The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School

“Ah.” His gaze swept over her with lazy insolence. “You have skills?”

Isadora looked at his intent face, the blue eyes, the wind-reddened cheeks. She refused to rise to his baiting. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Captain. None at all.”

Standing in the cockpit with William Click, who was taking a turn at the helm, Ryan kept a weather eye on Isadora Peabody. Her first day at sea was a marvel to her. She reveled in the wind and waves, conversing with the sailors with far less bashfulness than she’d exhibited earlier, and even joining in a small task or two—tying off a ratline, fastening the anchor hitch.

When he saw her handling the sails or letting go the brails, he felt a stab of chagrin. He wanted her to suffer, not flourish. He wanted her to learn her place, not make a place for herself on shipboard.

Yet every so often she would lift her face to the wind and close her eyes. A look of rapture would come over her, and in spite of himself, he could feel a strange, unwanted affinity for her. He felt the same sentiment under sail. Only a true lover of the sea could relate to the chest-tightening, ecstatic sense of anticipation.

Christ. The woman even robbed that joy from him by learning to love what he had always loved.

“How’s your mother doing, Captain?” asked Click.

“The seasickness is at her. And her maid, too. I expected as much.” Ryan had checked on Lily and Fayette frequently, cracking open the door to their cabin to find them both lying green-lipped and limp upon their berths, Fayette praying softly and Lily staring miserably out the small portal. Isadora had offered to attend to them, but they declined, preferring to keep their misery private.

“The new one doesn’t seem at all affected by it,” Click observed, nodding in Isadora’s direction. She stood like a figurehead with her face pointed into the wind, taking bracing gulps of sea air. “Odd bird, ain’t she?”

Ryan studied the second mate, with his bitten-off ear and leather vest with the rabbit’s foot in the pocket and a juju bag full of bat bones on a string around his neck. “You would know, Mr. Click. You would know.”

He charted the coordinates and observed the changing of the first watch. The Doctor served dinner, which Ryan ate standing up—scouse, hasty pudding and salt beef, a fresh apple and a healthy squeeze of lime juice.

Then, drawn by an impulse of deviltry, he went to the bow where Isadora stood. Her bonnet—the silly gray one he disliked—had blown off and bounced against her back with each breath of the wind. Her light-brown hair had been plucked from its topknot, and yard-long streamers tangled idly in the breeze. She seemed oblivious to her dishevelment as she watched the progress of the ship.

“Have you eaten?” he asked without greeting her.

“I had half an apple for my dinner, and it was quite enough, thank you. I don’t want to risk getting seasick.” She pursed her lips in prissy superiority.

“Eat something,” Ryan said intractably. “That’s an order.”

She sniffed, poking her nose into the air. “Your orders are foolish. Last time you gave me an order, you missed your chance to get rid of me.”

A lead weight sank slowly in Ryan’s gut. “Do tell.”

“I was going to go back to Boston in Mr. Warbass’s launch, but you sent me on that foolish errand about the cat—”

“You kept getting underfoot—”

“—and by the time I was finished, the launch had left.”

The lead weight of regret hit bottom. “Next time you decide to abandon ship, remind me not to stop you.”

“Remind yourself not to be so rude,” she returned.

An idea struck him. “We’ll be hailing ships all through the next several days. I’ll put you on one that’s headed back into Boston.”

She gave that superior-sounding sniff again. “You’re too late. I’ve decided to stay. You see, I realized what the problem was.” Her tone reminded him of a schoolmarm’s lecture. “The upheaval before a voyage upsets even a seasoned traveler. It’s an enormous undertaking, leaving one’s home and becoming a part of a tiny universe here in the middle of the sea. Anyone with a half-decent imagination is bound to have misgivings.”

She stared directly at him, and said, “I suppose I should thank you. This voyage is going to be an adventure I should not like to miss. It was rude of you to order me about, but since it had such happy consequences, I forgive you.”

“Don’t forgive me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t apologize, you goose!”

“Well!” Indignation huffed from her.

They stood in discomfiting silence for a time, listening to the song of the wind through the shrouds, the rhythmic creak of timber and the surge of saltwater past the hull. Seating herself on a lashed crate, she took out a steel-tipped pen and wrote something on the paper secured to the marbled board she held.

“What are you writing?” Ryan asked.

“Blinding rush of blue. It’s the most perfect phrase to describe the way the sea races past the hull.”

“A letter home, then?”

“It’s…um…private.”

She shouldn’t have said that. He snatched the letter from her. “There’s no privacy on shipboard.”

“Captain!”

He would have given it back, but he kept remembering her words to Chad Easterbrook. I shall write a letter daily, telling you of all my adventures.

Ryan glanced down at the board. She had a fine, legible hand.

“Dear Mr. Easterbrook…” He didn’t have to read further. She was writing to the upright, insufferable Chad Easterbrook. What the hell had he ever done to earn such constancy?

“Give that back,” she said, standing up, raising her voice.

Ryan told himself this was none of his affair. He told himself he shouldn’t feel a hot stab of irritation that this Yankee spinster had given her admiration and esteem to Chad Easterbrook.

“Not until you let me count the ways you love him,” Ryan teased. “For truly, he is a man of many facets. At least two.” He glanced at the page again and read further. Instead of the breathless schoolgirl phrases he expected to find, the contents of the note shocked him completely.

…main stateroom is in an untidy state, and there is a steel money safe secreted under the banquette…

Fury made the words melt before his eyes. “Ah. Never let it be said you’re not thorough, my dear Witch of the Wave. But then, shouldn’t you be listed on the manifest as spy rather than clerk or translator?”

“Give that back,” she said again, reaching for the letter.

The wind rattled the paper and then plucked it from his fingers. “Oops,” he said.

“How dare you,” she snapped, stepping forward, the pen clenched in her fist.

“It was an accident.” He widened his eyes in innocence.

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I shall only write another.”

“That’s how you did it, then,” he said, glaring at her. “You got Abel to send you on this voyage by promising to monitor my every move.”