Madame Zavrina would have fainted dead away. Harriet’s chest puffed with pride.
And her nights … Nights were spent in the cabin, with Sheffield only a few feet away. A solid presence, almost magnetic, drawing her toward him. Outwardly he maintained a decorous appearance, the perfect gentleman. But the inner pirate wrapped his arms around her while showing her how to view through the sextant rather than just handing her the instrument. His broad shoulder brushed hers as they marked their progress on the chart and logbook in his cabin, his warm breath ruffling the loose hairs at her nape.
Of course there was a great deal of physical contact between them. Completely innocuous. To be expected, really, in such close confines as the ship.
She chose not to contemplate the fact that the crew barely made even the most incidental contact with her, and apologized profusely if they accidentally bumped her in the companionway or galley. And none of them made goose bumps rise on her flesh, or her breath come faster.
Only Sheffield.
Fifteen days after they left Gravesend and headed into the Channel, Winston on bow watch yelled, “Land ho!”
Harriet froze. She was on the quarterdeck taking a turn at the tiller, Jack at her side since it was his duty this watch, and Sheffield and Bos’n just steps away at the maphouse. She’d known, intellectually, that they were getting close to Corunna by checking the chart several times each day with Sheffield after they’d taken a heading. But after so many days with nothing but endless sea and sky to view, it still came as a shock.
By this time tomorrow, she might have her treasure in hand.
Chapter 9
The coastline began to take shape. The rugged cliffs of Spain rose up from the ocean, a formidable wall that had repelled invaders for centuries. Rocky outcroppings gave way to sheltered coves here and there. Seagulls wheeled overhead in greater numbers with raucous cries. Structures became discernible on the shore and on the hills above the bay of Corunna, and masts of other vessels in port poked the sky, their canvas furled.
It seemed to take forever—tacking back and forth, their forward momentum slowing as more and more sails were furled—but at last the Wind Dancer neared her slip on the quay. Jack grabbed a line and nimbly swung down to the dock, caught the line Flynn tossed from the bow, and made it secure on the bollard. They hurried to the stern and repeated the exercise, and the Wind Dancer was docked.
Harriet was in Spain.
Well, almost. Her feet were still on the deck. Her bare feet. Her bare shins were visible below her dungarees.
Her heart pounded. How foolish of her not to have thought of how many people there would be at the docks, and changed into proper attire while the ship tacked. Already people were coming toward them. Vendors offering to revictual the ship, women in low-cut gowns to welcome the sailors who’d been at sea for who-knew-how-long, and an officious-looking gent in frothy neckcloth and lacy cuffs carrying a leather folder—probably a customs official. And she was dressed in dungarees and homespun cotton. She’d saved enough hairpins so she could properly dress her hair. Wouldn’t take long to brush out the braid and pin it up in a style of which Madam Zavrina would approve.
Sheffield was too busy to button up her dress, even if she had the nerve to ask him. Not the nerve to request his assistance, but to handle her own reaction to him touching her bare skin.
She could stay aboard and let Sheffield go collect their treasure.
The very idea made her recoil.
She bit her bottom lip. She hated being indecisive.
Flynn and Jack were setting the gangboard in place. The rest of the crew hurried to and fro with their various tasks, men from both watches moving in organized chaos, and she tried to stay out of their way.
Jonesy stopped beside her and bent to speak in her ear. “You want to be Miss Chase, or Harry?”
Her mouth fell open in surprise. What?
“Our passenger, Miss Chase, or Harry, the cabin boy. Up to you. But you have to decide right quick.”
Young, unchaperoned Miss Chase would be scandalous. Harry could go wherever the rest of the crew went. This must have been how Charlotte became Charlie. “Should Harry wear shoes, or go barefoot like the other tars?”
Jonesy pointed at the rutted, bumpy wreck of a cobblestone road leading away from the docks, up the hill into the city proper. “Doubt that would feel comfortable to walk on barefoot.”
Harriet nodded and dashed below decks. Minutes later she was back up top, carefully placed smudges of ash from the brazier darkening her cheeks and chin to disguise her lack of beard and conceal her porcelain complexion, a length of cotton wrapped around her plait just like Jonesy, and wearing scuffed leather shoes with a bit of cotton wadding in the toes so they’d stay on. Her blue plaid waistcoat was buttoned all the way up, her shirt laced up to the collar and tied.
Jonesy gave her a quick, impersonal head-to-toe perusal, and a nod of approval. “The cabin boy would know the cap’n is about to need the leather folder that’s in the bottom left drawer of his desk.”
She tugged her forelock and couldn’t help a big grin as she said, “Aye,” then hurried to collect the folder.
At the railing, Nick had been conversing in Spanish with the customs agent, who still stood on the dock. Both men glanced over as she approached with the folder.
Nick did a double take, then accepted the proffered folder. He stared at her, a raised eyebrow silently asking if she was sure about this. She raised her chin and met his gaze unflinching. He gave a slight shrug. “Go help Winston with the water casks.”
Cognizant of the customs official watching, Harriet tugged her forelock and went off to find Winston.
