Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 4

  He advanced a few paces, then stopped. “Do I intrude?” he inquired, a smile which just missed being offensive on his face as he looked from the captain to Julia and back again.

  “Happily, yes,” Captain Thorpe replied with a look of sardonic amusement as his blue gaze rested on the color which stained Julia’s cheekbones.

  Speculation gleamed in de Gruys’ black eyes before his heavy lids came down to hide it. Moving forward, he took the chair beside Julia. “You look charming tonight, mademoiselle,” the Frenchman observed.

  Julia murmured something appropriate. De Gruys was himself dressed for the occasion. In his dark coat with satin lapels, the silvery color of polished steel, stiffly starched linen, and white breeches, he was a shade too resplendent for the shipboard meal. Beside Captain Thorpe, he looked rather like a dandy in mourning. In retaliation for the moment of embarrassment he had caused her, she swept her gaze over his somber raiment and asked, “May I offer my condolences, m’sieu?”

  “What? Oh no, no, mademoiselle. They are not at all necessary. My friends are all well. As for my family, I have none for whom to grieve.”

  “Forgive my mistake,” she said, veiling her eyes with her lashes, though not before she had seen the twitch of Captain Thorpe’s mouth.

  “You, I would forgive anything,” de Gruys replied punctiliously, if with a certain stiffness in his manner.

  With both men on the defensive, Julia found it a labor to make conversation. It was a relief when they were joined by Jeremy Free, M’sieu Robeaud, and her father. The other ship’s officers would not be putting in an appearance, since they were in town, making the most of their last night on shore.

  The new arrivals were followed by a steward bearing a tray containing glasses and a bottle of sherry. When all had been served and the steward had departed, Captain Thorpe spoke. “I understand, M’sieu Dupré, that you have news?”

  “Indeed?” the older man said, his gaze moving significantly to the first mate.

  “You need not fear speaking in front of Jeremy. As first officer of this ship, he must naturally have some knowledge of where she is sailing and for what reason. He is also a friend who has my implicit trust.”

  Julia’s father hesitated a moment, then inclined his head. “Knowing your concern for the secrecy of this mission, I bow to your judgment. This afternoon a new message was received from St. Helena. Cipriani Franceschi, maître d’hôtel to the emperor and a man of considerable use to him as a spy and confederate, has been poisoned. It is not known whether he was killed because of his usefulness to his master as an organizer of informants and counteragents against the English, or whether he partook of a dish intended for Napoleon himself. On the night he was stricken, Franceschi was serving dinner and became incapacitated during the course of it. He died a week later after days of excruciating pain.”

  “Does the emperor consider that an attempt was made on his life?” Robeaud inquired.

  “The emperor has not made known his thoughts. Regardless, it becomes of the utmost importance to remove him from such an — unhealthy atmosphere.”

  “Of a certainty,” Robeaud agreed, his gray eyes gentle. “I never considered otherwise.”

  They were immediately reminded that to remove Napoleon from this new danger meant exposing Eugène Robeaud to it. That the quiet, self-effacing man did not shrink from the possibility seemed to make it worse instead of better.

  “Forgive me, my friend,” M’sieu Dupré said, frowning. “Such a death — no one could be blamed for withdrawing from it.”

  Robeaud shifted his gaze to the swaying shadow pattern made by the overhead lantern on the table. “It makes no difference. Compared to some, such an end would be swift.”

  Captain Thorpe put a merciful period to that line of thought. “Will this development affect the emperor’s plan?”

  “There was nothing in the message to indicate that it will. However, common sense tells us that time has become an enemy, which, like the jailers of the emperor, must be combated with whatever means are at our disposal.”

  The Sea Jade loosed its mooring in the gray light of dawn and, borne on the breast of the river’s current, turned its siren-eyed figurehead toward the turquoise gulf. Julia, lying sleepless in her bunk, heard the shouted orders. The feel of the ship floating free gave her a peculiar sensation, as if she were being torn away from the shore, set adrift without purpose or direction. Experimentally, she reached out to touch the bulkhead. It vibrated with tension, as though the ship were a living thing. The sound of wavelets against the hull came with the regular cadence of a heartbeat, disturbingly close and insensibly threatening.

  In the hope of escaping such fantasies, Julia threw back the covers and slid out of her bunk. She did not trouble to light a lamp, but dressed in the dark, pulling the first gown she came to, a rose cambric, on over her convent-embroidered chemise and underskirt. Napoleon’s bee at her throat, her cashmere shawl about her shoulders, she was ready.

  A thin blanket of fog lay over the river, and the trees of the shoreline seemed to grow from a cloud. Already New Orleans had dropped away out of sight. The only sign of habitation was cleared fields of waving sugar cane, appearing like gaps among the trees.

  The mahogany ship’s rail was wet to the touch. Julia tucked her damp, chilled fingers beneath her crossed arms, lifting her face to the moisture-laden breeze. The dank smell of the river was in her nostrils with the scent of new hemp, fresh paint, and tar. The activity on deck had slowed as the sails were set. One or two of the men who made up the crew glanced with interest in her direction as she stood alone, but they quickly averted their eyes when she looked their way. A sudden show of industry on their part was enough to alert her to the approach of their captain.

  “You are up early, mademoiselle,” Rudyard Thorpe greeted her.

  “The sailing woke me,” she replied. She had not realized how cool the wind was until she found herself in the lee of his body. The warmth emanating from him was oddly disquieting, as if it had a magnetic quality, which she had to resist to keep from drawing nearer. It required an effort of will to keep from flinching as he took her arm and led her toward the bow, out of hearing of the ship’s crew.

  “Not regretting leaving?” he queried, turning to her as he came to a halt.

  She shook her head, managing a smile despite her earlier misgivings.

  “Certain? Think carefully, while there is still time to put back into New Orleans.”

  She swung her head to stare at him. “Would you really do that?”

  “I would,” he answered, meeting her amber gaze squarely.

  “I had not realized you wanted to be rid of me quite so badly, captain, in spite of everything. But, I’m sorry. I’m afraid you will have to learn to live with me.”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. “That is an idea,” he told her, and watched in amusement as the color of embarrassment tinged her skin.

  “I see nothing comical,” she snapped.

  “No? Perhaps, you lack a sense of humor?” he suggested. “Or, maybe you’re just not used to people laughing at you.” As she opened her mouth to refute both charges, he held up his hand. “Oh, I know all about you; I’ve made it my business to know. Your mother died when you were thirteen, your father took you out of your dull convent school and made you his housekeeper and boon companion. Your accomplishments are legion, from the feminine and social graces to more masculine arts like cupping wafers with a pistol, driving a curricle and pair, riding horses astride, playing euchre, faro, poker, and chess to win. Beautiful, graceful, intelligent, bilingual, if not trilingual, grounded in the classics and the sciences — there is little there to provoke ridicule, and yet, we all have our faults.”

  “It is gratifying to see that you include yourself among the imperfect.”

  “High temper disguised as acid wit, that’s the first fault. For myself, I’ve always considered a woman without temper a pathetic creature, but some consider it a blemish.”

 
She longed to slap the condescending smile off his face, but that would be to show the temper he accused her of. “Perhaps, I should be flattered by your interest,” she mused.

  “Spoiled by men. No doubt that’s the fault of your father and his elderly friends. Did you notice that when I extolled your virtues just now you neglected to voice a word of appreciation?”

  “I was not aware that I was being complimented. As for being spoiled, you have not known me long enough to judge.”

  The corner of his mouth twisted in a smile. “I’m certain that you are thoughtful and considerate and self-sacrificing, but I’m also sure that you extract your quota of homage. If not, why are you still unmarried? Isn’t it because no one man can satisfy your vanity?”

  She turned to face him, gold flecks of rage glittering in her amber eyes. “Are you certain we are talking of me, captain, or is it of some other woman who has disappointed you? I have not married because I have never met a man I could not live without. If it is being spoiled to have a father who will permit me to make that decision for myself instead of choosing a husband for me, then I suppose I must plead guilty. As for my vanity, it is not so colossal as to lead me to think I can understand a fellow human being from a few hours’ acquaintance!”

  If he felt the prick of her riposte, he did not show it. “Bravo,” he said softly, a reluctant gleam of approval in his eyes. “I begin to hope you may not be such an encumbrance on this voyage as I feared.”

  “You — do you mean the things you said were merely to provoke me, to see what I would reply? That is the most despicable trick I have ever seen!”

  “Is it? Then, I can’t say much for your experience. In an expedition such as this, we are as weak as the frailest member. It is well to test the steel of your allies, as well as your enemies.”

  “Weak? This is a strong expedition, heavily financed, organized by Napoleon himself, and supported by his sympathizers on two continents, to say nothing of St. Helena!”

  “From where I stand, mademoiselle, it appears that I have set out to free a man guarded by the naval power of the greatest seagoing nation in the world with the aid of an elderly gentleman, a popinjay, a young woman, and a dying man. Can you truly blame me for being cautious?”

  “Come, captain,” she said in dulcet tones. “You must not underestimate your own strength.”

  “Nor yours,” he said, and pushing away from the railing, he left her.

  ~ ~ ~

  In the days which followed, they slipped imperceptibly into a routine. M’sieu Robeaud and Marcel de Gruys seldom appeared for breakfast. Julia’s father, normally an indolent man who kept late hours and late risings, seemed invigorated by the sea air and the excitement of their purpose. He made it his habit to eat with the ship’s officers, and he insisted that Julia join him. She was happy to do so. The camaraderie of the dining saloon in the early morning hours was a pleasure, and she was able, without too much difficulty, to coax many details of the running of the ship from Jeremy Free and the second mate, an Irishman by the name of O’Toole. What the Irishman lacked in manly beauty — he had flaming red hair, which the damp salt air made to stand on end like a wire brush, a wide split between his teeth, and a seamed face displaying every one of his forty years — he made up for in audacity. Before they had left the muddy silt of the Mississippi River behind them, Julia had ceased to be Mademoiselle Dupré and become “Julie me darling.” Frown, correct, forbid as she would, nothing short of downright, hostile withdrawal seemed likely to prevent him from taking that liberty with her name, and his company was much too entertaining to be deprived of it by standing on her dignity.

  Strolling about the deck, sitting with a book in a chair contrived of canvas, rinsing out a few articles of clothing and placing them before the porthole to dry — these things whiled away the morning. Unless she could avoid him by staying in her cabin doing needlework or napping, Marcel usually took up her afternoons. It was not that she was averse to his company. He was a most gratifying escort, lavish in his praise of her superior qualities. At first, it seemed natural that he should consider her, her father, and himself as above the others in some way, but she soon grew tired of his constant complaints, his harping on the defects of the ship, and his attempts to vilify its officers. He gravitated so surely to her side that she began to suspect that it was her status as the only female on the ship rather than her charms which attracted him.

  Gradually, a familiarity began to creep into Marcel’s manner also. Once, when he had run her to earth where she sat alone in the dining saloon, she gave him her hand in greeting. Instead of bowing over it in the accepted manner, he carried it to his lips palm uppermost. The grip of his hand was tight and faintly damp. His smooth lips touched her palm, and then, she felt the flick of his warm, wet tongue across that sensitive surface.

  The shock of it traveled up her arm. She snatched her hand away and an instant later swung it with a cracking slap against the side of his face.

  Rage flared in his eyes for a brief moment, then was deliberately snuffed out. He allowed a hurt look to move over his countenance. “Why, Mademoiselle Dupré. What have I done to offend you?”

  “You know very well,” Julia said. Disbelief jostled with fury in her mind, and unconsciously, she rubbed the open palm of her hand on her skirt.

  “I protest, I have not the least idea.”

  Gold flecks glittered in her eyes at his effrontery. She opened her mouth to denounce him, and then the difficulty of putting his exact crime into words held her mute.

  “Can you not explain? Do not attempt it. As a man of some experience, I understand the odd humors of young ladies very well. I do not hold your moment of temper against you, I assure you. In fact, I do most earnestly beg your pardon for whatever small error I may have made to raise your ire.”

  A young woman less certain of herself could have been forgiven for doubting the evidence of her senses under the effect of his suave denial and forgiving air. Julia was not fooled, but short of accusing him like a fishwife she could do nothing. Her head high, she retreated into a cold disdain which, while an unsatisfactory release for her feelings, had the desired result. Though he still denied any knowledge of how he might have offended her, Marcel begged her pardon with every appearance of sincerity. Returned to her graces, he behaved himself with the utmost propriety, though occasionally, Julia caught him looking at her as though mentally stripping away the fragile muslin which covered her.

  She debated whether to speak to her father about Marcel. He had so much on his mind, was so involved in conferences with Captain Thorpe and M’sieu Robeaud, that she hesitated to burden him further. It could be argued that her problems were her own fault, since she had insisted on coming on this voyage without a maid or suitable female companion. There was also the possibility that her father might feel called upon to reprimand Marcel. If he clung to his plea of innocence, there would doubtless be a quarrel, which could cause much unpleasantness in such close quarters. In addition, de Gruys was known for his skill with rapiers; it was even rumored that he had killed his man and been forced to flee France for Louisiana. If the tales were true, she certainly did not wish to risk a meeting between him and her father. While M’sieu Dupré had boasted a certain skill with blades in his youth, he no longer had the stamina required for a match which featured foils without buttons.

  The clash of arms on deck one warm, lethargic afternoon brought her topside in a rush, which left her out of breath. Eyes wide, she stared at the men circling each other, coatless and in their stocking feet on the foredeck. An instant later, she sagged against the door of the companionway in relief. One of the men was Marcel de Gruys, the other Captain Thorpe. Her father, eyes bright with interest, stood to one side with M’sieu Robeaud and the majority of the crew. There was a great noise among the assembled men as bets were placed and the merits of each man candidly discussed. From what Julia could gather, the captain was favored for his longer reach and greater strength, though a vocal group opted fo
r the Frenchman. Marcel might be smaller, but was fast on his feet and wielded his weapon with a dexterity seldom seen outside a salles des armes, the fencing schools for young men.

  The men circled, feinting, parrying, their blades scraping together with the singing rasp of fine steel. A look of narrow-eyed concentration masked the captain’s face, while de Gruys allowed himself a confident smile. Once or twice it seemed the Frenchman’s sword had slipped under the guard of the other man, but Thorpe always recovered. In each case, de Gruys redoubled his efforts, certain of momentary victory. Slowly, they moved over the deck, the captain retreating before the flashing brilliance of the other man’s swordplay. But, as de Gruys failed to touch his man, a flush of anger mounted into his face. His smile faded, to be replaced by a grimace of determination. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead and trickled down his temples, though Captain Thorpe seemed unaffected by his exertions.

  As the seamen moved to keep the combatants in sight, Julia drew nearer to her father. “What is it, Papa? Why do they fight?” she asked in an undertone.

  “Who can say? For sport, perhaps, or boredom, or to test their comparative skill.”

  “Then — it is not a duel?”

  Her father frowned without taking his eyes from the two men. “It did not begin so, but I think it cannot end now without a loss of pride for one of them.”

  Had Captain Thorpe set out to test the mettle of de Gruys as he had tested her? If so, it appeared that he had gotten more than he bargained for. De Gruys was a formidable opponent. She would have liked to feel glad, but instead she was prey to the beginning of an angry helplessness. Their mission was too important to risk it in such rivalries. As annoying and overbearing as Captain Thorpe was, he was indispensable to the success of that mission. De Gruys was not.

  As her eyes followed the glinting steel of the two swords, she considered and discarded methods by which she could put an end to the fight. There seemed no way short of stepping between them. Before she could shift her position, there was a sudden change in the offensive. Captain Thorpe ceased to retreat, pressing forward against the weakened defense of the Frenchman. There was a flurry of steel, and the light sword spun from de Gruys’ grasp to clatter on the deck.