Marrying the Royal Marine. Carla Kelly

she had reached that place where Nana had once told her she would one day arrive. ‘“Polly, dear, you must never deceive a man about your origins,”’ Nana had told her only a week ago.

      ‘My father was William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe of Admiralty House,’ she said. ‘I am one of his three illegitimate daughters, Colonel.’

      To her relief, he did not seem repulsed. ‘That accounts for all the years in boarding school in Bath, I suppose. Tell me more, Brandon. What do you like to do?’

      ‘After that, you really want to know more?’ she asked in surprise.

      ‘Indeed, I do, Private Brandon,’ he said simply. ‘Remember—I’m supposed to extract answers from you and keep you at your ease. I am interested.’

      ‘Our father tried to sell my older sisters to the highest bidder, to pay off his debts,’ she went on.

      ‘What a bad man,’ the Colonel said. ‘Is he the Admiralty official who died in a Spanish prison and is thought by some to be a hero?’

      ‘He died in Plymouth, and, yes, some think him a hero,’ she said, her voice barely audible.

      He amazed her by putting his hand under her chin and raising it a little, so he could look her in the eyes. ‘You managed to avoid all this? How?’

      Don’t you have eyes in your head? she wanted to retort. ‘Come now, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I am no beauty. My father chose to ignore me.’

      For some reason, her bald statement seemed to embarrass the Colonel, whose face turned red. ‘Shallow, shallow man,’ he murmured, when he had recovered himself. ‘He never really took a good look at you, did he?’

      Startled, she shook her head. ‘He demanded miniatures of my sisters, but not of me.’

      ‘Thank God, Brandon,’ the Colonel whispered, his eyes still not leaving her face. He gazed at her for a long moment, and then seemed to recall what he was doing. He sat back and regarded her speculatively. ‘I think I can do those interviews now,’ he said. ‘If I show a genuine interest in what these enlisted men are telling me, look them in the eyes and wait, I might have success. Is that it?’

      ‘I think it is,’ she replied, relieved that he had changed the subject, and a little surprised at how much information she had given him with so little encouragement. ‘You’re actually rather good at interviewing, I think.’ Then she couldn’t help herself. ‘Only don’t chuck them under the chin.’

      He laughed and held up his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘Too right, Brandon! Wait. You never told me what you like to do, only about your dreadful father. There’s more to you than him.’

      She had never thought of it that way before. ‘I like to plant things. Before I left Torquay, I helped my brother-in-law’s mother plant a row of Johnny Jump-Ups in pots. We … we were going to do snapdragons next, but the letter came and I went to Plymouth. It’s not very interesting,’ she said in apology.

      ‘You’d like Kirkcudbright, the village where I grew up,’ he said. ‘Everyone has flowers in their front yard. It smells like heaven, around July. And it is interesting.’

      The Colonel put his hand on her cheek then, as he had the other evening. ‘Don’t ever sell yourself short, Brandon,’ he said quietly. ‘Incidentally, I like to carve small boats.’

      He bowed and left the quarterdeck for the waist of the frigate, where the guns were tied down fast. She watched as he spoke to the Sergeant of the guard, then sat down on the hatch.

      ‘That’s the way,’ Polly murmured quietly, her heart still beating too fast. ‘Surely they won’t remain standing if you are seated.’

      Trying not to appear overly interested, she watched as the Marines not on duty approached Colonel Junot. He gestured to them, and in a few minutes, they were seated around him.

      ‘Talk to him,’ she whispered. ‘Just talk to him. He’s nothing but kind. All it takes is one of you to speak.’

      One of the Privates squatting on the edge of the gathering raised his hand. Colonel Junot answered him, and everyone laughed, even the man who asked the question. Then others joined in, talking to the Colonel, to each other, and even calling over some sailors.

      You just have to be yourself, she thought, imagining Colonel Junot’s capable hands carving little boats for children. Just be the man who was so kind to me.

       Chapter Five

      Maybe it was the wistful way Polly Brandon had spoken of snapdragons. As Hugh had tried out his interviewing skills on a squad of obliging Marines, he’d found his mind wandering to the lady in the canvas chair.

      He could be thankful he was aboard one of his Majesty’s typical warships, which did not believe in mirrors on the bulkheads. He had enough trouble frowning into his shaving mirror the next morning and seeing nothing but grey hair starting to attack his temples. As he stared in total dissatisfaction, a brave better angel of his nature did attempt to remind him of his own words to Brandon a day ago, when he so sagely advised her not to sell herself short. The angel shrugged and gave up when he chose not to admit he was doing exactly the same thing to himself.

      ‘I am too old,’ he told his reflection in the shaving mirror as he scraped at his chin, which only made him wince—not because the razor was dull, but because none of those obstacles loomed any higher than the molehills they were to him. All he could think of was his August 9, 1775 birth date in the family Bible back home.

      When his face was scraped sufficiently free of whiskers, he sat naked on the cold cannon in his cabin, glumly willing himself to be as practical as he ordinarily was. He reminded himself he was on duty, in the service of his King, headed into the war, and destined to be busy. Another day or two would pass and he would never see Polly Brandon again. For his peace of mind, it couldn’t come too soon. Hugh did know one thing—what ailed him had a cure, and it was probably to continually remind himself that he was too old for the bewitching Polly Brandon.

      Two days later, he could have made his resolve less problematic if he hadn’t been pacing on deck in the early hours, dissatisfied with himself. If he had a brain in his head, he would skulk somewhere on the ship when it docked in Oporto. Brandon would go ashore, and he would never see her again. He could go on to Lisbon.

      That was his plan, anyway—a poor one, but serviceable enough. Trouble was, the view of Oporto took his breath away, and he was down the companionway in a matter of minutes, knocking on her door to tell her to step lively and come on deck for a look.

      Why did you do that? he scolded himself, as he returned topside. His only hope was that she would look unappetising as she came on deck, maybe rubbing her eyes, or looking cross and out of sorts the way some women did, when yanked from slumber. If that was the case, he might have an easier time dismissing her. He could go about his business and forget this little wrinkle in his life’s plan, if he even had a plan.

      No luck. She came on deck quickly, a shawl draped over her arm. He smiled to see that she still couldn’t quite reach that centre button in back. I won’t touch it, he thought. Her face was rosy from slumber, her eyes bright and expectant. She merely glanced at him, then cast her whole attention on the beautiful harbour that was Oporto. She had wound her long hair into a ridiculous topknot and skewered it with what looked like a pencil. She looked entirely makeshift, but instead of disgusting him, he wanted to plant a whacking great kiss on her forehead and see where it led. Lord, I am hopeless, he thought in disgust.

      She was too excited to even say good morning, but tugged on his arm. ‘Where is the hospital?’ she demanded.

      He pointed to the southern bank. ‘Over there, in that area called Vila Nova de Gaia. Turn round.’

      She did as he demanded, and he buttoned up the centre button.