A Different Sort of Perfect (29 page)

The gun captains nodded, eyeing the fast-closing gap
between the ships as the swabbers cleaned the six pounders' gullets
with wet mops. Instead of cannonballs, the crews loaded with
grapeshot, clusters of smaller shot wrapped with canvas into tight
packages. When the stern chasers were fired, the grapeshot would
act as massive shotguns, spraying that crowd of boarders with
dozens of two-inch iron balls. But the gap narrowed faster than the
gun crews could scramble, faster than the rudder and wheel could
turn her. Before the guns were ready, Fleming could hear the growl
of French voices as the Armides worked themselves up for the
charge. Panting and choking on the acrid smoke, he hauled on the
line, putting his shoulders and back into the pull. The six
pounders rolled toward the gunports. But mere feet now separated
the ships. They'd never make it. His crew would be butchered and it
was his fault. He gritted his teeth and pulled harder.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. He tried to
ignore it, tried to concentrate on running out the grape-shotted
six pounders, their last hopeless hope. But the movement was wrong,
in the wrong place. It wasn't aboard
Topaze
. Nor
Armide
. Unbelievably, it was the
Flirt
. Fleming
straightened, the rope falling from his hands.

An officer stood on the
Flirt
's devastated
quarterdeck. Short; narrow shoulders; round head. Untidy, uncovered
brown hair billowed in the still-strengthening breeze and a single
golden epaulette glowed on his left shoulder through the smoke. A
wet smear darkened the side of his face. But he stood, clear and
proud, glaring at the
Armide
's taffrail. And impossibly, the
muzzles of five cannons, run out and ready, stared with him.

The pounding, yelling, roaring din of battle faded
away. Fleming stared, a fiery joy welling up from his middle and
flooding through him. Perhaps he could no longer hear; it felt as
if the gun smoke cocooned him, rather like cotton wool. And perhaps
the Armides noticed his fascination, for they swung aside, away
from the helpless
Topaze
and toward this new, unexpected
threat. The strange silence dragged on and the three ships seemed
to stand still, defying wind and wave —
Topaze
frozen in
place, the forgotten
Flirt
athwart
Armide
's hawse,
double-shotted and itching for the stroke.

Then Lamble yelled, "Fire!" The five cannons
thundered as one. Heavy smoke billowed, covering
Topaze
's
quarterdeck. Fleming choked, coughing on his next breath and
stumbling, grabbing the taffrail, as
Topaze
crunched against
Armide
's beam. The boarders were coming. His cavalry saber
was somehow in his hand. He braced, ready to swing. But the smoke
cleared, blowing to leeward, and Armide's upper deck was shockingly
empty.

"On deck!" yelled the mainmast lookout. "She's
struck! The
Armide
's striking her colors!"

Indeed, the tricolor crept down
Armide
's
mizzen shrouds. The French captain had surrendered. No boarders
were coming; his crew was safe. The last of the smoke blew clear,
revealing Lamble on his quarterdeck, the French captain on his, a
strange, surreal gathering of ships and men.

And he, Alexander Fleming, still stood astride
Topaze
. The battle was over and they had won. It was time to
recover, rebuild, return to port.

And serve out that bloody-minded French captain.

Cheering rolled for'ard from battery to battery,
strangely muted after the thundering gunfire. On her knees in front
of the tub, Clara breathed on the slow match, just enough to ensure
it kept burning, and only when the red glow brightened did she
glance up. The gun crews had left the guns and clustered around the
scuttlebutts, filling the ladles and passing water from hand to
cheerful hand. Smiles lit their soot-blackened faces, even the ones
whose grime was shot through with horrible red streaks.

"What is it?" she called. Staunton turned, a grin
plastered across his face, and cupped one hand to his ear. Of
course, he'd been deafened by the din, too. She took a deep breath
and bellowed. "What's happening?"

"She's struck!" Clearly he was yelling, too, but
through her ears' numbness, he seemed to be whispering on the gun
deck's far side, not standing feet from her. "The Frenchie's struck
her colors!"

His words were simple, but more than her ears were
numb. Clara knelt, motionless. Staunton's meaning refused to
penetrate her stunned senses, her suspended thoughts. She'd worked,
moved, kept going during the battle, willingly inhibiting her self
and responding to the demands of the job she'd undertaken. Now,
even though it was quieter, the guns no longer firing, her mind
hesitated to resume its primary role.

But the gun crews' satisfied glee carried more weight
than any mere words. They stood casually, finished with one job,
preparing to begin another. The battle was over. They had won.

She sat back on her heels and thumped onto the
deckboards. They'd won. She'd fought, side by side with the members
of her crew, and they'd won. She'd protected her little floating
village, and they'd protected her, too. Mr. Abbot had drawn a
pistol from his belt and shot a French gunner who'd aimed a cannon
at her after meeting her glance through
Biting Bruiser
's
shattered gunport. And the entire for'ard battery had centered
their next few rounds on that gunner's location. She'd helped them,
and they'd helped her. The Topazes really, truly considered her
part of the crew.

"How 'bout a nice drink, m'lady?" Wake knelt next to
her, offering a ladle. A drop of water trickled down the side,
rolled across his gnarled, blackened knuckles, and dripped to her
skirt. It looked like heaven.

She reached for the ladle, but he helped guide it to
her mouth and tilted it for her. The water had warmed during the
battle, but it glided across her parched throat like last night's
red wine or even champagne. She drank swallow after swallow. Beyond
Wake, the waiting sailors grinned at her and nodded, welcoming and
satisfied. She grinned back, swiping at the water that dribbled
down her chin. Black, blacker than mud. Of course; she'd fought
with them and now she looked the same — covered in gunpowder soot
and filthy. Even her sweet blue sailor dress was foul, and her
hairpins had refused their duty, letting her locks fall across her
shoulders. Well, no one seemed to mind.

Least of all her. She'd wash. So would the dress, and
hang to dry with the rest of the crew's laundry during make and
mend.

Mr. Abbot leaned over, his hand extended. "My lady,
the captain's clerk will soon be needed on the quarterdeck. The
French captain is coming aboard with his sword to surrender
formally, and you'll need to take notes and enter it into the log.
May I give you a hand?"

Captain's clerk — the
captain
. Remembrance
came flooding back, and with it a tremor of that raw, elemental
fear. Captain Fleming, who'd stood on the quarterdeck with
cannonballs flying past. Surely past; surely not…

Mr. Abbot's fingers curled slightly, then
straightened. "The captain's waiting, my lady."

No lonely breakfast table; she sagged in place. But
she still had her job to do. Clara accepted Mr. Abbot's hand and
assistance; her knees for some inexplicable reason began trembling
as her hearing returned, as if only now did they realize she'd been
in the middle of the gun deck slaughterhouse, wielding a rammer and
helping load a cannon while an enemy ship did its best to murder
her.

She had. Honestly, truly, she had. Harmony would
never believe her and Diana would faint dead away. And it might be
best if Uncle David and Aunt Helen never heard this particular
tale. Leaning on the first lieutenant's arm, Clara giggled. Even he
smiled at her. Even Mr. Abbot. The giggles threatened to take over
and she bit her lip to stop them. She still had her job to do and
couldn't break down yet.

Book and inkhorn in hand, she danced up the aft
ladder to the quarterdeck, into the brilliant, blissful sunshine.
The storm had blustered well ahead and the steady, regular Atlantic
rollers had returned. Boats plied between the three vessels,
Topaze, Armide,
and
Flirt,
the prize crews rowing
over to take possession and the French officers and warrant
officers coming aboard for their glum journey to England. Captains
Fleming and Lamble bellowed at each across the yards separating the
ships, rather like cheery bulls, discussing repairs and supplies.
And wonder of wonders, Chandler dashed up the for'ard hatchway,
bandages wrapped about his head and left arm slung to his side,
glancing desperately about as if afraid he'd missed all the
fun.

Setting her book and inkhorn on the capstan, Clara
yanked out the offending hairpins and combed fingers through her
hair. Oh, but these snarls would never come out without a brush. A
bump and accompanying growl from Mr. Abbot announced the arrival of
a boat alongside, hooking on. She giggled and rolled another
topknot, pegging it into position. Half the rigging shot away, a
chunk blasted from the mizzen topmast, holes in the hull above the
waterline, and he was worrying about the paintwork?

Hard feelings still possessed the Topazes, despite
their victory. Side ropes weren't shipped for the French captain,
nor did the officers assemble for his reception. Mr. Abbot stood
handy, hand on his reloaded pistol, calling orders to the crew
already knotting and splicing the torn rigging, but Captain Fleming
turned his back on the accommodation ladder and climbed to the
quarterdeck. She shoved in the last hairpin, grabbed the book and
inkhorn, and hurried to join him.

He froze, staring at her with eyes wide and face
slack. For a long, agreeable moment he seemed too stunned to speak.
His glance over her poor little sailor dress couldn't help but
notice the gunpowder stains, the tears and scorched burn holes from
flying sparks. He knew where she'd been, what she'd been doing. And
his speechless astonishment, his mounting respect, crowned an
already delightful morning.

Finally he cleared his throat. "Captain's clerk, good
to see you entire."

Captain's clerk.
Not
Lady Clara.
Something in her chest swelled until she couldn't possibly contain
it, and she smiled. "You as well, Captain Fleming." Although his
skin and Guernsey frock, too, were blackened with soot, he didn't
appear to be so much as scratched.

"Well, then, we're ready to work, are we?" He rubbed
his hands down his thighs, bumping his sheathed saber. "Even if we
aren't, let's put up a bold front for our good and dear friend, the
ruddy grass-combing dishonorable villain."

Meaning the French captain who'd ordered the
Flirt
's pounding. She'd be ready to receive
him,
all
right. With hasty fingers she opened the inkhorn and book, loaded
her pen, and noted down the time. Only then did she turn.

A dark bicorne hat, crumpled at the brim and worn in
the modern fore-and-aft fashion, rose above the railing, followed
by a shaggy headful of short auburn curls, the face turned aside
and lowered as if watching the boats plying between the ships. Gold
epaulettes and orange stand-up collar, midnight blue velvet dress
coat with a double row of gold buttons and gold lace — the dratted
man, he'd clearly grabbed a few minutes and dressed for the
occasion, and now he had a social advantage over their battlefield
shoddiness. Spotless white breeches, black Hessian boots with
little tassels bouncing in front. A curved saber sheathed at his
side. The French captain ducked his head as he climbed over the
railing, then stood straight on the gangway and turned to face the
quarterdeck.

And Clara's heart died within her.

Phillippe.

It wasn't possible, couldn't be true. Phillippe was
dashing, brave, everything that was good and perfect. He'd never
fire into a surrendered ship, never behave in such a callous,
savage manner. There had to be a mistake, a reason, a
misunderstanding. But his gaze crossed hers and his recognition —
their mutual recognition — had already aroused mutters across the
quarterdeck, mutters that flowed for'ard and aloft within seconds.
The drumbeat of the floating village was spreading the gossip. Heat
grew in her face; perhaps it was a good thing, being darkened with
gunpowder soot.

"Lady Clara?" Phillippe's bold voice cut through the
whispers. "
Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici
?" He mounted to the
quarterdeck and seized her hand, folding it between his two in that
possessive way she'd always relished. "I say it badly, as usual. Of
course I am enchanted to see you,
mademoiselle,
delighted
more than I can express. But this is very much a surprise."

The touch of his hands burned her skin. It always
had; she'd always felt the draw between them, an indescribable heat
that scorched her from the inside out, whether they wore gloves or
no. So did his commanding stare, his strong profile, those tousled
auburn curls falling over his broad forehead. His every feature
remained, just as she'd remembered them, just as she'd taught
herself to recall them. But this time, they didn't meet in a
ballroom or assembly hall. They didn't meet as friends nor even
polite, distant acquaintances. They met as enemies. And everyone
was watching. Covert discretion or blatant stares, it didn't matter
— the concentrated attention burned more than his touch. Over
Phillippe's shoulder, Mr. Abbot's smile had vanished. Beside
her—

Beside her, Captain Fleming made no sound. She
couldn't turn to read his expression. She couldn't look away from
Phillippe. But even without looking, she knew to the inch precisely
where Captain Fleming stood. And doubtless he'd be watching their
handclasp.