The Lady's Command

Foreseeing the weakness in that plan, Declan had hailed a hackney, traveled to the house overlooking Dolphin Square, and spoken to her brother. Julian and his wife might not circulate within the ton, but as Neville Roscoe, he had eyes and ears everywhere. Once Julian had shaken off his surprise that Edwina had agreed to remain in London, he’d undertaken to watch over her while Declan was at sea.

Declan had taken every precaution he could. Given that Edwina wasn’t a silly female prone to taking unnecessary risks, when they finally departed Comerford House and settled in the shadows of their carriage to rattle over the cobbles to Stanhope Street, he felt more settled than he had since he’d learned of his mission. Assured that while he was away, all would be well with her, and relieved he’d managed to navigate his way through the marital shoals caused by his unexpected voyage.

Having her seated beside him with one small hand tucked into one of his and her soft shoulder pressing against his arm set the seal on his peace.

As the carriage turned a corner, she glanced at his face. “Do you know at what hour you’ll be leaving the house?”

Her tone was even, the question simply that.

“As soon as I receive the reports I’m expecting, but I suspect it’ll be after midday. Regardless, I’ll have to leave before midafternoon in order to make Southampton before the evening tide.”

“So your ship will sail on the evening tide?”

He nodded. “If we don’t get out then, we’ll have to wait until the next day, and time is of the essence.”

“I see.” A moment ticked by, then she said, “I once went sailing on a yacht in the Solent and saw some of the larger ships pass by. Is it possible for a ship like yours to sail out into the Solent and then wait for people to be ferried from the port before going further?”

“If we weren’t in a hurry, yes. But we need to catch the tide to get out of the Solent itself, and once we’re in the Channel, there’s no turning back—not until the tide turns again.”

She fell silent as if digesting that, then she leaned closer, her head resting against his shoulder, and gently squeezed his hand. “Tell me about your ship. Does Frobisher and Sons have a particular wharf at Southampton? You have that in London, don’t you?”

He returned the pressure of her fingers. “We have two wharves in London—one in St. Katherine’s Docks, the other in London Docks. The office is more or less between them. But in Southampton, all our ships come into one section of the main wharf.”

“What about The Cormorant itself? Describe it.”

He did. As they rattled along the night-shrouded streets, he painted a picture drawn from fond memories, his words colored by emotion, by the joy he always felt on the waves, with the creak of the sails, ropes, and spars above his head, the slap and shush of the waves caressing the hull, and the pitch and roll of the deck beneath his feet. He opened his heart and shared it all with her.

When the carriage drew up outside their town house and he helped her from the carriage and escorted her up the steps, he realized he wanted this evening—this last night they would have together for weeks—to be perfect. For the pleasure they’d rediscovered in each other to remain unmarred by any discord, by any jarring note.

She seemed to have the same agenda. They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, closed the door on the world, and gave themselves up to each other.

Somewhat to his surprise, she took the lead—demanded it. He ceded the reins readily, intrigued as to what she had in mind, only to discover that she’d decided that he should remember this night…vividly.

Her small hands were everywhere, stroking his skin, caressing, then clutching, nails sinking in evocatively when he struck back and ravaged her mouth. But she drew breath and came back at him; with lips and tongue, with her curves clothed in silken, heated skin, with her breathing ragged and her lids at half mast, she seized the tiller of their passions and orchestrated a wave of need, greed, and delirious wanting that all but overwhelmed him.

Then she took him into her mouth and drove him to madness. Her tongue artfully stroked, then she suckled, and he thought he would lose his mind.

Blue eyes bright beneath passion-weighted lids, she played, joyous and bold—more confidently assured in this sphere than he’d ever seen her. Than he’d ever imagined she might be; the sight sent a lustful wave of sheer, prideful possessiveness surging through him.

That she was his had never been in question—not here, like this, with them naked and writhing in their bed. But tonight, she went a step further. Tonight, she lavished a devotion to his pleasure upon him—a commitment so intense, so deep and absolute, it left him giddy.

Giddy and glorying that he had found her, that she had accepted him and consented to be his.

When she finally rose above him and took him into her body, that appreciation, that bone-deep thankfulness thudded in his blood.

Joined, their senses fused, their fingers linking, they set off on their journey, on the long, rocking ride up and over the pinnacle of their desire, straight into the molten heat of their passion.

They raced on through the flames, gasped and clung and shuddered through the intensity, then as one, they surrendered to the final conflagration that cindered their senses and propelled them headlong into ecstasy.

Up, through, and on, ultimately to fall into the oblivion beyond.

Wrapped together, their hearts thudding in unison, they sank back to reality, back to the earthy pleasure of each other’s naked embrace, back to the tangled sheets of their bed, the quiet rasp of their breathing, and the shadows of the night.

She had collapsed on top of him. When she finally stirred and rolled to his side, he drew her closer, tucking her against him. Blindly, he searched, found the sheets, wrestled, and drew the silk over their cooling bodies.

Then he lay back, surrendered, and let satiation have him.

Despite his looming departure, all was well between them. He was, he felt, an extremely lucky man. And if she’d intended to bind him to her with her unrestrained passion, she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. For this, for her, he would walk through fire. No sea, no storm, no danger on earth would keep him from returning to her side.

Tucked against her husband’s solid heat, somewhat to her surprise, Edwina discovered her mind crystal clear and her decision made—definitive, final, and resolute. The events of the evening had only underscored the value of what they already had, what they already shared. Contrary to her assumption on embarking on their lovemaking, she hadn’t been driven by the thought of fresh insights and new explorations; instead, her actions had been a recommitment—something that had welled from deep inside her, an instinctive and powerful response to their current situation.

To their current need.

She’d recommitted to protecting what they already had and to moving ahead and securing the marriage she wanted them to have—the marriage that would best benefit them both.

She now knew what she had to do—the essential elements were clear in her mind. Courtesy of the past day, she had a vague notion of how she might accomplish the crucial first step.

Tomorrow, she would act. Tomorrow, she would take the first step in forging the marriage she—and he—needed to have.

Regardless of all else the evening had wrought, she sensed—felt, could all but touch—a solid certainty that now dwelled at her core. She was not giving up—she never would give up—on her dreams.

CHAPTER 4

Declan dallied at the breakfast table the next morning until Edwina breezed into the parlor.

They exchanged comfortable, knowing, richly private smiles, then she turned to the sideboard. He seized the moments while she filled her plate to drink in the sight of her, her trim figure displayed in a day gown of blue-and-white-striped cambric. Her pale golden hair was drawn up into a knot at the top of her head, from where it cascaded in a glory of bouncing curls that framed her face and brushed her nape.

Then she turned, and he rose and drew out the chair to the right of his. Once she’d sat, he resumed his seat at the table’s head.

Her gaze had gone to the various letters and notes piled beside his plate. “Have you had news?”

“Yes.” He flicked a finger at the missives. “Most of the reports I was waiting for have come in. I’ll need to go to the office for the last of them, but other than that…” He caught her gaze. “It appears I’ll be leaving immediately after luncheon.”

She stared at him blankly for half a minute, then she grimaced. “Damn.” She threw him an apologetic glance. “I have a luncheon, followed by an event, and I simply cannot cry off from either.” Her expression turned downhearted. “I’m so sorry. I had wanted to be here to wave you away, but…” She gestured, signifying resignation, then she shrugged and returned her attention to her plate, to the slice of toast she was slathering with jam. “Still, given the urgency of your trip, you must leave, and that’s that. I can’t even be sure exactly when I’ll get back—the event is on the outskirts of town. In Essex.”

Essex. On the other side of the capital from the road to Southampton; he couldn’t even arrange to turn aside and meet her… “So this is the last time we’ll see each other until I get back.”

She nodded. “Sadly, yes. I have an at-home this morning, and after that I’ll go on with my sisters to the luncheon.”

Declan told himself that the disappointment he felt, its oppressive weight, was entirely uncalled for. She was behaving exactly as a lady of her ilk should when faced with the situation he’d foisted on her; she wasn’t railing at him, crying, or enacting any scenes. He should be grateful for her attitude.

He had no grounds on which to feel that it lacked a certain something.

He squashed the sense of dissatisfaction deep, but the feeling didn’t leave him.

He dallied over his coffee until she’d finished her toast and tea. Then he rose, slipped his missives into his pocket, and drew out her chair. Together, they strolled into the front hall.

“Well, then.” Facing him, she donned a bright—patently superficial—smile. “It seems this is farewell.” She gripped his arm, stretched up, and placed a peck on his cheek. “Adieu, my darling. I’ll be here when you return.”

Before he could respond, she whirled and strode briskly to the stairs.

In something close to disbelief, he watched her ascend… That was it? His grand farewell wasn’t even a proper kiss?

He stared after her until she disappeared around the gallery, then he shook himself—and called his errant thoughts, and his uncalled-for emotions, to order. What had he expected? He was leaving her to live her life here in London and heading off on a voyage, and if he was honest, he would admit the unknown, the potential for danger, for adventure, called to him.

Edwina was adventurous, too.

“True. But she’s a woman.” A vision of his cousin Catrina—Kit—who captained her own ship in their fleet, swam across his mind, and he amended, “A lady. A noble lady.”

And she was his and now meant far too much to him for him to even contemplate putting her at risk—not of any sort or of any degree.

He had to go and sail and investigate, and she had to remain safely here.

That was all there was to it.

Feeling the weight of the missives in his pocket, he considered, then waved at Humphrey to fetch his coat.

A minute later, his expression set, he strode down the front steps and headed toward the Frobisher and Sons office and whatever last dregs of information his searchers had gleaned from the ships currently bobbing in the Pool of London. The more information he had before he sailed, the less time he would need to spend on the ground in Freetown—and the sooner he could return to re-engage with his wife and, in light of the separation, re-examine how their marriage should work.

He hadn’t in the least expected it, but deep down in his gut, he wasn’t at all satisfied with leaving her behind.

* * *

Edwina stood at the window of their bedroom and watched Declan stride away from the house. The instant he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight, she swung around and beckoned to her maid, Wilmot, who’d been packing the last of the clothes Edwina had selected into a small portmanteau. “Quickly—help me out of this gown.”

Wilmot hurried to Edwina’s side. As she set deft fingers to Edwina’s laces, the severely garbed middle-aged maid anxiously murmured, “Are you sure about this, my lady?”

“Absolutely definitely.” Shrugging out of the loosened gown and letting it fall, Edwina added, “You needn’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.” Wilmot had been with her since her come-out; she was an excellent maid, but rather timid.

“If you say so, my lady.” Wilmot clearly remained unconvinced, but she held her tongue as she helped Edwina into a dun-colored carriage dress.

As soon as all the tiny black buttons at the back of the dress were secured, Edwina waved Wilmot to the last of the packing and headed for her dressing table. In short order, she stowed her brushes, combs, and a handful of hairpins into a large traveling satchel. From a drawer, she drew out a wad of banknotes. She tucked some into a small purse that she placed in a black traveling reticule, then secreted the rest of the notes in a pocket sewn into the lining of the satchel. When she turned, Wilmot was securing the straps of the portmanteau.

Edwina slipped the reticule’s ribbon over her wrist, settled the satchel’s strap on her shoulder, picked up the bonnet Wilmot had left ready, then waved the maid to the door. “Remember what I told you. Go down the back stairs, and you’ll be able to slip out of the house while I’m talking to Humphrey in the front hall. I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”

Still looking worried, Wilmot hefted the portmanteau, bobbed a curtsy, then hurried out of the door.

After one last glance around the room, Edwina followed, closing the door behind her.

She descended the main stairs. When Humphrey joined her in the front hall, she smiled brightly at him. “I require a hackney, Humphrey. Please summon one for me.”

“Of course, my lady.” Humphrey hesitated, then somewhat diffidently said, “If you’re sure the carriage will not suit?”

“Sadly, it won’t.” Tugging on her gloves, she went on, “For this particular excursion, a hackney is what I need.”

Humphrey bowed. “I’ll summon one immediately, ma’am.”

Edwina waited in the front hall while Humphrey opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She heard a shrill whistle; half a minute later, the clop of hooves informed her that her carriage had arrived. Calmly, she walked out onto the porch and down the steps. Humphrey held open the hackney’s door; he gave her his hand to help her into the carriage.

After settling on the thankfully clean seat, she nodded to Humphrey. “Thank you, Humphrey. I’ll see you anon.”

The jarvey said something, then Humphrey looked at her. “The direction, ma’am?”

“Oh—Eaton Square.”

Humphrey shut the carriage door and conveyed her instruction to the jarvey. A second later, the carriage jerked into motion.

Edwina felt her eyes grow round, felt excitement tempered by apprehension grip her. “I’m off on my journey,” she murmured to herself.

She waited until the carriage slowed at the corner, then stood and rapped sharply on the trapdoor set into the hackney’s ceiling. When it opened and the jarvey said “Yar?” she called up, “When you turn the corner, you’ll see a woman in a black gown holding a portmanteau. Please pull up beside her.”

The jarvey paused, then said, “’Ere—this isn’t one of them scandalous elopements, is it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Huh. Pity.” The jarvey flicked his reins, and his horse stepped out. “I always wanted to drive someone setting out on one of those.”

Edwina shut the trapdoor and sank back onto the seat, a very large smile spreading over her face. She wasn’t escaping to marry some unsuitable man—she was escaping to be with the entirely suitable gentleman she’d married.

She was still grinning when the jarvey drew up alongside the pavement where, as she’d arranged, Wilmot stood waiting with the portmanteau. Even as Edwina opened the carriage door and took the portmanteau, Wilmot was darting anxious glances in every direction.

“Don’t worry,” Edwina reiterated. “Now, don’t forget to give Humphrey those letters I left with you. They’re important, and it’s also important you don’t hand them over until six o’clock this evening.”

She’d written letters to her mother, her sisters, her brother, and to Humphrey and Mrs. King, explaining where she’d gone and how long she expected to be away. Given her destination, she couldn’t see that they would worry; she’d be just as safe as she would be in London. Possibly safer, given Declan would be with her.

“I won’t forget, my lady.” Wilmot bobbed a last curtsy. “I don’t know how you’ll manage with your hair, but I pray that you’ll take care.”

Edwina smiled. For all her nerves, Wilmot was a dear. “I will. And we’ll be home before you know it. Now hurry back before you’re missed.”

Wilmot bobbed again, whirled, and plunged into the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the houses in Stanhope Street.

Edwina shut the carriage door, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. She’d managed to leave the house, luggage and all, without anyone but loyal Wilmot knowing.

The trapdoor opened, and the jarvey asked, “So are we still headed to Eaton Square, mum?”

Edwina shook herself to attention. “No. I wish to go to Mr. Higgins and Sons’ establishment in Long Acre.”

“Right you are.” The trapdoor fell closed. An instant later, the carriage rocked into motion.

“And now,” she murmured, “I really am off—off on a true adventure.”

* * *

Declan strode up The Cormorant’s gangplank as sunset was streaking the sky.

He’d been held up at the London office when one of his searchers was late getting back. Subsequently, he’d delayed at Stanhope Street as long as he could, hoping that Edwina might return before he absolutely had to leave, but she hadn’t. Then on reaching the office here, he’d found more men waiting with verbal reports on the current conditions in Freetown.

He’d hoped that somewhere amid all the information, he might have found some glimmer of a clue as to why four men—Captain Dixon, Lieutenant Hopkins, Lieutenant Fanshawe, and Hillsythe—had vanished, but no. Instead, the news from Freetown was entirely benign, with not even a hint of disturbance among the natives.

On gaining The Cormorant’s railing, he paused to look across the harbor at the forest of masts set against the bright orange and scarlet hues in the palette the westering sun had flung up. Such sights never failed to steal his breath; there was beauty in the sky and in the promise of the ships bobbing at anchor, of the journeys they would make and the far-flung places they would visit before they returned to this port.

His gaze moved on to the billowing sails of the ships sliding majestically out of the harbor and into the Solent beyond. Soon The Cormorant would be joining the line.

His sailing master, the principal navigator, was waiting, smiling, at the head of the gangplank. As he stepped down to the deck, Declan acknowledged the master’s crisp salute with a nod and a matching smile—one of anticipation. “Mr. Johnson. How is she?”

“Shipshape and ready to sail, Captain.”

“Excellent.” With a nod, Declan acknowledged the salute of his quartermaster—Elliot, a burly Scotsman who was waiting by the wheel—then stepped aside to allow a pair of sailors to bring in the gangplank.

Grimsby, the bosun, bowlegged and barrel-chested, supervised the stowing of the gangplank. He grinned at Declan and saluted. “Good to have you aboard again, Capt’n.”

After replying to that and other greetings from his crew, all of whom had sailed with him before, Declan made a quick circuit of the deck, instinctively noting the ropes and sails, the set of the spars, and checking for anything not precisely as it should be. But everything appeared in perfect order; his ship stood ready to get under way.

Finally, he climbed to the poop deck, located over the stern, and joined his lieutenant, Joshua Caldwell, by the wheel. “Right, Mr. Caldwell. Shall we get under way?”

“Aye, Captain—ready and waiting at your command.”

Declan grinned; he and Caldwell had sailed the world for years, and those words had become a habit between them. “It’s good to be on the waves again.”

“I can imagine.” Caldwell raised his voice and called for a jib to be set. “There’s enough wind, I think, to get us out with just that.”

Declan nodded in agreement. He waited while the ropes were cast off and the ship slowly slid away from the wharf; under Caldwell’s careful steering, The Cormorant’s bow came around, and the ship eased into the channel leading out of the harbor basin. “So what did Royd do this time?”

His older brother was constantly tinkering with this and that, trying one thing, then another, to improve the performance of the Frobisher fleet. His favorite test subjects were his own ship, The Corsair, Robert’s ship, The Trident, and The Cormorant. Whenever any of those vessels docked at Aberdeen, the chances were good that Royd would have them out of the water.

“He had the hull refinished in some new varnish—he claims it has less resistance, so the ship should cleave through the water more cleanly and therefore go faster. He also changed the set of the rudder, so be warned. It feels different—reacts a little differently.”

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