Sea Mistress (8 page)

He glanced up from his charts to fix her with his gaze. His expression was unreadable. “No, I guess we didn't,” he said, his voice curiously flat.

And then he dismissed her for his work, and she left without another glance.

“I don't know how I'm going to tolerate this, John!” Bess exclaimed. “If I have to stay down here another minute, I think I'll scream!”

“Now, now, Miss Metcalfe. The captain did promise to take you topside.”

“I realize that,” she told her employee. “But when?”

“When he judges it safe.”

Bess paced the floor like a caged animal, which was exactly what she felt like. “Has he no control over his men?”

“Of course he does—”

“Then why not now?” She saw Reeves shift uncomfortably.

“Er . . . because . . .” He seemed reluctant to tell her.

“Reeves,” she said firmly.

“One of his men is being disciplined.”

“Disciplined? Who?”

The man wouldn't look at her. “The second mate,” he murmured.

Bess thought for a moment. “Conrad?”

He met her gaze and nodded. Something in his expression made her uneasy.

“For assaulting a female,” she guessed. Reeves inclined his head. “I see,” she said.

“No, I don't think you do.”

Bess stiffened as her uneasiness grew. “How? How is he being punished? By scrubbing the decking?”

“Scrubbing, scraping, and varnishing the deck are routine duties for a seamen,” Reeves said, and Bess realized then that she'd thought aloud.

“Reeves.” Her tone and expression demanded an answer.

The man swallowed. “He's being flogged, Miss.”

Bess gasped. “Beaten? With a whip?”

“Afraid so.”

“Damn!” she exclaimed, horrified that any man could be punished so because of her.

John Reeves wasn't shocked by Elisabeth Metcalfe's profanity. He was used to it—not that she swore often, only when she was extremely upset, which she must be now.

She headed toward the hatch. “I'll have to put a stop to it,” she announced.

Reeves put out his arm to block her path. “You can't do that.”

She stared at him hard. “I can, and I will!”

He remained firm. “I'm afraid I can't let you, Miss.”

Bess was surprised by the steel in his voice. “John!”

He blushed, but didn't relent. “I swore to your uncle that I'd look after you, and look after you I will.” Sensing her compliance, Reeves lowered his arm. “You must understand—a captain's word is law on board ship. No one must break it, not even the cousin of George Metcalfe, the new owner of E. Metcalfe Co.”

“Why, that's the most barbaric thing I've ever heard.” She was becoming increasingly upset that because of her a man was being whipped.

“If someone disobeyed your order within the company, what would you do?”

Bess didn't hesitate. “Fire him.”

“It would be rather difficult for a captain to fire one of his men while they were miles out to sea, wouldn't it?”

Her mouth firmed. “I suppose so,” she admitted reluctantly after a short pause.

“The men Garret needs to complete such a rough and dangerous voyage as that around the Cape are a tough breed, perhaps a somewhat disreputable lot, but . . .” He paused to run his hand through his graying hair. “The only thing these men respect, Miss Metcalfe, is strength. Interfere in the captain's orders and you diminish that strength, and—if you will pardon my language, Miss—all hell will break loose. Now do you see why you can't undermine the captain's authority?”

She nodded.

“And you won't interfere—ever?”

Bess straightened her back. “I don't know about ever,” she said, “but I won't interfere now.” She gave him a twisted smile. “I've promised you that I'll not venture topside, John. Don't ask any more of me right now. Relax. There'll be no trouble.”

“Your being on board ship is trouble enough,” he grumbled.

She raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Reeves!”

“No offense intended, Miss Metcalfe. But surely you can understand the problem of your being here.”

“Yet you let me come.”

He grunted. “I couldn't have stopped you.”

“True.” She allowed her lips to curve, as she recalled what she'd said recently about firing employees who defied her.

Responding to her good humor, Reeves shook his head. “I'm afraid you'd not get rid me of that easily.”

Bess saw that he was serious indeed.

“I want you to tell Captain Garret that I wish to speak with him,” she said.

Alarm flickered in Reeves's expression, before a look of resignation took its place. “I'll tell him, Miss, but I can't say as he'll have the time now to talk with you.”

 

 

The whip cut through the air and landed with a loud crack on the man's bare back. The second mate flinched but didn't cry out as he was struck once and then again, the leather slicing through hard, muscled flesh. Geoff Conrad held in his moan of anguish. Hatred for the commander of the
Sea Mistress
burned within his breast. With each new strike of fiery pain, he vowed to get even.

The man had the gall to administer the punishment himself! He gasped as the whip fell again, slicing a welt into his back.

Usually, the captain would appoint someone else to do the flogging. But for some reason that Conrad couldn't fathom, this time Garret had decided to do it himself. It was the highest form of insult, for it suggested that he—Geoff Conrad—was the worst criminal on board ship.

Tears slipped from beneath his lashes, shaming him. Bastard he cried silently.
I'll see you pay, Garret. If it's the last thing I do, I'll see you pay!

The strap struck again, and Conrad lost count of the number of lashes. He felt nauseous and dizzy, and he was only aware of the fire and the pain and the desire for it to end.

And then he realized that it was over. His punishment had been carried out. The flogging had stopped. His flesh stung like fire, and his muscles throbbed where each whip strike had etched its mark.

“Cut him free, Mr. Kelley.” Garret's voice was somber. “See that Mr. Jacobs tends his wounds. A festering sore can kill a man.”

“Aye, captain.”

The men on the upper deck had been tensely silent as they watched Conrad suffer his punishment. The only sound during the ordeal had been the strike of the whip against the man's back and the flapping of the canvas sail in the breeze.

Seth handed the whip to one of his subordinates. His hands felt clammy as he released the grip. “If you need me, I'll be in my cabin, Mr. Kelley,” he said.

The first mate nodded, and as Seth made his way to the hatch, he heard the murmur of conversation and wondered if his message had gotten across to the other mean.

He paused to stare at her cabin door before entering his own quarters. Once inside with the door shut, Seth turned up the lamp. Immediately the light dispelled the room's gloomy atmosphere.

He was the captain of this ship. His word was law. Such punishments were necessary in order to keep law and order on board ship. He had given the punishment himself, for he knew how to get his point across without inflicting more damage to the skin and tissue than was necessary. A clumsy sailor could literally kill a man. Still, Seth hated the job. He hated giving another human being pain . . . even a low-life like Geoff Conrad.

There was a pitcher of water resting on a specially constructed washstand. He rinsed off his hands, drying them on the linen towel that hung on a bar mounted on the stand's side. Seth felt as if his hands were covered with Conrad's blood; the sensation was unpleasant and false, because the second mate had bled little, not enough to spill onto anyone's hands.

This is her fault,
he thought.
Bess Metcalfe.
He was furious that she'd managed to get on board without his knowing. And now there wasn't a damn thing he could about it!

When he was done, Seth lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes. It was safe to rest for a while. The
Sea Mistress
was on course; the men would be quiet after witnessing Conrad's punishment. The sea was calm; everything was under control—everything but his own riotous thoughts. His eyes snapped open. “Elisabeth Mary Metcalfe,” he mumbled. It was going to be a long voyage about Cape Horn . . . for his men, and himself.
And Bess,
he vowed.

His eyes drifted closed again, and the images came bright and clear . . . and unwanted . . . of five years before and a woman who ensnared him with her beauty, charm, and fire . . .

She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. And the most dangerous, he'd decided after their relationship had ended. When she burst into her uncle's parlor that first day, he'd thought her a wood nymph, an earthly goddess, coming in from the sunshine, bringing the light with her.

But one look into her sparkling dark eyes, and he'd known that she was a young woman of flesh and blood, not some figment of a man's dreams. She bounded into the room, her lips curved in a ready smile, a whirlwind of vibrant energy. She lit up not only the room with her presence, but the expressions of the other occupants—her uncle and Captain Johnson, Seth's commander and employer.

Seth himself was not unmoved by her shining face. In fact, he was so overawed by her loveliness that he was slow in his manners. And she had noticed, and she didn't like that—not one bit. She was quick to make her displeasure known as she met his gaze. Anger added an extra sparkle to those fascinating black eyes of hers, and her mouth formed a pout beneath her perfectly pert nose.

“Miss Metcalfe,” he'd greeted her formally with a nod.

Her bottom lip had jutted out a notch, making her mouth appear pinker, her lips fuller. “Mr. Garret.” Her voice was clipped, cool.

Suddenly, Seth was glad that he was able to stir emotion within her, for he had a feeling that few men did little more than fawn and amuse the lovely young woman with the glistening onyx eyes.

Seth had known from that very first moment that his own peace of mind would be in danger if she chose to exert her charms in his direction, so he was glad when they came up against each other like two bristling porcupines. There was something exhilarating about the fight. He felt enlivened by their battle, by the challenge of their chess games. She had, too. He had seen the truth in her beautiful face, and for a while it had been enough for him just to play chess with her.

Haughty little thing,
he thought and smiled at the memory.
Had she really believed she'd win his devotion so easily?
The smile left Seth's face. She had won his favor. It had begun the night her maid Mary had appeared at his bedchamber door with a glass of brandy, telling him it had been sent by Edward Metcalfe.

Seth had known the servant was lying. Only Bess Metcalfe had known of his difficulty with sleep.

“Thank Mr. Metcalfe for me,” he'd told the maid. Then he'd stretched out on his bed with his head propped against the backboard, and he'd slowly drunk the fine brandy, pretending that it was Bess's lips he was tasting. After a time, sleep had come to him much easier than ever before.

Seth jerked himself back to the present. He had thought her so sweet, so thoughtful that night. But then he hadn't known her very well, even after they'd become involved—even after all they'd done. Her sweetness, her innocence, had been an act. Under her beauty was a sharp cunning mind, a person who knew what she wanted and took it without guilt or conscience.

He must never forget that there was more to Elisabeth Metcalfe than there seemed. She was a passionate creature, he had to admit. He remembered the first time they'd made love. It had happened so quickly, so innocently. Captain Johnson had gone to the docks that day; Edward Metcalfe had gone with him. Seth, who'd been given the opportunity to enjoy a free day, had stayed behind at the Metcalfe home. He was having breakfast when Bess came into the dining room. He smiled with the memory. She'd seemed taken aback to find him already seated at the dining table, eating breakfast . . .

“Where's Uncle Edward?” she'd asked.

“He went to the docks with Captain Johnson.” Seth hid a slight smile. “I'm afraid you're stuck with my company. I've been given the day off.”

Something flickered in her expression and was gone. “You've eaten?” she said. He nodded. “I haven't.” Then she turned a becoming shade of pink, because the fact was an obvious one.

Bess had been pleasant enough and easy to converse with while he'd sipped coffee and she'd eaten her meal. Afterward, to his surprise, she asked him if he would like a tour of the manor grounds.

“There's a lovely pond past the maze and on the other side of those woods,” she said, gesturing toward the open door. They had risen from their seats and moved to the kitchen where Bess had pilfered a freshly baked biscuit.

“Any fish?” Seth asked. He watched her while she ate, she was not at all self-conscious about her desire for food. After biting into the steaming hot bun, she chewed with much enjoyment, even licking her lips to catch an escaping trickle of melted butter.

She nodded. “Some, I think. Although I've never fished for any. Do you enjoy fishing, Mr. Garret?”

“Seth.” He inclined his head. “I do.”

Bess's face brightened. “Would you care to teach me?”

“I'd be delighted.”

With a mumbled excuse, Bess escaped to her room, and then returned minutes later in a lavender calico dress, unhampered by hoops or fancy crinolines. She wore a straw poke bonnet with a lilac ribbon tied under her chin. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, but most of all, Seth noticed her smile. Full of joy and appreciation for life, her smile charmed him more than any of her other features.