Ruan stood on the top deck of the brigantine, watching the crew prepare to take her out to sea. As they passed out of the Bristol Channel and into open waters the two square masts were hoisted and the ship's speed picked up. The strong winds were like a cold slap in the face, despite the strength of the sun, which still lingered in the summer sky. Ruan took a deep breath of bracing sea air, to calm himself.
He had always felt at home aboard any sailing vessel. After Oxford his father had given him a stipend, to do with as he pleased. While most of his friends disappeared to London, to gamble and drink their inheritances away, Ruan had invested his money wisely in the merchant trade. His father thought that he was sullying his noble hands, by investing in trade, but after the old codger had died, leaving Ruan with a pile of crumbling, destitute estates, he was glad that he had not listened to the man. He was one of the wealthiest men in England, perhaps nearly as wealthy as Prinny himself, and he took pride in all that he had accomplished.
The ship lurched, and Ruan grabbed hold of the rails to steady himself. He was a man of vision, a man capable of using ruthless means to attain what he wanted. Just look at his new wife; he had suffered no fits of consciousness when he set out to win her hand. But now that he had it...
Ruan cursed into the wind. He owned her now, legally she was his, but then Olive's green, accusing eyes had let him know that he might have power over her body, but never her spirit. And what a spirited woman she was. Ruan's loins ached at the memory of how she had met every challenging kiss and caress, with her own. It had been wild, rough, verging on violent – it had also been completely unplanned.
Ruan had meant to woo Olive into his bed, but he had behaved like boorish fool, pawing at her with an insatiable lust the second the door had closed on her cabin. It shook him to his very core; he prided himself on being aloof. On being in control.
"Winds should pick up past Cornwall, your Grace."
The Captain came to stand beside him, mimicking his stance by leaning forward, his elbows balanced on the rails, his gaze focused on the horizon.
"Do you think we'll out run the storm?"
Ruan asked this casually, for he had no fear of a small storm off the English coast, having suffered far worse on his trips to the Americas. The calm seas of Europe were positively polite to sailors in comparison to the rough Atlantic.
"Aye, we should," Black shrugged, his face unreadable. "And if we don't, no worry. She's a strong ship, your Grace, best I've ever captained."
The Elizabeth was the latest acquisition to Ruan's ever expanding fleet. A sturdy vessel that could carry nearly two-hundred tonnes of cargo – she would serve him well. The seas of Europe had opened once more to trade now Napoleon was defeated, and Ruan intended to capitalise on the new investment opportunities. At the time the war had taken a slight toll on his income, but it had also gifted him with talented men like Captain Black, who had become unemployed once war had ended.
"I did not know you were seeking a wife," his young Captain said, after a short silence, watching him from the corner of his eye.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you Black, but you're not my type anyway. You were never in the running, so don't feel too hard done by." Ruan replied dryly. The younger man was a mystery to him, he spoke with the clipped, bored tones of the aristocracy – yet claimed no connection. He had captained one of the navy's largest ships during the Napoleonic wars, a feat which would normally have required the purchase of a large commission, but Captain Black, from Plymouth seemed to have worked his way up to the top of the food-chain through sheer grit and determination. A feat Ruan admired.
"If I am honest, Captain," he said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the horizon. "The sudden urge to secure my line, overcame me."
Captain Black snorted, and even Ruan gave a rueful smile, for he had worded that badly.
"I think someone is trying to kill me," he said bluntly, watching for his employee's reaction. "And as such, I thought it prudent that I find a wife to give me a son, so the line doesn't die out with me."
"How romantic," Black quipped, then seemed to remember he was speaking with a superior, and quickly apologised. "What makes you think someone is trying to kill you, your Grace?"
"The bolts on the wheel of my carriage were loosened a few weeks ago" Ruan said gravely, beginning to list the many mishaps that had occurred of late. "I was stabbed by a footpad, in Covent Garden. I fed one of my dogs a side of beef, that was intended for me, and the poor thing died in agony."
Captain Black winced and Ruan allowed himself a grimace; that had been a truly awful night, watching his beloved Wolfhound suffer.
"Do you have any idea, your Grace, who it might be?"
"The list of men who wish me dead, is very long, I assure you." Ruan said with a dark laugh. "T'would be easier to make a list of men who don't wish me to the devil."
"You don't think it's me though," Black stated, awarding him with a grin.
"Why do you say that?" Ruan asked, though he was right. There was something inherently honest and good about Captain Black; one could tell that he lived by a strong code of ethics that he strictly imposed on himself, and that he would rather die than act dishonourably.
"Well, you wouldn't be telling me all this," Black smiled, "If you thought that I was the perpetrator."
"True."
In truth, Ruan hadn't told anyone about his suspicions. He had thought, at the beginning, that he was going mad, but the grim look on Black's face told him that he was right; someone was trying to murder him.
"Shall we toast to your new marriage?" Black suggested; they were rounding Land's End, the green hills of Cornwall still visible in the distance. Soon they would push into the English Channel, and they would reach France by dawn.
"At this moment in time, I couldn't think of anything better than a drink," Ruan agreed, thinking that he had best stay above deck because he would be too tempted to bed Olive below. Both men had turned from the rails, to make their way to the slop, when a loud explosion rocked the vessel, sending them sprawling to the floor.
"What was that?" Ruan roared, scrambling to his feet to assess the damage.
"Felt like a bloody cannon ball, your Grace," Black shouted in response, already running to the lower deck to see what had happened.
"Some of the cargo has exploded in the main hold, Cap'n," a petrified crew member said, as both men reached the lower deck. "It's ripped through the hull, and she's takin' on water fast. We'll nae manage to save her."
"What are we carrying?" Ruan asked his captain, urgently.
"Skeins of exploding cotton, apparently," the younger man replied, his mouth a grim line. "It looks like whoever's trying to kill you doesn't care who gets in the way. Go and fetch her Grace, and meet back here by the small boats. I'll have to go downstairs to see if we can save her, before I give the orders to evacuate."
Olive.
Ruan cursed savagely, and ran to the stairs which led below deck. As he moved through the dark hallway, the acrid stench of smoke assaulted his nose, causing him to cough and splutter. The cargo of cotton would act like kindling to a fire, and it would not be long until the whole ship was aflame.
"Olive," he shouted, banging on the door of her cabin, which seemed to be wedged shut.
"Your Grace?"
Her voice, muffled through the closed door, sounded frightened. Ruan scowled at the way she addressed him, but now was not the time for a lecture on showing wifely affection.
"Is the door locked?" he roared, pulling the front of his coat over his moth and nose, for smoke was now billowing heavily through the corridor.
"No," Olive shouted, apparently kicking the door for it rattled on its hinges. "It's wedged stuck, it must have been from the force of the blast."
"Stand back," Ruan ordered, taking a large step back before throwing his full weight against the door. It moved slightly, but did not budge. Annoyed he tried again, and this time the weight of his shoulder shattered the door to splinters. He vaguely registered shooting pain, but his main concern was getting to Olive, and then getting her safely off the ship before it was engulfed in flames.
"Come," he coughed, grabbing her hand to guide her out.
"My bag," she spluttered, for by speaking she had inhaled a lungful of smoke.
"No time," Ruan spoke tersely, dragging her forcibly from the room. He led the way down the dark corridor, both crouching low agianst the billowing smoke. When they emerged on deck, they gasped simultaneously, willing their lungs to be filled with fresh, sea air.
"Oh, goodness."
Olive's gaze was fixated on the masts. The foremast was ablaze, burning as hot as the fires of hell, and its sails were whipping against the larger main mast, which looked set to go up in flames in seconds.
"Get to a small boat," Ruan instructed, but too late he realised that there were none there, for the whole front of the ship was burning.
"Can you swim?" he asked, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her roughly, willing her to understand the urgency of the situation.
"I can," she nodded, her face pale but calm. Silhouetted against the dark night sky, and the burning inferno of the ship, she looked beautiful. Strong, brave and beautiful. But now was not the time for compliments, so instead Ruan dragged her by the arm to the railings of the deck. Their way was precarious, for the front of the ship had begun to sink rapidly, and the deck beneath their feet sloped downward at a sharp angle.
"It will be cold," Ruan warned, kicking of his Hessians, not wanting the heavy leather boots to weigh him down in the water.
Olive nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath.
"I'll go first," he continued, swinging his legs over the rails, "And you follow. I'll catch you, never fear."
He took a deep breath, held his nose and jumped into the freezing cold sea. The icy water shocked the air from his lungs, and for a second Ruan floundered beneath the waves, struggling to break the surface.
Olive, he thought wildly to himself, I have to get to Olive.
Kicking his powerful legs, he propelled himself to the surface of the choppy sea, treading water as he tried to gauge the distance to the ship. It was but a few yards away, and with strong strokes, he swam over to the burning vessel.
"Olive," he called to his wife, who was perched on the railings, evidently paralysed by fear. "Jump."
The main sail had caught fire now, and it was a terrible thing to behold. If she didn't jump she would be burned alive as the wooden ship turned into a bonfire.
"Ruan," she looked out to where he was, and seeing him in the water seemed to bolster her confidence. With a shriek she launched herself into the sea, toward her husband.
Ruan swam to where she had entered the water, fear making him nauseas. She cannot die, he thought frantically, as he scanned the waves. The relief that he felt when he spotted her red hair was palpable. She was alive, and she had not lied, she was a strong swimmer.
"We must try to get to the small boats."
Ruan spoke urgently, tugging at her hand to pull her in the direction of the stern of the ship, where surely some of the small boats would be. The night was dark, but the glow of the fire illuminated the inky black sea. He saw her eyes flash, and though her teeth chattered, Olive wore a look of steely determination.
Man and wife began to swim toward the sound of voices, which echoed above the roar of the burning ship. We'll be safe, Ruan thought happily, Black will not leave until each and every crew member is accounted for.
This was the last thought he would have for the rest of the night, for with an ominous creak, the pole holding up the main mast shattered, and crashed into the sea. A stray piece of rigging hit Ruan's skull with such force that it rendered him unconscious, and he was drifting into blackness, sinking below the waves.