sir.’ Georgiana prised the lid off and promptly dropped both the basin and the shirts in her hurry to scramble away. ‘Dear Lord!’ she mumbled beneath her breath and retched.
Mr Fraser pursed his lips. The boy had to learn, even if he was the captain’s nephew, perhaps even more so. ‘We haven’t got all day, laddie. Now, retrieve your basin and Captain Hawke’s shirts, and do as you’re bid.’
The hard biscuit and apple eaten for luncheon were threatening to make a reappearance upon the deck. Georgiana’s stomach heaved. ‘What on earth…?’
‘That’s quite enough, Master Robertson. Stop behaving like a namby-pamby and get back over there.’ He twirled at his grey moustache.
Georgiana held her nose, approached the cask, and fulfilled Mr Fraser’s requirements as quickly as she could. The liquid slopping within the basin was dark brown in colour and stank to high heaven.
‘Submerge the shirts and scrub around the cuffs and collar to remove any marks.’ He handed her a small brush.
The thought of plunging her hands into the vile liquid brought Georgiana’s stomach back up into her throat. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser,’ she managed to croak.
‘When you’re sure there are no stains left, you can start using the soap. Then give them a good rinse in sea water from the cask over there. Ring them out and then peg them on to the line fixed at the far corner. After that I’ll instruct you in the care of the captain’s boots.’ Mr Fraser was clearly used to giving orders.
The stench was unbearable and her hands were soon red raw with the scrubbing. It occurred to Georgiana that perhaps a gunroom servant hadn’t been such a bad job after all. Finally the chore was done and she was just pegging the shirts on the line when Captain Hawke and the boatswain wandered by, deep in conversation. Nathaniel’s eyes held hers for a moment, although he gave no other outward sign of having seen her, and in the next instant he had passed by. Irrational as it was, Georgiana felt a pang of annoyance. What did she expect him to do? Execute a tidy bow at his ship’s boy? Enquire as to her health this fine afternoon? Georgiana grumped back down to Mr Fraser.
‘You managed then, boy?’ Mr Fraser’s single jaundiced eye was trained upon her.
She stifled the words that so longed to jump off the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ The old man was kind enough for all his stern ways.
‘You’ll soon get used to the washing stench. Stale piss is never fragrant. And it’ll have grown a mite more pungent by the time we reach our destination.’
The blood drained from Georgiana’s face, leaving her powder white. ‘Stale piss?’ she uttered faintly.
‘What else did you think it was?’ retorted Mr Fraser with a snort. ‘There’s nothing better for shifting dirt.’ He noticed his assistant’s pallor. ‘You’ve a lot yet to learn, laddie, a lot to learn.’ Shaking his head, he went to fetch the revered Captain Hawke’s boots and shoes.
The pillow was plump and soft and smelled of Nathaniel Hawke. Sandalwood and soap and a distinctly masculine aroma. Georgiana snuggled beneath the covers and marvelled at the luxury. No choir of snores, wheezes and coughs, no foul odours from a multitude of youthful male bodies, no scuttle of rodents. Bliss! During her two weeks in the midshipmen’s berth she had failed miserably in her attempt to grow used to the narrow hammock strung so closely between those of Mr Hartley and Mr Burrows. Each night had seen her lying rigid and afraid to move, lest she fell out, until she found sleep by virtue of sheer exhaustion. The alternative of sleeping on the dampness of the deck below, amidst the spiders and the rats, was too awful to contemplate. She stretched out her spine, unmindful of her bindings, and pulled the sheet up to meet her nose. A contented sigh escaped. Such warmth, such comfort. She sighed and wriggled her legs around.
It was wonderful to be able to relax, to drop her vigilance of trying to disguise her voice, her manners and all feminine tendencies, which, she had come to realise, were too numerous to count. A space of her own. Privacy. Safety from discovery. Heaven only knew what Mama would do if she knew her situation. Swoon, no doubt. It was the first time that she’d allowed herself to think of Mama, of little Prudence and Theo. Even her stepbrother Francis with all his teasing and impudence did not seem so bad. Please God, keep them safe. She felt her eyes begin to well and took a deep breath to allay the tears that threatened to fall. Mama would be worried sick, not knowing where she was, and Papa. Papa would be livid. In her rush to escape marriage to Mr Praxton, she’d only succeeded in making things difficult for her family. There would be gossip, and worse. Denigration, castigation, direct snubs. Poor Mama. She wept silently, stifling her sobs in Nathaniel Hawke’s pillow. Sleep finally found her with swollen eyelids and the taste of saline upon her lips.
It was still dark. Georgiana’s eyes strained against the gloom. It seemed barely five minutes since she had laid her head on the pillow. Nathaniel’s soft tread sounded from the adjoining cabin. A dull pain thrummed around her head. She groaned, dragged her fatigued body from the bed and started to dress herself. Late, she was late. What would Mr Fraser say? No time for boots.
Nathaniel sipped at the brandy and stared at the charts laid on the desk before him. It was a little after two o’clock and he still could not find sleep. The lantern light flickered as he moved to peer blindly from the windows. He had stood there some time when he heard the noise, and turned with confusion to look at the connecting door. Therein lay the reason for his insomnia. The indomitable Miss Raithwaite, who had not the slightest notion of the precarious position into which she had thrust herself. He smiled at the memory of her determined face—she certainly did not enter into anything faintheartedly. Even as he thought it the door creaked open and Miss Raithwaite—or should he say Master Robertson?—stumbled out fully dressed. ‘George?’ he quizzed lightly.
‘On my way to my station, Captain, sir,’ she pronounced through tired lips and dragged herself towards the door. She had reverted to her ‘boy’s’ voice even though they were alone.
Nathaniel’s eyes opened wide, suddenly alert. ‘George,’ he said again and moved to grab at her shoulders.
Georgiana’s sleep-fuddled mind could not comprehend what had happened, only that she now found herself staring up into Nathaniel Hawke’s handsome face. ‘Late, I’m late,’ she mumbled, and tried to disengage herself.
He gathered her slender body into his arms and held her against him. She did not protest further, just laid her head against his shoulder. Nathaniel swallowed hard. She was warm and soft. The effects of the brandy swam through his brain. His hand swept across her back, moving up to touch the delicate nape of her neck. No woman had ever felt this right. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, revelling in the sweetness of her smell and with great reluctance held her away. ‘You’re sleep-addled, George. It’s the dead of night, and you should still be asleep.’ His winged eyebrow twitched as he smiled down at her.
‘But I heard the hands piped.’ Her voice was sleepy and low.
Nathaniel drew his thumb gently against her cheek. The skin was still soft and white. ‘Perhaps in your dream.’
Georgiana could not move. Still heavy with sleep, she felt mesmerised by the man in whose arms she stood. His voice was gentle, and there was such kindness in his eyes that it gladdened her heart. Couldn’t her stepfather have desired to marry her to a man such as this? A man who was just and fair, a man who had risked his life and now jeopardised his career to save her. She sighed, as his warm hands held her from him. He would never be interested in the likes of her, even if she hadn’t made such a mess of things. Not when his father was the Earl of Porchester. For
