A Different Sort of Perfect (34 page)

Such a flurry of emotions flashed across the senior
midshipman's face: astonishment, disbelief, wariness, humility, and
finally simple, reluctant gratitude laced with wild humor. But
there was nothing ungallant remaining when he lifted his chin, and
if his smile seemed awkward still, she could not blame him. "All in
the line of duty, my lady."

She couldn't suppress a giggle, even though it
sounded shrill to her own ears and dampened her spirits further,
rather than raising them. When she met the captain's eyes, her
twisting smile faded. His fury had dissipated at her insistence,
but his stare, searching deep within her as if to read the letters
of her soul, overwhelmed her. She hadn't distracted him a whit from
his purpose, no more than he allowed. Not only was he the ship's
captain, but master of the situation. And the flicker of
recognition, of compassion and relief, that danced across his
expression in the lanterns' gentle light could only mean that he'd
followed her thoughts. She hadn't fooled him, and he hadn't fooled
her. Hadn't even tried to.

A man she could understand…

"And you?" he asked.

And you.
If only she knew. She couldn't even
identify the emotions fighting for release, much less her heart's
desire. "He frightened me," she admitted, "but he did not injure
me."

Although he tried.
Those words hung unsaid on
the quarterdeck. Her self-control wavered. The pressure within her
swelled in a relentless tide, confused and entwined emotions
fighting for release.

My perfect Phillippe tried to kill me.

Captain Fleming continued to wait, as if he, too,
felt the raw, rising tidal wave that soured the back of her throat.
His eyes drew her in, comforted her and encouraged her to let it
all go, but her dignity—

Dignity be hanged.
Those indescribable
emotions would no longer be restrained and she had no sane reason
to fight them.

"He tried to throw me overboard!" The words felt torn
from her raw throat, torn from her bones and blood and the deepest
hidden nooks of her soul. "The fornicating scoundrel, the rotting
vermin, the grass-combing cull!"

His eyebrows soared, his stern lips relaxed, but his
glinting eyes intensified. Humor, yes, but not as if he laughed at
her. More in… triumph?

Surely that would remind her temper of its proper
place. But words continued to tumble from her, some inner dam
broken and releasing them forth. "He's as fine a gentleman as
Lucifer himself. The scurrilous lout has outvillained villainy and
deserves to be harrowed, torn limb from limb—" But her throat again
tried to close, the understanding of how closely she'd approached
death waxing through her. She shuddered and broke off.

"In the Royal Navy, we say he should have his ear
nailed to a four-inch plank and be tossed overboard." Compassion
and understanding, real understanding, tinged Captain Fleming's
voice.

Her chest tightened in an entirely new manner. He
understood. Somewhere back in his life, someone had betrayed and
hurt him, as well. He'd invited her to spew out her fury rather
than close it off inside, rather than let it devour her from the
soul out. And now she knew that, if she'd successfully closed off
that hurricane of raw emotion, she would have drowned beneath it
and never recovered.

Chandler cleared his throat. "Or he could be towed
ashore on a grate." His voice sounded as awkward as he looked. But
at least he was trying.

"Indeed he could." Captain Fleming straightened
again. "Mr. Chandler, have—" he paused, glanced down, and his mouth
twisted into a grimace "—
him
taken to the sickbay and post a
Marine beside his hammock. He's to remain there under guard until
he's put ashore at Plymouth. The quartermaster will hold the deck
until you return."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Chandler nodded and started to
turn away with his usual alacrity. But suddenly he paused. His
glance snagged on Clara's, and he swallowed. Back he turned and
gave her a jerky bow before he clapped on his crushed hat and ran
for'ard.

A silence as awkward as the midshipman fell over the
quarterdeck, smothering it in rich tropical heat. She couldn't help
but rub her throat; it hurt, was swelling; bruises were forming
beneath her touch, bruises that carried the shape of Phillippe's
fingers. Her blood broiled but everything inside her tightened,
seeking another sort of relief, and she turned to the taffrail
rather than let such a childish response be seen by the crew.
They'd believed in her, welcomed her, and she'd betrayed their
trust.
His
trust. Perhaps in a way, she deserved the
punishment Phillippe had meted out.

Phillippe.
Her soul cried within her, for her.
From the moment he'd stepped aboard
Topaze
, his behavior
seemed inexplicable. Unless… unless his cynicism lurked even more
deeply than she'd suspected. Unless the chateau, the vineyard, the
entree
to Paris society, all were lies.

Unless he was an impoverished adventurer who needed a
silly young woman's fortune to salvage an expensive, fraudulent
lifestyle. During the Amiens peace, some English debtors had
migrated to France to escape their creditors; some of them rotted
in French prisons still. Might French debtors have turned that
about? Might not Phillippe's presence in Plymouth during the peace
have related, not to his interest in traveling and broadening his
acquaintance, but to a desire to escape debtor's prison?

"Captain's clerk?"

Captain Fleming's gentle voice hurt more than the
bruises. She'd betrayed his trust, yet he still at least addressed
her with courtesy. She'd not let him see this disgraceful reaction,
either, and a deep breath forced the tears back down. "Yes,
Captain?"

"May I escort you below?"

His eyes, pale in the moonlight, were compassionate,
probing, without judgment but filled with concern. The tears tried
again to overwhelm her. This time, she had to sniff before she
could answer.

"That would be welcome, thank you."

He offered his arm and she took it with real
gratitude, for her knees no longer wished to cooperate with the
rest of her. He took her weight, held her steady, and guided her
below, the sailors stepping back and staring as she passed. They
all doffed their hats and touched fingers to foreheads. That
gesture of respect should be for the captain; but all of them
stared, as usual, at her.

At the door to her cabin, he paused. "Do you wish to
be alone? Or shall I sit with you for a while in the great
cabin?"

And suddenly she was aware of the strength of his
arm, supporting her without effort. She shouldn't be clutching the
soft-as-butter, washed cambric of his shirt, nor allowing him to
hover over her so protectively, so gently. She eased away and
disentangled her arm from his. In the lamplight by the door to the
captain's cabin, the Marine sentry stood — not Morrow this time —
face like a rock, staring into space.

"I promise I'm uninjured."

He still didn't seem convinced, despite her attempt
at a smile. "External injuries are no longer my major concern."

The first tear spilled, and she swiped it away with a
finger. "I only need to rest."

"Then I will say no more, except if you need anything
in the night or require assistance, you have only to call. I—" He
paused. Although he didn't glance at the sentry, Captain Fleming
straightened, the smooth captain's mask falling over his face with
the ease of long practice. "—or Hennessy, of course, will be
available at any hour."

"You're very kind." Another traitorous tear broke
free. She had to escape.

But with her cabin door open, he spoke again. "I hope
you'll be able to resume your duties tomorrow."

He couldn't mean it, not after her betrayal. But the
lamplight fell fully onto his face and no glinting mischief
sharpened his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"I still need to write a blasted report on the
battle." He seemed embarrassed, even apologetic. "And you're much
better at drafting that stripped-down, cold-blooded sort of prose
than I am. Hopefully I'm not asking too much?"

"No." He had a point; she could assist him at that
task. And his need dried her tears better than any handkerchief.
"No, of course not, Captain. Consider my vocabulary and copperplate
hand at your disposal, preferably over a pot of coffee?"

"We'll meet at breakfast, then. Good night, my lady."
He turned and bounded up the ladder.

She still felt empty inside as she closed the cabin
door behind her. But it was a hollowed-out, clean sort of empty,
not the ripped vestige of a broken heart.

If he needed her, she'd be there.

Next morning in the great cabin, they crossed out one
scribbled line after another in their battle to prepare the battle
report. But it refused to come together, and Fleming admitted — to
himself, never to her — that it was because this would be the
report to make his career. And Abbot's — the first officer who
brought in an elegant and expensive captured French frigate would
likely be made post and given command of her. Honestly, unless
clumsily handled, the report wouldn't bring any harm to anyone
else's career, either, and once
Armide
was bought into the
service, the entire crew would share in the prize. So much
importance rode on this report, perhaps it was no wonder his tongue
was too tied to write it.

Overnight Lady Clara's slender throat had swollen to
twice its normal size and the bruises resembled the blackest storm
clouds, resembled his feelings toward that blasted
Frenchman,
the scum-swimming villain who didn't deserve to
look at her, much less court her. The damage looked severe and
painful, but she'd refused to lie abed despite the surgeon's dire
warnings. Instead, she insisted upon meeting him for breakfast and
then taking out her crow quill, inkhorn, and trimmed-down foolscap.
Her voice degenerated into a hoarse whisper and finally to scrawled
notes in the margins, barely legible. It would take a far harder
heart than the one beating in his chest to deny her the
sacrifice.

No matter that they had the rest of the cruise to
finalize the silly report and she needn't have bothered.

Even worse, however, she'd retracted back into her
dignified tortoiseshell, as if she refused to share her suffering
with him or anyone else. Not even Hennessy received a smile. Not
even Staunton. For one shining moment on the night-time
quarterdeck, she'd flashed out with her real spirit, the one that
brought out the worst in his sense of humor. Now it had once again
vanished, leaving him too distressed to concentrate.

It made him want to call out the despicable Frenchman
and then send the mumping miscreant to the bottom in a hammock with
roundshot sewn in at his feet, rather than haul him into Plymouth.
Some offenses could only be settled on a field of honor, but that
word stuck in his throat when applied to Levasseur — he had none
and shouldn't be granted any by a gentleman with any proper
pride.

Just where had this protective instinct arisen?
Perhaps he'd fooled himself into actually considering her a member
of his crew, making her his responsibility and none other's. If
Staunton faced injury, or if he'd known during the battle of
Chandler's, perhaps that would have aroused a similar surge toward
their defense. Or was this something entirely new in his makeup, a
recently developed resemblance to Cerberus?

Or was this something entirely
different
and
even more recent? But he had no wish to consider those
possibilities, and abandoned that train of thought.

In the end, they found two sentences upon which they
could agree before he wearied of his self-inquisition and begged
her indulgence to see to his ship. As he left the great cabin, he
bumped into the surgeon, testy at having to wait, by Rosslyn's
orders.

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Fleming didn't
wish to know.

Not yet, at least.

* * * *

It became a ritual as the Channel coast came closer
and closer, plotted each day at noon and entered into the log.
Although her voice returned and her bruises faded to virulent
yellows and greens, the surgeon advised her to remain withindoors
until she'd affected a full recovery, and although her lips thinned
and she glanced aside, she agreed to comply. So for as long as her
injuries inhibited her enjoyment of the poop deck and its open air,
Fleming dallied with her in the great cabin over coffee. Each day
they swatted out a few sentences, never enough to finish the
report, but always enough to justify the time and exercise. And if
he occasionally rejected a perfectly adequate sentence just to keep
her attention to himself, to rile her dormant temper and encourage
her to push back in the tigerish manner he'd grown to admire, well,
sitting with a lovely young gentlewoman wasn't a crime in his book,
at least.

Especially since the cabin doors were always open and
Hennessy trotted in and out, bringing a fresh pot or Naples
biscuits, taking away dirty cups and the gossip the crew doubtless
awaited on the fo'c'sle. Gossip was fine, so long as he did nothing
to give it horns.

But he couldn't force or wheedle a spirited response
from her, not with his best-aimed words or most infuriating
comment. It was as if she'd tidied away her raw emotions that night
on the quarterdeck and now refused to allow them air as long as she
couldn't have any herself. Hopefully this mood wouldn't last any
longer than her full recovery. The thought that it might formed ice
on his skin and stole his complaisance, leaving him unhappy and
yearning for one good, hard snap from the tigress.

Five days out from Plymouth, with a fair wind and
royals set, the narrowing deadline convinced him that several
sentences he'd previously described as pathetic actually had hidden
merit. With that concession they finally progressed in their task,
and while her neck hadn't quite recovered to its normal graceful
self, the bruises had diminished until it approached something
resembling that state. Perhaps it was shameful that he continued to
monopolize her time to such an extent, but handling the ship
without his supervision was excellent experience for Rosslyn and
the mids, and besides, a yell would bring him running should
disaster strike.