Chapter 11 #2
“On the contrary.” Hawke hadn’t taken his gaze from her, and it was becoming disconcerting. “I believe if there is one woman capable of usurping the king, it is you, my lady.”
Both Beattie and Murray laughed good-naturedly.
Annabelle shifted, looking away. When had Hawke’s intent become so difficult to read?
Or perhaps it was not him at all, but she who had changed.
Last night, she’d seen a different side of him, and now she was questioning her perceptions.
It was so much easier when she’d just ignored the man.
She huffed, taking the cloth from Beattie.
Holding the corner in her fingertips, she dropped it into the rubbish bin with the wood scraps.
“Right ye are, Captain,” Beattie was saying. He was still chuckling over Hawke’s inane words. “Bold as brass is our Belle.” He gave her a proud smile.
Annabelle returned it but could not regain her previous cheer.
“Go on, then,” Murray said, prodding her arm. “Tell th’ captain aboot ’Er Majesty’s parade.”
Beattie’s smile widened into a grin. “Aye, now there’s a story I’ll never tire of.”
The men turned to her expectantly.
She avoided Hawke’s eyes. The last thing Annabelle wished to do was share more personal details of her life with this man, especially after being so vulnerable the night before. But she also did not wish to hurt her friends’ feelings, so she resigned herself to telling the tale.
“It was, as Murray said, during Queen Mary’s birthday parade. I was seven years old, then, standing on the street in front of our home with my mother, and had no concept of treason or disloyalty to the monarchy—”
“Tell ’im what ye did,” Beattie interrupted. He leaned forward, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Annabelle continued. “The queen’s carriage came into sight, and everyone cheered—”
“But nae our Belle,” Murray said. He leaned forward as well. “What did ye call out, lass?”
The two Scotsmen watched her like a pair of boys looking through a confectioner’s window.
Annabelle gave a reluctant smile, knowing they would pester her until she said it. She raised her fist. “Audentior ibo! Restore the Stuart king!”
The two men shouted the words along with her and then erupted into laughter.
“Can ye believe it, Captain?” Murray said, holding his belly as he caught his breath.
“Our own wee Jacobite rebel,” Beattie said fondly.
Hawke was watching Annabelle, as if waiting for her reaction. His expression was unreadable.
“As you see, these two have had quite an influence on me.” She shrugged, raising her brows and giving a blank smile to hide her embarrassment. In truth, the memory wasn’t a fond one.
The other crewmembers were coming to the galley for their meal, and Annabelle took advantage of the interruption to excuse herself, wishing to be alone with her thoughts. She climbed the stairs to the nearly deserted main deck and crossed it to lean against the rail beside Calypso.
Even though neither the queen nor any of her entourage had heard Annabelle’s words, her mother had been furious.
The following days had been overwhelming for a seven-year-old.
Not only because Annabelle had never been punished before, but for the first time, she came to understand her life existed in two parts—and the two could not mix.
When she was in London, she could not speak of Calypso’s Quest or her crewmates or their adventures, not to her mother, not to anyone.
It was as if they belonged to a separate world and must remain there in order to keep her safe.
She’d realized the same when she was at sea, keeping eti-quette training and music lessons to herself, not speaking about garden parties or country houses.
Not because her shipmates wouldn’t take an interest in her life as Lady Annabelle Bradford, but because in learning of their early lives, she’d come to find her own was so unlike theirs as to be completely unrelatable.
And then, Annabelle found that not only did she belong to two different worlds, she’d become two different people.
Lady Annabelle Bradford, darling of London Society.
And Belle, goddaughter of Captain Reid Courtney.
But neither was a whole. And it was difficult to feel whole when there was no one with whom she could be her complete self.
She sighed, looking up at the figurehead and feeling a kinship with the goddess. Calypso had been trapped as well, sentenced to live out her days on an island alone.
“Why can women not choose our own futures?” she said aloud.
“That is a question I cannot answer.” Hawke’s voice came from behind her.
She hadn’t heard him approach and spun to face him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, flustered.
He smirked, looking as if he’d make a joke, but the expression faded, and he held out a bowl instead. “You left without eating.”
Annabelle took the bowl, accepting the spoon he brought with it.
“And you mustn’t forget . . .” Hawke held up a bit of hardtack. “What is a meal without a ship’s biscuit?”
Annabelle leaned back against the rail. She stuck the biscuit into the beans to soften and put a bit of turnip in her mouth.
Instead of leaving, Hawke leaned against the rail as well. Since they were in the point of the prow, he faced her at an angle, arms crossed.
Annabelle took a bite of bean-soaked biscuit. She glanced up. “Do you intend to watch me eat?”
“Why is it, after all these weeks, this is the first time I’ve heard you sing?”
She hadn’t expected the question and did not know how to answer. “I have not felt like singing.” She took another bite, still feeling his eyes upon her.
“What future would you choose for yourself, Lady Annabelle?”
There was no sign of mocking in his gaze or tone, only interest.
She watched her spoon as she stirred it through the bowl. “A future where I did not have to lose any portion of myself. Where I could be all of me.” The answer sounded foolish when she said it aloud.
She looked up, wondering at his response, and a gust of wind came off the sea, blowing her hair into her face.
With her hands full, Annabelle could only toss her head, but the wind continued to push her hair directly across her eyes.
Hawke slid his fingertips across her brow and down her cheek, capturing the wayward strands and pushing them back over her shoulder.
His eyes held hers, his expression contemplative, his fingers caught in her curls.
Another gust pulled her hair away. Hawke’s gaze darted from her face to the tip of her folded ear.
Annabelle twisted away, dropping the spoon as she pulled her scarf back into place. The feeling of shame when people noticed her disfigurement was nearly painful. It made her want to shrink and disappear. “Excuse me.” She spoke without looking at him and started toward the stairs.
Hawke caught her arm before she could escape. He handed her the spoon. “A world without Lady Annabelle Bradford in her entirety would be a dismal one indeed.”
Annabelle squinted, studying his expression. She opened her mouth but couldn’t come up with a reply, and so she pulled away her arm and left.
And even though the man was utterly infuriating, his manners confusing, and his presumptuousness entirely out of line, her heart grew pleasantly warm at his words.