Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Becalmed.
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask two days later.
I am sitting on the settee in Captain Sharpe’s cabin, my and Jeffrey Reuter’s ledgers spread out across the low coffee table.
It’s especially hot today. I’ve dressed down to a pair of knee-length olive breeches, a light shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a brown-and-gold waistcoat, which I have entirely unbuttoned and allowed to hang open.
It’s so hot that I have removed my stockings and shoes and am seriously contemplating removing the waistcoat as well, which is superfluous if it’s not properly done up.
Captain Sharpe and Mr. Tydes both turn from the captain’s desk to face me. Mr. Tydes grimaces, but Captain Sharpe looks resigned. “We’ve lost the wind.”
I blink at their expressions, then adjust my body so I might face them without twisting my spine. I lean against the back of the settee and squint at them. “Is someone… looking for it?” I ask, realizing only as the words leave my mouth how daft I sound.
Captain Sharpe’s mouth falls open, and he takes in a breath as if he might answer me… but then he squints back at me and closes his mouth once more. Now we’re both confused.
“We’re stuck in place until the wind picks up again,” Mr. Tydes explains, all but rolling his eyes at us both.
“No wonder it’s so hot,” I grumble.
“It’s only going to get hotter,” Mr. Tydes offers.
What a cheering thought.
“Well, how long do we have to wait?”
“I’m not a mystical being, Kit. I don’t control the wind.”
My brows shoot up and I sit a little straighter. Mr. Tydes has never been quite this bitchy to me—at least, not since the day he tricked me into boarding this ship. “Ah.”
Sharpe sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’re a day, perhaps two, away from Le Cap. I’m not going to worry yet; it’s only been a few hours.”
“The men are getting antsy,” Mr. Tydes says with a frown.
I’m beginning to realize that this is more serious than I first thought. Mr. Tydes appears genuinely concerned, and though Sharpe says he isn’t worried, there are creases between his brows as he stares down at his desk over steepled fingers.
“Tell the men—”
“All due respect, Reggie,” Mr. Tydes says. “The men are spooked after Port Royal. They’re talking about the curse. I think you should say a few words.”
Reggie? I’ve never heard anyone use Captain Sharpe’s Christian name before.
In fact, I’m not sure it even occurred to me that he had one until this very moment.
I’ve shared a bed with this man—albeit purely platonically—and I had no idea his given name was Reggie.
What is it short for, I wonder? Reginald?
I wrinkle my nose as I consider this. He doesn’t look like a Reginald.
What a stuffy name for a man like Captain Sharpe.
Sharpe sighs and gets to his feet. “Kitten, put the ledgers away.”
“Aye, Captain,” I say, but I don’t move yet. I watch him don his hat and his jacket, despite the heat. He opens the cabin door, glancing back at me once before following Mr. Tydes out on deck.
Once I have the ledgers closed and packed away in the locked drawer, I step out to join them.
The crew is already gathered. I can see Tristan hanging upside down in the rigging, his shirt hanging precariously and revealing part of his belly.
Trevor sits beside him, balanced with his feet and hands wrapped around the ropes on either side of him.
“… to use this time to our advantage,” Captain Sharpe is saying. “We’ve lost the wind in the doldrums before. It’s rarely been more than a day or two before she picks back up. In the meantime, let’s get the sails down one by one for repairs. Get the decks swabbed and tend to the rigging.”
Most of the men are listening to him, but I can see a few whispering among themselves. Their expressions are ones of fear and concern, but nothing seems mutinous.
Yet.
As Captain Sharpe finishes addressing his crew and the men spread out to get to work, I see Renard watching me from across the deck.
I frown at him, and he sends another discomfited grimace my way before we are both distracted by a growing commotion among the men.
I turn to follow the sound and smile at the sight of them tossing water from the buckets, intentionally splashing one another.
It reminds me of my early years at Eton, when my classmates and I would run wild in the rain on hot summer days, wrestling in the mud.
Trevor drops himself from the rigging and reaches for a bucket, but he’s soaked a moment later.
I burst out laughing. Mere moments ago it felt as if tensions on the ship were rising, and now there is a carefree lightness among the men as they cool off with seawater and playfully shove one another around.
I’m still chuckling when I turn back to Renard, only to find him gone. I spin around, but he’s nowhere in sight.
“Mr. Kit!” Tristan calls to me—and, distracted as I am, I can do nothing to defend myself or my silks as a bucketful of icy seawater comes crashing down over my head, soaking me through to a chorus of raucous laughter.
In the evening, after I’ve let the men have their fun ruining my clothes by holding my arms behind my back as they toss water over me, I am exhausted and chilly but in a pleasant mood.
It helps that Cook has arranged something unexpected for dinner.
Though the delicious aroma in the galley is enough to get the twins nudging me with excitement, I am still delightfully surprised when he hands me a plate of chicken dripping in a familiar golden sauce and paired with a generous chunk of bread.
I lift my gaze to his, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“Be careful,” I say with a widening smile. “I may just fall in love with you if you continue in this way.”
“Get out of my kitchen, ya wee shit,” he says—but there is a laugh behind his words, and I cannot help but chuckle myself as I hurry out of the galley with the twins close on my heels.
As we reemerge on deck with our plates, I am greeted by more than one nod of approval from the men around me.
Despite my clothes still being soaked and clinging to my skin, warmth blooms in my chest as I settle on the stairs by Captain Sharpe’s cabin with Tristan and Trevor and start in on my dinner.
I am quite sure nothing can ruin this moment for me. I sit with the crew, enjoying the brilliant colors of sunset as we eat our meal and watch the skies for any hint of wind. We find none, but the mood continues to be one of fairly good cheer.
After, when the sun has finally disappeared behind the horizon and the skies begin to darken, I retire to Captain Sharpe’s cabin. I shiver as I peel off my still-soaked shirt and cross the room to drape it over a gun mounted on the wall.
“Kitten,” Sharpe grumbles from where he sits on the settee. I glance over my shoulder. He stands, marches over, and plucks my shirt from where it hangs. “My guns are not a drying rack for your clothes.”
He drapes the shirt over a crate on the floor instead and inspects me. He doesn’t move, and I am all too aware of the assessing look in his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing, I…” He lifts his gaze to meet mine and raises his brows. “You’ve filled out a little.”
“I beg your—”
Before I can finish, he reaches out to brush the backs of his knuckles along my upper arm.
I stop short and shiver, then let myself look at where he’s touched me.
I understand now that he isn’t suggesting I’ve eaten more than my fill, but rather that my shoulders and arms have gone from the slim form of a genteel youth to the broader form of an athlete.
I’m nowhere near as fit as the other men on board—even Tristan and Trevor have stronger arms and shoulders than I—but I’m pleased all the same.
“Ah… I have noticed my jackets are a little less comfortable than they were when I first boarded,” I say. “I had chalked it up to the heat and humidity.”
Sharpe chuckles, a low rumble that sends another chill coursing through me. “You’ll have to laze about more and be less helpful if you want to fit into them again,” he says, amused.
“Or I could have them tailored out,” I say, chuckling.
“Mmm, clever lad,” Sharpe murmurs, bumping my chin with his knuckle before he steps past me to go back to the settee.
I’m still smiling as I make my way to my trunk to find a shirt to sleep in.
I pull it on, then tug off my soaked breeches and dig about for a new pair.
I slide into a navy-blue pair with light blue trim, leaving my feet bare and my shirt untucked as I carry the rest of my sodden clothes to the crate with my shirt and drape them as well.
“I’m done for the night,” I hear Sharpe sigh from behind me. I turn to watch him roll up the map he was studying. He carries it to his desk and leaves it there beside his spyglass, before making his way slowly across the cabin. “Let’s go to bed, Kitten.”
I shiver again as I watch him, his movements slow and lazy—like a man without a care in the world.
I glance at the welcoming mattress and pillows, and I can’t be sure whether he’s inviting me to bed with him or merely suggesting that we sleep.
The night before I fell asleep on the settee while he was still out on deck.
He lets his gaze fall on me after tugging off his boots, and neither of us says a word as he straightens and works off his belt, untying the worn leather and lowering it, and the weapons attached, to the floor.
His gaze is intent on mine as he waits for my answer.
I’m not sure why I hesitate; a few weeks ago I would have leapt at the opportunity to climb into bed with this man.
But this invitation, this look in his eyes, the way his body has taken on a relaxed posture, as if he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s waiting for my answer… all of it is suddenly too much.
My body decides for me. I leave my wet clothes where they are and approach the bed, trying not to be too obvious that my breath is now coming in shaky, panting gasps.
This is daft. The way I am like a giddy schoolboy about to be kissed for the first time is daft.
We don’t break eye contact, even as he takes my elbow and helps me up into the bed, his lips curling into a dangerous little half smile.
He pulls his shirt over his head by the back of his collar in one smooth motion, and all at once I cannot breathe.
I take in the sight of him in the dim candlelight, and it’s an effort to remember to inhale.
He could be carved from marble. Every scar and blemish is beautiful.
I want to reach out and touch him, but I can’t bring myself to.
I do let my gaze rake over the tattoo that winds up his right arm.
Two thick lines wrap around his forearm, a series of zigzags, swallows, and symbols I can’t quite decipher in the dim light, until the intricate lines along his shoulder give way to a large compass entwined with an anchor across the right side of his chest.
The mattress shifts beside me as he joins me in the bed.
The curtains close, whatever dim light the sconces offered is snuffed out, and the markings on his body disappear into shadow.
My heartbeat is deafening in the dark quiet of Captain Sharpe’s bed.
And then his hands are on me, and the world around us falls away.
He pulls me close, spooning me to his chest with one arm around my waist, his hand spread across the side of my stomach. I give myself over to him, resting my head on the pillow and leaning my weight back against his.
I think for a moment we aren’t going to say anything, that we’ll simply lie like this until we fall asleep.
Honestly, that would be fine—but I find myself turning my head to look back at Captain Sharpe, and his eyes on me are heavy, the deep brown of them almost black in the dark.
My breath hitches, and then I am twisting in his arms to face him.
He helps make the movement smooth, so I don’t ruin the moment by elbowing him or getting caught in the bedclothes.
I just stare into his eyes for what seems like an eternity.
And then I realize nothing is going to happen unless I make it happen, so I close the distance between us until his breath is warm on my jaw.
His chest heaves and one warm hand slides up my spine, along the back of my neck, and into the hair at my nape. He doesn’t pull like Renard had; instead his fingers press into the tender spot there, and I gasp. Every inch of my body crackles like fire.
He bumps his nose against mine, and I know without him saying a word that he’s waiting for my permission.
I could cry. Perhaps I do. My whole face is so hot, I’m not sure I could tell either way, but I can’t bring myself to speak, so I just nod and bring my hand up to rest on his neck, under his ear, where I might brush my thumb along the stubble at his jaw.
And then our mouths collide, and I am lost in him.
It isn’t a slow, gentle kiss like the first time I kissed Katherine.
It’s fierce, and intense, and wonderful.
For a moment I imagine this is exactly how it feels to be drawn into the ocean by a siren’s kiss, to be drowned as she steals the breath from your body.
When we finally break away, we are both panting. He presses his jaw to my temple and holds me tight to his body, his fingers massaging that tender spot on the back of my neck in a protective, possessive way. I know in this moment I would give myself to him without hesitation, and without regret.
I release a breathless laugh, or maybe a sob. He hums in agreement as I bury my face in his neck. He shifts against me, and then my whole body shudders as his lips brush my ear and he whispers, in a voice far steadier than should be possible, “Good night, Kitten.”