Marrying the Royal Marine. Carla Kelly

everything around her and focus solely on the object of her interest. He felt amazingly flattered, even though she was doing nothing more than giving him her attention. There was nothing coy, arch or even flirtatious about her expression. She was so completely present. He couldn’t describe it any better.

      She dropped him a deep curtsy. Considering that it was high summer and she wore no cloak, this gave him ample opportunity to admire her handsome bosom.

      ‘Yes, Colonel, I am Miss Brandon.’

      As he put on his hat again, her eyes followed it up and she did take a little breath, as though she was not used to her present company. He knew she must be familiar enough with the Royal Navy, considering her relationship to a captain and a surgeon, but he did not think his splendid uniform was ringing any bells.

      ‘I am a Marine, Miss Brandon,’ he said.

      ‘And I am a hopeless landlubber, Colonel,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I should have known that. What can I do for you?’

      What a polite question, he thought. It is almost as if I were infirm. She is looking at me as though I have a foot in the grave, no teeth, and more years than her brothers-in-law combined. What an ass I am.

      Feeling his age—at least every scar on his body had not started to ache simultaneously—he nodded to her. ‘Miss Brandon, I have been charged by Surgeon Owen Brackett to take a letter to your brother-in-law in Oporto. I suppose that is why I sought to introduce myself, rather than wait for someone else—who, I do not know—to perform that office.’

      That is marvellously lame, he thought sourly, thinking of the gawking Midshipmen who had so recently claimed her attention, and mentally adding himself to their number.

      The deferential look left her face. ‘Taking a letter to my brother-in-law is a pleasant assignment, sir. I am headed to the same place. Do you know Surgeon Brittle?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘If you are too busy to discharge your duty, I can certainly relieve you of the letter, Colonel,’ she told him.

      ‘I am going there, too.’

      He could think of nothing more to say, but she didn’t seem awkwardly waiting for conversation. Instead, she turned her back against the rail to watch the foretopmen in the rigging, preparing to spill down the sails and begin their voyage. It was a sight he always enjoyed, too, so he stood beside her in silence and watched. Although he had scarce acquaintance with the lady beside him, he felt no urge to blather on, in the way that newly introduced people often do.

      The Perseverance began to move, and he felt his heart lift, so glad he was to be at sea again and not sitting in a conference room. He would range the coast, watch his Marines in action, interview them, and possibly formulate a way to increase their utility. With any luck, he could stretch his assignment through the summer and into autumn.

      ‘I have never sailed before,’ Miss Brandon said.

      ‘You’ll get your sea legs,’ he assured her, his eyes on the men balancing against the yardarms. He hoped it wasn’t improper to mention legs to a lady, even the sea kind.

      In a few more minutes, she went belowdeck. He watched Marines working the capstan with the sailors, and others already standing sentry by the water butt and the helm. He nodded to the Sergeant of Marines, who snapped to attention, and introduced himself as the senior non-commissioned officer on board. A thirty-six-gun frigate had no commissioned officer. Hugh explained his mission and told the man to carry on.

      He stayed on deck until the Perseverance tacked out of Plymouth Sound and into the high rollers of the Channel itself. He observed the greasy swell of the current and knew they were in for some rough water. No matter—he was never seasick.

      He went belowdeck and into his cabin, a typical knocked-together affair made of framed canvas, which was taken down when the gun-deck cleared for action. His sleeping cot, hung directly over the cannon, was already swaying to the rhythm of the Atlantic Ocean. He timed the swell and rolled into the cot for a nap.

      Because Miss Brandon had admitted this was her first sea voyage, Hugh was not surprised when she did not appear for dinner in the wardroom. Captain Adney had the good sense to give her the cabin with actual walls, one that probably should have gone to a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines, had a woman not been voyaging. The Sergeant had posted a sentry outside her door, which was as it should be. There were no flies growing on this little Marine detachment, and so he would note in his journal.

      There was no shortage of conversation around the wardroom table. The frigate’s officers let him into their conversation and seemed interested in his plan. Used to the sea, they kept protective hands around their plates and expertly trapped dishes sent sliding by the ship’s increasingly violent motion. When the table was cleared and the steward brought out a bottle, Hugh frowned to hear the sound of vomiting from Miss Brandon’s cabin.

      The surgeon sighed and reached for the sherry as it started to slide. ‘Too bad there is no remedy for mal de mer,’ he said. ‘She’ll be glad to make land in a week.’

      They chuckled, offered the usual toasts, hashed over the war, and departed for their own duties. Hugh sat a while longer at the table, tempted to knock on Miss Brandon’s door and at least make sure she had a basin to vomit in.

      She didn’t come out at all the next day, either. Poor thing, Hugh thought, as he made his rounds of the Marine Privates and Corporals, trying to question them about their duties, taking notes, and wondering how to make Marines naturally wary of high command understand that all he wanted was to learn from them. Maybe the notion was too radical.

      Later that night he was lying in his violently swinging sleeping cot, stewing over his plans, when someone knocked on the frame of his canvas wall.

      ‘Colonel, Private Leonard, sir.’

      Hugh got up in one motion, alert. Leonard was the sentry outside Miss Brandon’s door. He had no business even crossing the wardroom, not when he was on duty. Your Sergeant will hear from me, Private, he thought, as he yanked open his door.

      ‘How dare you abandon your post!’ he snapped.

      If he thought to intimidate Private Leonard, he was mistaken. The man seemed intent on a more important matter than the potential threat of the lash.

      ‘Colonel Junot, it’s Miss Brandon. I’ve stood sentinel outside her door for nearly four hours now, and I’m worried.’ The Private braced himself against the next roll and wiggle as the Perseverance rose, then plunged into the trough of a towering wave. ‘She was puking and bawling, and now she’s too quiet. I didn’t think I should wait to speak until the watch relieved me, sir.’

      Here’s one Marine who thinks on his feet, Hugh thought, as he reached for his uniform jacket. ‘You acted wisely. Return to your post, Private,’ he said, his voice normal.

      He had his misgivings as he crossed the wardroom and knocked on her door. Too bad there was not another female on board. He knocked again. No answer. He looked at Private Leonard. ‘I go in, don’t I?’ he murmured, feeling suddenly shy and not afraid to admit it. There may have been a great gulf between a Lieutenant Colonel and a Private, but they were both men.

      ‘I think so, sir,’ the Private said. ‘Do you have a lamp?’

      ‘Go get mine.’

      He opened the door and was assailed by the stench of vomit. ‘Miss Brandon?’ he called.

      No answer. Alarmed now, he was by her sleeping cot in two steps. He could barely see her in the gloom. He touched her shoulder and his hand came away damp. He shook her more vigorously and was rewarded with a slight moan.

      No one dies of seasickness, he reminded himself. ‘Miss Brandon?’ he asked again. ‘Can you hear me?’

      Private Leonard returned with his lantern, holding it above them in the tiny cabin. The light fell on as pitiful a specimen of womanhood as he had ever seen.