blocking her view of the book and looming over her.
“The evening meal’s been served, miss,” Berta said softly. “The earl requests your presence in the wardroom.”
Heather’s lips firmed into a grim line. “Thank you, Berta.”
The maid dipped in a curtsey and departed, hurrying down the companionway leading to the gun deck.
Heather sighed, wisps of her hair catching in the warm wind and tickling her cheeks. The wind had, indeed, been a relief from the heat of the sun, though she imagined that it would be no protection against her tendency to freckle.
Despite her optimistic intentions, she hadn’t the opportunity to search her fiancé’s belongings that afternoon. The man had kept close to his quarters, apparently barking orders at his valet and footmen.
With a subtle stretch, Heather rose to her feet.
The frigate rocked, and she caught her footing, tucked her book beneath one arm, and descended both companionways leading to the mess deck.
The scent of citrus and beef hit her first, and her mouth watered.
Then she smelled the freshly baked rolls, and her stomach rumbled with interest.
Hastening her steps, she tossed the book on her hanging bed and made her way into the wardroom.
There, a long dining table covered with gleaming plates, silverware, and two candelabras was surrounded by men in blue, cream, and gold naval uniforms. That was, of course, with the exception of the Earl of Shite, who still wore his green suit of clothes with a cream waistcoat and silver trim.
“You’re late,” the earl announced, his yellowed teeth showing behind a curled lip.
“My apologies,” she mumbled, curtseying.
She eyed the candelabras dubiously, then sat in the remaining vacant seat at the earl’s side.
He huffed his disapproval, giving her a sideways glare.
Just you wait, oh Earl of Shite, her inner voice whispered.
I shall be victorious in the end. She smiled tentatively at the men around the table and picked up a roll.
The other men nodded politely in turn before breaking into small discussions among themselves. The low hum of voices and the gentle clink of cutlery filled the room.
“You don’t need that,” the earl muttered sideways lifting his brow at her roll.
“I’m hungry,” she murmured back.
His gaze narrowed on her. “You’re mine now, Calluna, and you shall do precisely what I say. You are permitted one piece of meat and a glass of Madeira.”
Indignation flared in her chest. “You’ll have me starve, sir?”
“Indeed not,” he replied with a jovial smile that failed to reach his cold eyes. “You’ll have a piece of meat.”
“You must at least permit me some citrus, sir. It’s imperative to stave off scurvy.”
He sighed gustily. “One piece, no more.”
Well, this certainly won’t do. Her aunt and uncle had attempted precisely the same. Heather hadn’t accepted their attempt at control and manipulation then, and she wouldn’t accept it from the earl now.
With light fingers, she palmed her roll and hid it within the folds of her skirts.
“I saw you speaking rather intimately with a crewmate earlier,” the earl growled in her ear a moment later. “You seemed quite familiar with the man. Who is he?”
Gooseflesh spread over Heather’s scalp and down her back, and she suppressed the shiver that threatened. The earl was far too observant—that boded ill for her assignment.
“I don’t know his name,” she lied dismissively. “I asked him where I might stand to better view our departure while also ensuring that I did not disturb the crew’s productivity.”
His blue eyes glinted, and his hand slid beneath the table to palm her thigh.
Heather stiffened at the contact, alarm spreading in her chest. He squeezed.
Hard. For a heartbeat, she sat in immobile shock at the man’s bold aggression, fury riding her.
Percy had taught her at least twelve ways in which to incapacitate this bastard, but she was meant to be intimidated by his power and fearful of the punishment he might bring down on her, her family, and her friends.
She gave a faint wince—for the man would expect her not only to show her pain, but to be cowed by his show of dominance.
“I’ll not be made a cuckold, Calluna,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Neither here aboard the ship, nor during our life in the Americas.”
“O-of course, your lordship.” Beautiful performance, Heather.
A genuine smile pulled at his lips, and his gaze shone with satisfaction as he sat back and bit into a roll.
Bastard.
She cut into a piece of meat and forked it into her mouth, taking no notice of its flavour or the texture, her mind entirely occupied with how she might carry out her search for the earl’s secretive documents.
Heavy footfalls reverberated overhead as Heather waited silently in her gloomy cabin. Faint light shone in through the upper portion of her door, which was comprised merely of narrow wood slats—decidedly inappropriate, for it afforded her almost no privacy.
She listened carefully for the earl’s loud, inebriated blustering as he ascended to the quarterdeck. This was her opportunity.
Anticipation driving her, she padded the two steps to her door and inched it open, peering through to see if the way was clear of the earl’s men. Several sailors were eating a late meal in the “mess,” while numerous others had retreated to their hammocks. No one paid her any mind.
A jolt of nerves raced through her middle. Percy had said that he would be on either the gun deck or the quarterdeck making casual conversation with one or more of the earl’s staff. This was most decidedly her time.
With quick strides, Heather slipped from her cabin and into the empty wardroom.
The earl’s cabin was said to be at the far end of her row.
She peered between the wood slats to be certain before sneaking inside.
The room was dimly lit—precisely as hers had been—but the light coming in between the slats on the door provided just enough for her purpose.
The space was bigger, both in width and length, but it was largely the same as hers.
Move quickly.
Her pulse sped, and her lips quirked with a grin as she commenced her search. She began with the chest of drawers on her left. Atop it was a glass of water, a comb, mirror, and unlit candle, which she ignored, going instead directly for the top drawer.
The earl’s valet had done a fine job organizing the earl’s things.
Fine enough that it was directly evident that nothing was hidden in the drawer.
Nor the next. Nor the last. In an attempt at thoroughness, she inspected the bottom and underside of each drawer, in the event that there was a false bottom where one might hide documents.
Nothing. Blast.
The chest of drawers was bolted both to the floor and the wall—no doubt to keep the occupant safe in inclement weather—so there was no way in which someone might hide something there.
A thump from overhead made her pulse skip, and she stilled to listen for any sign of the earl’s return. There was no pugnacious shouting forthcoming, so she lowered to her knees and bent to inspect beneath the bed.
It was darker there, but she could discern the outlines of a chamber pot and two pairs of shoes.
No lockbox or hidden paperwork. Careful to not disturb the turned-down bedclothes, Heather reached her arms beneath the curved mattress, stretching and feeling for any indication of something hidden. Nothing. Again.
Frustration and desperation flooded her. Where would the Earl of Shite keep damning documents? She’d thought he might keep them close… She stood to examine the coats, waistcoats, and shirts hanging on the right side of the small space. There were a few pound notes, but naught else.
A steady tread entered the wardroom, and Heather froze. Is it the earl’s valet? Her pulse drummed against her ribs, and she silently cursed the rush in her ears.
Tap-tap. “Heather?” Percy whispered.
Her breath left her in a whoosh, and she reached for the door. She pushed it open to reveal Percy, his hair tousled and cheeks flushed from the wind. Blimey. Her stomach gave an entirely different sort of wobble, and warmth flooded her abdomen decidedly against her wishes.
“Percy,” she returned breathlessly. “How did you fare?”
His gaze scanned her features as he shook his head. “Nothing. You?”
She scrunched her nose and stepped into the wardroom, closing the door behind herself. “Not a single thing, blast it.”
They strode together through the room and back toward the mess. Despite the impropriety, the urge to touch him—even in passing—was too much to be borne. Focus.
“Surely the man didn’t leave such documentation behind,” she whispered incredulously.
Percy shook his head once more. “If he did, then he’s no intention of returning to England. I daresay we’re just looking in the wrong place.”
“More reconnaissance?” she asked.
“More reconnaissance.”