Marrying the Captain. Carla Kelly
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maid at the Mulberry. He hated to think the daughter of a viscount had to work so hard, even if she was illegitimate.
What an uncharitable man you are, he told himself sourly. Who on earth has a say in the pedigree of her birth?
She tugged the blanket higher around his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Captain. I’ll bring your breakfast in an hour, and then Pete has a foul concoction to try on you.”
“I told you I’d get up for breakfast,” he reminded her.
“I have decreed otherwise,” she replied in complete serenity.
To his surprise, he did precisely as she ordered and went back to sleep. When he woke again, the sun was up. At least, watery dawn seeped around the curtains. He heard a shutter banging somewhere across the street from the force of the wind outside, but the Mulberry itself seemed sound as a roast. Somewhat like its inhabitants, he concluded, as he sat up slowly.
He eased himself out of bed, found the chamber pot under the bed and used it, hoping Nana wasn’t the one to dump it. He slid the chamber pot out of sight and crawled back into his warm nest, loath to leave it again, but knowing today he must visit the Tireless in the dockyard, and conduct all manner of shoreside business for the good of his crew and ship. Sometimes he wondered why he had not chosen the serene life of a country parson, like his father.
He lay there, going over everything he had to do that day, and realized he needed Mr. Proudy, his number one, close at hand. He knew he could summon the man and he would eventually appear, but why bother a fellow busily engaged in refreshing his wife? He had another idea. He didn’t know much about female academies in Bath, but Miss Massie could probably write. Of course, this meant he would have to succumb to breakfast in bed to placate her. The blockade had taught him a great deal about flexibility, however.
She knocked on the door a little later, when the wind had settled down and rain pattered against the window-pane.
“Come.”
She opened the door, carrying a tray of food and concentrating on keeping it level. Pete Carter stood behind her. It was all he could do to keep from sighing out loud. Nana Massie was beautiful. Thank God he had decided years ago that he would never be troubled by a wife. His personal pledge had only been strengthened in recent years by seeing too many distraught wives meeting ships in the harbor, hoping for news. He’d be damned if he’d do that to anyone.
He knew there was no ordinance against admiring a pretty woman, but his glimpse at Lord Ratliffe’s miniature and his own wretched state yesterday had not fully prepared him for Nana Massie.
Thank God I am too old for her and too kind—despite what my crew thinks—to punish a woman by loving her and leaving her for war on the ocean, he told himself. Those eyes. He had never noticed such round eyes on an adult. Or maybe it was her high-arched eyebrows that gave her a wide-eyed gaze. Whatever it was, he wanted to study the matter during some leisure time he knew he would never have.
And why shouldn’t I have that opportunity? he asked himself. Other men do. They must, or Adam and Eve would have had no offspring. He decided to indulge himself, and kept looking.
He thought her cheeks were too thin, but he knew that look could be cured with more food. He couldn’t properly assess her figure, because she wore the same stuff gown and apron. It was on the thin side, but that could be rectified, until she was softer and more rounded in all the right places.
Nana appeared to be one who could develop soft edges, if given the opportunity. What am I doing? he thought, as he admired her. She would thrash me across the chops, if she could read my mind.
All this reckoning had taken place in just a few seconds. Nana seemed to be unaware of his assessment because she was concentrating on placing the tray on his lap now, and adjusting the legs around him. On the other hand, Pete Carter didn’t look like someone who would allow much scrutiny of his little charge.
But here she was, bending over him. Oliver couldn’t help himself. He looked her square in the face, and smiled to see those freckles across the bridge of her nose, probably destined to fade as she aged, but there now to entertain him. And he was entertained, hugely so. He liked everything he saw.
He could have cried when Nana stepped back and folded her hands in front of her. “Porridge and cream, Captain, just what you ordered,” she told him. “I didn’t know how much sugar you liked, so I brought up the whole bowl. Gran stewed some apples, too, but we decided against any toast. Your throat, you know.”
He nodded, wishing she were still bending over him. She smelled faintly of roses, not a fragrance he chanced upon much, but far more appealing than tar, bilge and gunpowder.
He looked at her again. “Miss Massie, could you prop up these pillows? I’d hate to dribble porridge across my chest like a hospital pensioner, since you’re so determined I am to eat in bed.”
She did as he asked, plumping up the pillows behind him, then getting out another from the lower drawer of the clothespress. As she put that one behind his head, her arm brushed his temple. He was in heaven.
Then it was Pete Carter’s turn. As Nana stepped back, the old sailor set down a vile-looking compound on the bedside table. “For what ails you, Captain Worthy,” he said. “Drink all of that after you finish breakfast.”
Oliver eyed it suspiciously, wishing that Pete did not look so pleased with himself at the punishment he was inflicting. “All of it? Shouldn’t I spread it out over the day?”
“All of it, sir,” Pete insisted. “And when you’re done, I’ll bring up more.” He smiled then. “It’ll work, Captain. It always does. I guarantee the remedy.”
For one disconcerting moment, Oliver felt that he had returned to his midshipmen days, under the scrutiny of a sailing master. You old rascal, he thought to himself, as the former sailor whisked away the chamber pot, not giving Oliver a single moment to feel embarrassed.
He was struck with a moment of shyness after Pete left his chamber, then reminded himself of the business at hand. Even the Tireless could wait; Nana Massie was going to eat more.
“Miss Massie, have you had breakfast yet?”
He could tell his curt question came at her out of the blue. She blinked her eyes, and then thought about an answer. Oliver leveled her with a stare generally reserved for midshipmen contemplating prevarication.
“You promised me last night you would tell the truth,” he reminded her as he picked up his spoon.
“That was for last night,” she said quickly, then laughed at his expression. “Aye, sir, I did promise,” she amended. “The answer is no.”
He set down the spoon. “I’ll wait until you come back with a bowl and spoon. If there’s porridge left…”
“There is,” she said hurriedly, interrupting him. “We kept it back in case you wanted more.”
“I don’t.” Oliver looked down at the tray in his lap. “This is quite enough. Please take what you want from the pot and come back.”
Without a word, she left the room, closing the door behind her. He stared down at the porridge, certain he had offended her and wondering if his next step now was to dress and go in search of her. To apologize? To bully her further? He asked himself why it was suddenly his problem.
The porridge tasted like ambrosia. It was sugared precisely right and needed no more. It even went down smoothly, causing his raw throat no further indignity. Too bad he wasn’t enjoying it, feeling sorry for himself and pining for company.
To his relief, she came back into his room with a full bowl and spoon. She pulled up a chair to the bed and helped herself to the sugar in the bowl on his tray. “All the sugar is up here,” she explained.
He smiled into his porridge, surprised at how much better it tasted. He glanced at Nana, who was spooning down a mouthful, a beatific expression on her face. He looked away quickly,