But if she had the treasure and marriage was no longer an option, she would be fine. Just move to another village where no one knew of her scandal and set up housekeeping with Mama. She’d be a spinster but one with a roof over her head.
If they didn’t find the treasure and there was a scandal… It did not bear thinking on.
Sheffield could turn the ship around now, and she could still return to her quiet little life of desperation, unscathed.
Should they turn back? Was the risk of going forward worth the potential reward? She considered the worst that could happen, and the best.
“I understand, Captain. I take full responsibility for my reputation. How soon do you think we’ll reach Spain?”
The slight lift of Sheffield’s eyebrow was the only reaction to her declaration. She couldn’t even tell if it was surprise or loss of respect, or some other emotion entirely.
“Depends on the storm that’s about to blow through.” He headed for the door. Harriet shook out her skirts and followed close on his heels.
He stopped so abruptly she collided with his back. His very broad, very tall back; she couldn’t even see over his shoulder. She grabbed his elbow to keep from toppling over.
“Where are you going?”
“To get some fresh air, of course. I’ve been cooped up in here for three days.”
He grunted. “Watch your step. Don’t want to fish you out of the water.”
She nodded. “Why did you stop?”
He smiled, with a crinkling of his deep blue eyes and a lift to his eyebrow. “Because.” He patted her hand, which, to her dismay, was still gripping his forearm.
She let go as though his sleeve was afire. As a grin spread across his handsome, chiseled features, and he stared at her with a gleam in his eyes, she heard alarm bells in her head. They sounded suspiciously like the bells that had called her students to class at Torquay Academy For Ladies.
She gathered her wits and squeezed past him. She could feel his stare between her shoulder blades, but the prospect of fresh air for the first time in three days helped keep her steps sure and steady.
Until she reached the top step and felt the wind. A sudden gust whipped at her hair, stinging her cheeks, buffeting her skirt until she could barely move her legs. She grabbed the hatch cover to keep from toppling backward. The wind on the Thames had never been this strong.
Just as suddenly as it appeared, the wind abated and Harriet stepped to the side, allowing Sheffield to emerge from the hatch. He’d left his hat below, and the breeze ruffled his hair, swinging the long queue across his back. The air crackled with tension.
No, wait, that was the sails, filling and emptying as the breeze abruptly shifted. Harriet shook her head and hurried to the rail, holding on firmly. With her face turned into the wind, she watched the bow slice through the white-capped waves, taking her closer and closer to Spain. To her goal.
Soon she realized the wind was from just off the bow, not the stern. Rather than the wind hurrying them along, it was slowing their progress. At this rate it would take weeks to get through the Channel and across the Bay of Biscay. Harriet made her way aft to the tiller where Sheffield now stood, his hand possessively gripping the weathered oak beam.
“How long do you think it will take us to get to Spain with this wind?”
Sheffield stuck his index finger in his mouth, then held it up as if just noticing the breeze. Harriet propped her hands on her hips and tapped one foot. He grinned. “With this storm, we’re lucky we’re not moving backwards. We’d make excellent time if you wanted me to steer for Dover.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her future depended on reaching Spain before the thief did. “I’m sure you’ll do your best to get us to our destination in a timely manner.”
“Yes, Miss Chase.”
Harriet chose to ignore his sardonic tone and turned back to the bow, looking for a spot out of the crew’s way where she could hold on securely yet still have a good view to observe the workings of the ship. A coil of rope near the base of the foremast made a passable cushion. She folded her legs tailor-style and tucked her skirts out of the way.
Crewmen came close to her position and swung over the railing to climb the ratlines. She hadn’t even heard the command to take in sail. Sheffield was only thirty feet aft, but the wind ripped his words away. She tilted her head back, way back, to watch the sailors nimbly climb up high above the deck then work their way across the footropes, moving as confidently as she would step between rows of vegetables in her garden.
They stood barefoot, two men on either side of the mast, balanced on a narrow rope twenty or more feet above a deck that now lurched almost as much as Harriet’s stomach did at the sight, as they furled the sail and tied it up. The evidence before her eyes proved it was a task that became easier with practice, but how in the world did they bring themselves to climb to such incredible heights the first time? Or the second? Harriet shook her head in disbelief.
Too soon, her eyes burned from the wind and her fingers and toes felt like icicles. Much as she needed to get out of the weather, she loathed spending more hours alone in the cabin. She’d already explored and cleaned every inch of the tiny space several times and mended every article of her clothing until some items were more thread than cloth. She had never thought she’d miss Betsy’s chatter.
Jonesy, the first mate, rang the bells indicating the start of first dog watch. The men just completing their watch made their way below, where Harriet knew Luigi had their evening meal prepared. So early in the voyage, they’d still have fresh food, not the salt beef and hardtack they could expect later. After their meal, they’d probably play music and tell ribald tales in the two hours before going back on duty, as she’d heard them do yesterday. The men on both watches followed the same pattern. The rough voices, mixed languages, and broken grammar of the tars was a stark contrast to the silly twitterings and giggling of the girls at the Academy that she’d been surrounded by for four years.
Dare she join them? Sir Percival, and especially Madame Zavrina, would expect her to retreat to the privacy of the cabin and not consort with common sailors.
Sharing a meal aboard ship wasn’t consorting, was it?
