hallway.
“We’re all indebted to him,” said a man to Moira’s right. Another woman murmured her agreement.
Moira thought back to the dark cabin, being trapped, and what might have happened if the ship had indeed capsized.
“My men will have your door repaired in a quarter hour, Miss St. Clair,” said the captain, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way.
“Thank you,” she murmured. But inside, she trembled. Entering that cabin, and closing the door behind her, would take an act of courage in itself. Her eyes shifted to the empty hall doorway and she found herself wishing—
“Will you be quite all right, Moira?” Gavin asked, slipping his warm hand beneath hers. “You must’ve been terrified.”
“Oh, I’ll fare all right, I’m certain. I’m more alarmed over you. Are you certain your head is quite all right?”
He smiled and knocked on the other side of his head, the side that wasn’t injured. “Hard as rock, this one. I’ll be up for ballroom dancing on the morrow. Care to take a turn?” He grinned and she couldn’t avoid matching his smile. He was so charming, even in the midst of trauma.
“I’d be delighted, Gavin.” And in that moment, she could see herself in his arms, gliding across a parquet floor. The image of being on shore, in her finery, at his side, restored her confidence, focus, and she rose, shoving thoughts of Daniel to the back of her mind. “Will you be so kind as to escort me to my cabin?”
“Indeed,” he said, rising slowly. He straightened his shirt and offered his arm.
“Should you be taking my arm instead?”
“Most likely,” he said with a small laugh. “Most likely.”
Nic thought he had his sea legs, thought himself utterly comfortable atop the lanyards, until the Mirabella attempted to round the Cape Horn. After three days of fighting thirty-foot swells, the steam engine quit, and the crew was called upon to lash sails, unfurl sails, and lash them again in the midst of forty-knot winds and driving wind so hard it stung a man’s cheek as it landed. Weary sailors began to make mistakes, and men fell to the boards again and again as the waves washed across the deck.
Two were washed overboard that morning. One had lost his footing and then was washed over the rail. While he clung there, his mate tried to pull him in. Another wave, a monster, came and pushed them both into the frigid seas. Nic had watched it happen from across the deck, as if it were a dream. He could barely see between the rain and the wave spray streaming over his eyes. But he had seen the men, struggling there. And then the wave. And then the empty deck.
He’d rushed over, intent on tossing the sailors a line, but all he could see was dark, roiling seas, as if she had sucked the men under immediately, giving them no chance to call for aid, no hope. He was so stunned by the sight, another wave took him by surprise. He was only glad that he had been clinging to ropes, rather than the slick rail, when it came.
Nic followed William up the ropes as the first mate called, a bare whisper over the whistling wind, asking for a second sail. He was obviously trying to stabilize the ship’s progress, aid her in exiting this storm rather than languishing in its eye, where the storm would slowly, methodically tear the Mirabella apart. And yet it was a delicate dance, for if there was too much sail aloft, with this much wind and such odd swells, she could list too far, too fast for the crew to right her. They’d end up capsized, and Nic was sure, no matter how hard he could swim, eventually, the seas would drag him down too. He’d disappear, just as his mates had disappeared that morning.
The ship crested a giant wave and then heaved to her starboard side. Above him, William shouted as he turned in the air, following the ship’s progress. He held on to one rope with his left hand, but then he was spinning, his legs flayed out, the rope arcing farther. His body slammed into a mast and he lost
“We’re all indebted to him,” said a man to Moira’s right. Another woman murmured her agreement.
Moira thought back to the dark cabin, being trapped, and what might have happened if the ship had indeed capsized.
“My men will have your door repaired in a quarter hour, Miss St. Clair,” said the captain, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way.
“Thank you,” she murmured. But inside, she trembled. Entering that cabin, and closing the door behind her, would take an act of courage in itself. Her eyes shifted to the empty hall doorway and she found herself wishing—
“Will you be quite all right, Moira?” Gavin asked, slipping his warm hand beneath hers. “You must’ve been terrified.”
“Oh, I’ll fare all right, I’m certain. I’m more alarmed over you. Are you certain your head is quite all right?”
He smiled and knocked on the other side of his head, the side that wasn’t injured. “Hard as rock, this one. I’ll be up for ballroom dancing on the morrow. Care to take a turn?” He grinned and she couldn’t avoid matching his smile. He was so charming, even in the midst of trauma.
“I’d be delighted, Gavin.” And in that moment, she could see herself in his arms, gliding across a parquet floor. The image of being on shore, in her finery, at his side, restored her confidence, focus, and she rose, shoving thoughts of Daniel to the back of her mind. “Will you be so kind as to escort me to my cabin?”
“Indeed,” he said, rising slowly. He straightened his shirt and offered his arm.
“Should you be taking my arm instead?”
“Most likely,” he said with a small laugh. “Most likely.”
Nic thought he had his sea legs, thought himself utterly comfortable atop the lanyards, until the Mirabella attempted to round the Cape Horn. After three days of fighting thirty-foot swells, the steam engine quit, and the crew was called upon to lash sails, unfurl sails, and lash them again in the midst of forty-knot winds and driving wind so hard it stung a man’s cheek as it landed. Weary sailors began to make mistakes, and men fell to the boards again and again as the waves washed across the deck.
Two were washed overboard that morning. One had lost his footing and then was washed over the rail. While he clung there, his mate tried to pull him in. Another wave, a monster, came and pushed them both into the frigid seas. Nic had watched it happen from across the deck, as if it were a dream. He could barely see between the rain and the wave spray streaming over his eyes. But he had seen the men, struggling there. And then the wave. And then the empty deck.
He’d rushed over, intent on tossing the sailors a line, but all he could see was dark, roiling seas, as if she had sucked the men under immediately, giving them no chance to call for aid, no hope. He was so stunned by the sight, another wave took him by surprise. He was only glad that he had been clinging to ropes, rather than the slick rail, when it came.
Nic followed William up the ropes as the first mate called, a bare whisper over the whistling wind, asking for a second sail. He was obviously trying to stabilize the ship’s progress, aid her in exiting this storm rather than languishing in its eye, where the storm would slowly, methodically tear the Mirabella apart. And yet it was a delicate dance, for if there was too much sail aloft, with this much wind and such odd swells, she could list too far, too fast for the crew to right her. They’d end up capsized, and Nic was sure, no matter how hard he could swim, eventually, the seas would drag him down too. He’d disappear, just as his mates had disappeared that morning.
The ship crested a giant wave and then heaved to her starboard side. Above him, William shouted as he turned in the air, following the ship’s progress. He held on to one rope with his left hand, but then he was spinning, his legs flayed out, the rope arcing farther. His body slammed into a mast and he lost
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