Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 4 - The Sparhawk Bride / The Rogue's Seduction / Sparhawk's Angel / The Proper Wife

“Should—should be better soon. Th’ fish an’ I parted company at th’ rail.” His smile was ghastly. “Très dramatique, ma mie.”

“Oh, Michel.” She knew he was right. If he’d already been sick to his stomach, then he should be well enough in a few hours. But that didn’t ease his misery right now, and she thought of what she could do to make him more comfortable. A damp cloth for his forehead, water to sip, perhaps some broth and biscuits for when he felt better. “I’m going to the galley for a few things, but I’ll be back directly.”

She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, for he looked as if he’d already fallen asleep. That was good; he needed the rest. In this heat, the worst danger would be from letting him go too long without water. She retrieved her shoes from beneath the bunk and opened the door. As she did, he turned his head slightly toward her without opening his eyes.

“Th’ gun, Rusa,” he said hoarsely. “Take th’ gun.”

She hesitated, wondering if he was insisting for a reason or if this were only some feverish whim. There’d be no way she could hide one of his long-barreled pistols beneath her clothing the way he did, and she’d feel downright foolish to appear in the Swan’s galley before the cook brandishing a gun like some sort of pirate’s lady.

“Take it, Rusa,” he rasped again, fumbling beneath the coverlet for the gun. “You must, chère.”

“Rest now, Michel, and stop worrying about me,” she said softly, but he had finally drifted off to sleep, and she quickly left before he woke.

She had been aft to the galley several times with Michel, and it was easy enough to find by the fragrances from the cooking pots. But this time the kettles were empty and the fire burned low, and the only person in the galley was the towheaded ship’s boy, Israel, at the table peeling potatoes with little interest or aptitude.

“Where’s the cook?” asked Jerusa as she went to fill a battered pewter pitcher from the water barrel. “Mr. Geary’s unwell, and I wished to bring him some broth, if the cook has any, and some dry biscuits to try to settle his stomach.”

“Cook’s taken sick, ma’am,” said the boy laconically. “Him an’ his mate both, same as th’ cap’n hisself. But I warrant you can have what you pleases.”

Jerusa looked at him sharply. “Did they all eat the same fish that Captain Barker bought this morning?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am, that they did.” He jabbed his knife into another potato. “Cook an’ his mate an’ th’ cap’n. An’ now yer man, too, I warrant.”

“Then who is in charge of the ship?”

“Why, Mr. Hay, o’ course,” answered the boy promptly.

“Of course,” echoed Jerusa uneasily. Perhaps this was the reason that Michel had wanted her to take his pistol. Swiftly she gathered the pitcher and the basket with the other food. “Please tell the cook when you see him that I shall pray for his recovery.”

She hurried back toward their cabin, the heavy pitcher balanced carefully before her. She should be thankful that Mr. Hay was aboard and well. From what she’d seen he was a competent sailor, and so near were they to their destination, he could surely see them to Bridgetown safely, and that was what mattered most.

But when she climbed down the last steps to their cabin, she was stunned to see Hay himself waiting outside the door.

“So there you are, Mrs. Geary,” he said cheerfully with a bow. “I’d wondered where you were about. I’d heard your husband had been stricken, too, and I came to see how he was faring.”

“He’s resting now, or was before I went to the galley.” She tried to squeeze past him to her door, but stubbornly he blocked her way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hay, I’ll be able to see his condition myself.”

“Asleep, you say?” he said, still not moving. “I could have wagered I heard him answer himself when I knocked on the door not five minutes past.”

“Then perhaps my husband is awake,” she said uneasily, wondering why he insisted on staying. If he was the Swan ’s master, didn’t he have more important things to do than to linger here, provoking her? “He’s been quite restless. Or perhaps you woke him.”

Though he shook his head, his smile remained. “Well, now, I’d be sorry if I’d done that. But the strangest part is this, Mrs. Geary. When I knocked on your door, do you know how your husband answered?”

“Mr. Hay, my husband isn’t well, and I—”

“He asked if I were Jerusa,” declared Hay, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “Jerusa! Can you fathom that? Calling me after a woman’s name, and the name of that missing Newport lady in the bargain.”

“Oh, Mr. Hay!” she scoffed. She would bluff; she had to. “Whyever would my husband do such a thing? I’d say you’ve been reading that handbill of yours a bit too far into the dogwatch and dreaming of yourself chasing after wealthy young ladies.”

“I’m not dreaming now, am I, Mrs. Geary?” He leaned closer, his smile becoming more of a leer, and Jerusa’s thoughts fearfully jumped back to what had happened with Lovell in the alley.

“Not dreaming, no,” she said as tartly as she could. She would not let herself be afraid or he would know, and everything would be over. “But from your unseasonable actions, Mr. Hay, I can only conclude that you are ill as well as the others. Now if you would let me pass—”

“Nay, Mrs. Geary, not quite so fast. I’ve yet to tell you what else I’ve heard your husband say. He speaks in French, Mrs. Geary. Did you know that? Prattles on as if he’d learned it in the cradle.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Hay, that is because my husband’s mother is French, and mothers are generally the ones to rock cradles. Not that any of this is your affair in the least.”

“I’m the captain now, Mrs. Geary,” he said, his smile fading, “and it’s most definitely my affair if we’re harboring a Frenchman on board a decent Yankee vessel.”

He edged closer, and Jerusa decided she’d had enough of bluffing. She swung the heavy pewter pitcher as hard as she could, catching him in the jaw and drenching him with water. He swore and stumbled back, and as he did, she wrenched open the latch and threw open the door to the cabin. But she was only halfway inside before Hay grabbed her arm to pull her back.

“Let me go at once!” she cried, struggling to hang on to the door and fight her way free of his grasp. “Let me go now!”

The basket flew from her arm, scattering biscuits in the air, and when she tried to strike him again with the pitcher, he twisted it from her fingers and tossed it down the companionway with a ringing clatter. But as he turned, she was able to jerk her arm free, and swiftly she whirled into the cabin.

“Come back here, you lying little bitch!” growled Hay as he grabbed for her again, slamming his shoulder against the door to keep it open. With a yelp, Jerusa tumbled back onto the deck as the door flew open with Hay behind it. With another oath he swept down to yank her to her feet, and as he did he caught the glint of metal from the corner of his eye, realizing a fraction too late that it was the barrel of Michel’s gun.

“You lying French thief,” he said, panting, as he slowly rose to his feet. “I should throw you and your little whore over the side where you belong.”

“Foolish words from a man in your position, Hay,” said Michel. His hair and face were slick with sweat, but as he sat against the pillows his eyes were ice-cold and his hand holding the pistol didn’t waver a fraction. “Are you unharmed, chère?”

“I’m fine, Michel,” said Jerusa breathlessly as she scrambled up from the deck. “But you—”