The Substitute Countess. Lyn Stone

one of the crewmen shouted as the vicar closed his book. Laughter ensued as Jack leaned to touch his lips to hers. Everyone applauded and a few added whistles.

      Laurel savored the sweet feel of his mouth as it lightly caressed hers. He smelled of bay rum, starch and the sea. His closeness felt lovely, though unsettling, and caused a quickening of her heartbeat as it always did. She experienced a small pang of regret when he drew away.

      Moments later, after a spate of cursory congratulations, the onlookers scattered and the ship was back to business as usual.

      Jack still held her hand and turned to her then. “Well, my lady. I wish I could offer you more festivities, but there is a wedding breakfast for the two of us in my cabin. I bribed the ship’s cook.”

      “How wonderful,” she said, growing nervous at last. One could only dismiss thoughts of the consummation for so long. She knew vaguely what was to happen. His kiss had stirred all sorts of imaginings. Would he wait for night? Did couples even do such intimate things in the light of day? “I should have read more novels,” she muttered to herself.

      “So you had novels in the convent,” he said. “Those are fairly new. How did you get them?”

      “Smuggled in by the girls who came late to us. The books were few, well dog-eared and treasured.”

      She stopped on the stairs. “Jack? I feel I should warn you I know very little about becoming a wife. Are you…experienced at all?”

      He bit his lip and looked away. “Ah…well, somewhat. That won’t be a problem. If you like, we will wait until we land and find more comfortable accommodations. To make things official, that is. To, you know…” He actually blushed, delighting Laurel, dismissing her own qualms.

      “That would be best I think. Yes, we should wait.” She hesitated before asking the next question, lest he think her too eager. “How many days will we be at sea, do you think?”

      “Three or four at best. Longer if the winds aren’t with us.”

      “Then we shall arrive in London?”

      “We’re to put in at Plymouth, then go on to London by coach,” he explained. “Well then, shall we breakfast? A good English repast seems a proper way to begin, doesn’t it?”

      “Indeed. How thoughtful you are. Women all over the world will probably wish me dead when they hear you’re leg-shackled.”

      He laughed out loud, banishing some of the tension between them. “Where did you hear such a term? Aha, those infamous novels.”

      To her great relief, he took her hand again and led her through the common room into his cabin. The space was minuscule, quite intimate and not conducive to any sort of formality.

      There was a bunk fastened to the wall on which they would sit side by side. His small travel trunk served as a table. It had been set very simply with two plates of eggs, bread and ham, assuredly cold by this time. She didn’t mind in the least. It was his effort to please her that mattered.

      Laurel could scarcely believe the events of the past three days or credit her good fortune at Jack’s coming to Spain for her and taking her to wife.

      She was almost afraid to celebrate. Where had she heard that when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was?

       Chapter Four

      Early next morning, Jack leaned against the rail again, looking out to sea, wondering if he would ever sail again after this short yet momentous voyage.

      How strange it seemed to be aboard a ship and have nothing to do. Even so, the restlessness that constantly plagued him seemed somehow less today.

      He knew what he would like to be doing, but accepted the wait as his punishment for tricking Laurel into a hasty marriage. She was no lightskirt to tumble in a narrow bunk and laugh with at the inconvenience. She was his wife, an untried, convent-bred young lady with tender sensibilities.

      He had not slept. Of all the men he knew, he was the last he would have figured to spend his wedding night alone. His friends would have a great laugh over that if they ever learned of it.

      Especially Neville Morleigh. He smiled recalling the joint venture that had reaped such a grand profit for both. They had met aboard the Emelia when Jack served as navigator for Captain Holt, the privateer. Neville had been about some havey-cavey government business.

      The two had formed an instant friendship. Later on, by combining funds, refitting an old merchantman, gaining his license to captain and a letter of marque, their privateering had gone smashingly well.

      The Siren had given Neville a means to travel to almost any port so he could do whatever intelligencing he had been set to do. When they captured French ships, England had acquired the vessels while he, Neville and their crew shared the booty. Neville eventually bought out and continued his furtive work elsewhere.

      He had not seen Neville since, but had read in a London paper of his friend’s marriage to a baron’s widow shortly after the war ended. Perhaps Neville had lost his profits on another venture, too, and decided to marry for money.

      “Lost in thought or watching for whales?” Laurel’s cheerful question dragged him back to the present.

      “Just thinking of a friend of mine with whom I sailed in times past,” he admitted, turning to smile a greeting. “Good morning. Did you pass a comfortable night?”

      “Not very. Did you?”

      He shook his head, laughing a little. “Not at all, but then I seldom sleep well. Shall we take a turn around deck?” Jack took her arm and they strolled, avoiding the coils of ropes and a sailor who was busy swabbing the planks. He noted that their walk seemed almost restful to him instead of being merely a thing he must do to keep her in good spirits.

      The wind picked up considerably in the next quarter hour and a bank of clouds moved closer, obliterating the horizon. “We’re in for a blow,” he muttered, squinting to the east. “Best you go to your cabin.”

      Her fingers dug into his arm as she looked up at him. “Please, no. I would rather face it on deck if there’s a storm.”

      “Don’t be a goose,” he said. “If it’s only rain, you’ll be soaked through, and if it does get rough, you could be injured. At best, you’d be in the way.”

      “You’ll come, too?”

      “No, I’ll give a hand up here,” he said, speaking more calmly than the situation warranted. The ship had begun to pitch appreciably even as they spoke. The sky grew dark and drops began to pelt them.

      He shrugged off his coat, slung it around her shoulders, then plopped down on a coil of rope to quickly remove his boots and stockings. He handed them to her. “Go, Laurel. Now!” he ordered as he looked up at the billowed sails and whipping flag.

      “You will be careful!” she cried, hugging his boots to her chest, struggling to keep her balance as the pitch and roll grew worse. She glanced up at the crewmen who had hopped the rigging. The first mate was shouting orders.

      “Hurry! Go!” Jack gave her a gentle shove in the direction of their quarters, watching for only a moment to be sure she minded.

      The captain stood at the wheel, issuing orders to the first mate, who then bellowed them to pilot and crew. Jack made his way toward them to offer his services.

      By the time he traversed the distance, waves were visible, rising higher than the rails, sloshing over the deck.

      Laurel must be terrified. He hoped she had made it inside before getting soaked. Sharp needles of rain increased in density, nearly blinding him. He was wet to the skin. And back within his element.

      They were in for it all right. He put Laurel out of mind and leaped into the fray against his oldest enemy, the weather at sea.

      The mate had