Safe in the Earl's Arms

Melina didn’t want their eyes on her. She already knew how sailors looked at the women they thought to purchase. She’d known it not safe to get too close. And now she was locked on a vessel with them. Her stomach roiled.

‘How many men are on this ship?’ she asked.

‘Thirty-three.’ His lips formed each sound of the word quite distinctly.

She didn’t like where his thoughts were going. ‘Women?’ she asked, her fingers gripping the back of the chair beside her.

‘One.’ Nothing in his expression changed.

She controlled her words. ‘I think I shall stay inside. I would not want one of the men falling from overhead when I am walking below. Nor would I wish to get tangled in the ropes. I have heard how things move about when ships are underway and sometimes mistakes are made.’

‘It would be wise of you to keep out of the way.’

She didn’t ask what he would have done if she’d not agreed to stay inside. From the look in his eyes, he would have been content with locking her in. And she would be able to do nothing about it. She tensed. She had stepped into a world where she was entirely alone.

‘Does the door—’ She had to ask. ‘Does it latch from the inside?’

He shook his head, one very definite movement. ‘No one would dare enter without my permission.’ His words held in the air.

Relief surged in her, until the next words he said reminded her where she stood.

‘And you cannot lock me out.’

‘I did not think to do so. I know what I have promised.’

He indicated the island with a turn of his head. ‘You can go back. Now. Last chance. No rock is worth going from your home. Leaving the people who can care for you.’

‘But it is worth leaving for the people I do care about.’

He stared at her, his eyes disagreeing, and left the room, leaving her alone with the reality of her actions slithering into her body.

Chapter Three

Warrington worked the davit, listening to the creak as it lifted the longboat to be secured on deck. He mustn’t keep thinking of her. This would be a bad time to get himself injured.

Taking one last look at the shore, he memorised the sight. If the fates were with him, he’d never see Melos again.

And if he had his way, he’d keep alive until they reached England. He had no sailor’s wish to be buried at sea. When he died, he wished to be boxed and put into a properly marked location.

He could understand fascination with sailing. The challenge of it. Men stood on rigging as comfortably as they stood on land.

Now the sailors unfurled the foremast sail, working from the middle, out to the side, and it dropped more softly than a lady’s skirt.

When the sun set the magic of the sea came out. In the night, the sails stiffened in the wind and the waters whispered a mesmerising sound. To stand on deck, with the blackness reflecting the heavens and the ship racing across the surface, a sailor could feel as if he were flying in an otherworldly vessel.

The moon rose well overhead and Warrington heard the bell, which signalled midnight and the end of the watch.

‘Well, old man...’ Warrington heard his brother’s voice ‘...I suppose you should go examine the trinket you’ve stored in your cabin.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’ Warrington watched Ben. ‘I’m not a man given to speed, but more to quality.’

‘It’s what we all say,’ Ben muttered, looking into the darkness at the rigging, and then patted the mast. ‘But I prefer to let the women boast about me.’ Ben called out, walking away, ‘And if you need instruction, return to me and I’ll explain how the deed is properly done.’

Warrington stopped, turned back, Ben’s form outlined in the moonlight. ‘Little brother, I see the error now. You’ve thought all along it is to be done properly, while the women most enjoy an improper tumble.’

Ben turned, waving Warrington on his way. ‘Get along, old man. Talk does not get the job done.’

When Warrington opened the door to the cabin, he noticed the lantern light flickering in the room. He looked to the bed. Empty. She sat in the chair backed against the wall, a bucket hooked at her feet by her heels, and looked up at him, her face ghostlike in the light.

‘I have lost...’ her voice followed the movement of the ship ‘...most food...’ another gentle sway of the boat forward, and her chin dipped over the pot ‘...I have eaten in the past year.’ The ship moved with the rocking motion of the sea and the breezes pushing them forward. She glared at him, but the look seemed more pitiful than angered. ‘No one told me...a ship would float so rough...trying to turn my insides...outside.’

‘You get used to it.’ He hung his cap on a peg. ‘About the time we hit land.’

She groaned.

Turning, he reached into the cabinet to move the brandy bottle aside and take out a cloth bag about the size of his hand. ‘Comfits. Don’t tell the men I have these. Wouldn’t want them to think me weak.’

He reached the bag to her, but she waved it away. He didn’t move back, but kept his hand firm.

‘I had some made with ginger. A servant I have, a former seaman, swears it helps when a man is at sea and his stomach refuses to settle into the ship. Just let it rest on your tongue.’

She frowned, but took the parcel, opened it and pulled out one of the orbs. She put it in her mouth and kept the bag clasped in her hand.

‘Since you’re not using the berth...’ he said, reaching to remove his coat and place it on the remaining peg, and over her shawl.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, thumping the wall behind her. ‘I can’t lie down. My feet keep moving higher than my head.’

‘Interesting.’

He usually sat in the chair to remove his boots, but no matter. Perching just on the edge of the berth and letting the bottom of the cabinet above him press against his shoulders, he tugged off his boots. Then he lifted them by the tops and pressed them into the railed opening beneath him so they’d not slide while he slept. He took off his waistcoat and stored it. Slipping his shirt from the trousers, his hand stopped when he looked again at her face. Her lashes rested against her cheeks. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and skin showed the same colour as the sails in moonlight.

For a moment he stared, torn between letting her alone and a need to brush tendrils back from her face.

He shook himself from his fascination and reached to the water pitcher, lodged in place and filled by the cabin boy earlier in the day. Warrington took the flannel lying inside the small raised edge, which kept it from sliding to the floor as the boat moved. He dampened the cloth and stepped beside her, putting it to her forehead. She held the compress in place. Their fingers touched, but she didn’t seem aware he was even in the room.

‘Try to think of something pleasant.’ He spoke to her, and in response her lips tightened. ‘Sing to yourself—some peaceful tune,’ he instructed. ‘It might help.’

‘Are the seas always rough?’ she asked.

He couldn’t tell her this was calm. ‘You get used to it.’

She nodded. ‘I hope.’

Her parcel lay beside her. He took it and her gaze flicked to him.

‘The rock can’t slide around. Might break or cause one of us to fall.’ He knelt at his bunk, trying to keep from brushing against her, and well aware that she pushed herself to the other side of the small room. He tucked the arm away carefully, knowing she watched every movement. Still kneeling, he looked across at her. ‘The light needs out.’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘In the dark, the room moves faster.’