Elspeth screeched, stepping toward the edge of the dock. Sir Gordon, calling his cousin’s name, rushed down the gangplank, dropping down on it, lying flat as he reached for the flailing Lord Timothy. Together with another sailor, they hauled him out of the water, helping him to his feet. Water dripped from his hair and clothes as Gordon looked him over. Lord Timothy spit water and held up his hand, fending off any more help. With a single glimpse in her direction, he trudged up the rest of the gangplank and onto the boat.
Elspeth watched him until he disappeared below deck. “What a peculiar young man.” She felt Sinclair move in beside her.
“Most men are odd at nineteen.”
Elspeth cut a glance at her maid. “Speaking from personal experience?”
“Do you know how many nineteen-year-old hall boys and footmen your father employs?
Elspeth returned her gaze to the mail packet, which was now a flurry of activity as the gangplank was lifted and the mooring ropes released. “Pesky creatures, are they?”
“Like a clowder of alley cats.”
“Ah. Well, he does look a bit like a dowsed tom.”
“Most likely behaves like one as well.”
Elspeth coughed a laugh. “Ah, what stellar views of men you have, Sinclair.”
“And nary a one undeserved.”
As the ship shrank into the distance, Elspeth sighed. “Well, that is one gentleman I will not have to worry about stepping on my toes. He will be out of sight for rather a long time. But I may not forget those eyes.”
“You probably should, since you will never see them again. Sinclair’s fingers grazed her arm. “Time to go home, my lady.”
Monday, 5 September 1814
Aboard theHMP Swiftsure
Departing Falmouth, England
It was notsupposed to be like this.Adventuring across the planet was supposed to be exciting. Enthralling. Gallant. An echo of heroes past and present. James Cook. Alexander MacKenzie. Henry Hudson.
This is disgusting.Lord Timothy Rydell, youngest brother of the Duke of Embleton, leaned over the rail of the mail packet headed for America and delivered every morsel of his recently consumed breakfast to the churning sea below. His head spun, and he clung to the rail and one rope of the rigging in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Not even the brisk air and the salty spray peppering his face helped ease the roiling in his gut. His dark curls, still plastered to his scalp by his mortifying dunk off the gangplank, dripped down his neck and beneath his collar, chilling him. He had changed into dry clothes, his soaking garb now draped over the end of his bunk in his miniscule stateroom below, but his hair held onto the water, smelling distinctly like fish oil and tar.
They would laugh, if they saw me now.His mother, who had been dismayed by what she had termed his relentless braggadocio. His brothers—especially the ones who had served with Wellington—who had teased him about having to give up his many women when he became a vicar, which had seemed his only option for a stable future until Gordon came along. They saw their youngest brother as little more than a dandy. A pink. Definitely not strong or brave enough to follow their own military service, and they had refused to help him purchase a commission. And all those women, who had been mere dalliances for him, would find his current weakness most amusing.
As would the young woman he had just met on the dock.Lady Elspeth?She of the remarkably thick red hair and eyes a lustrous emerald green. Her simple straw bonnet barely contained thick tresses that must have taken a multitude of pins to hold it in place. A lush figure a man could plunder for days and never tire of exploring.
And she wanted to travel!
So, of course, he would meet her only on the day he left England for many years to come. And make a complete fool of himself, not only in his attempt to talk with her but in his abrupt plummet into the ocean. He had not been that awkward around a woman ever. So why would he pick this day and that woman to behave like such a buffoon?
A sudden clap on his back almost dislodged his grip, and Timothy staggered, sucking in air.
“It will pass in a few days. At least it does for most people.”
Timothy twisted to look at his cousin, the man responsible for him being on the mail packet boat headed across the North Atlantic. “A few days?” He spit over the rail. “I will never survive that long.”
Sir Gordon Rydell chuckled, his brown eyes sparkling with humor. “You will. Just stay on deck as much as possible and never cast your accounts into the wind. Nearer the stern is your best bet, leeward side.”
Timothy groaned, trying to remember whatleewardmeant in sailing parlance. “I will try to keep that in mind.” He looked toward the bow where Gordon’s new wife, Ella, seemed to relish the wind created by the fast-moving ship. She laughed often, shaking her head as her long, raven tresses bounced about freely. As the ship rose and fell with the waves, Ella shifted her body, adjusting to the constant movement of the deck. Her bright-blue gown stood out starkly against the dampened wood of the ship. “Ella seems to have adapted well.”
If only I could have found a woman like that.
Timothy looked back toward shore, his mind recalling the beauty on the dock. Would she be so carefree, adapt as easily to travel?
Gordon leaned closer to be heard over the wind, his broad shouldersand six-foot-two height towering over Timothy’s shorter, leaner frame. Unlike Ella’s mane of curls, Gordon’s blond locks lay close to his head, firmly anchored by a queue bound near the nape of his neck. He had cut his hair into a proper English style upon his arrival in the spring but had let it grow again after his wedding a few months ago in order to adopt this style still popular on the other side of the pond. And, obviously, more practical on a wind-blown ship. “We sailed through the Mediterranean on our honeymoon. She got used to it then but was queasy for the first couple of days.”
