Her husband stood not far from her now, his coat billowing in the wind. He steadied the ship's wheel and spoke with Mr. St. Cyr and Manda, who was dressed in breeches and coat similar to her brother's. Crew worked the ship with energy, hoisting or tying off sails, winding lines, scrubbing the deck, or whatever job they had been assigned.
This morning, Honoria had said good-bye to Diana, severing her link to family and home, to set off who knew where with a husband she barely knew. And strangely, she was not afraid. She'd married a pirate and now sailed on his pirate ship, but Honoria experienced no panic as the shore receded and they headed to open sea. Shipboard life was familiar to her, and she at once felt more at home than she had in the most elegant townhouses in London.
Christopher glanced over at her, his blond braid sliding on his shoulder. "Honoria," he said. "Take the wheel."
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
He gave her an impatient look, not a husband irritated at his wife, but a captain annoyed with a disobedient sailor.
There are some orders I expect you to obey without question.
Honoria would understand an order to get out of the way in a dangerous situation, but to take the helm of the ship? In her blue lawn gown that lifted most perniciously in the wind? She had chosen to sit with her legs curled beneath her for that very reason.
Honoria unfolded herself, letting the wind take her skirt, and padded across the small space of the deck. Christopher stood with one hand on the wheel. "I'm shorthanded," he said. "You know how to pilot a ship?"
"Vaguely." She'd watched James and his pilot at work. James had never let Honoria touch anything on his ship, at least not after she and Paul had pulled down the rigging on his bowsprit while attempting a few bravely stupid pranks.
Christopher slid his arm around her waist, drew her to the wheel, and stood behind her to place her hands on the spokes. "Hold here, and here. Sight down the bow, and keep her pointed that much to port of shore." He showed her a distance between his thumb and forefinger, which, when Honoria sighted through it, put a large slice of water between England's cliffs and open sea. "Just hold her steady," he said.
Honoria tried not to be distracted by his warm body at her back, his arms enclosing her. When she nodded, and Christopher let her go, cold wind and disappointment took the place of his warmth.
Honoria toyed with the idea of asking him to show again her how exactly he wanted her to hold the wheel, but he'd already walked away.
Manda flashed her a grin then followed Christopher and Mr. St. Cyr down the deck. Leaving Honoria alone. To steer the entire ship. By herself.
"Christopher!"
He turned. Sun gleamed on his tawny hair and made his skin still more golden. "What?"
"What if we come to another ship?"
"Don't hit it," Christopher said, then turned and strode away.
Honoria ground her teeth at his retreating back, but she soon found herself caught up in the task and, to her surprise, liking it.
The feel of the entire ship came to her through the tiller--every twitch of sail, every tightening of line, every gust of wind. It was exhilarating. The ship became a living, breathing being, communicating its every move from rudder up through the decks to the wheel and into her hands.
Honoria moved the wheel the slightest bit, and the ship responded by swinging its bow to the right. She quickly straightened it again, before Christopher could notice and remonstrate with her.
The sun turned hot on this June day. Honoria would need more than lace shawls and parasols to protect her skin on board ship. She'd have to confer with Mrs. Colby about shielding themselves from the weather.
Manda appeared to care nothing about the sun, much less being a lady. She dressed like a sailor, talked like a sailor, worked like a sailor. Christopher did not spare her anything, seeming to take for granted that his sister would climb to the crow's nest or tie off a line same as any of the others.
Honoria sincerely hoped that Christopher would not expect her to climb yardarms or furl sails. She looked up at the mainmast spreading its arms far, far above the deck, and swallowed in trepidation.
But, as on James's ship, everyone on the Starcross did everything. The officers were not like officers on a naval ship, with formal rank, though they had certain jobs--to navigate, to control the crew, to keep the charts, to command for the captain when he was asleep, to supervise the weapons and cannon.
But the officers on the Starcross stripped down and bent their backs to the windlass with the other sailors when necessary or hauled lines or bailed without waiting for order. Even Mr. Henderson had helped raise sails this morning, because Christopher did not yet have a full complement of crew. Not everyone he'd worked with before had survived these four years, unfortunately, Christopher had said, or they'd retired from the sea and had no intention of coming back.
Honoria watched Mr. Henderson emerge again from below decks. He'd at least changed his dandified London clothes for breeches, boots, and coat more suited to shipboard labors, but he still managed to look like a gentleman out for nothing more strenuous than a walk in the country.
Why Mr. Henderson had chosen to join them at all still puzzled Honoria. He'd turned up that morning asking Christopher to haul him along and drop him at Tangier, where he'd meet up with the Argonaut.
When Christopher expressed displeasure at being used as a passenger service, Mr. Henderson snapped that he could be left anywhere, he didn't care. Christopher obviously needed more crew, and Henderson was a crack navigator.
It was Manda who'd said, "Oh, let him come, Chris. He probably got some society daughter into trouble and is running from her pa."
Mr. Henderson had bristled, but he'd boarded the ship.
Honoria had first thought that Mr. Henderson had come to keep an eye on her for James, but she abruptly revised her opinion as she watched him approach Christopher and Manda.
Mr. Henderson's gaze riveted to the tall black woman, though Manda did not notice him at first. When Manda looked up at him, Henderson's body stiffened, and his expression--no, his entire stance--became guarded.
Honoria narrowed her eyes as she watched them. She was too far away to hear what Manda said to him, but Mr. Henderson flushed, and his bearing went stiffer than ever.
Poor Mr. Henderson. Honoria had found him far too arrogant and English for her taste when he'd tried to court her, but watching him now, she felt a touch of pity for him. And curiosity. She would certainly keep an eye on how things developed.
Christopher relieved Honoria of duty as the sky purpled in the west, the setting sun burning the undersides of scattered clouds golden and chartreuse. Honoria's arms ached, her face was chafed with wind and sun, and her legs were weak from bracing against the roll of the ship.
Did Christopher compliment her on her deft handling of the tiller? No, he simply told her, in captain's tones, that young Carew would be taking over and she should go below for the evening meal.
Honoria opened her hands from around the wheel. Or tried to. She parted her fingers halfway, and then agonizing cramps seized her, and she cried out.
Christopher gently pried her fingers open and kneaded her palms with his thumbs. "Damn it, Honoria."
"You needn't hold th' wheel so tightly, ma'am," Carew said in a kind voice. "Just rest your hands so." He demonstrated, laying his fingers on the spokes with a light touch.
"Yes, thank you," she said. "I'll remember."
Christopher, still rubbing her hands, led her away.
The captain and officers dined in the room reserved for the charts, the charts themselves rolled up and stowed safely in mahogany cabinets. The room had enough space for a table and six chairs--when the chairs were filled, they scraped the walls and cabinets. The cook, a short, spindle-legged black-haired man from Mexico, stood in the doorway, ready to hand around the dishes.
Christopher's chair was nearest the door. The rest of the table had filled by the time he and Honoria arrived, except for a chair at t
he far end, which Honoria would never reach except by climbing over the table.
At least Christopher did not make her do that. He jerked his thumb at Manda, who, grinning, unfolded herself and slid into the empty chair. Colby, the huge bear-like man, moved to her chair, vacating one for Honoria.
As soon as Christopher seated himself, the cook handed in a tureen. Christopher placed it on the table. "Sit down," he said to Honoria in a tone that did not invite argument.
Honoria's legs responded to the command and bent before she could stop them. She turned the movement into a graceful descent to the chair, which had been warmed by Colby's large body.
The board was covered with a yellowing cloth, dampened so that the dishes would not slide about. On Christopher's other side sat the pale St. Cyr, with Mrs. Colby next to him. Mrs. Colby's dyed red hair glowed with the same warmth as the cabinets.
Christopher scooped soup into Honoria's bowl, then his. Large pools of oil skimmed the soup's surface, and beneath it swam chunks of carrot, greens, and pieces of meat. Despite its look, it smelled heavenly. Christopher shoved the tureen to his left, and the sharp-faced St. Cyr dipped into it.
St. Cyr took some soup, passed on the tureen, and made a polite bow to Honoria. "Bon appetit, Madame."
Honoria's finishing school training took over. "Merci beau coup," she said, inclining her head as though they shared canapes at a garden party.
Colby snickered. Christopher raised a brow and said something rather rude in perfect French.
The phrase was one Honoria was not supposed to have learned in finishing school but had anyway. Her face heated, but she pretended to ignore Christopher as she spooned up the thin soup and brought it to her lips. Peppery, rich broth poured into her mouth. It was delectable.
"So, what's her share?" Colby asked, as though continuing a conversation begun before Honoria had arrived.
Manda slurped from her spoon. "Why do you care?"
Colby tapped the handle of his spoon to the table. "We already know how we divided up the shares before. Stands to reason we all shouldn't take less because the captain got married. She should get a cut of his."
Manda and Mrs. Colby watched Christopher. Mr. St. Cyr merely ate his soup in short, polite sips.
"She gets her own share," Christopher said.
"But that means we each get less," Colby returned.
"We have fewer crew now, Colby," Manda said. "That means more all the way around."
"I say we put it to a vote. We voted when I got married."
"And Mrs. Colby gets her own share," Christopher said, his voice firm. "So will Mrs. Raine. There is no vote."
Colby opened his mouth to argue some more, but he caught Christopher's gaze and shut it again with a snap.
The cook handed in a plate of bread. Christopher tore off a hunk and passed it to Honoria, just as the ship lurched. Everyone automatically steadied plates and jammed themselves against the wall.
Other than that, they went on placidly eating. The ship ran up the swell and dropped into the next one. Dark wind whipped through the hall as the cook went out again.
Honoria carefully pried a bit of bread from the loaf and passed the loaf to Colby. He took it in a massive paw, tore off a large hunk, and shoved the rest at Manda.
The bread was dark with rye meal and molasses, and Honoria felt definite grit beneath her fingers. She could put the bit of bread back on her plate, or offer it to Colby, but Christopher was watching her.
"My own share of what?" she asked.
"Huh," Colby growled. "Probably nothing."
All eyes turned to Christopher. "No," he said. "I didn't survive what I did for nothing."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Colby said.
"You'll see it."
Were they being deliberately cryptic to drive her insane? "See what?" Honoria asked.
"Eat your bread, my wife."
Honoria scowled at him and bit off a hunk of bread. Tiny pebbles rolled between her teeth.
She stopped chewing. She couldn't exactly take the bite out of her mouth, but she couldn't swallow it either.
Next to her, Colby said, "Damn stones," and spat a pebble across the table. St. Cyr ducked, and the pebble pinged into the wall behind him.
"Arthur!" his wife cried. "That ain't no way to behave. 'Specially in front of a lady."
The ship lurched up another wave. Honoria's stomach lurched with it. She clapped her hand to her mouth.
"Oop," Colby said. "She's going to heave."
Honoria leapt to her feet. She nearly ran the cook down as she hurried through the tiny hall, bracing herself on the walls as the ship rocked. She dragged herself up the stairs and out onto the deck.
Cold wind hit her, the sun gone, the night black. Carew still stood at the wheel, a lantern at his feet throwing light and shadow across his body.
Honoria reached the rail, leaned over, and spat the bad bread into the sea. The sharp wind blew her hair back from her face and brought with it the clean scent of brine.
She heard Christopher's step. She did not want to face her husband at the moment, but he gathered her against him, his warm body blocking the wind.
He smelled rough and wild like the sea itself, his scent tangling with the fragrance of whiskey. Honoria rested her head on the curve of his shoulder. Christopher stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Share of what, Christopher?" she asked.
He tilted her face to his and smiled, a sinful, knowing smile. "Buried treasure, my angel."
*****
Chapter Fifteen
"You made a map to buried treasure on our marriage license?"
Honoria clenched her hands, trying to ignore the pain of her still-cramped fingers as her voice rose and cracked. She'd returned to the chart room, and Christopher had closed the door. He'd stationed Colby at the stairs to announce anyone coming, particularly, Christopher emphasized, Mr. Henderson.
"Not a map," Christopher said calmly, sharp shadows giving his features a hard cast. "Coordinates and a heading."
The marriage license, in two pieces, lay on the damp table. Christopher's fingers rested on the faint numbers scribbled beneath his name. Honoria had always wondered what the numbers signified, had imagined the priest who'd married them had written them for reasons of his own.
Now, of course, they took on vast significance. "I see," she said.
"This ship is built for speed," Christopher said. "If the weather holds fair, we should reach our destination in about ten days." His gaze rested on Manda, St. Cyr, and Mrs. Colby in turn. "We tell the crew that we're making for Charleston until the last possible moment. We have an unwanted guest on board, so I don't need the crew talking about where we're really going until they need to know. That means this conversation goes no farther than this room, on pain of flogging." He looked at Honoria. "That includes you, my wife."
"I am not in the habit of discussing private matters with Mr. Henderson," she said stiffly.
"With anyone," he corrected. "Not even one of us, without my consent. I don't want Henderson sabotaging my ship, or trying more dramatic means to stop us. He is a pirate hunter after all."
St. Cyr interrupted. "Why not sail him to Tangier, as he requested?"
"Not with Ardmore prowling that part of the world. I tangled with Ardmore once, and I don't wish to do so again." Christopher moved his gaze around the room again, coming to rest on Manda. "It was too hard a fight to find the lot of you. Ardmore might consider I've paid my debts, but he still might follow us to see what we're getting up to."
"That, and you married his sister," Manda said with a knowing smile. "You know that Colby suggested we put both Henderson and Honoria in a longboat and set them adrift? Let Ardmore have them back."
"Colby is only miffed because Mrs. Raine got the better of him," Mrs. Colby said.
Christopher's answering silence lay heavily in the room. "If anyone else suggests we leave my wife behind, they can speak to me. I married her. She
stays."
Manda raised her brows, but offered no comment, and Mrs. Colby remained in good humor. "Don't you worry, love," Mrs. Colby said to Honoria. "My husband will soften when he gets used to ye. He's a cuddly bear at heart."
"That is all," Christopher said. "Manda, relieve Henderson of his watch and send Colby to me."
Manda nodded, and she and the other two moved to leave the room. Honoria had to dodge aside so they could exit.
Christopher folded the marriage license and slid it into his pocket.
"Christopher," Honoria said when they'd gone, "We very much need to talk."
"Later." He softened the abrupt word by tilting up her chin and brushing a brief kiss to her lips. "At bedtime. We'll talk then."
"You never give me the chance to talk when we're in bed."
Christopher flashed her a wicked grin then pushed past her without another word. He beckoned to Colby, led the large man to his main cabin, and closed the door, polished wood and brass shutting her out.
Releasing a sigh, Honoria made her way to the deck. Christopher had effectively blocked her way to the bedroom, but no matter. Standing on the deck would give her plenty of opportunity to come up with ways in which to tell Christopher exactly what she thought of him.
*** *** ***
Manda moved down the deck to where Alden Henderson leaned on the rail, his spectacles gleaming in the starlight. She'd never met a man who could wear spectacles and still remain jarringly handsome.
"Henderson," she said. "You're off watch. You can go below."
He acknowledged this with a nod, but he didn't move. "I like to look at the stars," he said, gesturing off the rail. A few clouds blotted the horizon with deeper darkness, but overhead, stars twisted across the sky like a smudge of diamond dust.
The wind ruffled Henderson's coat and pale hair, but his body held the stillness of a waiting predator. He was handsome, in an English sort of way, and as Manda had observed, even the spectacles didn't mar his looks.
So why had Henderson, a perfect London gent, volunteered to come aboard a pirate ship, to raise sails and turn the windlass like a common sailor? If he planned to arrest Christopher or his crew for Captain Ardmore, he'd be killed. He must know that. So why not wait in the comfort of his London hotel for Ardmore to summon him?