not shield the ship with their bodies, or run with valour into a fracas of whirling cutlass and musket. Men that had been pressed to the service against their will, men who risked all in the hope of sharing in the prize, a financial salve to the poverty that afflicted their lives—it was a tragic necessity of war, and it never failed to cut Nathaniel to the quick. His ship, his men, his responsibility. And just as he rejoiced in their victory, so he suffered with their loss. Each death remained scored within his mind, each fallen seaman rendered immortal by Captain Hawke. Compassion. It was his biggest strength, winning the men to his cause, buying their loyalty for a lifetime…and also his gaping weakness, to feel for ever their torment.
He touched the sailor’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. Bravely fought. How fares your leg?’
‘It’ll mend, Captain. Now that t’surgeon’s had his way, splinter’s out. Says I should keep t’leg, and gain a limp.’
‘No shame in that, Brown. There’s always a place aboard my ship for a willing seaman, limping or not.’ The captain moved on to the midshipman whose face had been sliced open by a flying splinter. ‘Mr Hartley.’
The young gentleman nodded his head, the jagged stitching on his cheek already turning a purple coloration.
‘You did a good job, Hartley. We’ve taken the day and the prize is rich indeed. A small scar won’t do your future within His Majesty’s Navy any harm. Your courage has been noted.’
Mr Hartley’s smile pulled at the weeping wound. ‘Thank you, Captain, but I fancy my young lady won’t see it that way.’
‘I have it on the best authority,’ retaliated Nathaniel, his dark eyes lightening, ‘that ladies see such marks as a badge of bravery. I’m sure it will do your reputation no harm at all.’
Captain and midshipman laughed together before Nathaniel moved on to visit the rest of his men.
‘Captain Hawke.’ The surgeon hurried over to him and walked some way along the deck beside him before raising the subject foremost in his mind. ‘Ship’s boy Robertson, sir, seems to have a wealth of medical knowledge. With whom did he study?’
Nathaniel looked at the surgeon in surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Belmont.’
The surgeon blinked back at him. ‘Your neph—I mean, the boy, clearly has treated wounds before. Such knowledge is not come by easily. He must have experience of working in the surgical field. I wondered whom it was he assisted? Some of the techniques he employed were specialised to say the least. Almost as if they came straight from the pages of one of John Hunter’s medical texts.’
A vision of a blood-soaked Georgiana drifted into Nathaniel’s mind. So that was where the blood had come from. ‘Am I to understand that the boy helped in the treatment of the wounded?’
‘Why, yes. Robertson was a marvel. Young Richardson would have bled to death without his quick thinking. Foot completely severed, you know. The boy’s got a feel for surgery, Captain, and it would be a shame to see it wasted. I’d be happy to have him help down here.’
Georgiana Raithwaite had quit the security of his cabin amidst the pounding fury of battle to help tend the wounded! Nathaniel reeled. The girl was incredible, infuriatingly disobedient, without a thought for her own safety, or indeed the discovery of her secret, but incredible all the same. He knew that he would have defied the First Lord of the Admiralty himself had he been ordered to lie useless within a cabin when all around a battle was sounding. A sigh escaped his lips. They were not so very dissimilar after all, the captain and his ship’s boy. Even if that slim dark-haired waif was hellbent on ruining her reputation. With a heavy heart he made his way steadily towards the cabin that housed the woman in question.
Georgiana was sitting in the wooden chair, reading by the light of the flickering lantern. Or that at least looked to be what she was doing, by virtue of the book balanced carefully before her. She did not move upon Nathaniel’s entry to the cabin, only glanced up at him with questioning eyes.
Somehow she had managed to cleanse the blood from her hands that were folded neatly before her. The same could not be said for the rest of her uniform. The darkened jacket had been hung over the back of the chair, leaving him a clear view of a blood-splattered shirt and the shapely figure it failed to conceal.
Two voices spoke at once. One mellow and deeply masculine, the other clear and soft. ‘I’m sorry.’
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