Chapter Five
I am double-damned. How could a mere slip of a woman be so stubborn?
The situation Wolf found himself in was anything but ideal. Joanna had disappeared with Green, and Wolf had no idea where she’d gone. No doubt a contingency plan had been put in place to transport Joanna and Green to London. Or perhaps she’d been ordered to round up another member of the Legion before returning to Hartland Abbey. Whatever the case, her convenient exit did nothing to cool Wolf’s anger over being denied information about his brother once again.
Bollocks. He’d been ordered to return to London, but he’d gained a new charge with an obstinate streak twenty fathoms deep and just as many leagues wide. That stubbornness would surely get them all killed, if Robillard didn’t do the honors first.
Mr. Savage, his first mate and a former lieutenant in the Royal Navy, arrived to confer with him. It was a most welcome distraction. “The tide is with us, Cap’n.”
“At least that’s one thing working in my favor,” Wolf said, well aware that the girl was still standing beside them. “Mr. Savage, we’ve acquired a new member of our crew.” He gestured to her. “Allow me to introduce you to—”
“Boy,” she finished for him.
“I’ve got eyes, sir. What’s his name?” Mr. Savage asked, addressing Wolf instead of the girl.
Wolf glared into her stormy eyes. “Still refusing to give me a name?”
He could almost see the wheels spinning in her mind as she opened her mouth to speak.
“Deck there!” Crowle, one of his most agile and reptilian topmen, shouted from the main top, denying her the chance to speak.
“Aye?” Wolf gazed skyward until he located Crowle perched on the crosstrees.
“Our men, sir,” Crowle replied. “They be running toward the Sea Wolf as if they be escaping the gallows.”
Wolf moved to the portside of the ship and grabbed the rail, surveying the scene before him. Everything was just as Crowle had described. His men were hotfooting it across the wharf, the black plume of smoke a backdrop to their anxious expressions. Within moments, they arrived and climbed the gangway.
The last man to come aboard was his quartermaster, Morning Star, a Cheyenne Dog Soldier who had followed Wolf from the Americas. Morning Star stooped over and grasped his knees to catch his breath. “Set sail soon, Cap’n. Fire won’t give us much time.”
“Aye,” Wolf said. “Join the others.”
Morning Star nodded, saying nothing more as Wolf watched him follow the rest of his loyal crew to their stations. “Prepare the ship, Mr. Savage. Loose her moorings without delay!”
“Aye, sir.” His first mate shouted to the men on deck, “Pipe all hands!”
The boatswain placed his whistle in his mouth and let it shrill.
Wolf knew if they had any chance of avoiding another altercation with Robillard, they needed to chart as many leagues as they could between themselves and Saint-Malo before the corsair mustered his fleet.
“Look lively!” Mr. Savage’s voice carried on the wind, booming with authority and insistence as he pointed to seamen on deck. “Weigh anchor! Heave away!”
“Aye, sir,” the crewmen replied collectively as they moved forward, their bodies turning the capstan to and cat the anchor. “Heave to!”
“Hands to halyards!” Mr. Savage’s bellow started another round of action.
“Haul away!” the crew responded, raising another sail.
Topmen scampered up the ratlines, unfurling canvas, the halyards chocked up, and clews sheeted home at the yardarms.
“Unmoor! Unmoor!” Crewmen stationed at the mooring ropes unleashed the vessel from the wharf.
Wolf laid his hand on the ship’s rail and exhaled loudly. He’d lost another chance to locate his brother. He closed his eyes to mask the sting as the Sea Wolf’s oak and teak beams sang, her deck bucking to life beneath his feet as she got underway. Her steadfast shrouds arrowed to masts overhead, where canvas luffing in the wind as if struggling to catch a vital breath. Her block and tackle creaked to and fro. Her deadeyes watched the crew as they hauled her lines, squealing in protest as each one heaved into place.
Wolf had lived his life, drifting from one shore to the next, always searching and never knowing who or what he was. This time, he’d been forced to retreat. Joanna could have lost her life trying to help him broker the girl’s release. Even though they’d encountered numerous dangers before and survived each one, the particular skills the two of them possessed weren’t meant to be wasted on local skirmishes. He and Joanna were destined to protect England, not become embroiled in a domestic war.
Wolf slammed his palm against the rail. Fifty boxes of figuerados! Hell, how much would he have to sacrifice for Wellington before this war was over?
“Capitaine, is everything all right?” the girl asked, looking up at him skeptically.
No. It wasn’t. “Brilliant,” he said.
What good did it do to complain? The longer war waged among England, France, and Spain, the longer his own needs would be shelved and his situation would remain the same. No one cared about what he’d lost. Even fate seemed to conspire against him. And yet, he’d allowed himself to believe that his brother could be found, that the rift between them could be mended. He had no memories of their lives before they’d been separated on the docks in Bristol. He didn’t know who his parents were, where he hailed from, who he was destined to be. He wanted—no, needed—to know these things, felt incomplete without them. Some things were better left in the past, yes. But until he could reconnect with his origins, he didn’t know who he was. There was one thing he did know, however: he was alone. He’d always be alone.
A tug on his sleeve broke him from his lament. He looked down.
“I am sorry about your figuerados,” she said. “There are things in this world we can never be prepared for and places we must go before we discover why.”
Bollocks. The girl was a philosopher, and she was going to set Wellington’s intelligence ring back months! “Why were you at the Wasp? What did they do to you?”
He regretted his curt tone immediately when her face blanched. “What I have seen, Capitaine . . . what I have witnessed burdens my soul.”
He backed away from the rail as a tremor jolted through him. She was a helpless female far away from home and forced to disguise herself in order to stay alive. What had she endured at the hands of corsairs? Perhaps they had more in common than he cared to admit.
“You’ll get over it,” he said. The lie and the insensitivity of his comment tasted vile on his tongue. Wolf had to hand it to the girl, she hadn’t broken character except for the one slip up in the tavern. Not breaking under pressure was a spy’s greatest weapon. Joanna would be impressed if she was still with them. His mouth went dry as he gazed at his knuckles, heart stuck in his throat. How could he persuade this girl to trust him and divulge the truth about her circumstances without jeopardizing her disguise?
“There are some things a girl”—she squeezed her eyelids closed, then opened them to cover her gaffe—“a boy can never recover from.”
Boy. Recover. Panic hit him full force. He couldn’t remember how to breathe. To remedy that, he kept steady contact with the girl’s eyes as voices he didn’t recognize scrambled into his head: You cannot move forward unless you know where you’ve been.
He didn’t know where he’d been, but he did know that the young woman standing before him wasn’t at fault for his predicament and she didn’t deserve his anger. She deserved compassion for all that she’d endured.
If she were able to look into his soul with those smoky, hopeful eyes and see what he’d done in Wellington’s name, Wolf was certain she wouldn’t like what she saw. In fact, she’d see a monster.
“A man can recover from anything,” Wolf said. He’d told himself the lie over the years, but it gutted him afresh. He cleared his throat, hoping to chase away the demons that raised their ugly heads, but he knew it would take more than a cigar and liquor to defeat them. He quickly changed the subject. “You said you didn’t know anything about ships. Is that true?”
“I know next to nothing,” she said, surveying the Sea Wolf’s length and breadth. “I’ve not been given the opportunity to learn.”
“It’s time you did.” He nodded and gestured toward the companionway as the deck heaved and salty air clung to his skin. “Allow me to introduce you to the one thing separating you and the locker before you do something from which you’ll never recover.”
She muttered something unintelligible behind his back as Wolf led her to several men posted at the helm.
“What be our headin’, Cap’n?” Cyrus asked.
“Good question.” Wolf turned to Selina. “I promised to take you home. Where are we bound?”
She gaped openly at Wolf. “Cornwall,” she said with astonishment.
Wolf turned back to the helm. “You have your heading.”
“Cornwall?” Cyrus asked loudly. “Where in Cornwall?”
She glanced back at Saint-Malo’s landscape. He followed her stare, wondering how the smoke in the distance was affecting her.
“Portreath,” she said. “Do you know it?”
Cyrus gave Wolf a brief nod. “Mining district. Know it well.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, the wily man. If anyone could put the girl at ease, it was Cyrus. “What be yer name, lad?”
“Herding,” she replied without missing a beat.
Cyrus nodded. “Busiest port in Cornwall if it’s copper and tin ye’re after.”
“Aye,” she said, staring at the horizon. “Means everything to some.”
Wolf clasped his hands behind his back. “Is that why you’re accustomed to being dirty?”
Bollocks. If he wasn’t scaring her to death, he insulted her.
She craned her neck to look up at him, her brow quirked at his attempted humor. “Aye,” she said. “Pit mining. My father owns a successful corporation.”
Wolf broke away from the rail and began to pace. Was she Julius Herding’s daughter, then? Herding had made a name for himself as Lord Francis Basset’s partner. The two were well-known mining investors west of Truro, as was Richard Trevithick, the inventor.
“Is that what makes you so valuable?” he asked.
“I couldn’t say. You’d have to ask the man who kidnapped me.”
Wolf turned to Cyrus.
Cyrus shoved his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He didn’t have to speak. They both knew corsairs didn’t pirate as far north as Portreath without reason.
“This way,” he said, narrowing his gaze at Cyrus before leading the girl below. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
His frustration mounted as he led her to the companionway ladder. He didn’t want to scare Miss Herding. Fear had been all she’d known since her kidnapping. He wanted to ease her discomfort, offer her safety, and escort her home, wherever that might be. In order to do those things, however, he’d have to earn her trust. And the only way to do that was to make her feel more comfortable on board the Sea Wolf—and around him—and to shower her with the kindnesses she’d been denied by her captors.
Wolf descended the ladder to the main deck and waited impatiently for her to join him. He’d known it was a mistake to bring the girl aboard. He should have insisted that Joanna take responsibility for her. But damn him, he’d made his choice. In the meantime, he’d be a monster if he ignored the depravities this young woman had been forced to suffer.
God help the men responsible for doing this to her—and for disrupting his plans.
Light reflected off the billowing sails thundering and clapping overhead. The breeched guns positioned in their ports at even intervals reminded Selina that the Sea Wolf was a powerful and deadly vessel. She’d been designed to fight, evade, and capture other ships. But whose ships and for what purpose?
The Sea Wolf was alive. Powerful sails were her heartbeat, and the swells and troughs echoed her pulse. Sea dogs, as the captain had referred to them, ascended the rigging while others scampered across the deck to their stations. Seagulls followed as the ship sailed, screeching, rising, ducking, and circling the stern. Having been kept in a cage on two separate voyages, Selina had never seen anything to rival this thrilling scene in her life.
Buckets hung from the quarterdeck rail, and a single lantern illuminated the space underneath. Its rickety brackets ground out a rhythm to the pitch and sway of the vessel beneath them.
“Where are we going?” she asked the captain, wondering anew at the immense size of the three-masted ship.
“Where your duties can be explained without interruption. Everyone on board this ship must earn his keep.” He turned abruptly around. “I thought I made that abundantly clear.”
“Yes, but—”
“You agreed to be my cabin boy, did you not?” he asked, flaunting the terms of her freedom in her face.
“Yes, but—”
“Cabin boys take care of their masters.” His size dwarfed hers, and her nerves took flight. “Was that not clear?”
Wicked retribution flickered in his eyes—or had she imagined it? They stood between the two companionways, and the dwindling light seemed to take delight in teasing her senses.
She swallowed thickly. “What exactly are cabin boys expected to do?”
“Many things.” He resumed his course to a bulkhead door. “Deliver my food. Clean the mess. Keep my cabin orderly. Launder my garments. Shine my boots. Deliver messages to and from my crew. In truth, because you are green, you’ll need to study blueprints of the ship so that you do not get lost.”
What he described was a servant. Is that all a cabin boy was? Eleven servants had been employed at Trethewey House since before she was born. She wasn’t a servant and didn’t know how to be one. In truth, she didn’t know who or what she was, though Owen had pushed her to excel at every level.
Selina fought the urge to wipe her sleeve against her mouth as she walked twice as fast to keep up with the captain’s strides. She’d slathered dirt over her face and exposed skin to conceal her true identity. Blood had caked the corners of her mouth where Cuvier had slapped her. The wound ached whenever she spoke.
“I apologize for not being aware of my duties,” she said as the captain came to a stop.
He placed his hand on the door latch. “No need to apologize. Every sea dog follows a trail of scraps before he feasts.” He nodded toward the bulkhead. “My cabin.”
“Your . . .” What made him believe she would go into his cabin with him?
“I prefer to explain what is expected of you in private, away from prying ears,” he said, his brooding eyes lighting up strangely as he glanced around. She followed his stare, noting that they were being watched. “The sea is limitless,” he said, “forcing a ship to become a world adrift. In order to survive, nothing is held sacred or kept from my men. But in this instance, I believe privacy outweighs curiosity, don’t you?”
“Of course.” She was struck once more by the contradictory sides of this man, his perplexing words and demeanor, his long hair, strong jawline, and muscular body. How did he manage to maneuver inside a ship at all when he was so tall and broad?
“One step is all it takes to embark on an adventure,” he said calmly. “You’ve taken the first one.”
She cocked her head. “I have?”
“You’ve joined my crew. Now I ask you to take another: trust me.”
Trust him? She had no choice, she supposed, as much as she feared the way her body responded to this man whenever he was near. If she intended to maintain her disguise, she’d have to make decisions a boy would make, without fear or prejudice to gender.
“I shall,” she said.
Laughter rumbled from his chest. He looked her up and down. “You’re a fighter—that much is plain. I respect that.”
Oh, why did his comment have to sound like a compliment? Everything this sea captain did managed to enthrall her.
Without another word, he opened the bulkhead door and ushered her inside, shutting the portal behind them.
There, standing in the midst of the captain’s cabin, Selina’s stomach clenched at the sight of the broad box bunk occupying one corner of the room. The large, carved mahogany structure demanded to be noticed in the private space. Curtains hung from three sides of the bedstead. Its counterpane—dyed a devilish red—called to her weary bones. Further inspection of the disorderly room revealed a desk strewn with brass instruments, a spyglass, and charts. Two chairs were draped with clothes near a washstand and an open trunk.
Light danced from the stern windows. Their closed panes reminded her that no one could help her now. Selina gulped and shivered, trying to mask her concern. What did Wolf intend to do with her? Hadn’t Wolf told Robillard that he preferred cabin boys?
Selina tried to settle her nerves as the silence between them dragged on. She’d never been alone in a man’s bedchamber before, not even that of her betrothed. Oh, if her father could see her now, what would he say? Suddenly, she felt entirely too exposed.
She glanced at the closed door. This did not bode well for her at all.
Her heart sank into her belly as she watched the captain rummaging through the papers piled on his desk. “Have you lost something?” she asked.
“Nothing lost cannot be found,” he said, continuing to open drawers.
He was mistaken. When her mother died, she’d been told by the servants that light had dimmed at Trethewey, never to shine again. Would the same be said of her? She imagined Lord Gariland’s concern would be great, but it was too much to hope that Papa was worried about her or longed to see her again. Did he weep over their circumstances? Think she and Owen had been killed after their ransom had been paid? Had he organized a rescue, or had he been searching for them himself over the past several weeks?
News of her kidnapping would have spread from Redruth to Camborne to Portreath by now. Lord Gariland—jilted as he’d been at the altar on their wedding day—would have received sympathy for his plight. When she returned, however, and the circumstances of her abduction became known, that might change. Selina would be the talk of the district. Events like these occupied people’s minds, helping them forget their own circumstances.
She also had to consider Papa’s ambitions. Her sudden reappearance, after spending weeks with corsairs, would cause a scandal, but her return, with or without Papa’s heir, would be pure agony. Papa had shunned her, giving her only what she needed to become a lady. From the moment of her birth, she’d been nothing but an investment, no different from the mines his corporation owned. Knowledge of her existence tortured him. Because she lived and Mama was dead. Owen had eventually recovered from his grief and learned to love her. They’d been inseparable since she was six years old.
She pinched her lips as she became weak in the knees. The cabin spun. Unless Owen managed to escape Cadiz and make it home before her, Papa would blame her for taking his heir away from him, too. Suddenly struck by how jaded her feelings had become toward the man her mother had once loved, Selina felt her mind give way.
The lantern light dimmed, and the room darkened. “I’ll have Keegan, our cook, prepare you victuals right away,” the captain said, leafing through papers on his desk.
She swayed. “Oh . . .”
Before she knew what was happening, the captain caught her as she was about to faint. There was something about the captain’s touch, his gruff exterior and inner pain, that she could relate to. “There, there,” the captain said. “Hold on a little bit longer.”
Selina nodded, the action exasperating her dizziness. “I’ll try.”
She shut her eyes, trying to blot out her worries. Weeks had passed since her disappearance. When she returned to Portreath, she’d be forced to relive the ordeal again and again to appease everyone’s curiosity, unless she sought seclusion on the moors.
She’d never been addlepated like this before—far from it. She was a realist willing to do whatever it took to survive, including cutting her hair, exchanging her fine clothes for a boy’s filthy garments, and wallowing in a pigpen. No one knew more than she did what awaited her when they docked in Portreath.
Tears stung her eyes. She tried to tell herself that none of that mattered, not anymore. But it did. Her return to Trethewey House would invite public scorn, what Papa would consider an act of war. She didn’t intend to stay long, however. If her brother hadn’t yet returned, she’d find a way to hire a crew and sail to Cadiz to find Owen or die trying.
Silence filled the room. She opened her eyes and glanced up at the captain, rubbing the raw flesh at her wrists. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me by telling me your name—your real name.” He’d stripped his tricorn from his head and tossed it on the bed, glowering at her as he shoved his fingers through his thick brown hair. “No more hiding,” he said. “I know your secret.”