Marrying the Captain. Carla Kelly

man in a coffin, and the notion sent a ripple down her spine. She considered the man, and understood. Flailing about in a hammock or sleeping cot would probably have meant a quick trip to the deck below.

      I wonder, does he ever turn over? she asked herself, curious. No matter. He was sleeping peacefully, his face probably as relaxed as it ever got. Captain Worthy had a sharp and straight nose set above thin lips. His hair was dark brown, with wisps of gray in it by his temples, as well as a faint, curved scar, circling below his cheekbone and nearly touching his right nostril. Pirates on the Barbary Coast? she thought. Or a grappling hook swung by a desperate Frenchman?

      He shouldn’t be so concerned about her own paucity of meals, she decided, considering that he was on the thin side himself. His hands, so peacefully folded, were deeply veined. Her eyes went back to his face, toasted by coastal Spanish sun to a pleasant mahogany that probably turned sallow during the winter. Nothing would change the weather lines around his eyes. She had lived enough of her life in Plymouth to know the mark of a deep water man.

      He coughed, then tried to swallow, which marred his repose as he flinched from the pain in his throat, and uttered some small protest. Then he opened his eyes, looking directly overhead for a long moment, until he seemed to recall where he was.

      He must have sensed her presence, because he addressed her, even as he continued to stare overhead.

      “It’s like this, Miss Massie. When I wake up, I always look at the compass over my head first. Maybe you would induce more captains to visit the Mulberry if you hung compasses on the overhead deck beam.”

      “I think you have been too long at sea, Captain,” she replied, laughing.

      “Doubtless.”

      “It is probably safe enough to turn on your side, sir,” she continued, feeling bold enough to tease him. “We may not be on the first tier of elegance here, but no bed at the Mulberry will pitch you onto the floor.”

      “Old habits are nigh impossible to break,” he told her, then turned onto his side and faced her. “Before we begin, go to the clothespress, please, and take out the tar bag.”

      That was what she had been smelling in the room. She did as he said.

      “The log’s in there, but I’m looking for the ship roster. It’s rolled and tied with twine. Open it. Read the names, and mark a number in the margin where I say.”

      She found the roster, removed the twine and unrolled it. Before she started to read, she poured him a drink of water, which he downed immediately, and then another.

      He handed back the cup, and lay back with his hands behind his head, as though he felt he could relax in her presence. The gesture touched her, even as she was amused at the slow, careful way he moved his hands.

      She knew he had business to attend to, and soon, but she couldn’t help asking, “Captain, I was wondering about that scar on your face.”

      He smiled. “Looks like a grappling hook from pirates on the Spanish Main, doesn’t it?”

      She sucked in her breath, her eyes wide.

      “Sorry to disappoint you. I fell out of a tree when I was a little boy and came in contact with a diabolical branch at a vicarage in Eastbourne.”

      She tried not to look disappointed, but he must have caught her expression. “The grappling-hook scar is under my left armpit,” he told her in mock seriousness. He winked. “Right beside the bullet hole.”

      “You’re quizzing me,” she accused him.

      “Never! Now where were we?”

      I don’t know where you are, sir, but I must inhabit another realm, Nana thought, as she spread the roster on her lap. What an ordinary life I lead. She looked over at the captain, who, to her surprise, appeared almost to be memorizing her face.

      “Captain, may I ask you a question?”

      “Aye.”

      “Are you ever afraid?” She regretted the question the moment she asked it. He’ll think I am an idiot, she thought, her face red.

      “I am afraid all the time, Miss Massie,” he told her, after a long pause. “I fear for my ship, I fear for my men, I fear for myself.” He looked at the ceiling again. “I suppose it’s in about that order, too.”

      “I… I should never have asked such a stupid question,” she stammered.

      “It’s an honest one, and I gave you an honest answer,” he told her, then looked her directly in the eyes. “Ships like mine are the only thing standing between England and ruin. I know times are hard here, but they are infinitely worse on the blockade. And in Spain and Portugal? I doubt Oporto will hold out much longer against the French, damn Boney and Marshal Soult to hell. If Sir John Moore’s army survives to fight another day, I will be amazed. Yes, I am afraid, Miss Massie. Don’t cross me when I say I need to be at the dockyards at two bells in the forenoon watch, even if I have one foot in the grave. I do.”

      Nana stared at him, shocked. He stared back, just as surprised, as though amazed at what just came out of his mouth. She watched him in silence, watched as the astonishment on his own face changed into irritation, and then mellowed into a rueful expression she couldn’t quite fathom. Maybe it was chagrin.

      When he spoke, he sounded apologetic. “Miss Massie, I… I almost don’t know what to say. I just told you things no one knows except officials at Admiralty House.”

      “Maybe you needed to tell someone,” she said, after a long pause of her own, remembering the great relief she had felt after she finally confessed to Gran the terrible future her own father had planned for her. “Sometimes it feels better to share bad news.” She lowered her voice. “Are things as bad as all that?”

      “They are worse.” He put his hand over his eyes. “I have to go to the dock now, listen to the master shipwright tell me he needs at least two months for repairs and then bully him into doing it in three weeks. Then I must cajole the victuallers to move really fast to resupply my ship.”

      “I wish I could help you.”

      She knew there was nothing she could do, no strings she could pull, no advice she could give. If there was a more powerless person in all of Great Britain, she had no idea who it would be.

      Perhaps the captain saw it differently, although she couldn’t think why. He looked at her again, that same, searching look. “You already have,” he said simply. “You are listening.”

      “Anyone would,” she assured him.

      “No, they would not. I have observed that when most people are afraid or bewildered, they just change the subject.” He took a deep breath. “People at the highest levels of our government do it.”

      She had nothing to say to that. This man would never

      lie to me, she told herself. I suppose it doesn’t matter, because when he finally realizes life is more comfortable at Drake’s Inn, he will be gone and I will never see him again. I can at least be as honest.

       Chapter Three

      Nana looked down at the list in her lap. “Shall I begin?”

      He nodded, and stared at the ceiling above, as though wishing for a compass there to tell him which way the wind blew off Spain.

      There were two hundred names on the roster, not quite a full complement of crew for a 34-gun frigate. As she read each name, he had her write in a one, two, three or four in the margin.

      “What was that for?” she asked, when he finished.

      “I’m assigning them to shore leave,” he told her. “The fifty ones will go first, for five days, and so on.” He chuckled. “My brother officers on other ships think I am insane for allowing any leave at all, but I have not had much trouble with desertion.”