Not that Nick was superstitious.
“Winston’s job,” he said softly. “She’s doing Winston’s work.” He struggled to not shout for her to get the hell down from there.
The fore mains’l unfurled and filled with a loud snap, and with increasing speed the ship moved out into the river’s main channel. He heard laughter from the quay. People pointed at the pink-speckled sail.
Nick adjusted the tiller to get the ship brought about in the river and headed back out to sea, dividing his attention between watching for signals from Bos’n, who had climbed out on bow watch to help navigate the congested river, and looking up at Harriet’s shapely backside bent over the t’gallant yardarm.
Zach gave a low whistle of appreciation.
Ignoring the fact that he had also been staring, Nick jabbed Zach in the ribs. “Eyes elsewhere, you lecherous old man.”
Zach gave him an unrepentant grin. “And here I thought you or I would end up needing to go aloft.” He gestured at Nick’s forehead and grew more serious. “Though you’re not going up until the dizzy spells pass.”
Nick self-consciously adjusted the bandage wrapped around his head. He thought he’d been clever at hiding when the ground seemed to shimmy and roll beneath him. Norton had checked him over early this morning and declared Nick should expect the headaches and dizzy spells to plague him for a fortnight or more, gradually reducing in frequency and intensity. Nick tilted his head to one side, still trying to watch both Bos’n and Harry but not be obvious about it. “Not like I haven’t done every task needed on this ship, at one time or another.”
“Been a while since you did some of them though, eh?”
The crew on the foremast climbed higher to loose the t’gallant, just as the main t’gallant filled with a snap. Moments later, the mainmast crew began climbing down to unfurl the mains’l.
There was an urgent whistle and arm gesture from Bos’n, and Nick steered hard to avoid a cluster of rabelos that hadn’t seen the bigger ship bearing down on them. The brig rolled to starboard just as Harriet was making the transition from the footrope to the ratline. Her foot slipped off, and for a few of Nick’s thundering heartbeats she hung by her hands while her body swung out, suspended high above the water. Nick barely had time to gulp before she swung back in as the ship righted, got a foot planted on the rope ladder, and resumed her climb down to the mains’l footrope.
Now she was on the inside, close to the mast. Nick’s heart still pounded. If she fell from there, instead of dropping into the water she’d land on the deck with all its hard surfaces and sharp edges fifty feet below, not to mention the open hatch of the center hold. It was irresponsible of him to let her take such risks. She may be dressing like a crewman, but she was still a lady.
He didn’t want to have to bear sad news to her mother and brother, that was all.
The wind snatched the words away, but he could see Flynn and Jack encouraging and instructing her. Her face was split in a broad grin when she turned her head to reply to Flynn.
Nick forced his breathing to slow. From this angle, he finally noticed the scabbard hanging down from a belt around Harriet’s waist. “The knife is new,” he murmured.
Zach clapped him on the shoulder. “You have a hellion on your hands, m’boy,” he said, and enthusiastically related the tale of their shopping excursion and how Harriet had acquired the knife and scabbard.
At one point in the story Nick reflexively moved his hand that was not on the tiller down in front of his groin. “She did what?”
* * *
They soon made it past the sandspit at the river’s mouth and out into the Atlantic proper. Nick’s blood raced and his stomach did a little flip, as always happened when he got out on the open sea. He kept them going west-northwest for a while, moving farther away from the coastline.
“You’re grinning like a fool,” Zach said. “As usual.”
Nick didn’t bother to reply. The breeze was drying the teeth exposed by his grin.
Turning his face into the wind, Zach took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “This never gets old, does it?”
Jonesy had been standing at the forward rail of the quarterdeck, directing the unfurling and adjusting of the sails. He looked over his shoulder. “Orders, Cap’n?”
Nick glanced up at Harriet, who was nimbly following Jack across a footrope, the sound of her laughter drifting down. “Crowd the canvas,” Nick said.
Jonesy followed his upward gaze and grinned. “Aye, Cap’n.”
They soon had every scrap of canvas unfurled and catching the light breeze. Tucker had managed to salvage enough material for a clean white flying jib and inner jib. All the other sails were from the spare set.
Speckled pink.
Nick still hated beets. Had hated them ever since crates of them had broken open in the hold during a battle and stained his canvas.
Getting ready to make notes in his logbook, he looked for Harriet to see if she wanted to join him, as she had on the previous leg of their journey. Near the port bow, Bos’n was correcting her on the way she’d belayed a line and making her re-do it—something his grumpy second mate would never have done with her on the journey out from London. Then again, the Miss Chase who had boarded the ship in London would never have dreamt of becoming Harry barely four weeks later, dressing and acting the part of a sailor.
Would she?
