Marrying the Royal Marine. Carla Kelly

each cannonade, she watched as each man performed his task.

      Someone tapped her shoulder. She looked around to see Colonel Junot holding out some cotton wadding and pointing to his ears. She took the wadding from him and stuffed it in her ears, observing that he seemed as usual, and not in any way offended by her earlier comment. Perhaps I make mountains out of molehills, she told herself, as he returned to the main deck, watching the crews there as she watched them from the quarterdeck.

      His eyes were on the Marines. Some of them served the guns alongside the naval gunners, and others lined the railing, muskets at the ready, their Sergeant standing behind them, walking up and down. A few Marines had ventured aloft to the crosstrees with their weapons. Through it all, Colonel Junot observed, and took occasional notes.

      It was all a far cry from Bath, and she knew how out of place she was. I wonder if I really can be useful in Oporto, she thought. Nana had wanted her to stay in Torquay. What had she done of any value on this voyage yet, except make a cake of herself with seasickness? She wondered why Colonel Junot thought her worth the time of day.

      It was still on her mind as she prepared for dinner that evening. Only three more days, she thought, as she reached around to button her last button.

      When she ventured into the wardroom, Colonel Junot came up behind her and without a word, buttoned the one in the centre of her back she never could reach. The other men were already busy at dinner; no one had noticed. I can’t even dress myself, she thought, flogging her already-battered esteem.

      Polly had little to say over dinner. For all she paid attention, she could have been shovelling clinkers into her mouth, and washing them down with bathwater. All she could think of was how ill equipped she was to leave England. Probably she should never have even left Bath, uncomfortable as Miss Pym had made her, especially after she had turned down Pym’s invitation to stay and teach the youngest class. At least at the Female Academy, she knew precisely where she stood, in the order of things.

      Bless his heart, Colonel Junot tried to engage her in conversation, but she murmured only monosyllables. Before the endless meal was over, even he had given up, directing his attention to war talk, and then ship talk. She was as out of place as a Quaker at a gaming table.

      Polly had never felt quite this gauche before, almost as though her spectacles were ten times too large for her face, with every freckle—real and imagined—standing out in high relief. And there sat the Lieutenant Colonel next to her, an officer with handsome features, distinguished hair going grey. He was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen, and what had he seen of her except someone who needed to be cleaned up, held over a basin, or buttoned up the back? She burned at her own failings, compared to Colonel Junot’s elegant worldliness, and longed to leave the table as soon as she could decently do so.

      The dinner ended after a round of toasts to the ship, the men, and the King. She was free to go. She stood, and all the men stood out of deference, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was the weakest link at the table.

      Polly was only two or three steps from her door, but there was the Colonel, bowing and offering his arm, as he suggested a turn around the deck. She didn’t know how to say no, or even why she wanted to, so she took his arm.

      The wind blew steadily from the west, making it the fair wind to Spain her brother-in-law Oliver had mentioned during his last visit to Torquay. Polly breathed deep, half-imagining she could smell the orange blossoms in Nana’s garden, while she wished herself there.

      Colonel Junot walked her around the deck, commenting on the workings of the ship, pointing out the phosphorescence in the water, which he didn’t understand, but which intrigued him. She could tell how much he loved the sea, and she felt her shyness begin to recede. He still seemed to be taking care of her, as though someone had given him that role when he first saw her on deck in Plymouth. She knew no one had, which made her feel protected. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to; probably none of Lord Ratliffe’s daughters was.

      ‘This voyage has been a real trial for you, Miss Brandon,’ he said finally.

      She wished he had continued calling her simply Brandon. He steadied her as they went down the more narrow companionway, and into the wardroom again, which this time was full of Marines.

      All twenty of the frigate’s small complement of Marines had assembled, each carrying a flask. Private Leonard had borrowed a medium-sized pot from the galley, which he set by her door. He saluted the Lieutenant Colonel and stepped forwards, eyes ahead.

      ‘Colonel Junot, if we may take the liberty …’

      ‘By all means, Private.’

      The Private looked at her then, flushed, and glanced away, addressing his remarks to someone imaginary over her shoulder. ‘Miss Brandon, there’s nothing pleasant about vinegar. We decided you should have an opportunity to wash your hair with fresh water. With the Lieutenant Colonel’s permission, we decided to give you our daily ration, and we will not take no for an answer.’

      He said it practically in one breath, then stepped back. As she watched, tears in her eyes, each Marine poured his drinking water for the day into the pot. When they finished, Colonel Junot went to his cabin and brought out his own flask, adding it to the water in the pot.

      ‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she protested feebly, when everyone finished and stood at attention.

      ‘Just for a day, ma’am,’ the Sergeant of the guard said. ‘We’ve been thirsty before.’

      He turned around smartly on his heel, and with a command, the Marines marched back to their posts, or to their quarters between the officers’ berths and the crew. Private Leonard remained at his post outside her door, eyes ahead again, every inch the professional.

      ‘Open your door, Brandon, and we’ll get the pot inside,’ Colonel Junot said.

      She did as he directed, standing back as Lieutenant Colonel and Private lifted in the pot, careful not to splash out a drop of the precious fresh water. She had never received a kinder gift from anyone in her life.

      The Private went back to his post, but Colonel Junot stood in her room, a smile playing around his expressive lips.

      ‘Colonel, I could have waited until we reached port. They didn’t need to do that,’ she said.

      ‘It was entirely their idea, Brandon,’ he replied, going to her door. ‘They only asked that I distract you on deck long enough for them to assemble. Look at it this way: if you ever decide to take over the world, you have a squad of Marines who would follow you anywhere.’

      ‘Why, Colonel?’ she asked.

      It was his turn to look nonplussed. He was silent a long moment, as if wondering what he should say to such a question. ‘Possibly just because you are Brandon Polly, or Polly Brandon. Sometimes there is no reason.’

      ‘No one ever did anything so nice for me before,’ she said, wincing inwardly because she didn’t want to sound pathetic. It was true, though.

      ‘No? Not even your sisters?’

      She could tell he was teasing her now, but there was still that air of protection about him, as though she had become his assignment for the voyage. ‘My sisters are different,’ she told him, feeling her face grow rosier. ‘They are supposed to be kind.’

      He laughed at that. ‘So is mine,’ he confided.

      She didn’t mean to look sceptical, but the Colonel seemed to be sensitive to her expression. ‘Here’s how I see it, Brandon—you’ve made a tedious voyage more than usually interesting.’

      She couldn’t imagine that tending a female through seasickness qualified as interesting, but she wasn’t about to mention it. She knew she should just curtsy and wish him goodnight. She would have, if some imp hadn’t leaped on to her shoulder, and prodded her. ‘I … I … most particularly like it when you call me Brandon,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Some of the other students at Miss Pym’s had nicknames. I never did.’ She stopped