“Friends.” Her echo came soft, a bit disappointed, he thought.
Hope took hold. “Unless you want to be otherwise.”
She halted then and looked up at him, her sandy fingers full of beach treasures. “I scarcely know how to start over, if that’s what you mean.”
His heart began to pound. A deluge of emotion akin to a tropical monsoon swirled inside him. Never did he imagine this turn of events—having her here beside him, removing the distance between them in one stunning move. And now looking as if they might reconcile, fall in love again.
If they’d ever stopped loving each other to begin with.
“I want what you want, Henri.” She began walking again, her full skirts dragging on the wet sand. “Maybe ’tis a bit like dancing,” she said, a beguiling light in her eye. “I shall simply follow your lead.”
He caught up to her, wanting to take her hand again yet wanting to be careful with her. Not wreck the both of them like before. How did one let go of the past and risk love again?
CHAPTER
thirty-eight
The next day Henri sat with his officers at a tavern table, the rest of the crew spread out across the taproom. The Flask and Sword had never looked better, the floors mopped, every stick of furniture shiny as a newly minted shilling. Even Hermes looked content perched on a window ledge, eating pecans and occasionally emitting a shrill screech. Henri smiled his amusement, wishing Mistress Saltonstall back, if only to have another woman on the island. In the meantime, if there was a cruise, half a dozen of his men who were injured and ailing would remain behind, the penalty being caretakers of a cantankerous marmoset.
He finished his ale and set down his tankard, careful to avoid the letter of marque and reprisal lying atop the table. It had been delivered that afternoon by a courier of Virginia’s governor in the name of the king, and Henri had just read it aloud. Their future mission sounded simple but was infinitely complex.
George the Second, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. To Captain Henri Lennox, commander of eighty men and mounting thirty carriageguns. You may, by force of arms, attack, subdue, and take all ships and other vessels belonging to the inhabitants of France, on the high seas, or between high-water and low-water marks...
His crew’s conversation had risen around him like a headwind ever since.
“We’re fully outfitted and ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”
“Lest fortune frown upon us, I shall place a silver coin beneath the main mast when we weigh anchor.”
“Superstitions don’t become you. Coin be hanged. I saw you on your knees petitioning Providence at the last violent squall.”
“A misfortune the French often fly false flags, hoping to avoid capture.”
Hermes screeched at Cyprian’s late entry, then ran to the lad, who hoisted him on his shoulder. Laughter rumbled through the watching men while Henri looked out a near window at the sunset.
“How many other privateers are operating under letters of marque, Captain?” Tarbonde asked from across the table.
Henri came to attention. “New York leads the colonies in sending twenty-six privateers bearing three hundred fifty guns and nearly three thousand men. Virginia is second in force.”
A pronounced hush ensued as the gravity of their mission took hold.
Henri stood, bringing the din across the room to a slow halt. “I need to tend the light.”
Chuckling and elbowing greeted his announcement. “Don’t you have a lady lightkeeper for that, Captain?” Southack dared to ask.
With a wink, Henri settled his cocked hat on his head. “A lady lightkeeper in training.”
“No matter who tends it, ’tis most welcome,” Cyprian said as Hermes scrambled to his opposite shoulder. “Far better than the hilltop fires of old.”
Henri went out, glad for fresh air and quiet. His walk was an enviable one, energizing him after the tobacco smoke and chatter of the tavern. The beach lay in winsome white curves all the way to his end of the island, easily navigated by moonlight. He was beginningto look forward to the hour when darkness descended. Once a trial to him, lonesome and full of memories, it now marked the time he could see Esmée.
By now she’d have finished her supper and was likely seated by the fire with Lucy. Esmée had mentioned knitting him stockings, even a hat and gloves—simple, practical things that a man had need of. He considered getting sheep so she’d have a supply of wool at hand, but that was in the distant future.
He rapped at the door, and it opened. Lucy gave him an unnecessary curtsy and excused herself, retreating to the kitchen. Esmée’s eyes shone with quiet delight, another step away from the guarded woman she’d become.
“Good evening.” He removed his hat as she rose from her seat.
“A good evening indeed.” She gestured to the chair Lucy had vacated. “Won’t you sit for a moment and warm up? ’Tis not quite dusk.”
