Chapter 12
12
F ortunately, the weather cooperated over the ensuing days, which gave the crew time to make repairs. They had already passed the two-week mark, and it was likely they’d not quite make the Atlantic crossing within a month, but Gibb was no longer in a hurry. He was keen for the opportunity to help Miss Harcourt repair her damaged tablets.
Also fortunate, though the glass had shattered on three of the tablets she had already translated, the pieces remained reasonably intact. Cookie had given Isabella a flat baking sheet from the galley, which she used to slide under the fragments before flipping them over.
Nonetheless, every evening after dinner, Gibb had visited her chamber, leaving the door ajar, of course. Most of the time Miss Hatch remained as chaperone, sitting on the bed and tending to the crew’s mending (punishment that Gibb assigned after the storm, while Gowan had spent the better part of a week pumping the bilges).
But this evening was unusually warm, and Miss Hatch had asked if she might take a stroll around the upper deck for a time. Gibb allowed it, knowing full well his boatswain would find the lass within the blink of an eye.
They sat side by side at Isabella’s small writing table, each holding a pair of tweezers with their heads bent over the box of fragments. A box of larger pieces was behind it, pushed up against the wall where there was barely enough room for it to fit.
With his tweezers, Gibb joined two fragments that nestled together perfectly. “Look at this—here is the name Hadrain .”
She leaned forward, her soft curls brushing his cheek. “Oh my! That very name ought to enable us to date the tablets. At least now we know this could not have been written before Hadrian’s rule. We absolutely must find the remainder of the text.”
Gibb stretched his neck and scanned the larger pieces. About halfway through, he spotted three words. “I think this is it: in nomine Imperatoris. ” Very carefully, he picked up the name Hadrian and placed it beside the second piece and released a whooshing breath. “Have a look at this. Translated, it reads, ‘in the name of Emperor Hadrian.’”
Isabella examined his work, her knee lightly touching his as she leaned inward. “Have a look at that!” Her leg didn’t shift as she reached for her notebook. “I simply must record this at once.”
Did she actually realize that their legs were touching? And if she did, why had she not shifted away? Very careful not to shift his knee by a hair, Gibb watched her work as she made the notation. By the saints, this woman had the longest neck he’d ever seen. Her skin was incredibly pale, made more so in contrast with her black hair. Without forethought, he traced his finger along the arc.
Miss Harcourt’s quill stilled. In fact, she seemed to freeze in place. “Why did you do that?” she whispered as a splotch of ink dripped onto the paper.
Gibb snapped his hand away. “Forgive me. I shouldna have touched you.”
The quill resumed, and she finished her notation. When she sat back slowly, Isabella’s smoldering gaze met his. The lady’s delicate tongue moistened her lips, making them shimmer in the amber lamplight.
Dear God, she was as tempting as a hot scone slathered with whipped cream and plum conserve.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she asked.
“What?” he asked, trying to sound as if he had no idea to what she was referring.
“It seems you are avoiding my question and are not inclined to tell me why you touched my neck.”
He shifted in his seat and rubbed his chin. Though he’d shaved this morning, he could do with another. “It…ah…happened to be there.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Your neck, was…there.”
She smoothed her lithe fingers around to her nape as if she needed to verify his featherbrained explanation. “Yes, it has been for quite some time. ’Tis attached to my head.”
“Aye. But since you described the attachment in such unadorned and ordinary words, allow me to elaborate.” Damnation, he ought to be struck by the hand of God for saying more, but the woman had absolutely no idea how alluring she was. And it was nigh time someone told her. “Your neck is not only long, it has an alluring arc that reminds me of a woman’s waistline. At the back, your hair frames such loveliness with feminine curls, bringing out the creamy alabaster of your skin, and silken smoothness that could only be possessed by a woman.”
Gibb leaned near enough to blow on the object of his desire, and was rewarded with a pebbling of gooseflesh.
Miss Harcourt drew in a gasp. “I…ah…thought you were here to assist with the translations.”
“You would be correct, madam. I am enjoying solving these puzzles of yours.” He blew on her neck once more. “But I would be lying if I said the tablets were the only things from which I am deriving pleasure.”
She crossed her arms and leaned away from him a tad, given there wasn’t much room to move one way or another. “Oh, please, Captain. I am well aware I am not the type of woman born to adorn ballrooms.”
Unable to help himself, Gibb brushed the pad of his pointer finger over the velvety soft skin on the lobe of her ear. “Are you referring to the empty-headed darlings of the ton ?”
“Mm-hmm,” she whimpered.
Och aye, if Gibb were wagering, he would bet a treasure chest full of guineas that she wanted to kiss him every bit as much as he wanted to devour her. “I must admit, I’m not one to loiter about in ballrooms, or in London, for that matter. But I believe if I were attending a grand ball, the only woman in the entire hall who might—and I stress might —draw my attention is seated beside me now.”
The corners of Miss Harcourt’s lips turned up as she reverted her attention to the tablet they were so painstakingly trying to piece together. “I gather from your inability to admit to having anyone command your attention, you are altogether averse to dancing.”
“Inability to admit?” he asked, coughing out a guffaw. “Me?”
“Yes, it appears so.” Using her tweezers, Isabella lined up a couple of pieces. “Why?”
Gibb gripped the sides of his chair to prevent himself from touching her again. She wasn’t wrong. Even if he found a woman at a ball who made his cock stand at full attention, he wasn’t likely to request an introduction. Gentlewomen of her ilk were off-limits and had been since he came of age.
Miss Harcourt regarded him over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
“I’m a sailor—always at sea. You ken as well as I that fancy balls serve only one purpose.”
“I’m guessing the correct answer to the supposed purpose is not to dance and make merry.”
“Absolutely not—I enjoying dancing as much as the next man. But I firmly believe the only reason women invented balls was to trap men into marriage.”
She tapped the piece she was working with, then gripped the tweezers in her fist, brandishing them under his nose. “Right, so men had nothing to do with this untoward matchmaking ritual?”
“Aye, because if a woman doesna marry, she usually becomes a burden on her family for the rest of her days. Furthermore, if my mother were on the committee that got together and decided balls were a good idea, I would definitely say the women had the upper hand.”
Miss Harcourt laughed—an unfettered laugh, the sound skimming across Gibb’s skin like warm water, or even better, warm cream. “I had the pleasure of spending a little time with your mother before the Prosperity came to ferry me to my doom. She truly is a spitfire.”
“She was a fabulous duchess.”
“Still is.”
“Dowager.”
“Perhaps, but she is still Her Grace, and a spitfire, as I said. I wouldn’t want to cross her, not ever.”
Gibb released his grip on his chair and drummed his fingers. At least the conversation had reverted to something that definitely had a deflating effect on his cock. He loved his mother dearly but had never and would never allow her to poke her nose into his pursuit of women. However, as he watched Miss Harcourt return to her work, something she had said needled at the back of his mind. “Am I indeed ferrying you to your doom?”
Color flooded her cheeks as she placed two more pieces in her string of words. “How can I know? My father has made a transaction for my hand as a man might conduct when selling a piece of furniture. I have no idea what I will face when I step off this ship. ‘Doom’ seems as good a word as any other.”
Gibb moved to smooth his hand over her shoulder, but Miss Harcourt’s back shot straight. “I cannot believe this.” She tapped the writing table. “Never have I been able to piece a string of words together so quickly.”
After shoving his errant hand into his doublet and reading the Latin, Gibb translated:
“ At one time I was a proud centurion under General Quintus Pompieus Lusius. But when I led my legion into Aquitania in the name of Emperor Hadrian, I was betrayed… ”
“Och, this is far too great a find to ignore,” said the captain as he studied the fragments. “Now we absolutely must find the rest of the entry afore we turn in for the night.”
Isabella’s heart soared. She adored having Gibb MacGalloway work beside her. He was quick-witted and brilliant. Of course, he was incredibly beautiful, masculine, alluring, and too dangerous for her own good. And now that Maribel had stepped out for a walk, he had become nearly impossible to resist.
Before this night, they had both behaved with remarkable propriety. In all honesty, proper conduct wasn’t unusual where Isabella was concerned, but she continuously had to remind herself that before they were introduced, he’d proven himself to be a womanizer. And though she had been isolated in West Sussex throughout most of her lifetime, she did read the news reports about the mischief in which unwed lords embroiled themselves. It was awfully common for young men to be rakehells before they married. In truth, many chaps continued such behavior after they had taken their vows.
But there was far more to this man than she’d ever dreamed, exemplified by his care for the cabin boy. “Duncan told me about his father.”
“Oh?” A deep crease formed between the captain’s sun-kissed eyebrows. “He was a good man.”
“It seems his son is following in his footsteps.”
He took a fragment and placed it beside another in front of him. “Aye, the lad shows a great deal of promise. If only I could interest him in reading more.”
“He seems to know his letters. At least, he did a fine job of alphabetizing your books.”
“He kens them, he just doesna want to read.” The captain again studied the crate of fragments. “He’d rather be up top scrubbing the decks. It makes no sense at all.”
Isabella set her tweezers aside, parallel to the crate as she always did. “Have you given the lad story books?”
“Not certain. I’ve left that bit up to Thane. After all, he was a schoolteacher.”
“Hmm. I’m wondering if Duncan might be enthralled by an adventure book. Perhaps something like Robinson Crusoe .”
“That might be an idea.”
She sat a little taller. Perhaps he would act on her suggestion. “I wager he’ll like it.”
The captain glanced up from his work, his hawkish eyes homing in on her. “Would you care to place a wager, miss?”
Ignoring the fluttering of her heart, Isabella met his stare. “As I recall, the last time I made a wager with you, it nearly led to my ruination.”
His gaze meandered to her lips. “Then never ye mind. I agree with you anyway. Duncan ought to enjoy Crusoe . Mayhap I’ll be able to find a copy the next time we step ashore.”
Before she did something entirely daft, like lean in and steal a kiss, she picked up her tweezers and reverted her attention to the partially translated tablet. “You are aware that the boy looks up to you, are you not?”
“I dunna ken about that. Aboard ship he has no choice but to look up to me.”
“I disagree. His affection for you goes much deeper. And you are quite fond of Duncan as well.”
“Wheesht. Ye dunna ken what ye are on about.”
Isabella shook her tweezers beneath his nose. “I have two eyes.”
“Enough.” Gibb regarded her, white lines forming around his lips. “His da died on account of me.”
Her bravado deflated. “Duncan said his father lost his life in the midst of battle. Is that not correct?”
The captain hesitated for a moment, his fists clenching. “Aye, but I couldna save him. I turned my back for a mere second, stopped one of Napoleon’s louts from running the captain through, and when I turned back, Farley Lamont was down, his life’s blood spreading a sea of red across the deck.”
“But it wasn’t?—”
“Dunna say it. Dunna even think for one minute that I wasna at fault. The man not only had a son to care for, the poor bastard had just lost his wife. Damnation, I swore an oath to protect him.” The captain pushed to his feet and tossed the tweezers on the table. “I think we’ve done enough for the night.”
Isabella jolted as he marched away and slammed the door. Blinking back tears, she wiped her eyes. No wonder Captain MacGalloway had trouble sleeping. He carried the guilt of Duncan’s father’s death around his neck as if it were an anvil.
From her own father’s experience, she was well aware that war had a hellacious effect on men. In their dreams they relived the horrors they’d faced--yet without resolve.
She sat for a while, staring at the wall. The fact that Gibb had walked out was for the best. If he’d stayed, she might have done something completely ridiculous, like ask him to kiss her again. Heaven knew, the thought had crossed her mind dozens of times. How did a woman who was en route to meet her future husband ask the ship’s captain to kiss her?
Such a thing simply was not done. No matter how many different scenarios she played out in her mind, Isabella hadn’t come up with anything suitable. No request for a kiss would sound innocent or unintentional or even spontaneous. She would know it wasn’t spontaneous, and that would make her look like a harlot.
And I am no harlot.
Perhaps his exhibition of anger was a warning to keep her distance. But the man was so confounding. Every time she hit a nerve with Gibb, he groused at her. She shouldn’t stand for it. He needed to know that he might be captain of this ship, but he was not lord and master over her.
She glanced over to the fragments that Captain MacGalloway had assembled and translated them:
“Good Lord,” she mused, her heartbeat thudding in her chest. “His name is Marcus Antonius.”
She arranged the lines in front of the sentence, putting the few that she’d found at the end. Until dawn, Isabella worked tirelessly on the tablet until the entire piece was complete and she translated the text in her journal:
This is the journal of Marcus Antonius, husband to Flavia, father to Titus. At one time I was a proud centurion under General Quintus Pompieus Lusius. But when I led my legion into Aquitania in the name of Emperor Hadrian, I was betrayed by a younger officer intent upon ruining me and taking my place. Everything I fought for has been stripped from me, and I am wallowing in the filth of this ludus.
Isabella reflected back to the excavation of the villa. At least the antiquarian had said it was a villa, but if it was a ludus , it was far more. And though Marcus Antonius might be a slave, he had been put into service as a gladiator, which most likely meant there was an arena nearby.