He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. "God! You mean you haven't had them since Madeira?"
She stared at him. She didn't understand. He wasn't lying—she would swear on her life that he wasn't. "No," she said slowly. "I thought you—"
The sentence hung unfinished.
"I didn't have them." He spread his hand across his eyes. "I decided to take the heliotrope only, because I wasn't going to have time to change before we left for dinner and the whole packet was too bulky to carry under evening wear."
"Yes," Captain Fitzhugh said unnecessarily. "Miss Drake showed it to us, you recall."
"I left the rest where they were." Sheridan lifted his fingers, staring at her. "And now you say they're gone?"
She nodded.
"Damn." He stood up and kicked back his chair. "Pardon me, but—" He slammed his fist on the chair rail. "Damn!"
"Most disconcerting," Captain Fitzhugh murmured uncomfortably. "Perhaps there's some mistake."
"When did you discover them missing?" Sheridan demanded.
Olympia moistened her lips. "Just after the—the attack. Mustafa looked for them, and there was nothing in the packet but paste."
He set his jaw. Then slowly one dark eyebrow rose. His hand tightened on the chair rail. "Oh, was there indeed?" He stood back. "Forgive me, gentlemen—my profoundest apologies. I shall be back in a moment."
He thrust away from the chair and strode out the door. A discomfited silence descended on the table. Olympia stared at her plate, suddenly unable to eat a bite. Beneath her confusion an awful suspicion was growing, the dreadful possibility that she had chosen the wrong interpretation of events since that horrible night—that, led by Mustafa, she'd tried and convicted an innocent man in her mind, and then been glad to see him suffer. It was so long ago, that night on the dock; it had been dark and frightening. She might have been mistaken. It was possible.
It was one thing to have forgiven Sheridan—it was another entirely to imagine she had wronged him all along.
It was so hard now to think of him as a thief and a liar after all they had survived together, and harder still to work her way through the evidence. He'd told the convicts he'd hidden the jewels, yes—but he'd been fighting for their lives. He'd also told them there weren't any jewels at all. He changed stories like a lizard shed skin, but he'd saved them from desperate danger. He'd done the right thing each step along the way, even to stranding them on a barren island—as proved by the fact that she was now safe and unharmed aboard H.M.S. Terrier with warm clothes and food to eat, instead of beaten and misused and murdered at the hands of Buckhorse and Cal.
The saloon door opened. Sheridan entered, with Mustafa behind. The little servant was abasing himself at every step. He shuffled around to Olympia and knelt at her side.
"Emiriyyiti!" He beat his forehead on her chair. "I am beneath forgiveness. I am a dog, a filthy jackal! I have told you untruths, my princess—foul lies against my pasha! I have your jewels; I have had them from the first—never were they stolen at all. And the rest, all the rest—stories and lies and twistings. It is I who have been a slave, in wretched bondage until my great and wonderful and generous pasha, may Allah bless him with strong sons and beautiful daughters, rescued me and bade me follow him if I would!" Great tears welled up and fell from his dark eyes. He clutched her hand and kissed it. "Emiriyyiti, I meant only good; I only wished to find him—I cannot bear to be sent away from my master! I will die! I beg you to intercede, to ask—"
"Enough," Sheridan snapped. He jerked his head, and Mustafa, with one last wet kiss on the back of her palm, scurried backward out the door, bowing as he went.
Captain Fitzhugh pursed his lips. "Strange little chap."
"Confounded thieving nuisance, plague take him." Sheridan glanced at Olympia. "Your jewels are safe in your cabin. He's had them all along. Pardon the interruption."
He picked up his silverware and resumed eating.
Nineteen
* * *
Sheridan lay resting on his berth with a sherry in his hand, trying to assimilate the novel sensation of being clean and well fed and to think of a brotherly excuse to spend the night in Olympia's cabin. Or for her to spend the night in his. Flare-up of an old wound, perhaps, which could only be nursed by his dearest sister, who would know just how to bring his fever down.
He grinned to himself, contemplating the emotions of the twenty-two officers and two hundred crewmen of Terrier.
Dream on, me hearties, he thought, without a shred of remorse.
But he felt strangely vulnerable, separated from her. The familiar surroundings of a navy frigate seemed disorienting, oddly threatening—as if the peace he'd found with her on the island could be pulled away from him somehow, like a blanket from a sleeping child. He wished he could have her here with him. Just to hold onto her. Just to lie beside her and watch her and be able to touch her whenever he wanted.
She'd stuck by him at the dinner table. He wanted to kiss her for that: for not throwing wrenches in his story, for rescuing him from his foolishness. He felt a deep sinking nausea when he thought of how absurd he must have appeared to her. He hated being called a slave, he loathed it, but he'd acted bloody berserk there at the table in front of them all.
At the pit of his stomach, there was a renewed tension—an old, old anxiety: he was back in the world; things were the way they'd always been…and he didn't like it. He didn't like himself. He was going to have bad dreams again.
He reckoned he'd better post Mustafa as a chaperon for her. No telling when young Fitzhugh might lose his head. The ship wasn't long out of Buenos Aires, so pressure was light yet, but a few months on and things would look entirely different. These noble, true-hearted bastards couldn't be trusted. They went along all sincere and righteous and bottled up, and then broke down into raving lecherous lunatics when you least expected it.
As Sheridan lay frowning and thoughtful, Mustafa sat sulking on the floor, muttering to himself. When his mumbles reached a discernible level, Sheridan gave him one silent look.
Mustafa hunched his shoulders, dropped his face into his hands and began to pour out apologies in Arabic. "Forgive me, O my master! I have done my pitiful best; I have regained the jewels of our princess from where you hid them in your infinite wisdom on the island; I have followed your prudent and cunning orders; I have preserved the treasure at terrible risk to my very life!" He raised his eyes and spread his arms. "I have brought this ship, this mighty vessel of your Sultan King George, across the broad waters of the earth to your aid; I have watched over your beloved in the day and in the night; I have confounded your enemies—"
"You'd have done better to keep your miserable mouth shut," Sheridan snapped in English.
Mustafa prostrated himself. "O my pasha, whose honors are endless, who rules the great oceans, whose countenance shines with the compassion and mercy of the blessed—"
"Quite. Perhaps I'll only cut your tongue out, instead of flaying you alive."
"I did not mean to do it!" Mustafa squealed, still in his own language. "It was in the darkest moment of grief and despair, when I thought you were lost to me!"
Sheridan sat up and leaned over. He grabbed Mustafa's arm and hissed in Arabic, "O son of swine, may Allaah curse your sorry carcass; may you die alone and godless and forsaken; may your body be left to flies and black rot if ever you call me a slave again."
A soft knock came at the door. Sheridan let go. He gave Mustafa one last look that made him cringe down to the floor and cover his face.
"Yállah! Hurry up! See to the door." Sheridan reached for the spirit decanter.
Mustafa scrambled up and obeyed. Sheridan rose, startled to find Captain Fitzhugh waiting in the corridor.
"Forgive me for disturbing you," the younger man said. "I hoped I might have a private word. I thought of waiting, but it's rather—" He paused, taking a breath. "Are you occupied presently?"
"At your service." Sheridan set down his glass and started toward
the door, ducking to avoid a deck beam.
"No, no—you're comfortable here. No need to go elsewhere. I'll stand."
Sheridan glanced at him in mild surprise. It wasn't exactly common naval practice for the captain to do anyone the honor of calling in person, or to conduct business outside the spacious confines of his cabin and the poop deck. Sheridan's quarters, two decks down and crammed next to the surgery, where the sixth lieutenant he'd displaced was sharing with the chaplain, made a strange choice for an interview with the commanding officer.
Mustafa took his chance to escape and slipped out behind Fitzhugh. The door shut. Sheridan stood back to allow Fitzhugh room, grasping the decanter. "Will you take some of your own excellent sherry?" he asked politely.
"Yes, I—that does sound—salutary!" Fitzhugh's face was pink as he shifted, edging himself into a stable position in the tiny space.
Sheridan poured him a glass and leaned against the berth, trying to create some room without actually sitting down, which seemed a little too casual a move with a fellow officer and the man who'd rescued them—even if he was a damned apple-cheeked infant.
After a moment of quick calculation for the day of the week, Sheridan lifted his drink in the navy's traditional Thursday toast. "Bloody war and quick promotion." Then, not seeing how he could be asked to do anything inconvenient or unhealthy—not in the near future, at least—he added, "Look here, I hope you know there aren't words enough to thank you for what you've done for us. Any way I can oblige you, you've got my best at your service."
Fitzhugh waved his hand and shook his head. "It's nothing. Nothing. How could I have done otherwise, knowing Miss Drake was…and you, of course…countrymen in need, and all that." He bit his lip, turning redder. "Well, it was only a trifling digression to stop here. Practically on the way."
"Thank you for it. I hope we won't be a burden to you, toting us half across the globe."
"Nonsense. Retired officer, and with your record of service! It's perfectly in order. I counted you both into the provisions in Buenos Aires."
"Foresight," Sheridan said warmly.
Fitzhugh let out a long breath. "I'm just glad there was need of it. When your man—what the devil's his name? Mistafa?—after he came to me, I don't mind saying I was in a rare taking over his story. When I contemplate what might have happened…" His hand tightened around the handle of the locker. "I saw that those villains got their just punishment, anyway. It was a pleasure, I'll tell you, to watch them squirm at the end of a noose." He smiled grimly. "It was a damned good show, too. That Yankee captain had a fine trick with a rope—fixed it so that they'd not break their necks when they dropped. There was a pair of them didn't stop twitching for half an hour." He shook his head with relish. "But they deserved to suffer. Fiends! Dear God, that Miss Drake should be in such peril! I was praying. I could think of nothing else. I haven't slept for dread."
Sheridan looked down at his drink, tracing his finger around the rim.
"I'm sure she told you," Fitzhugh said shyly, "she was with us for most of her voyage."
"I'm in your debt."
"No. It was a pleasure. Her company was—a joy to me." He blinked at Sheridan earnestly and then dropped his eyes. "I admire your sister greatly, Captain Sir Sheridan. Very greatly."
Sheridan regarded his sherry, slowly swirling the golden liquid around the sides of the glass. He let the silence lengthen.
Fitzhugh moistened his lips. Sheridan thought he would stumble and stutter, but the young captain pulled himself up and leveled his gaze. "I request your permission to pay her my addresses, sir. I think you will find my family is a worthy one—we're the Surrey Fitzhughs; my elder brother holds the barony of Barsham, and my mother was a Bentinck. I've an independence of eighteen thousand per annum. My brother manages that for me, since I've been occupied with my career." Biting his lower lip, he waved his hand and then cleared his throat. "You may imagine that there is a reasonable accumulation of capital with which to set up house. I've had little use for it till now."
Sheridan thought of the crystal and silver and the white linen tablecloth, the good sherry and the damask curtains that adorned the captain's stateroom. "Haven't you?" he asked mildly.
Fitzhugh looked anxious. "Perhaps you don't think my income adequate to support her as she deserves. There's my officer's pay, too, and always hope of prize money, of course—though I should be dishonest to say I depend upon it, what with the present peace. But I—" He drew a breath. "I believe I could make her happy, sir. She has…given me reason to hope."
"Has she!" Sheridan smiled. His teeth grated together. "She had not mentioned it to me."
That set him back, the condescending brat. Sheridan watched expressionlessly as the young officer's face blazed red. A mere eighteen thousand a year…how could the man live? Poor chap, he probably couldn't even buy London Bridge if he wanted it.
The captain took a quick gulp of his drink. "I suppose—she could not have thought she would see me again."
Sheridan controlled his urge to deliver another snide setdown. The fair flower of the Sussex Fitzhughs could go hang, damn his eyes—but there was no percentage saying so yet.
No, there was nothing for it but to play the game. And Olympia would have to play it, too. If she told the lovestruck puppy to take the damper he deserved at this early date, things could get deucedly uncomfortable before they reached port.
"I'd like to speak to her about it. You understand." Sheridan put a hand on Fitzhugh's shoulder and squeezed—playing the stalwart elder brother. "But you're a good man, Fitzhugh. A good man."
Then he raised his glass in a silent toast and drank, watching Fitzhugh over the rim as the younger man's freckled face broke into a tremulous grin.
A good man, Just don't get your hopes up, you virtuous little sap.
Olympia peeped around the door in answer to Sheridan's knock, the lamplight behind her shining in a glow around her loosened hair and silhouetting her body through the flannel night rail. Sheridan took one appalled glance at her, cast swift looks up and down the corridor and pushed her back, stepping inside. He locked the door hastily.
"Jesus, what are you doing, answering the door looking like this? Do you know how many men are aboard this ship? By God, you're not even buttoned!"
She pulled the slipping gown up onto her shoulder. "The buttons are in the back. I can't reach them." She caught his hand in both of hers. "Sheridan, I'm go glad you've come. I wanted to say I was sorry." She kissed the back of his palm and cradled it against her cheek. "I've been so wrong—I've been such a fool! How could you let me do it?"
His mouth had been open to continue the lecture. He closed it.
She moved into his arms, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "Forgive me." Her hold tightened around him, her breasts soft and provocative against his chest. "I don't know how that miserable little man ever made me believe you could be a thief! Sheridan…can you forgive me? I should have known you didn't do it. I should have known long ago."
He put his hand on her hip, feeling the tantalizing curve of bare skin beneath the flannel. With his lips pressed to her hair, he stood there calculating wildly, trying to decide how to handle this development. He'd never expected her to fall for that shaky tale he'd concocted—he'd been relieved just to have her go along with it in front of the others.
She wriggled her hip beneath his hand, pressing closer. He breathed in the fresh, scent of her clean hair. Really, truth was such an abominably awkward inconvenience. There was no telling how she'd react if he blurted out a confession now in answer to her optimistic misapprehension. It seemed she'd finally forgiven him on the island, but they'd never actually talked about it. And things were different now. They were no longer alone and dependent on one another, and there was that nodcock Fitzhugh, too, the devil take him. If she wished, she'd have someone else to turn to for aid and comfort and…
A fierce wave of jealousy rose in him. The image of Fitzhugh touching her—God, the man wanted to marr
y her, to have the right to tumble her anytime he pleased, and he wouldn't have to drive himself to desperation forestalling the natural consequences, either.
It didn't bear thinking about. Sheridan buried his mouth against her hair and said, "Of course I forgive you."
She gave a little sigh and relaxed against him. Then, just as he was lowering his head to nibble insinuatingly at her ear, she pulled away. "You won't punish Mustafa? I think—I believe he really did mean well, odd as it seems."
"It'd be a miracle in our time if he did." Sheridan caught her back. Pushing his fingers into her loosened hair, he kissed the tender skin beneath her earlobe. "I know how to deal with Mustafa," he murmured. "But give me a respite from the gruesome thought, if you please. He's already been weeping ail over my borrowed boots."
She bent her head with a tiny smile, resting her forehead against him and toying with the buttons on his waistcoat.
Sheridan's breathing quickened. His hands slipped down; he grasped the gown in his fists, gathering it upward. While she stood in the lamplight, he sank slowly to his knees, pulling her toward him to kiss the valley between her breasts through the soft fabric.
Olympia clasped his head with a soft moan of welcome and relief. She moved insinuatingly beneath his hands. It felt so good, so familiar and wonderful to have him come to her like this—in intimacy and passion. It made the world seem right again, washing away her uneasiness at those earlier moments of constraint. He sat back on his heels and shaped her legs downward, slid his fingers beneath the hem and touched her slippered feet. His face was on a level with the warm cleft between her thighs as he circled her ankles with his hands.
She responded with a surge of excitement, leaning back against the smooth bulkhead. He pushed the gown upward, a slow slide, kissing the inner skin of her thighs as the soft fabric revealed it.
"Flowers," he murmured huskily; "you smell like flowers."