Jonesy cleared his throat.
Fix on their position. Right. “Be there in a jiff.”
Jonesy nodded, lit the lantern in the gimbal beside the desk, and slid the door shut on his way out. Nick threw off the blanket and slipped into his canvas shoes, and set about digging in the wardrobe for a heavy woolen waistcoat to put on over his cotton shirt until he got his greatcoat. Miss Chase sat at the table, examining her fingertips.
“Are you feeling quite the thing, Miss Chase?” Seemed silly to keep to the formalities after snuggling together, but she was a teacher from Madame Zavrina’s Academy for Young Ladies.
“I am much recovered, Captain, thank you.” She briefly looked into his eyes, then let her gaze drift down his chest. He halted in buttoning up his waistcoat to let her look her fill at where she’d recently rested her head, trying not to let his chest swell with pride. Her blush deepened and she quickly went back to examining her nails.
He stifled his snort of laughter as he left the cabin.
His snort turned to a grunt of pain as he stepped on something small at the base of the ladder, irregular and sharp-edged enough to feel through the soft leather sole of his shoe. He felt around in the inky darkness until his fingers brushed a cold piece of metal. He took it up to examine in the light of the lantern at the maphouse.
A broken carriage bolt.
The reason the gun fell off its carriage when it crashed over the side and plunged to the bottom of the Channel.
The reason Miss Chase was alive and mortified in his cabin instead of cold and dead in Davy Jones’s locker.
Nick wrapped his fist around the jagged bit of metal until it warmed. His new good luck charm.
He tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat, picked up the sextant, and searched for a break in the clouds.
Chapter 6
Harriet waited until her heart calmed a bit after Sheffield left, then began to tidy herself. Her hair was snarled, her gown wrinkled, and she’d stared at his chest after falling asleep on him. If Sheffield didn’t think her fast before, surely he did now. Though, she allowed, these were quite unusual circumstances. Her heart raced again at the memory of her terrifying slide over the side of the ship, the wooden carriage pulling her down, the certainty she was about to drown in the cold, dark depths of the sea.
When Sheffield suddenly appeared before her in the water, she’d first thought him a hallucination. The edges of her vision had begun to darken as she ran out of air. He’d sliced off her gown with his knife before she had a chance to realize what he was about. So grateful to be rid of the weight and the chance at rescue, she hadn’t spared a thought for her nakedness or brazen actions until after she’d come below deck.
Memories flooded back, faster and faster. After her rope broke, she’d wrapped her body around his and held on with all her might because her life depended on it. A tiny part of her, as though observing the proceedings from a distance, had registered his hard chest and flat abdomen, warm male body, and muscles that flexed with each powerful stroke as he swam to the surface.
Did Percy, her intended, have muscles like that? She’d never given much thought to his body before, only noted that Madame Zavrina would be pleased with his proper behavior and sartorial choices when he’d attended the village assemblies. He must have muscles, since his family owned an enormous farm and farming required a great deal of effort in order to be fruitful. Though she could never remember him being dirty, and certainly he’d never labored in the fields. He’d always been the epitome of a well-turned-out gentleman, even when riding his gelding on the road bordering his fields.
Percy had once kissed her. On her gloved hand. Harriet had just kissed Sheffield. On his cheek! She put her fingers to her lips and thought she could almost feel the imprint of his rough whisker stubble. What would his lips feel like? Smooth? Soft and welcoming? Hard and unyielding?
Harriet shook her head. Enough nonsense. She was going to marry Percy. It was beyond improper to even think about kissing Sheffield, which she had no intention of ever doing again. The peck on his cheek had just been a symptom of excessive exhilaration, a celebration of being alive. Kissing Sheffield was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Like almost drowning. Something never to be repeated.
The thought unexpectedly dampened her spirits. Before she could ponder why, the bell rang for the second dogwatch. She quickly rallied, tucked the last pin in her neatly coiled hair, and went to the galley in search of food and company.
As she entered the common area, the assembled men suddenly stood. Some whistled or tugged their forelock, some clapped their hands, and all were smiling at her. Harriet glanced behind her to see the cause for the commotion. No one else was there.
“Here, miss, take my seat,” Jack said, vacating a place at the table for her. Luigi quickly set down a full bowl of stew for her and a steaming mug of tea.
Madame Zavrina had often taught that it was improper for a lady to sit in a chair which was still warm from a man having been sitting in it. Deprived of Sheffield’s warm embrace under the blanket, Harriet was feeling a bit chilled again. She took the offered seat on the bench, still bewildered by the men’s reaction to her presence. She sipped her tea—heavily laced with rum—and noted the other men were eating cold beans and hardtack, their tankards filled with ale. “Thank you,” she belatedly remembered to say.
Jack nodded, took what would have been her less-comfortable perch on a cask, and the men resumed eating.
“That was a right brave thing you did this afternoon, miss,” one sailor said after a bit.
“Crazy, if’n you ask me,” said another.
“What was it like, under the water, ‘olding on for yer life?”
Jack she recognized, but not the first two. The sailors began to lob questions and comments at her, faster than she could form answers.
“Pipe down!” The men immediately hushed at Jonesy’s order. “How are your hands, Miss Chase?” he said. “The sawbones has some liniment we could fetch for you. Laudanum, too, if you need it.”
“I, ah, thank you, no, that won’t be necessary.” She glanced at her hands. She hadn’t noticed the redness on her palms and fingers earlier, or how tender they felt while holding her mug or spoon. Rope burn. Her shoulder ached too, where she’d heaved up on the cannon and from Jack pulling on her arm, trying to keep her from going over the edge. And she’d sat on the bench gingerly, thanks to her rump being sore from falling so hard on the slippery deck. “Considering the alternative, I’m feeling fit as a fiddle.”
