Diane Gaston - Shipwrecked With The Captain

* * *

Claire relished the days at work. The ship became her world, a world that remained in her memory as did the men’s faces and names. It was as if her world—and her mind—was complete.

At the centre was always Lucien. It was his presence that made her secure, like an anchor secured a boat. As the days wore on, his face became shadowed with a beard making him look as swarthy as a pirate. The Captain and the other men wore beards as well, though none as dark and dashing as Lucien’s.

She watched him help haul in the nets and load the fish into the hold. She silently prayed for his safety when he climbed the tall mast to untangle the rigging.

At night the blackness of the cabin reminded her, though, that most of her life she could not remember. It helped that Lucien was near. He stirred within her a yearning she did not quite understand, a desire to feel the strength of his arms around her, the warmth of his breath, the beating of his heart, as she had on the raft.

Some of her dreams were of him, of his bare skin against her bare skin and his lips against hers. What did it mean that she dreamt so? It made her blush to think of it.

Of being so intimate with him.

Other dreams were no more than jumbled images that slipped from her mind by morning. She much preferred the days of toil and people she recalled from day to day.

* * *

By the third week, the boat’s hold was filled with fish and the Captain set sail to Ireland, a place she knew about, but of which she had no memory. The wind would carry them to port this very day.

She donned her mended dress with Lucien’s help and folded the clothes the fishermen had lent her. ‘I will miss these,’ she said to Lucien. ‘They are ever so much more comfortable than wearing this dress and stays.’

He smiled. ‘I’m glad to be out of mine.’

His were soiled and smelled of fish and sweat.

She took his borrowed clothes from his hand and folded them with the others. No doubt some fisherman’s wife would be laundering them soon.

She tied the ribbon around her plait and remembered how he’d torn it from his neckcloth for her. How nice it was to have memories.

She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I will miss this boat.’ She blinked them away. ‘I suppose because it is so familiar now. I do not know what happens next.’

He gazed at her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You’ve endured a shipwreck and three weeks on a fishing boat; you will be up to whatever comes next.’

She was not so certain. ‘You are right. I must buck up, mustn’t I?’

She would not tell him what she feared even more than the unknown was losing him, but she’d been enough of a burden to him already. He had a life to pursue, a new ship, plans he’d talked about with her, this next phase in his life.

From above them they heard a voice cry, ‘Land, ho!’

His face appeared strained. ‘We should go up on deck.’

She nodded and picked up the reticule that seemed to be her only possession.

They made their way to the deck and stood at the railing. A narrow line on the horizon slowly formed into land.

‘Where will we sail into?’ Claire’s heart beat faster. Would she remember anything once they landed?

‘Bray,’ he responded.

‘A fishing village, is it not?’

‘You know it?’ His brows rose.

She gazed at the land, now rising green. ‘I know of it, but I do not know why.’

She had asked him many things about his life over the last three weeks, because, of course, she knew nothing of her own life, but she’d never asked him what would happen when they reached shore. That was as black to her as the night, as black as her past. As long as they were on the boat she’d been content to avoid the topic.

‘You will travel to London, I expect. For your new ship.’ She watched the shore coming ever closer, not daring to look at him for fear she’d crumble. ‘Will you catch another packet from Dublin?’

He would leave her and be as distant and unattainable as her past.

He paused before answering. ‘I will see you safe to your brother, first.’

She swallowed. ‘No, Lucien. I have troubled you enough. I am certain I can manage.’ Somehow.

* * *

‘I will see you safe to your brother,’ Lucien repeated. ‘I’ll not leave you on your own.’

Lucien had no desire to meet the present Earl of Keneagle, but he could not simply leave Lady Rebecca to fend for herself. True, she could mail her own letter to her brother and arrange her own transportation to his estate, but how difficult would it be for her to not even know if a man standing before her was her brother or someone else?

‘We will travel together to Dublin and contact your brother from there,’ he said to her. ‘I will be able to draw funds from the bank there as well.’ He’d dealt with a Dublin bank to transfer funds to his uncles. ‘We should be able to purchase whatever we need, as well.’

She lifted her reticule. ‘I have some money. Perhaps I have other funds to repay you.’

He shook his head. ‘I am well able to afford whatever we need.’ What else did he need his money for?

He leaned his arms on the railing.

‘We are getting closer to land,’ she said in a shaky voice.

* * *

Soon enough the ketch was moored at a dock and they were saying goodbye to Captain Molloy and his men. To Lucien’s surprise, Lady Rebecca hugged each man who, after three weeks, like him, was rather reeking of sweat and fish.

Captain Molloy pointed. ‘Walk to the top of that street and you’ll find the inn. My cousin runs the place, Niall Molloy, so give him my name and he will see to your needs.’

Lucien shook the Captain’s hand. ‘We owe you a great debt of gratitude.’

The man looked abashed. ‘Aw, ’twas nothing. You more than earned your keep. The lady, too, poor bhean .’

Still, Captain Molloy and his men would each receive a generous gift from Lucien as soon as it could be arranged.

He climbed off the boat and on to the dock, turning back to help Rebecca disembark. She jumped the gap and landed in his arms. She felt too good in his arms.

She found her footing and turned back to say a final goodbye.

He offered his arm. ‘Your legs may take time to get used to land.’

‘I will miss the crew.’ She allowed him to steady her as they walked away from the dock up the street.

On the small boat, they were rarely not in someone’s company.

‘At least you will have a room of your own in the inn,’ Lucien reassured her.

She sighed. ‘It will seem strange after the fishing boat.’

They found the inn and entered its public rooms, seeking out the innkeeper who was serving ale to several men seated at tables.

‘Niall Molloy?’ Lucien asked.

‘That I am,’ he answered.

‘We are off your cousin’s boat,’ Lucien told him. ‘Rescued at sea from the wreck of the Dun Aengus .’

The man’s bushy red eyebrows rose. ‘From the Dun Aengus ? We heard news of it. Finn picked you up? Is that not a jest? My cousin. Imagine. How long before Finn rescued you?’

‘The second day,’ Lucien replied.

‘I imagine that was time enough.’ He wiped his hands.

Lady Rebecca broke in. ‘Can you tell us about the shipwreck. Did—did many die?’

The innkeeper lowered his head. ‘All but a handful, reports say. Maybe a dozen survived, as I recall it.’ He smiled. ‘A dozen plus the two of you.’

Her face pinched in pain.

‘Well, sad it is, but the sea giveth and the sea taketh away.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You need a room? What else may I do for you?’

‘Two rooms,’ Lucien said. ‘But, for now, a good meal.’

The man laughed. ‘Finn’s food not the best, eh? I guarantee we will show him up.’