FAIR WINDS TO MUSCOVY
The Misadventures of
Mistress Rosalyn Morgan
and Mercy Wallins continue.
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Book II of II of
The FAIR WINDS Series
by
Barbara Dan
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Cover Graphic Design
by Laura Shinn
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Copyright 2012 by Barbara Dan
Smashwords Edition
Copyright registered with the Library of Congress. 1. Early maritime history of English colonies — historical fiction. 2.Women’s role in Russia, 1698-99—historical fiction. 3. Trade routes in the Baltic in 1698-99—historical fiction 4. Peter the Great and the Russian Court—historical fiction. 5. The Streltzy Rebellion,1698 — historical fiction. 6. Russia’s ongoing conflict with Sweden—historical fiction.
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In loving memory of American poet, Alan MacDougall,
who dared me to write a “bodice ripper” historical romance
about two Boston wenches, pirates, and a Russian Cossack.
(“Hey, bro, I did it!”)
Dedicated to
John, the bravest man I ever knew;
Michael, who is the spittin’ image of my hero;
and Grant, who inspired my hero’s name.
Special thanks to the Mystic Seaport Library.
Author’s note:
Here is a tale of swashbuckling romantic adventure on the high seas! In Book I, Fair Winds to Jamaica, an unwilling bride escapes the marriage mill in Boston, only to encounter Pirates in the Caribbean, a Slave Uprising in Jamaica, a dangerous journey through the storm-tossed Atlantic to England during the reign of William of Orange, and then travels on to Poland and Russia during the uprising of the Streltsy Guard against Czar Peter the Great. As Rosalyn Morgan and the Fair Winds’ rogue captain, Grant Watermann, flee Russia during the final harrowing events of Book II, Fair Winds to Muscovy, they are captured by Swedish troops near the Russian border. Trapped in a burning barn and facing certain death, Rosalyn finally breaks down and admits her love for Grant—after nearly two years of fighting a fatal attraction that has plagued and tormented them both! Has her confession come too late? What will happen next?
Chapter 1
In and out of Cape Fear in one day, the Fair Winds came away from Belmont’s quay with its hold filled to capacity. Plantation owner Roger Belmont was up to his old tricks, but Grant had stuck to his guns. Those pungent tobacco leaves, sun-ripened, dried, and bound in huge bundles, he figured, had a better chance of reaching England than if he accepted gold. Stubbornly turning a deaf ear to Belmont’s objections, he ordered the crew to set sail, knowing in his gut that he had correctly judged his father’s old comrade-in-arms. The fellow was a scoundrel, all right; when it came to making a profit, he was still a murdering, thieving pirate to the bone.
Sure enough, the Fair Winds hadn’t gone a half-day’s journey when a swift sailing schooner appeared on the horizon, flying the Jolly Roger. Laden down as they were, Grant immediately armed his men and told them to prepare for the worst.
“I am perfectly willing to have another go-round with the pox,” Rosalyn nervously offered, but he turned her down flat.
“Get in your cabin and bar the door,” he commanded, tying a rolled bandana around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes. “This time we stand and fight.”
There was no reasoning with him. Wringing her hands, Rosalyn watched while Grant and his men armed themselves with dirks and daggers, muskets and pistols. All eight cannon on board were primed and made ready.
“I knew it was a mistake sailing with you!” she stormed. Tears in her eyes, she ran to her cabin and slammed the door.
“Pirates!” she grimly informed Mercy.
Dropping to their knees, she and Mercy committed their souls to God and the ship’s captain and crew to His care and protection. And then, for what seemed like hours, they waited.
And waited, and waited.
Meanwhile the ship rocked and pitched and heaved, its timbers groaning and creaking and snarling. Over the howl of wind and heavy seas came roared commands and the fast drumming of bare feet running across the deck. In their cabin, the girls held their breath, expecting the worst. Then came the shriek of a cannonball fired across the bow and the curses of seamen.
This was followed by the short piping of a whistle, and the clang of the ship’s bell.
Then—an eerie silence.
Hours passed, and still no battle. Enduring the suspense as long as they could, two very frightened young ladies finally unbarred the cabin door and stuck their heads out.
On the quarterdeck Grant Watermann, an unlit cigar clamped between his gleaming white teeth, gave them a friendly wave.
“What happened to the pirates?” Rosalyn called up to him. Having seen the Jolly Roger with her own eyes, she still felt extremely wary.
“Lost ’em in a squall,” he said with a cocky grin. “Disappointed?”
Rosalyn shook her head. “Thank God, our prayers were answered,” she said, wishing to remind him that their lives depended on more than good seamanship to evade a pirate ship.
His black hair ruffling in the breeze, he laughed good-naturedly. “The wind must have drowned out your prayers. I scarce could hear myself think, let along pay attention to a pair of caterwauling females.”
“Be that as it may, Captain!” she snapped, now truly incensed. “We weren’t addressing you.”
He cocked a quirky eyebrow. “Really! Have you forgotten? I’m god on this ship.”
She refused to be outdone. “Is that so, Captain? ’Tis odd then, that every time we’re in a storm, you find it necessary to talk to yourself!”
* * *
“We need to talk, Grant.” It was two weeks later, and Rosalyn had snuck up on him on the port side aft.
“What about?” He tried to sound preoccupied. Maybe she would take the hint and leave him alone. What he needed about now was an encounter with wild, lusty wench, not a pious do-gooder. “Bad weather ahead,” he said gruffly. He shrugged his collar up around his ears, pulled down his knitted cap, and placed his back to the wind—and to his greatest temptation.
Rosalyn circled, so that they faced each other again. “Grant, I’d like you to send Matthew Brackenridge to school when we get to England.”
He scowled. Would she never let up? “Can’t spare him. He’s one of my best sailors.”
“With more education, he will be extremely useful to you in the shipyard. He is extremely bright,” she said, refusing to be put off.
“Aye, and I suppose next you’ll be telling me how to build ships,” he replied, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Not that he had anything against a man improving his lot in life. The Old Man had sent him back to England for more schooling, to shave off a few rough edges, so to speak. Still and all, hands-on learning usually went a lot farther than the tripe they taught behind ivy-covered walls.
He glanced down, admiring the bright color nipping at her cheeks. They were a long way from the tropics now, yet the northern gusts blowing across the icy deck only made her look more radiant. He loved the sparkle in her clear blue eyes, and her lips sported the most tempting seashell pink he’d ever been blessed to see. As usual, rebellious wisps escaped the neatly braided crown she wore to confine her chestnut hair. Aye, and a damned bewitching sight she was, all bundled up against the bitter cold.
“I’ll speak to the lad,” he conceded, “but don’t you be sticking your nose in my business, or—”
“Or what?” she challenged.
He couldn’t very well set her ashore; that would be going too far. He leered at her instead. “Or I shall confine you and your friend to your cabin for the rest of the journey.”
Not surprising, she laughed in his face. “I am utterly petrified, Captain.”
“Glad to hear it. Any other progress reports you want to give me about your students?” Knowing how it annoyed her, he stuck an unlit cigar between his teeth with a defiant grin.
“Kigamatei’s English is much improved, except for a few swear words he has picked up from you and the crew. He is starting to read and write a little. Not much, but it’s early yet.”
“Glad to hear it. And your other pupils? None of ’em kicking over the traces?”
“All perfect gentlemen,” she said blithely. “Grant, you won’t believe their progress! Some are writing letters home for the first time.”
“Is that so? Well, carry on, Mrs. Watermann.” He gave her a careless salute and walked over to the nearest hatch.
“Kigamatei is having a hard time believing he’s a free man,” she said.
“Aye, he was skittish about going into Cape Fear, for fear of being pressed back into slavery. Problem is, taking him back to Africa would take us thousands of miles off course. The only practical solution I can think of is to apply to the Quakers.”
“Quakers?” Rosalyn, knew very little about the sect, only that they had been banned from many places in the colonies because of their nonconformist views.
“They have made a strong stand against slavery. There’s a Quaker settlement on Nantucket Island, but I think I’ll wait and seek them out when we get to England.”
“As long as there is slavery in the colonies, England would probably be safer,” she agreed. “What sort of help can they give him?”
“Provide work,” he shrugged. “Accept him as a creature of God.”
“Well, till then, Mercy and I will keep teaching him English. When he and the others aren’t working, of course.”
He uttered a cynical laugh.“I give you fair warning, Rosalyn: Most of my crew can barely mark their X. Improving their ability to read and write may not be all they’re interested in. I suggest you ladies keep your charms well covered up.” Grant leaned close, his dimples leaping out at her in a roguish smile. “Otherwise I’ll have to double the ration of salt peter.”
“I shall be pleased to teach anyone who is serious about learning.” She couldn’t resist firing one last salvo: “Before you go, might I make another suggestion?”
“Stow it, Rosalyn. And you’d better take cover in your cabin. We expect severe winds this evening.” On this warning, he disappeared below.
Staring after him, her teeth chattering, as the icy winds cut through her clothing, Rosalyn spied Warburton at the wheel and envied him the bulky woolen jacket he wore.
Quickly she hurried through the cabin door, bringing in the chill air with her. Mercy sat with her feet on a tiny metal firebox of hot coals. “Come warm yourself,” she invited, making room for Rosalyn’s feet next to hers.
“I put in a word for young Brackenridge,” Rosalyn said, extending her hands over the portable stove Grant had installed. “When I told him how well behaved our pupils have been, he almost seemed disappointed.”
Mercy chuckled softly. “Charles says he promised twenty lashes to any man who steps out of line during class.”
“You’re joking!”
“No, but it does explain why some of the older men avoid us like the Black Plague.”
Rosalyn flushed angrily at Grant’s high-handed tactics. “That man! I pray the threat of flogging hasn’t discouraged anyone who wants to learn.” Irked that he would interfere with her fledgling school, she kicked at the bricks supporting the tiny stove.
“He’s just protecting his business interest in you,” Mercy snickered, and dodged the pillow Rosalyn sent flying in retaliation.
A sudden lurch of the ship and the winds’ heightened shriek had an instant sobering effect on them both. “By the way, Grant said to expect rough weather tonight,” Rosalyn said.
“I guessed as much,” Mercy gasped, hanging onto the bed post to keep from being thrown across the cabin.
“We should batten down now, before anything gets lost or broken,” Rosalyn suggested. Gathering personal belongings, she placed them in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Within minutes the entire room was swaying. “What am I saying?” she gasped nervously. “I think we had better batten ourselves down until this storm blows over!”
* * *
As it turned out, classes were indefinitely suspended.
Over the next several days winter storms sorely tested the Fair Winds’ seaworthiness and the mettle of her crew and officers. For the first two days, enormous waves rolled over the deck, repeatedly threatening to swamp the ship. The foremast snapped, leaving men struggling to free themselves from a pile of canvas and rigging. With the deck awash with salt spray, spume and fish, the men’s horror of drowning increased with every passing hour of grueling toil.
Exhaustion quickly set in. Slicks and leather boots did little to dispel the penetrating dampness. Frigid Atlantic seas, coupled with heavy gales, continued to pound the ship and the men unmercifully. The near-deafening roar of wind and waves only added to the crew’s difficulties. At times the men couldn’t hear commands as the officers’ shouts were continually drowned out by howling winds. Throats became hoarse and raw in the salty air.
Deprived of rest and dry clothing, the men battled sore muscles, fevers, and discouragement. They were working around the clock in a super-human effort to save the ship, but their stamina was steadily being worn down. If anymore of the crew gave way to illness, exhaustion, or injury, the ship might not survive the storm.
Finally, on the third day, Grant called his men together in the officers’ mess.
“We have four men injured. Sprains and a near-crushed back, and Thompson’s down with lung fever. We can’t afford to have any more men put out of action.”
He looked around the roomful of gaunt faces. Garrison was holding forth at the wheel, but everyone else was present. They were tough seasoned men, most of them having trained under his father. He was glad now that his father was such a rigorous taskmaster. If there was any way to save the ship, he knew these men would help him pull her through.
At that moment, the ship hove to abruptly. Thrown against the wall, Smythe struck his head and came up dazed.
Warburton spoke up: “We need a second set of dry clothing for change-offs, Cap’n. The men are so tired they sit around below like half-drowned rats. There’s no way we can stay dry when we’re up on deck, but—”
“I get your drift,” said Grant. “Have Thompson or one of the other men keep the stove going in the foc’sle, so we’ll have dry blankets and clothes available. That way, whenever someone is relieved of duty, he can dry off, grab some grub, and catch some shut-eye.”
“Thompson’s in serious shape, sir. I doubt he—”
Lamb nodded, confirming the bo’sun’s report on Thompson. “He’s burnin’ up, Cap’n. And nobody has time to give ’im the nursing he needs.”
Grant’s brows knit together. “We’ll remedy that! Lamb, request the ladies to join us. We need every hand, if we’re to survive without loss of life.”
“Aye, sir!”
“Let’s get back to other problems,” he continued. “We have severe damage to the foremast and its sails. We’re starting to list to starboard—not much yet. We need to man the pumps and move ballast. Warburton, get some men on that right away.”
Warburton nodded. “It’s as good as done.”
“Have Lamb repair the hatch cover on the foredeck. The foremast damaged the deck and some of the gunwale.”
Smythe rubbed the goose egg on his temple. “We’re lucky the hull is sound. But the cargo will be ruined unless we repair the foredeck fast. I’ll put Kigamatei and Ramirez on it with Lamb, right away, sir.”
Responding to the Captain’s summons, Rosalyn and Mercy entered the mess room, and every head turned. Although somewhat under the weather, they quickly doffed their caps.
“Ladies, we need your help,” Grant announced without preamble. “I am putting you both in charge of caring for the sick and the injured. It will be your job to make sure the men have warm dry clothing and blankets at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
Rosalyn and Mercy gazed in astonishment at the roomful of bedraggled, haggard male specimens. Ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Rosalyn agreed readily. “Captain, we welcome the opportunity to be useful.”
“We’re ready.” Mercy nodded, equally determined.
“Good,” Grant said brusquely. “Josh, escort the ladies to the foc’sle. The rest of us, let’s get back to work! We’ve got a ship to save.”
“Come on, Mercy, let’s get busy,” said Rosalyn, leading the way to the foc’sle. The first thing she did was have more wood and coal brought in for the stove. When she found it was wet, she solved that temporary problem by having Lamb break up dry crates and several empty barrels for fuel. Next she commandeered all rum and whisky on board, and set about making Thompson comfortable. Wheezing and gasping, he lay in clothing soaked with perspiration and salt water. She made him drink a hearty swig of whisky, and then Mercy spooned fish broth into him.
Meanwhile she rummaged up a dry blanket, a shirt and pantaloons. Together they wrestled him from side to side while they turned his mattress. Next they removed his wet clothing—Thompson was too weak to fight them off—and covered him with a dry blanket.
Mercy quickly rinsed out his clothing, reeking of sweat, vomit and the sea. She set them to dry on a clothesline strung between two posts. Warm and comfortable at last, Thompson fell into a deep sleep.
“I’ll make an onion poultice for his chest,” Mercy decided.
She and Rosalyn began picking up wet clothing from all over the crew’s quarters. The foc’sle was not only crowded but dirty. Wood shavings from whittling and carving, plus hair clippings from a sailor’s clumsy attempt to give himself a haircut, littered the floor. There was trash everywhere!
One man, who had suffered a crushed hand, looked otherwise to be able-bodied, so Mercy placed a broom in his good hand and ordered him to sweep up. “Take care not to raise a speck of dust, or I shall break your other hand for you,” she threatened. Noticing his grimace at her pushy ways, she smiled. “Please? Would your wife or sweetheart approve of you living in such squalor?”
“No, ma’am.” Glowering at her, he began ever so slowly to wield the broom.
“What’s your name, sailor?” Mercy demanded after watching him dawdle for some time.
“Stow, ma’am. William Stow.”
“Where do you hail from, Mr. Stow?”
“Bristol. That’s where me family lives.”
“Well, unless you want your family to hear from me personally how you men crap out down here, you will keep this pigsty clean.”
“Yes, Mr. Stow. We are setting up a temporary sick bay, and we expect things to be kept neat as a pin,” Rosalyn said, joining forces with Mercy. “Put a little enthusiasm into your work, if you please!”
He was scarcely able to disguise his annoyance that females had invaded what had always been a man’s domain. Having little choice, he resorted to making disgruntled remarks under his breath while he swept: “Damned bossy woman . . . mean, too!”
Mercy heard him. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Stow,” she warned, giving him an ominous look. “Or we shall report you to the Captain.”
“No need, Miss, no need!”
“Then look lively!” she yelled, plumping her fists on her hips.
Rosalyn found that many of the sailors’ blankets were damp. Stringing up several clotheslines around the stove, which had begun to warm the area nicely, the two young ladies set about straightening husk mattresses. They soon discovered that the men had lain down without changing out of their wet garb. Their bedding was no dryer than their clothing.
“Even a wet dog shakes himself dry before curling up to sleep,” Rosalyn said disgustedly. “Have they no common sense at all?”
Mercy shrugged. “Man never outgrows the need for a mother.”
“Does Grant—” Rosalyn changed how she referred to him in front of the men. “I mean, does the Captain expect us to sit here and dry their clothes for them ’round the clock?”
“Let’s set things up so they can avoid chilling,” said Mercy. “Look at Mr. Thompson.”
‘Yes. He doesn’t look well, poor man. Mercy, if you’ll make him that poultice you were talking about, I’ll hang up all this wet clothing that’s lying about, turn the mattresses, and see to Mr. Thompson.”
Rosalyn briskly worked her way around the berths in the foc’sle, flipping mattresses. Sometimes she threw trash into the pile Stow was sullenly gathering with his broom. Soon her efforts transformed the room into a hand laundry, and in the process, her house cleaning produced an unexpected benefit: The area acquired added warmth as blankets she’d strung about the room insulated the foc’sle against drafts and confined the stove’s heat to the immediate area of the berths. Although Stow and the other injured men lying in their bunks had resented the intrusion of females, now they were looked upon with something resembling puppy love.
“Mr. Stow, please resume sweeping,” she ordered. “And dump the waste overboard.”
“Right away, Mrs. Watermann. Thank you, ma’am,” His voice had new respect in it.
“No. Thank you, Mr. Stow,” she replied.
Taking up the slop bucket, he scurried away, while she surveyed the results of her labors. “I expect everyone in the foc’sle to hang up their wet clothes and change into dry ones, no matter how tired they are. Make that clear to all the men. That is an order,” she told those present.
Egbert, languishing in his bunk with a cracked collarbone, responded without thinking: “Aye, aye, sir. Er, I mean, ma’am!”
Rosalyn laughed. Even with the waves swelling tumultuously beneath her feet, she felt better for being useful. Seating herself beside Thompson once more, she lifted a spoonful of broth to his pale lips.
* * *
“Oh, it’s pipe down, man, when you’re feelin’ kind o’ blue,
With a half-drowned ship and a half-dead crew.
When your heart is in your sea boots and the cold is in your bones,
And you don’t give a damn if she goes to Davy Jones.”
On the fifth day of the storm, Grant could no longer hold out against the demands of mind and body. He’d been walking a fine line for days. Torn by fear that in his fatigue he might commit a fatal mistake, thus endangering them all, he had struggled to stay on his feet, longer than he should. Finally, realizing he was of no use to himself, his men, or his ship, he staggered off to his cabin. Collapsing into his berth without removing his boots or rain-soaked clothing, he sank into an exhausted stupor.
The pounding on his door several hours later finally roused him from a deep sleep.
“Come in,” he croaked, his throat rasping and sore. His head was throbbing with pain, and he felt feverish.
Garrison cracked open the door, but it was Rosalyn who entered first. In one glance, she took in his disheveled condition and the wet clothes. She immediately turned to Garrison for assistance. “Help me get him out of those wet clothes.”
Grant tried to fight them off. He drew the blanket up, only to have her yank it out of his hands—rather roughly for such a delicate looking woman, he thought, surprised.
“I thought I was coming to give you a progress report on Thompson and Egbert,” she said indignantly. “But here you lie, sir, courting pneumonia!” She didn’t look very sympathetic; more like an angel of wrath.
“I’m fine,” he whispered hoarsely. “I just need sleep.”
“Mr. Garrison, strip him down,” she ordered. “Meanwhile I’ll fetch fresh bedding and a dry blanket.” She was gone before Grant could protest.
Garrison shrugged. “Sorry, Captain. I have my orders.”
“Nobody orders me around!” Grant sat up weakly and gave way to a coughing fit. “I need whisky—quick!”
Garrison shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Mrs. Watermann had commandeered all hard spirits on board. For medicinal purposes only.”
“Just to soothe my throat,” Grant pleaded, swallowing painfully.
“She’ll be back any minute, Cap’n. I suggest you get into some dry clothes, or she’s likely to raise hell,” said Garrison.
“God damn interfering female—!” Sitting on the edge of his bed, he braced himself while Garrison tugged off his boots. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled.”Find me some dry clothes then, and a towel.”
“Right, Cap’n.”
Grant stood and dressed quickly, shedding his sodden garments in a pile on the floor. Hurrying, least she return before he was decent, he hopped and hobbled his way into a clean pair of breeches, then donned a warm, woolen shirt. His black hair, still damp, hung in disarray around his haggard face.
“All right,” he growled. “I expect she’ll leave me be now. Garrison, sneak me some whisky or brandy, will you? All I need is rest, and I’ll be back at the wheel in no time, mate.”
After a soft tap, Rosalyn reentered his cramped quarters. “Much better,” she approved. “Sit over there on that chair, Captain, while I fix your bed.” She bustled about, tossing his damp blanket and sodden mattress on the floor with his discarded clothing. “Mr. Garrison, kindly fetch me a dry tick from below.”
After the First Mate left, she stood, hands on hips, surveying her latest patient. In her opinion he needed to be whipped into shape as much as her forlorn charges in the foc’sle. “You’re a sorry sight, Grant Watermann, I must say.”
“I’m dog-tired, Rosalyn. Don’t push me,” he warned in a surly tone.
“How about some brandy?” she asked, producing a bottle from her apron pocket, along with a clean spoon.
“Never mind the spoon,” he said, grabbing it from her. “I’ll prescribe the dosage, thank you.” Tipping his head back, he proceeded to glug down a third of the bottle, pausing only now and then to cough and wince because it pained him to swallow.
“Mr. Garrison predicts we’ll ride out this storm in the next few hours,” she told him. “Everything is under control.” She stood watching him consume his painkiller. When he paused to catch his breath, she snatched the bottle from him.
“Obviously not everything’s under control,” he said in a gravelly voice and glared at her. “Leave the bottle.”
She slapped his hand away. “I have other patients to tend.” Back it went in her apron pocket.
He sat there, looking glumly at her in her dark brown woolen dress. “That dress doesn’t do a damned thing for your figure, Rosalyn. Burn it.”
“I’m not interested in how I look at the moment,” she told him prissily.
“Bad for morale,” he croaked. He felt the hot liquor working its way through his system, relaxing his tongue and easing his fatigue, but he wasn’t ready to give her a fight—yet.
Examining him the way she might an errant child, she smiled. “You will be glad to learn that Thompson has passed the crisis and is on the mend,” she reported. “He’s not strong enough for work, but at least he’s going to survive.”
“Glad to hear it. He’s a good man. Listen,” his sore throat reduced his voice to a near whisper, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you and Mercy.”
“We’re happy to be of help. Long hours, but well worth the effort,” she told him.
“Where’s Garrison?” he asked grumpily. “Don’t I get to lie down on a mattress, or am I supposed to sleep on a board?”
“He will be here soon enough.” Her smile was as reviving as the brandy. “Do you mind if I take a look at your throat?” she asked.
“No! Stay away from me, woman!” he hacked, trying to rise out of his chair.
“Fiddlesticks.” She pushed him back down. Her soft, dainty fingers grasping his chin, with five days of rough, black stubble, she tipped his head back. “Open wide,” she coaxed. “Let me see your throat.”
“God protect me from this she-devil,” he said, giving in. “There.” He stuck out his tongue. “Are you satisfied?”
“Quite.” She straightened, clearly enjoying the chance to order him around. “You shall stay in bed until we have you well again.”
“Rosalyn, don’t try to boss me.” He scowled. “I’m in command of this ship, not you.”
She laughed and ran her fingers through his black hair, restoring a semblance of order to his unruly locks. “You put me in charge of nursing the sick and injured, remember?”
“That doesn’t include me!” he barked.
She paused to look in his eyes, her hands cupping his rough, unshaven cheeks. “I promise not to take advantage of your—what shall we call it?—temporary indisposition,” she promised. “You may be the ship’s master, but you need a good night’s sleep. And you’re going to get it, even if I have to sit on you!”
“Bold talk, coming from you!” He tried to grin, but his throat was too sore for levity. Besides, his head was pounding.
“Consider it a threat. Ah!”she exclaimed, as Garrison came through the door, hauling a fresh mattress. “Here’s a dry tick, just in the nick of time. Please put it right there, please.”
After Garrison slung the mattress in the berth, she spread it with fresh linens and had the first mate install his captain in bed. She personally tucked the blanket up around his chin.
“Nighty- night, Captain,” she said sweetly. “Mr. Garrison and Mr. Warburton will take care of the ship while the good Lord and I take care of you.” She paused in the doorway. “I’ll check in on you later.”
Grant groaned. He would never live down being bossed around by a woman in front of his men. The minute she was gone, he beckoned furtively to Garrison.
“Lock the door on your way out,” he croaked. “I’ll survive better without that managing female.”
“Very good, Cap’n.” His First Mate pulled the door to behind him with a craggy grin.
“How’s he doin’?” Warburton asked, when Garrison came to relieve him at the wheel.
“Terrible sick,” Garrison confided. “Never saw the Captain let anyone push him around before. And to think it’s a young slip of a girl.”
Sharing a dry match, they lit their smokes and enjoyed a quiet laugh together.
Sure enough, the storm had begun to subside. By midnight the waves had settled into a steady rocking motion that held out a promise of smooth sailing on the morrow.
Eighteen hours later, Grant Watermann awakened to resume command of the Fair Winds. Later he learned that both Mercy and Rosalyn had taken turns checking on him. Fortunately the only remedy he had needed was sleep. When he woke, he was physically restored and ready to assess the ship’s damage.
* * *
It was a frozen day in late February 1698 when the Fair Winds, minus her foremast and moving along with makeshift rigging and sails, made her way slowly up the Thames and pulled into the dockyards just below Deptford. Everyone on board expressed thanks in his or her own way for a safe passage through the stormy Atlantic and the English Channel.
Grant’s first concern was getting the ship into dry dock. The Fair Winds would require considerable repair before putting out to sea again. Not far from His Majesty’s fleet at Deptford, an old family friend and expert shipwright, Gil Trowbridge, had facilities for building and repairing large vessels. While the work was going on, Grant planned to market his tobacco.
Once landed, he sent Smythe ashore to hire a carriage for Rosalyn and Mercy. A sailor was sent ahead to alert the Morgans on Chelsea Street of the ladies’ arrival.
Grant knew Rosalyn and Mercy had been packed and ready to disembark for the past day and a half. This was the day they had all been looking forward to, so when he went to collect them, he was more than a little taken aback to find both females bawling their eyes out.
“What’s wrong now?” He braced his fists on his lean hips in disbelief.
“I’m going to miss everyone so much!” And Rosalyn sought comfort in Mercy’s arms.
Unsettled by the sight two normally intelligent and capable young women clinging to each other in such an unwarranted display of emotion, Grant busied himself directing the removal of their trunks. With the luggage safely stowed, he motioned for Charles Lamb to escort Mercy to the carriage.
When he came back, Rosalyn was leaning against the outside cabin wall, her shoulders and bosom heaving. He just hated it when women turn on the waterworks.
Why today of all days? he asked himself. He had no time for emotional farewells. He had business to attend, once he sent them on their way.
“Come on, Rosalyn,” he said, only to be subjected to more heart-rending sobs. “Be glad you’re getting off this rocking seahorse and onto dry land.” She looked reproachfully at him, then her face crumpled. “Time to go.” He stood waiting, but she still wouldn’t budge. Finally, he realized there was only one way to get her off the ship without creating a horrific scene.
“I refuse to carry you down the gangplank,” he warned and offered his arm.
Head bowed, she meekly walked down the gangplank, clinging to his arm. A great tear spilled off her dark lashes onto his thick woolen coat.
Grant climbed up beside her in the carriage, completely baffled by her behavior. My God! he thought. What is it with females? She should be glad they were quits of each other. It was embarrassing to have her weeping while his men stood around on deck watching.
He gingerly put his arm around Rosalyn and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don’t tell me you’re going to miss me?” he teased.
She punched him in the chest lightly with her gloved fist and bit her lip. “It’s certainly not on your account!” She pulled away and stuck her nose in the air.
Ignoring her sour looks, Grant proceeded to enlighten her: “With your world about to change again, it’s not surprising that you suddenly long for what’s familiar, even if things weren’t entirely to your liking. Am I right so far?”
Rosalyn cast a distrustful glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Possibly.”
“You may even miss tormenting me, just a little.”
“How can you say such a thing!” She buried her face in her handkerchief again.
Knowing he had struck a nerve, Grant winked at Charles and Mercy, who were finding comfort in each other’s arms. “I predict that in one week you will be surrounded by a dozen prospective bridegrooms,” he chuckled. “Watch out for the fortune hunters. I wouldn’t want any of ’em taking advantage of my dear stepmother, since our finances are tied to each other.”
“Thank you for such sound advice.” She blew her nose and felt better. Sitting straighter and looking beyond the carriage and its occupants, she noticed that rows of trees lined the road, and hedgerows provided a privacy screen between the carriage traffic and the houses and lawns. The barren trees with their stark, windswept branches suddenly reminded her of the Boston cemetery where she and Grant had first met and nearly come to blows. Had it only been four months? So much had happened in such a short time, and here she was, about to embark upon a brand new life!
Their bumpy ride over the cobblestones took them into a comfortable middle class neighborhood. When the carriage drew up to the door, her uncle, William Morgan, cartographer and well-to-do citizen of London, greeted them at the door, and Rosalyn and Mercy said their farewells to Grant and Charles.
While Mercy and Charles walked a short distance away for a few words in private, Grant took her hand and surprised her by bending over it in an unexpectedly gallant bow. “Take good care of yourself, Rosalyn.”
“I guess this is goodbye, Grant. I-I wish you much success,” she said softly, committing his handsome face to memory. The wind blew his unruly black locks, and his hazel eyes with their dancing gold flecks gave him a rakish air. “I guess you’ll be moving back into the Captain’s cabin,” she said wistfully.
“If I can stand living with those crocheted lace curtains and dresser scarves.” His lips curled, but no smile reached his eyes. “I can barely remember how it used to look!”
“I should apologize for all the inconvenience I caused you.” She ducked her head, her throat constricting with a sudden return of sorrow.
“Never a dull moment with you and Mercy aboard,” he admitted.
“Mercy and I replaced the quilt in your cabin with a new one. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That was very—” He cleared his throat. “Thank you. And thanks for all you did for my men.”
“I shall miss . . . everyone! Your men were truly amazing, once I got to know them.”
She raised her eyes, and when he saw them swimmingly blue, like a warm tropical sea, it nearly unnerved him. But he gripped her hands hard for a second, and the moment of weakness passed.
Her heart full to overflowing, Rosalyn clung briefly, wishing she could delay their final parting. Reluctantly she removed her hands from his grasp and stepped back.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. “I shall never forget you, Grant Watermann.” Turning, she fled up the steps and into the Morgan’s home before she embarrassed herself with another flood of uncontrollable weeping.
For a long moment, Grant stared blindly after her, torn by mixed emotions. If only it wasn’t so hard to say goodbye. He blew on his hands to warm them and stuck them inside his coat, as he looked up at her uncle’s house. The amber glow of candles in the Morgans’ front parlor window shone brightly on the dark chestnut hair of the tall, slender, young woman who had brought upheaval and grief and worry—and, yes, a special touch of magic—into his life.
Damn you, Rosalyn Morgan Watermann! he thought. Will I never get you out of my blood?
Chapter 2
When the Morgans’ door closed behind Rosalyn, it was as if one of the most unsettling chapters in Grant Watermann’s life had closed. Aye, and him with a life no sober man would call “settled,” by the wildest stretch of the imagination!
Orphaned at five, he had been from pillar to post and back again his entire life. He had known the grief and confusion of a young child, when his mother was suddenly snatched away by the plague. Then, moving from London to Liverpool with his siblings, he had had a difficult time adjusting to a stepmother. Molly had been a warm hearted, blowsy blond, crazy in love with the Old Man, but with incredibly poor mothering instincts verging on neglect. Roaming the streets at a tender age, Grant had very early learned to make up what he lacked in size with shrewdness and a fast pair of fists. Time and again his fast legs had carried him off, dodging trouble when it came, mostly in the form of the local constable!
Finally, Molly threw up her hands in despair, and his father had stepped in. Dealing him a few thumping good blows to get his attention, the Old Man started him out as cabin boy, performing all the dirtiest jobs on board ship. “Fend for yourself, lad,” his Old Man told him. “Don’t look to me if you find yourself in a tight corner.”
If anything, being the Captain’s brat only made his life at sea tougher. But he survived and very early on, developed a knack for blocking his emotions. He was doing pretty well for himself—until Rosalyn Morgan Watermann came barging into his life. And though he persisted in using his caustic brand of humor and toughness as a shield, somehow she had managed to penetrate his armor. He had to admit that in all his tumultuous years at sea, nothing had prepared him for a woman like her: beautiful, intelligent, courageous—in short, the perfect woman.
Except when she defied all his preconceptions about how a woman should behave, especially when it came to male dominance and female submissiveness! Aye, she certainly knew how to stand up to him then!
Watching her race up those steps and out of his life, he felt a strange tug-of-war in his heart between relief and regret. On the one hand, he was now free to return to a less complicated existence of wine, women, and more women. Aye, he was well rid of her; she only confused his priorities anyway. As to the other—he didn’t want to think about it.
Jamming his cap back on his head, he climbed back into the carriage to wait for Charles to finish with Mercy. What he needed, he decided, was a casual fling to relieve a man’s body hunger—something Rosalyn with all her talk of independence never permitted herself to do.
Aye, he told himself, with all the females who are ready, willing and eager, it should be easy to undo the spell Rosalyn had cast over him! In fact, by this time tomorrow, he expected to have a certain Puritan wench purged from his mind and affections with no difficulty at all!
By the time Charles managed to tear himself away from Mercy Wallins, Grant was chilled to the bone. “How’s about a nip of brandy to take away the chill?” he suggested.
“Sounds good,” said Charles, rubbing his hands vigorously.
After hoisting a few, Grant returned dockside to discuss repairs on the Fair Winds with Gil Trowbridge and son Samuel. Next he put out feelers for tobacco buyers, only to discover that English currency was tighter than usual. Getting his price would require time and persistence.
“That pretty well sets me back on my duff,” he remarked to Garrison, as they headed off to the best lodgings on the waterfront, a little inn called the Wayfarers’ Hostel.
“Aye, but it can’t be helped,” said Bill Garrison. “Besides, the Thames will soon be freezin’ over. In a few days, it may be impassable, so we might just as well be stuck here in London than out in the North Atlantic in this weather.”
Grant laughed. “That’s the God’s honest truth! Ready to tie one on tonight, eh, mate?”
“Aye, but it’s so cold, it may take a while to thaw out me dick!” laughed Garrison, beating his arms to keep the circulation moving.
After a hot bath and a shave, nothing tasted better than good English beef and a pint to wash it down, before Grant and his officers rolled on down the street to let off steam at Maudie Clinton’s. Every night was a “Welcome Home” celebration for sailors come home from the sea. That night was no exception, and after the beer and whisky and ribaldry downstairs, a sailor’s best welcome could be found on the upstairs side of Maudie’s parlor. A fresh assortment of girls were always ready to please Maudie’s clientele, who were drawn from ships from all over the world.
“The toll’s a mite steep, Maudie,” Warburton complained, waving off the madam.
Mrs. Clinton shrugged. “Some charge less,” she admitted with a lewd wink, “but the pickings here are choice. Take your time lookin,’ gents. I guarantee you’ll find a pretty little thing what suits you.”
In no time Grant, Bill Garrison, and Wally Smythe had picked out a trio of doxies with a penchant for uninhibited partying. Warburton decided to take his pleasure from a bottle.
Miss Louise was a slightly plump pigeon with soft white arms, a deliciously responsive neck, and curves in all the right places. Two sheets to the wind, Grant had just enough alcohol in him to enjoy her ample charms. The only thing he found jarring, aside from her loopy giggle, was her dark hair: Reminded him of the very woman he was trying to forget.
Finally, physically sated but still emotionally empty, he rose from her rumpled bed and started pulling on his breeches.
“Don’t go, sweetie,” she crooned, rolling onto her belly to watch him. Her voluptuous breasts gave her a wanton air that her low-cut bodice had only hinted at when they climbed the stairs to her room a few hours ago.
“You’re a live one, Louise. A real beaut.” He laughed, but even to him, the sound was hollow and lacking in mirth. Crossing to the dresser, he dropped a handful of coins. “I wish I could stay, luv, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
He gave her lips a casual buss and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Slightly disgusted with himself, he was glad tomorrow marked the start of putting the Fair Winds back in shape for the return journey. He still needed to find a prosperous buyer for all that fine Carolina tobacco, too. Hopefully repairs on the ship wouldn’t cut too heavily into the profits.
As he left the brothel, he asked himself why, after being at sea so long, the pleasures of a warm-blooded woman seemed to have lost their appeal.
* * *
Entering the Morgans’ house, Rosalyn paused to doff her cloak and regain her composure. Saying goodbye to Grant was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. She loved him, a secret she would never admit except to herself, for their differences far outweighed the things they held in common. She let out a sigh, knowing that she had no choice but to set aside her feelings and look to the future. Even so, there would always be a place in her heart that belonged exclusively to him.
Now she must meet her aunt and uncle, unknown to her, but gracious enough to open their home to her. Following the housekeeper, she found them enjoying a cozy fire in the parlor.
William Morgan, a spare middle-aged gentleman, stood, as she entered, and nodded curtly as she made her curtsy, first to his wife and then to himself.
“Well, girl, it certainly took you long enough to get here,” he said.
Not expecting such a cool greeting, Rosalyn exclaimed, “Pray forgive me, Uncle, but I have been at sea for many months. In truth, I had not the means to write, nor could I be sure we would survive the storms and make it safely into port!”
Mrs. Morgan looked up from the needlework in her hands. “Your father wrote us months ago, when you left Boston. Last November I believe it was,” she said with a resentful sniff.
Hoping to correct any false impressions they might have received from her father, Rosalyn hastily explained the circuitous route she had taken. “The Fair Winds, being a merchant ship, stopped in the Carolinas to fill the hold with goods to barter. From there we sailed for Jamaica, where the captain traded most of our remaining cargo for sugar and rum. Then we stopped briefly in the Carolinas and bartered once again, this time adding a large cargo of tobacco, before sailing for England. We made excellent time, all things considered. We encountered bad storms at sea twice, and fortunately survived, as you can see,” she finished breathlessly.
“Well, thank the Lord you’re now safely under our roof, where we can keep a close eye on you,” her uncle said sternly.
At this juncture, Mercy, having big Charles goodbye, was announced by the housekeeper. After the introductions, and having said all that was polite and exclaiming over her hostess’s embroidery, she politely requested to be excused to oversee the unpacking of their trunks, since they were traveling without a maid. This being acceptable to the Morgans, Mercy made her way upstairs to get them settled in.
“A charming girl, Miss Wallins!” Aunt Prudence said in a tone that clearly contradicted her words. “Will she be with us long, do you think?”
“I believe she has family in London,” Rosalyn replied, “but since we are such good friends, neither of us wished to be separated just yet.”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” said Uncle William. “Still, I imagine she has plans of her own. And what about you, my dear? I suppose you expect to be with us for some time?”
“Hopefully I won’t have to presume upon your kind hospitality for long,” Rosalyn said, deciding to reveal her plans before any misunderstanding arose. “Perhaps you help me secure a suitable position—you know, employment?”
“Employment!” The mention of such a heretical notion made Aunt Prudence’s nostrils quiver as if she smelled something noxious. “What an absurd idea!”
“I don’t regard work as degrading,” said Rosalyn, defending her plan. “After all, my father is a working man. He makes sails for a living.”
“Well, it simply will not do! The type of positions that are available would be most unsuitable. With your beauty and graceful manners, you should do quite well for yourself, Rosalyn.” Not one to mince words, Aunt Prudence came straight to the point: “What we must do is find you a suitable husband.”