Slightly Noble Page 8

  Jack crossed the living room. The vicar rushed forward to open the front door, casting disapproving looks at the nun. “Let them be on their way, sister.”

  Doubt niggled at Jack’s brain. Am I putting Abby’s life in danger?

  He headed for the rented hackney, holding her against his chest. She looked worse than she had earlier that morning. He looked at the vicar, seeking reassurance. “Is your niece sure my wife doesn’t have the birthing fever?”

  He puckered his brow. “She has no fever, though she does look a bit flushed.”

  “’Tis all this jostling about,” the nun said. “She should rest a day or two longer before you carry her off to Seile. But if you must take the babe…” She lifted the basket in her arms, staring down at the sleeping child within. “If you must get to Seile to claim your title, then take your son and leave your wife. There is a wet nurse in Sheep’s Crossing who can accompany you.”

  “And what of my wife?” Jack was reluctant to leave Abby behind, despite the nun’s dire warnings of traveling so soon after giving her the tonic. It would be too much like abandoning her. And he could not separate her from her child. If he did, he was quite sure his wife would never forgive him.

  The nun nodded to Quentin who stood by the door of the hackney. “Your friend can stay with her until she is ready to travel. Then I will accompany them both to your estate in Seile.”

  His estate wasn’t in Seile. Seile was a fishing village on the Wash at the mouth of the Great Ouse River where Uncle William had lived before Jack’s father banished him and his mother. Jack had left his ship moored there when he and Quentin left for Ram’s Head for the reading of his father’s will. Ram’s Head was just a few miles from Sheep’s Crossing, but the estate house was barely inhabitable. And he could not claim Ridge Point until he proved he had met the stipulations set forth in the second codicil of his father’s will. So, he had no choice but to take Abby to Seile. Unless…

  Could he leave her with the vicar? Even if it was for her own good? She would surely think he had abandoned her, and he did not want to do to her what his father had done to his mother. He knew firsthand the grief that could cause.

  “My wife goes with me. I pledged to care for her in sickness and in health, and I mean to keep my pledge.” But Lord help me if she loses her breakfast in the coach!

  “As you wish,” Sister Mary Daphne grumbled.

  “Ready?” Quentin reached for Abby, lifting her into the coach.

  The moment Jack was inside, he took her from Quentin’s arms and eased down onto the seat. He leaned back against the squabs, holding her on his lap.

  Quentin reached for Abby’s son and just as quickly placed the basket on the floor. He flushed, unable to meet Jack’s gaze. “I don’t want to drop him.”

  Jack suspected his aversion ran much deeper.

  “May God bless you and your new family, my lord,” the vicar said. It took Jack a moment to realize he was talking to him. It would take time to become accustomed to answering to anything other than Captain Jack.

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

  “Heed my warning,” the nun said. Then she closed the door and the conveyance jerked forward. Abby moaned.

  “So tired.” She curled against Jack’s chest and slept. But fifteen minutes later, she moaned again. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Stop the coach!” Jack shouted.

  Quentin snatched the baby’s basket off the floor as Jack lunged for the door and tried to get it open without dropping his wife. He stumbled outside and nearly tripped. Then he righted himself and slid Abby’s feet to the ground as she doubled over, retching.

  The smell hit Jack like a physical blow. Bile rose in his throat seconds before he tossed up his breakfast beside hers.

  ****

  “I am sorry,” Abby said a half hour later, her head resting against Jack’s arm. He had washed her face, and they had both rinsed out their mouths, but Jack still smelled vomit.

  His stomach churned, reminding him of the time he had gotten sick on his own damn ship, no less!

  Dark weather and heavy rainsqualls had pounded the Lion’s Pride all evening and into the night. Jack had clung to the ship’s wheel, fighting to keep the stern perpendicular to the oncoming waves. Fighting to keep her from rolling over as his crew trimmed the sails and spliced the main brace to keep the Lion’s Pride from heeling. But tucking in a reef while heeled over was enough to make even the most hardened sailor seasick.

  The ship lurched. Vomit washed over the deck. Jack smelled it over the salty sting of the sea and the gorge rose in his throat. When the sea dipped again, Jack heaved, and the wind blew the vomit back into his face. It was enough to make him stand back and fire into the wind again.

  He had kept the ship from going down off the coast of North Carolina, but twenty-foot waves had swept most everything topside overboard. Weeks later, parts of his ship and cargo had been spotted floating southeast of Nantucket. The ship’s damage and loss of cargo had been only slightly more humiliating than getting seasick in front of his crew.

  He wiped his mouth and turned his head so Abby would not smell his breath. “The nun warned me you might get sick.”

  “Still…” she mumbled.

  “Do not mention it again.” Please do not mention it again! Just thinking about it made him nauseous.

  Quentin chuckled, damn him. He had been on deck the night Jack had gotten seasick. Never mind that he had thrown up as well. Quentin was not the captain.

  Jack glared at his quartermaster. “Why are you laughing?”

  “No reason. No reason at all, my lord.”

  The rest of the journey was uneventful, save for the uncomfortable moments when they stopped the coach so Abby could nurse her son. Quentin and Jack waited outside. Those moments were torturous for Jack. He couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to see the babe at Abby’s breast. Then he wondered what Abby’s breasts looked like and whether they would fill the palm of his hand.

  He stiffened, his imagination taking a lustful turn that made him uncomfortably aware of her presence when he climbed back inside the coach and took his place beside her.

  She leaned her blonde head against the window, her small hands resting in her lap, the shapeless brown robe hiding her assets. What did she look like underneath that robe? Was she boyishly thin? Or did she possess a woman’s curves? And what had giving birth done to those curves?

  He shifted his hips and looked away, staring out the window on the other side. Why should he care what his wife looked like underneath that sackcloth she wore? He was not interested in her as a woman.

  But for some reason, he could not stop thinking about the size and shape of her breasts.

  Chapter Eleven

  Abby held her son to her breast and stared at the tall ship rocking in the harbor. The two-masted, eighty-foot vessel rode high in the water despite the weight of at least ten exposed cannons along its length. The sails were down, but high above the deck atop the mizzenmast, a flag fluttered in the breeze. It was not a British flag or the Red Ensign of a private vessel or merchant ship, nor even an American flag. The ship flew a green flag emblazoned with a gold lion standing on its hind legs and pawing the air. It was not a skull and cross bones but…

  “It’s a ship,” she stammered, nearly choking on the words. A ship flying independent colors and claiming no allegiance to any country.

  “For now, it’s home,” her husband replied.

  Beside him, Mr. Stanley chuckled. “I believe that is my cue to leave.” He nodded to her and then turned to Jack. “I will locate your uncle and let him know we are back.”

  Lord Captain grunted. “Tell him we will talk later. I want to get Abby and the baby settled first.”

  Settled? On a ship? Or was he sending her to some remote estate so he would not have to deal with his common wife?

  She lowered her chin, holding her son closer. “Where are you sending us, my lord?”

  “I am not sending
you anywhere. We will remain docked here in Seile until my affairs are settled.”

  And then what? They had not discussed their marriage, or what he expected of her. Was she to be his viscountess and run his household? Or did he plan to hide her away on his ship indefinitely? “You expect us to live on a ship?”

  “The captain’s quarters are roomy enough.”

  Did he plan to stay with her? To share her bed? She was not ready to perform those duties! Not now. Maybe never.

  Swallowing her pride and her fear, she raised her chin and met his gaze. “And where will you stay, Captain?”

  He ground his teeth. “It’s Jack. Not Captain.”

  She clamped her jaw shut and said nothing. If she spoke again, she would likely burst into tears.

  With an exasperated sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair, his gaze drifting back toward his friend who was still chuckling as he headed down the dock toward the village.

  “For the moment, I will stay in the quartermaster’s cabin. Quentin can stay in the master gunner’s berth or with my uncle. Uncle William has a house here in the village.”

  “Can Will and I stay with your uncle?” Of course, she could be asking to move from the frying pan into the fire. For all she knew, his uncle was a retired pirate with a peg leg and an eye patch.

  Lord Ardmore shook his head. “Uncle William left home more than twenty years ago. His house is barely inhabitable.”

  “And yet, you would send your friend there.”

  “Don’t argue.”

  Abby bristled but said nothing more, still afraid of the temper he so obviously held in check. But for how long?

  Without another word spoken between them, Lord Ardmore—Jack—took Will from her arms and placed him in the basket without looking at him. He then hooked the basket over his arm and helped Abby board the ship. A roustabout met them at the top of the gangplank.

  “You bringing a woman on board, Captain?” the man asked in a slow, oddly accented drawl. A disapproving frown marred his sun-weathered face.

  Jack seemed incapable of meeting his gaze. Was he ashamed of her? Most likely. He stared over the shorter man’s head. “This is my wife, Charlie.”

  “Wife! I didn’t even know you was a-courting.”

  Jack continued to avoid eye contact, but his voice remained steady. “I met her on a previous trip to England. When I returned this time and discovered…” He held up the basket for Charlie’s inspection. “Well, let us just say we made haste to marry before my son was born.”

  Abby’s face flushed, pleasure tinged with embarrassment. The lie meant to protect her son’s paternity painted her as an amoral woman who might have lied about the father of her child to gain a titled husband.

  Was that not what Lord Drury would have accused her of doing had he known of her condition?

  Charlie looked into the basket and grunted. “A boy, huh?”

  Jack smiled. “My heir. I am officially Lord Ardmore now, and this is my viscountess, Lady Ardmore.” He turned to Abby, his eyes dark with warning. “Abby, this is my boatswain, Charlie Hogan.”

  Abby nodded, her cheeks hot. “Mr. Hogan.”

  “Mrs. Norton.”

  “Lady Ardmore,” Jack said.

  Mr. Hogan flushed. “So, this mean I got to call you Lord Ardmore, or viscount of something? Never could get the hang of that nobility business.”

  Jack straightened, proudly raising his chin as he surveyed the deck of his ship. Then he looked at Mr. Hogan and smiled with genuine pleasure. “Aboard ship, I am still Captain Jack.”

  But at the moment, he looked as arrogant as any lord.

  So, why had he come to England to claim his title if he wanted to remain a captain? He seemed to take more pride in his ship than his viscountcy. Could it be because he had gained the ship through his own efforts? Despite his aristocratic blood, could her husband be a hard-working, self-made man who took pride in his work? A man like her father?

  Mr. Hogan saluted, his weathered face splitting into a wide grin. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  Jack returned the salute. “Back to work then, Charlie.”

  He hefted Will’s basket higher on his arm and took Abby’s elbow, guiding her across the bridge and down a set of narrow steps to the lower deck. “The upper deck is the spar deck, and this is the gun deck. The galley is back that way. Forward section.” He pointed behind them and then turned. “Captain’s quarters are in the aft section. There is a day cabin and bedroom. There is also a private washroom with a tub, washstand, and head. While in port, fresh water is readily available so you can bathe as often as you like. Just let Charlie know, and he can fill the tub for you.”

  She longed for a hot bath, but Will was not even a week old. Her face burned with embarrassed heat. She glanced at her sleeping son, hoping her husband would understand. “It is too soon. The bath will have to wait.”

  Jack flushed, apparently comprehending. Then he flashed a dazzling white smile that nearly stole her breath. “I imagine you would still like to freshen up after the ride from Sheep’s Crossing. I can have a basin filled if you would like.”

  Her cheeks flushed warmer still, this time with pleasure. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Still smiling, he led her past the bilge pumps and capstan. As he pointed out the working parts of his ship, he kept up a running litany, as if he were guiding a tour through the London Museum. It was evident from the warmth in his tone that he took great pride in his ship.

  “The quartermaster and master gunner’s cabins are on the starboard and port sides. Crewmen sleep one deck below on the berth deck, but most of them have been on shore leave for the past three months.”

  And what happened when they returned? Would her husband abandon his wife in England and set sail with his crew? Or would Jack choose the life of an English lord and abandon his family on an isolated country estate?

  Anxiety tightened her chest as Jack dragged her along, oblivious to her fear and fatigue. He walked at a normal pace with the handle of Will’s basket looped over his arm as if her son were as light as a feather. When she had lifted the basket earlier, it had felt like a lead weight. And she had to quicken her pace now just to keep up with his long-legged stride.

  “The orlop deck is below the berth deck,” he added, “and below that is the hold and powder magazines.”

  Gun decks. Powder magazines. Had this vessel been used for warfare? Or was the armament meant to protect a merchant vessel against others who might try to steal her cargo?

  It had been years since pirates plagued the seas, but there were still captains whose ships plundered slower vessels. Was Jack such a captain? Was that why he needed powder magazines? Was he protecting his ship from pirates? Or did he refuse to fly a flag of allegiance to Britain or America because he was a pirate captain himself?

  “What is on the orlop deck?” She hoped her voice did not betray her growing anxiety.

  “Surgeon’s cockpit and storage.”

  Even a merchant ship would have need for a doctor. Still, her pulse pounded as they walked past gun chests and cannons before reaching the back of the ship and an oak door framed by frosted windows.

  “The day cabin.” Jack nudged open the door with his shoulder and let her pass. It looked to be a combination dining area and library, though the only books on the shelves were of a nautical nature. A skylight in the middle of the ceiling filled the room with sunlight from the open deck above.

  “My meals are cooked in the quarter galley and brought here.” He crossed the room to a small white door on the other side of the dining table. Taking a brass key from his pocket while juggling her son’s basket, he inserted it into the lock and pushed open the door to reveal another room.

  “My bedroom. Now yours,” he added, stepping aside.

  The room was small, but it contained a wide berth with a wooden headboard and drawers underneath. A wardrobe took up the other wall, and a small desk for personal correspondence was wedged in the corner beside
the washroom door. It hardly looked large enough for her big husband to sit and write without bumping his elbows.

  Jack set the basket on the bed, still not looking at the baby inside. Abby rushed forward to check on her son. Will’s eyes were closed, but his tiny mouth suckled, even in his sleep. He was so adorably sweet. How could Jack not steal a glance?

  “The head is through that door.” His smooth, deep voice pulled her attention away from her son. “Make yourself at home while I find you some clean clothes and bath linens.”

  His thoughtfulness pleased her, but why would a legitimate sea captain keep women’s clothing aboard his ship? And why did he wish her to change clothes so badly? Did he have an ulterior motive? Her eyes drifted to the big bed with its rumpled coverlet. She swallowed, her eyes drifting back to her husband.

  He shook his head and grunted. “Stop looking at me like that. I am not going to ravish you. As I said when I proposed, this is to be a marriage in name only.”

  Her emotions bubbled to the surface in a confusing mix of fear and relief. He was not obligated to explain or to keep his word. She was his wife. He had the legal right to imprison her, if need be, to pursue his conjugal rights. And yet, he chose instead to reassure her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, blinking to clear her vision.

  Raking a hand through his overlong hair, he sighed. “I am not a brute or a pirate, despite what you seem to think. I am, or was, a privateer.”

  Mistrust bubbled to the surface once more. She held her head high, forcing a haughty tone to her words to hide her fear. “Pirate or privateer. It is a vague distinction at best. The actual work is the same, and the perceived legality amounts to nothing more than a government’s letters of marque.”

  His face flamed, and a muscle in his jaw jumped, but still, he did not raise his voice. Yet, his low-pitched growl was nearly as terrifying. “I was commissioned by President Jefferson Davis himself. My country was in the midst of a civil war, and that is how I came to be in possession of women’s clothing—among other things. I did not pilfer and steal for pleasure. I ran the Union blockades, delivering goods to the South.”