Seize the Fire Page 9

  Fish drank his ale, tilting back his chair and staring into the fire. He offered nothing to Olympia, ignoring her and everyone else. She rubbed her fingers together in her lap, miserably watching him finish off his fourth pitcher. She dared not speak. She could only turn slightly every time the door opened and watch the feet of anyone who came in.

  Fish was on his seventh mug when heavy boots sounded on the stairs from the private rooms. Olympia glanced up and looked away from the two strange men who descended into the taproom, heading for the door. The leader had already shoved open the wooden portal when the second one stopped next to her. She froze, staring at the oaken table.

  "This your boy?" It was a grating, unfamiliar voice.

  After a pause, Fish said, "Aye."

  The sound of boots came closer. The slice of afternoon light disappeared as the other man let the door fall closed and leaned against the frame.

  "He lookin' for work?"

  There was another long pause, and then to Olympia's horror, Fish said, "Might be."

  She glanced up at Fish and swiftly down again, her face growing fiery.

  "Stand up, boy," the stranger said.

  She threw Fish another agonized glance. He only nodded, emotionless. Olympia felt dizzy with fright. She pushed back the bench and stood up.

  Though she kept her face down, she heard the other man leave his post by the door and move closer. His loose sweater and dark coat filled up her limited field of vision. He put his fist under her chin and lifted it. Olympia stubbornly kept her eyelashes lowered, trying to breathe slowly enough to prevent herself from fainting. The hum of conversation in the room dimmed as the patrons seemed to find a moment of casual amusement in the situation.

  In a disinterested tone, the man who was touching her said, "Pretty."

  Her eyes flashed open at the voice. She stared up, suddenly looking long enough to see through the dark stubble and grime to the gray eyes and familiar tiny scar above his left eyebrow. A wash of relief swept her, so profound that it threatened to collapse her knees. She stood trembling under his touch.

  "How much?" Sir Sheridan asked, still in that detached and considering voice.

  From the comer of her eye, she saw Fish shrug. He didn't answer.

  "He'd go for a cabin boy. Light duty." As Sir Sheridan skimmed his fingers over Olympia's cheek, he smiled. "Very light duty," he added softly.

  Hoarse chuckles erupted from a nearby table. "Mark 'im up dearly, Papa," someone said. "He's solid gold."

  "Four pound." the man said who'd spoken to her first.

  The offer was met with jeers from the table of onlookers.

  Fish turned red. "I reckon that ain't enough," he mumbled.

  "Six."

  "The boy's mum won't like it. She be fond of him." Fish shuffled his feet. "What'll I say to 'er, then?"

  "Tell her he's shipped aboard Yarborough's Falcon out of London. Twenty-two guns, bound for China." Sir Sheridan grinned. "Tell her he'll bring her back a nice silk shawl."

  Fish frowned amid the guffaws. "You the captain, then?"

  Sir Sheridan smiled and shook his head, as if that naive assumption amused him. "Mate."

  "This Falcon make any money?" Fish's voice was sharp. "What's the cargo?"

  "Opium. Very profitable, I assure you. And every chance of advancement for your boy if he can conduct himself."

  "Not that he looks it," the first man said. "See that skin? Soft as a gel's, and he's fat as a bleedin' porpoise, too."

  "Aye," Sir Sheridan said, in a much more appreciative tone. "I see it."

  Everyone in the place roared. The first man curled his lip in contempt as he looked at Sir Sheridan. "Christ—don't you want a bit more spirit in a boy? He ain't never been out o' his mama's kitchen if he could help it."

  Sir Sheridan just tilted Olympia's head one way and another, observing her with a fond smile.

  "Well," the other man said with disgust, "for what you be needin', he might do. Ten pound for him, the little bugger. And that's all."

  Olympia couldn't see Fish's face. The room grew quiet, waiting.

  Finally, in a barely audible voice, Fish said, "Done."

  The crowd in the tavern broke out in a babble of conversation, jeers at Fish for selling too cheap, congratulations to the new boy for getting a soft berth, and an undertone of something else, a strange sort of laughter directed at Sir Sheridan. Fish gave her name as Tom, and made his mark on some papers.

  Before she even had a chance to say goodbye, the first man grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her into the street. She almost cried out, trying to break away and turn back. It seemed all too real, this callous transaction. But Sir Sheridan came through the door after them. She bit her lip on the protest.

  He stood in the street and paid the man who'd bought her—twenty pounds for the papers Fish had signed for ten. As Sir Sheridan tucked the documents into his sweater, he put his arm around Olympia's shoulders and caressed her cheek.

  "Fat as a porpoise, are you, sweeting? Let's hope we can keep you so."

  The other man gave her an ironic look. "I always tell 'em: 'Obey your mate's orders, and you'll come off right enough.'" He didn't quite smile; the expression was uglier than that. "So—do whatever he bids ye. Ever'thin', mark. You aim to please; don't you fight him in nothing. Or he'll make sure you're the sorrier for it."

  "Come, now," Sir Sheridan said softly. "You frighten the boy. Go on back to your hole, my friend, and lay up for the next customer." He propelled Olympia around as he turned away, keeping her pressed close against his body. Under his breath he added, "Pestilent bastard."

  They walked in the direction of the river. After a few yards, he stopped and bought a bag of sweetmeats from a street vendor, never letting go of her shoulders. He leaned against the corner of a shop window and bent over, offering Olympia the treat. "You're doing fine," he murmured, glancing sideways back toward the public house as he rested his hand against the curve of her neck. "We're going to board a ship; just keep on as you are—yes…silly child, that's all right; cry if you want to, it's quite in character."

  "Fish," she said with a little gesture. "I wanted to say goodbye."

  "Here." He pressed a sweetmeat into her hand. "Eat that."

  "I don't want it. Can't we go back for just a—"

  His fingers tightened on her shoulder. She winced and tried to pull away from the painful grip. "That's not possible. Eat the damned sweet." The vicious low tone was at startling variance with the affectionate way he smiled down at her. "That filthy crimp's still standing there watching us. Do you want him to get another close look at you? If he didn't manage to guess the truth, then he just might overcome his Christian disgust of fellows like me and steal you back to sell to the highest bidder."

  "Steal me!"

  "Aye. And if you think I enjoy passing myself off as a sodomite, I don't. It doubled your price, for one thing."

  Olympia's eyes widened.

  "Eat," he said. "I want to get out of here."

  She put the candy in her mouth.

  "Good." He smiled and patted her cheek. "Don't say anything, to me or anyone else." He stood looking down at her for a moment, holding both her shoulders. Then he bent and planted a kiss full on her mouth. Olympia pulled back in shock, but he held her fast. His mouth opened a little over hers, the dark stubble of his beard scratching her chin. His fingers tightened on her shoulders.

  Oh, God, she thought, between terror and bliss.

  He straightened. "There," he murmured ruefully. "That ought to ruin my reputation for good with the ladies in these parts."

  Their cabin aboard the John Campbell was smaller than anything Sheridan had occupied for years. As a senior post captain, he'd had at least a few feet of open space, if not much in the way of luxuries to fill it. He kept his head down, avoiding the deck beams in the narrow companionway passage, and opened the cabin door to allow the princess to enter.

  He didn't duck through after her. It wasn't possible, un
less she climbed up into the single berth to give him room. He waited outside, holding back a smile at her expression of dismay.

  She turned around once in the tiny space, a forlorn figure in the drooping hat and ragged jersey. "It's very small."

  "It has a porthole," he said optimistically. "Think of the view."

  She eyed the grimy, tarnish-green opening in the hull without enthusiasm. "Is your cabin close by?"

  He broke the news to her smartly. Stepping forward, he grasped her at the waist and with a suppressed grunt lifted her onto the cot. She was a nice, tempting weight, all muffled in wool. He thought of exploring the shapeless mass to find the figure beneath it, but he didn't. Standing nose to nose with her in the narrow space, he had only to reach behind him to close the door. "My cabin's here."

  "Here! It can't be here."

  "Why not?"

  She looked at him as if he were ready for Bedlam. "I can't stay in here with you," she said in a scandalized voice. "There's nowhere for you to sleep but—" She stopped, and dropped her face from view.

  To the top of her hat, he said, "It's only for a night, until we reach Ramsgate. I'm afraid a princess who's slipped her cable must take what comes along."

  She clenched her hands, kneading her fingers. "Oh, if only I could have said goodbye to Fish!"

  Her voice was quivering. He knew of two ways to deal with weeping women, of which Her Highness was bound to become a prime specimen at any moment. It was too damned cramped to have a proper go at loving her, so in preparation for leaving he took a step backward and ran into the door.

  "Did you write the letter?" he asked.

  She nodded and snuffled, reaching beneath her jersey and pulling out a packet. The feminine curves of her figure suddenly took shape as the woolen garment sank back into place. She held out the bulky package without looking up.

  Sheridan broke it open. She hadn't sealed it any too securely—it was a wonder she hadn't been leaving a trail of rubies and emeralds and gold from here to Wisbeach. He had the urge to shake her till her teeth rattled.

  Discarding the idea as undiplomatic at this early stage in their acquaintance, he pulled the letter free. He laid the packet back in her lap, as if he had no more than passing interest in the tangle of pearl earrings, sapphire tiaras, diamond-studded chokers and jeweled rings that lay winking at him from their bed of paper and burlap.

  "We sail with the tide," he said. "Before midnight. I'll have to dispatch this letter immediately."

  She nodded, hidden by the hat.

  "Don't leave the cabin," he ordered.

  She hesitated, and then nodded again.

  He narrowed his eyes, considering that moment of hesitation. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "You don't go looking for Fish. You don't go on deck. You don't open the door." He took hold of her chin and jerked it up. "Not even if the damned ship's sinking. Do you mark me?"

  She looked satisfyingly startled. He pressed his fingers into her cheeks, drawing a little whimper and a quick nod.

  "All right," he said. "See that you behave, or I'll burn your royal backside for you."

  She cast down her eyes. "I only wanted to say goodbye."

  "Well," he said, "feel free. Get up right now and walk back to The Greenland and say it. He's probably still there, hanging around and crying in his beer over going along with your harebrained schemes." He glared into her wide green eyes. "And then come on back, Your Noble Highness. Because you'll find you won't have to share this cabin after all."

  Her lip trembled. She stared at him, all misery and sparkle, her dirty, round face still marked by the red imprint of his fingers. He had a moment of queer and terrible weakness, an urge to draw her into his arms and hold her tight against him.

  "Christ!" he said, drawing back abruptly. He put his shoulder to the door. "Do what you please, ma'am."

  He shut the door behind him with an ill-tempered thump. When he reached the posting station onshore, he was still in a foul mood. Instead of entering, he banged into the tavern next door and slumped in a seat, thinking of what he would do if he went back and found her gone.

  The possibility heightened the peculiar hollow feeling in him. He realized that he'd stormed out so fast he'd left the jewels with her—reason enough to feel sick and empty, he thought furiously. And he dared not even post the letters, not while she might turn up tomorrow morning safe in her bedroom at home. That sad old fool Fish Stovall would take her back in a minute—he probably was waiting, hoping she'd change her mind, the sentimental dotard. He'd been superb at his task, following Sheridan's instructions to the letter, but there'd been a damned odd note in his voice at the climax of their little scene in the public house.

  So let her go, he thought sullenly. If she was too homesick to leave the bleeding county, she'd be nothing but trouble every step of the way. He should have known she'd go into a funk on him. Wanted to say goodbye, for God's sake. Wretched female; he couldn't bear that kind of maudlin nonsense. And from a princess who intended to start a civil war in her own country, forsooth.

  He examined the seal on her letter to the pope. The light steam from a mulled ale was enough to slip it open intact. A quick perusal assured him of the emotional contents, quite specific and satisfactory in their description of Prince Claude Nicolas as a villain of satanic proportions. He resealed it and leaned on the table, considering his own letters, still concealed inside his coat, one to Palmerston and one to the evil Prince Claude. He chewed on his knuckle until it bled.

  A pox on her for fouling his plans already. The missives were calculated risks: Sheridan had written them to keep all his options open as long as possible—an old habit and a tactic that had served him well over the years. He'd developed stalling into a fine art during the length of his career.

  But there was no point in committing himself until his princess had made up her muddled little mind. He kept the letters in his coat and got roundly drunk, having nothing else to do but spend the last of the money he'd gained by selling the gold chain off her diamond necklace. The rest had gone to pay for passage as far as Ramsgate and to buy the princess from the crimp—a necessary subterfuge to defeat Julia's initial pursuit. The diamond itself was in Mustafa's care, heading toward their rendezvous at Ramsgate by whatever convoluted oriental means of progress Mustafa could contrive.

  The thought failed to lift Sheridan's spirits. It was growing dark. He found himself reluctant to return to the ship, and put it off until he realized foggily that he was running out of tide and money. If she went home and he missed his paid passage to Ramsgate, he was well and truly stranded.

  The streets were empty as he made his way toward the quay, his pace only a little unsteady. The watch aboard John Campbell was preparing to warp the ship down the river on the turning tide. He clambered aboard, feeling drunkenly at home, hearing the soft voices and the creak of rigging in the night, clear and carrying on the water.

  He stood by the rail, looking back along the river to the town. The reflections swayed and wavered on the surface. He rubbed his cold cheeks, taking a sobering draft of winter air. Below him, the peace was broken by the muffled notes of a mouth organ, clearly in the hands of a rank amateur of no talent whatsoever. The sour sound died away, and then took up again, mangling a tune that Sheridan finally decided was meant to be "My Lady Greensleeves."

  He went below and paused outside his cabin. From behind the door came the pathetically halting bleat of the mouth organ. It didn't deserve to be called music.

  He opened the door.

  The sound stopped. He waited in the entry a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark.

  "I didn't think you were coming back," she whispered.

  Sheridan leaned against the bulkhead. He couldn't see her, only a deeper blackness in the direction of the bunk. "You'll have to get up," he said.

  He heard her move. She worked herself off the cot and into the little standing space. Sheridan shoved past her, squeezing onto the bunk. On his knees, he felt along the bu
lkhead at the foot of the cot until he found the familiar net of a hammock and secured both ends in the darkness above her berth.

  He edged himself into the hammock carefully—no easy task in that small space, with the netting slung as it was so close to the deck above. He settled in. The hammock gave under his weight until he had four inches of clearance above his head. He made a mental note to remember that in the morning and pulled a blanket around him.

  "All right. You can lie down again." he told her.

  At the exploratory touch of her hand, he started, sending the hammock swinging in the confined space. She felt along his arm, outlining the shape and curve of the net. "Oh," she said. "A hammock."

  "Hmm."

  "Will you be quite comfortable?"

  "Oh, quite," he said with heavy irony.

  He heard her move into the berth below him. She bumped him and apologized at least seven times. Finally, she settled down. The creak of the deck and the gurgle of water filled the silence. Sheridan crossed his arms and swung gently.

  In the berth below, Olympia lay with her shoulders propped against the hard bulkhead. She chewed her finger and stared into the shapeless dark above her. "Sir Sheridan?"

  He grunted.

  "I didn't go back to see Fish, you know."

  He made another uninterested sound

  .

  She fumbled in the dark at her blankets. "Fish gave me his harmonica. Do you mind if I play it for a little while?"

  "Oh, God."

  "Just for a few minutes. I'm trying to learn how. Do you mind?"

  He moved above her, malting the bulkhead creak. "My ears are plugged. Yowl away."

  She propped herself up on her elbows and blew into the instrument. The notes came out quivering and flat, nothing like the sweet, mournful songs that Fish had played to her on rainy days before his fire. But it made her feel closer to him. She tried to find the first note of her favorite melody, attempting to keep the sound soft, working up and down the scale, never hitting anything that sounded remotely right, or even pleasant. She shifted in frustration and tried again, finally locating an off-key set of positions that made a sad parody of Fish's flowing notes. She worked on those, over and over, trying to perfect them.