He resisted the urge to wave or raise the spyglass for a closer look. Let her believe she remained out of sight. He turned his head sideways, his rowing rhythmic, his gaze on the infinite blue of the sea instead of the memory of her jade eyes. A man could as easily drown in those depths as the ocean.
Though something deep within urged him to take a second look, he was now safely beyond sight of her. The shoreline receded, Indigo Island at his back. His senses were soon assaulted by the smell of roasting oysters and beach bonfires and crying gulls.
Several of his crew threw up their hands or tossed their hats in the air at his return. He waved and rowed on, past the Flask and Sword where Cyprian was hanging linens out to dry, on toward the back of the island where his cottage rested on its rocky perch. He wanted peace. Solitude. The kind he’d not had in York or Williamsburg.
But he couldn’t outrow Esmée.
Thoughts of her trailed him like a leaping dolphin riding the wake of a ship. Twice they’d been thrust together without warning. He’d even accepted Eliza’s gracious invitation to attend church. Every head had turned as they’d entered, assuring him the past had not been forgotten as he’d hoped but was being resurrected. Esmée was left to traipse through the eddies of gossip ashore while he sought his island refuge.
He’d gone to Shaw’s coffeehouse briefly on a matter of business. The adjoining Dutch door leading to the chocolate shop was a nearly irresistible invitation. But considering his openness with her as they’d sat in the townhouse parlor, distance seemed the wisest path. His own conflicted feelings about her needed unraveling first. She was not the young woman he remembered. Time had turned her into someone else entirely.
Once docked, he secured the mooring lines and began unloading cargo—foodstuffs and necessaries to last till his next trip to the mainland. By the time he’d heaved the last crate to a shed, he heard footsteps. Henri put a padlock on the door and turned to greet whoever it was that intruded on his desire to be alone.
’Twas Cyprian, a steaming kettle in one hand, a linen-wrappedloaf in the other, and a large smile on his deeply tanned face. “Good day to ye, sir.”
“Aye, so it is.” Henri stomped wet sand from his boots before he went inside the cottage. “What do you bring?”
“Some victuals from Mistress Saltonstall. She said ye’d be powerfully hungry and in no mood to make yer own supper.”
Gratitude chased away any inconvenience. “She would be right.” Henri took the kettle and set it on the table. Oyster stew, from the smell of it. The chill of late October seemed to call for such.
Cyprian unwrapped a loaf of wheaten bread and gazed upon it as if it were the Mughal emperor’s jewels. Was he famished?
“Why don’t you take supper with me and tell me what has transpired since I’ve been away?” Gesturing to a chair, Henri went to a near basin and washed his hands, trying to recall where he last saw utensils.
“Aye, sir. With pleasure.” Cyprian set the bread down and took a seat, still smiling. “No butter or cheese, I’m sorry to say.”
“Ah, but there is,” Henri said over his shoulder as he went to fetch both from the stores he’d brought.
Cyprian lit a candle as the shadows deepened, casting fragile light over what proved to be a delicious supper. The lad talked between bites, allowing Henri to slow down and savor his meal. Mistress Saltonstall was an admirable cook.
“All yer officers are still on the mainland, sir ... just us small jacks stayin’ to keep to task on the ship ... She’s looking spry ... but there’s been some worries what with the weather ... Old Jacques feels a hurricane in his bones ... That creature, Hermes, got into some rum and turned lunatic, he did.”
Nodding and chuckling, Henri waited till Cyprian fed him the last piece of news with a sound belch.
“Beg pardon, sir.” He pushed back his empty bowl with a sated sigh. “Ye’ve taught me better.”
“Belching isn’t mutiny, Cyprian.” With a wink, Henri brought out a small bag of candied lemon peel gotten from York. “Care for a sweet?”
Cyprian grinned back at him. “Have any chocolate, sir?”
Blast.“Nay. I have none.” To his everlasting regret. Hot chocolate sounded good on a chilly eve. “Needs be I send you to the mainland for some before winter sets in.”
“Would ye, sir?” Cyprian chewed on the lemon peel, eyes alive with anticipation. “Shaw’s chocolate, aye?”
“None other.”
“I do wonder, sir, why ye didn’t go there yerself.”
I nearly did.Henri shrugged. “No milk cow on the island, at least since I was here last. No cause for hot chocolate.”
“Needs be we get a cow, then.”
“Consult Mistress Saltonstall. She may have one hiding in the woods,” Henri replied, thinking of the times they’d weathered a crossing with distressed animals for some menagerie in England. He’d put his foot down after transporting a duke’s orangutan and an earl’s zebra. All he wanted was a rat-catching cat aboard ship. Or a dog. A sudden meowing assured him the ship’s cat, Clementine, was about her business.
Spent, Henri sat down in the Windsor chair facing the cold hearth while Cyprian jumped up, still chewing, and began laying a fire. Soon the cavernous, blackened hole glowed as red-gold as a tropical Maldives sunset, a few sparks flying past the andirons into the room.
“If ye don’t mind my asking, sir ... what’s that curiosity on yer windowsill?”
