“Thank you, Mrs. Canning. For myself and the crew, may I say it’s a pleasure to have you with us. TheCaraseais brighter for your presence.”
Rhys was quite amazed by Johnson’s smooth tongue. The old salt hadn’t been so ingratiating toward him. But then, he reflected, he hardly had Kenna’s stunning appearance. Damned if the shipwasn’tbrighter for her presence. “I’d like to take my wife on a tour, Captain.”
Johnson shook his head and said gruffly, “There’s work to be done.” He pointed overhead to the post Rhys had left. “I’ll take your wife on the tour.” He raised his elbow for Kenna to hold and stopped the protest that was rising in Rhys’s throat with a hard glance. “You were the one who wanted to know how the men worked. Escorting a lady is a captain’s pleasure.”
At Rhys’s chagrined expression, a bubble of laughter touched Kenna’s lips. She patted his forearm sympathetically, her dark brown eyes dancing as Captain Johnson led her away.
The sun was bright, but the air was chilly and Kenna and the captain returned to her cabin to get her spencer. Johnson took Kenna into the belly of the ship first, showing her with no little pride the rooms filled with the line’s precious cargo of colorful Indian fabrics, barrels of tea from the Far East, and furniture crafted by some of England’s best known artisans. Though much of whatCaraseacarried had come from all over the world, Johnson had picked up his share in London, still the largest center of trade anywhere. Not that Boston couldn’t hold its own, he assured Mrs. Canning. Now that the war with England was over he looked for an increase in America’s fortunes.
Kenna listened politely and withheld comment, deciding it was not the time to mention that if Napoleon succeeded in his second conquest there would be another stranglehold on trade. She followed Johnson into the galley where the afternoon meal was being prepared. The cook’s assistant looked up from where he was chopping onions for a stew and smiled. A trifle teary-eyed from his task he accidentally brought down his knife on his index finger and muttered a sharp imprecation. Kenna was hustled out of the galley as the cook gave his helper an earful.
“Why is this floor painted red?” she asked when Johnson showed her the gun deck. Wheeled gun carriages lined both sides of the large room. He had already explained the guns were going to be removed in Boston, their necessity vanishing with the end of the war.
Johnson cleared his throat uneasily. “It softens the shock during battle, Mrs. Canning. The men don’t notice the blood so much.” When he saw Kenna pale slightly, he quickly moved her toward an upper deck.
She had some tea with him in his cabin before returning topside and Kenna kept the conversation centered on the captain, finding his experiences entertaining and instructive. They strolled about the upper deck once before Johnson called Rhys to come down from the rigging. Kenna held her breath as she watched Rhys make his descent. Beside her, the captain chuckled.
“You can ease yourself now, Mrs. Canning,” he said when Rhys’s feet touched the deck. “As you can see, he’s managed the thing as if he’d been born to it.”
He had indeed, Kenna thought, awed again by Rhys’s grace and strength.
“Did you enjoy your tour?” asked Rhys, blithely unaware that he had unnerved Kenna.
“Must you go up there?” she asked as Captain Johnson slipped away.
Rhys’s brows shot up at her tone. He held up his hands as if to ward her off. Almost immediately he realized it had been the wrong tack to take because he unwittingly showed Kenna the raw skin on his palms.
A salty breeze ruffled Kenna’s hair as she reached forward and took Rhys’s wrists. She examined them in the stern manner of her former governess, turning them over while she shook her head, clearly shocked by their appearance. “Your beautiful hands, Rhys,” she said, sighing. “How could you?”
Rhys’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. He looked at his hands in astonishment, wondering what she could possibly have seen in them to call them beautiful. “There were things to be done,” he offered somewhat defensively.
“Well, no longer. Come with me, for I shall have to patch them up. They’re bound to blister.”
Rhys reddened a bit when he saw some of the men poking each other in the ribs as they listened unabashedly to his exchange with Kenna. Then he saw them study their own hands and glance at his wife wistfully as if hoping she would offer to do the same for them. Nettled, he said, “Let’s go below before everyone wants your attention.”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Rhys Canning,” said Kenna, but there was no sting in her words.
Kenna led Rhys straight to the ship’s sick bay where she found bandages and alcohol. She cleaned his raw hands, wincing herself when Rhys gritted his teeth as she poured alcohol on the open cuts.
“I can see the tour was helpful,” he said while she wrapped his hands. “You seem to know where everything is.”
“It was enlightening. Did you know there is a red deck where the guns are kept?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why it’s red?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Rhys. War is appalling. How could you have spent so many years fighting in Portugal and Spain?”
“How could I not? I was needed.”
His simple explanation only lodged the lump in her throat more firmly. She remembered the cruel words she had spoken to him at Dunnelly, accusing him of trading on his heroism to gain the affections of Nick and Victorine, and worse, she had called him a traitor. She lifted his bandaged hands and pressed a kiss into each palm.
Rhys felt as if she had touched his soul. “Kenna.”
She shook her head, begging him not to say anything. It was too soon and she didn’t know her mind or trust herself. “Will you have lunch with me?”
