Margaret McPhee - Regency Debutantes - The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, even to herself, Georgiana succumbed to the mad impulse to wrap her hands around Nathaniel Hawke’s neck.

Nathaniel froze, the breath caught in his throat.

She thrust her fingers through his auburn locks as she had so longed to do, trailing them down to feel the taut muscles in his neck. ‘Closer, come closer.’ The words escaped as a whisper. The dream felt very real.

Nathaniel stared down at where he knew her face to be. He knew without seeing that her eyelids would have swept shut. Through the darkness he felt her rise beneath him, touching her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss.

‘Oh, God!’ The blasphemy tore in a gritty hush from his throat. Never had a man been so tempted. Her soft cheek pressed to his and his body responded instinctively. His lips turned to seek hers and, upon finding them, possessed them with a gentle insistence. Their lips writhed in a torment of ecstasy until his tongue could no longer resist the sweet allure of her mouth and raided within, seeking its hidden intimacy with an increasing fervour.

Georgiana floated in a blissful haze of delight. Her hands slid of their own accord across the broad muscle of his back, basking in the heat of his skin through the fine lawn of his shirt. More, she wanted more of this strange enchanting feeling.

The cot swayed as he clambered upon it and lay his length against her. The wool of his breeches could not disguise the feel of her legs beneath him. He fumbled with her shirt and soon felt the satin skin beneath his hand. She made an inarticulate little noise, but did not draw back. His fingers wove their sensual magic across her stomach, swirling up towards her breast, only to meet with the coarse linen wrap of her bindings. It was enough to bring Nathaniel crashing to his senses. In that single instant he realised their predicament, and stopped.

‘Nathaniel?’ Miss Raithwaite’s sleepy whisper sounded through the darkness.

Hell’s teeth, it was enough to tempt a saint! Slowly, gently, he disengaged himself from the slender soft arms surrounding him. ‘You’re sleep-addled. Miss Raithwaite. I must not take advantage of a lady in my care.’ His teeth gritted in determination. ‘Please forgive me.’ And, so saying, he turned and strode briskly from the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the weeks that passed Captain Hawke took considerable care that just such a situation did not arise again. He threw himself into his work upon the Pallas and struggled to think of his ship’s boy as George Robertson rather than Miss Raithwaite. The task proved difficult, but not impossible. His illicit actions of that night had shaken him more than he cared to admit. For in acknowledging the young woman’s allure and his own inappropriate response, he felt that he had behaved as the singular debauchee his father thought him. He had embraced the role willingly for those tender few minutes, had revelled in Georgiana Raithwaite’s warm caress, until he’d realised the shamefulness of what he was doing. And the thought repulsed him. He thrust it away, determined to think no more of that night. Mercifully Miss Raithwaite had made no mention of the incident, and continued to adopt her guise of the ship’s boy, revealing nothing more by her outward demeanour. Perhaps the fates had been kind to him, and robbed her of the sleep-laden memory. It was a prayer uttered most fervently by Nathaniel, although he was not naïve enough to believe that it would be answered.

Georgiana had woken to a heaving frenzy of conflicting emotions. Not only did she have a very clear and precise memory of her actions of the previous night but she also had to admit to having experienced a distinct pang of disappointment when Nathaniel Hawke had behaved like the gentleman he was and refused to continue his interest. She, on the other hand, to her extreme chagrin, had behaved like a wanton and was subsequently reaping a much-deserved vengeance of guilt. It was her first kiss, the first tentative touch of a man’s body. How could Miss Georgiana Raithwaite have behaved like a veritable slattern? With her fancy schooling, formidable parenting and proper Christian upbringing, she was nothing but a drab. She cringed when she thought what she had tried to do, the blatant seduction of a man who had done nothing but sought to help her. What must he have thought of her? Utter abhorrence, nothing less. Especially in view of what he thought she had been about with Mr Praxton in Hurstborne Park. Oh, Lord! She still had to face him. Confusion, fear and guilt vied in her breast.

With frank determination Georgiana pulled her fragmented emotions together, squared her shoulders and decided that she would pretend that the incident had never happened. It seemed the only way to survive the months that lay ahead. In all the days and weeks that rushed past with gathering momentum she threw herself body and soul into the role of the captain’s boy. Georgiana Raithwaite no longer existed, only the juvenile George Robertson. And through the boy she learned to quell the attraction she felt for Captain Nathaniel Hawke.

‘Take in all the canvas until she’s bare. We’ll have to try-a-hull. Have the galley fire extinguished and check that the magazines are secured.’ Captain Hawke lowered the small brass spyglass from his eye and turned to face Mr Anderson. ‘There’s a storm brewing, and from the cloud formation I’d say it’ll have its way with us if we’re not careful.’

‘Aye, Captain. It doesn’t look good.’

‘With the wind the way it is we can’t tack safely into it and any other move would have us well off course, or worse. Our best option is to weather the storm until it passes.’

John Anderson nodded his head. He’d trust Nathaniel Hawke above all others. The man had an uncanny ability for choosing wisely, even if it did appear sometimes slightly questionable to those who had neither his knowledge nor his experience.

The deck heaved beneath their feet as the white-crested waves buffeted the bow of the Pallas. The wind howled above the roar of the waves. All around them timber groaned and creaked as the sails were retracted. Men climbed fast, loosing the ropes, securing them again when the canvases had been taken in. Spray stung at their faces, dripped from their hair, soaking their clothes and drenching the decks.

‘All men to stay below other than are absolutely necessary up here. I’d say we have twenty minutes at the most before it reaches us.’ Nathaniel’s face was grim.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson watched his captain’s determined stance, a shiver of apprehension snaking down his spine. ‘What’s so bad, sir? We’ve suffered storms before and faired well enough.’

He did not want to frighten the young man, but forewarned was forearmed. ‘Never a storm like the one that’s coming for us now. Pray to God, Mr Anderson, that it passes quickly.’

‘Promise me, George, that you’ll stay in my day cabin until the storm has passed.’

She could see the anxiety in that determined glare. For a moment she thought that it was true what they said—the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Nathaniel Hawke’s soul was concerned by whatever he had seen sweeping down towards them across the ocean. He cared no more or no less about any man aboard the Pallas. Each was a member of his crew; he saw every one of them as his responsibility. ‘Yes, sir. There’s darning to be done and I’ll keep myself busy with the linen repairs.’

Still he seemed restless and uneasy. ‘Promise me,’ he said, his voice quiet and insistent. Seawater dripped from dark, sodden hair to run down his cheeks.

‘I’ll give you no cause to worry more over me than any other man or boy aboard this ship. I promise I’ll do as you command.’