“His game? What do you mean, dear?”
She spread her palms. “His insistence that we use each other’s Christian names. I would have declined such impropriety if he had not surprised me so. Now I must determine what advantage he hopes to gain so I may thwart his efforts.”
Aunt Hester sighed. “Jane, Jane. Might I provide a gentle reminder that you offered him the use of your Christian name without him asking for the privilege.”
“I had no choice. I cannot allow him to manipulate me, coerce me, or otherwise outmaneuver me.”
Her aunt halted in the narrow galley way a few steps shy of the kitchen. She grabbed Jane’s hands. “What if his actions are neither manipulation nor maneuvering? What if they are nothing more than common cordiality?”
Jane briefly considered the merits of the question. “That seems unlikely, Auntie.”
“Why?”
“Because our forced partnership must result in joy for one and sorrow for the other. There can be no charity when one must suffer for another to triumph. In such an equation, cordiality cannot factor.”
Aunt Hester frowned sadly. “I see. You do not trust him.”
She shook her head. “Not an iota.”
Although Adam had surprised her more than once since the meeting at Rutley’s office, he was still an Ashford, a product of four generations of animosity toward her family. To trust him would require letting go of her reciprocal hatred for his family. With some disappointment, she found herself unable to do so. The conflict with the Ashfords had shaped her thoughts and actions for so long, she could not imagine a life beyond it. Worse, she feared that its absence might leave her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
Chapter Six
Adam rubbed his weary back while attempting to recall the memory of sunlight. After each of his watches the past thirty-six hours, he had collapsed into a dark corner of the hull for a few hours of sleep before rousing again for the next watch. He had barely remembered to eat. His swollen fingers and jittery legs bore witness to endless hours of picking oakum, patching seeping seams, and bailing. Bailing proved the worst of the lot. For hours on end, he had slogged through ankle-deep water in the lower recesses of the ship, filling buckets with brine and passing them upward to a shipmate who dwelled in blessed daylight.
“Do ya’ surrender, now, Ashford?”
The question came from his bailing partner, a squat Scotsman who had spent the past day and a half trying to kill him through relentless labor. Each time, Adam had responded to the challenge. This time, however, he considered admitting defeat and throwing himself on the mercy of the captain. However, the vision of Jane’s triumphant smile over his failure roused him once again.
“Never, McPhee. Hand me your bucket.”
The sailor scrutinized him in a gloom barely dispelled by a pair of pitiful lanterns. Seemingly satisfied with Adam’s response, he flashed a smile nearly devoid of teeth.
“Your stubbornness will kill you one day.”
“Almost certainly, McPhee. Almost certainly.”
The Scot laughed and delivered a good-natured backslap with such force that Adam nearly made acquaintance with the hull beneath him. “Very well. But I’ll not be the one to kill ya’. Go fetch us some tack and tea from the galley. I’ll manage the buckets for a time.”
Adam shook his head. “That is not necessary. I am perfectly able to continue.”
“Go,” the sailor said gruffly, “before I reconsider not killing ya’.”
Adam dipped his head with gratitude and wearily made his way from the bowels of the ship toward the galley, asking for directions only twice along the way. He entered the mess to virtual silence as the hour was late and nearly midway between watches. The sight that met his eyes stopped him short. Jane was seated on a bench with her torso sprawled across a table and her head planted atop folded arms, deeply asleep. A mountain of gleaming pots rose beside her. The array of horsehair brushes just beyond her arms gave mute testimony to her role in scrubbing the pots clean. One open palm, raw and blistered, confirmed it.
He took a step forward with the intent of waking her to ask about tea. He stopped again, however, when glimpsing her face. Dark eyelashes nestled against milky skin, complementing brows a deeper shade of brown than her lush head of hair. Her back rose and fell rhythmically as soft breaths escaped through parted lips. His eyes lingered on those lips, rosy red to match the flush of her cheeks. Gone was the fierce demeanor and combative glare, replaced by the very picture of tranquility. A wave of pity swept over him. Neither of the journey’s outcomes seemed good for her. At best, she would be debt-free but without prospects. At worst, she would land in debtor’s prison with an unpayable debt. Such a dismal place would eventually steal everything—her tranquility, her beauty, and perhaps her life. Even a Hancock did not deserve such a dark fate.
He stood silently a minute longer, content to watch her, afraid to breathe lest he wake her.
“Mr. Ashford.”
He nearly jumped through the ceiling when Hester softly called to him. He whipped his head to find her standing in the opposite galley doorway. How long had she observed him watching Jane? “Yes, Mrs. Byrd.”
“You appear to be searching for something. May I help you find it?”
Adam glanced at Jane to find her stirring. She lifted her head and regarded him with bleary, unfocused eyes before recognition set in. Her spine snapped erect.
“Adam! Why are you lurking about as a menacing bear? Should you not be bailing, or dismantling rope, or some such lowbrow endeavor?”
