The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) by Danelle Harmon Page A

the way of the running of the ship; it would be best to just watch from a distance. But where? She made her way to some shade created by one of the great square sails above and looked about for a place to sit, her balance unsteady as the ship rose and fell in great rolling motions beneath her. Someone was approaching; it was the young, ginger-haired midshipman, bobbing like a schoolboy and reddening beneath a sea of freckles and a tan that was more burn than brown. He had an earnest, smiling face made slightly comical by the slight crookedness an upper front tooth, and was garbed in a scaled-down version of Captain O’ Devir’s blue-and-white uniform, its sleeves too short and the seams stretched at the shoulders; obviously, the youngster had already outgrown it since someone, presumably far across the blue, blue Atlantic, had made it for him.
    “Midshipman Cranton, my lady.” He attempted a bow, probably the clumsiest she had ever received, but endearing in its sincerity. She returned his attempt at gallantry with a smile. “The captain asked me to see if you needed anything. Come with me, and I’ll find you something to sit on.”
    “Thank you,” she said simply, and accepted his elbow. As they began to walk, she was aware of the crew pausing in their tasks and staring, one or two elbowing each other and smirking. Were women that scarce aboard ships that her very presence attracted such attention?
    “Pay them no mind, Your Ladyship,” the young officer said beside her. “Most of these tars have never seen a real lady before, let alone one as—I beg your pardon—as pretty as you.”
    Now her escort was blushing. He was just a boy pretending to be a man, trying to live up to the uniform he wore with such pride. She knew that pretense, she knew that pride; after all, she had four brothers. As for the crew, she didn’t know whether to give them a haughty glare above a loftily carried chin, avoid their stares, or smile to acknowledge their interest in the hopes they’d then find something else to look at. She had little experience with such rough, common folk in general and sailors in particular.
    Another thing from which her brothers had sheltered her all of her life—rubbing elbows with the great unwashed, the teeming multitudes that made this dirty, chaotic, rough-and-tumble world beyond the pristine walls that contained and protected her own existence, run.
    Midshipman Cranton escorted her to a nearby deckhouse. “Sorry, my lady. Being a warship and all, we don’t exactly have chairs on deck, but if you sit here, and hold onto this here rope if you feel a bit unsteady, you’ll be safe, secure, and in the shade.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Would you like me to fetch you a hat? We don’t have anything fancy, but I’m sure I can find something to keep the sun off your face.”
    “You are very kind, Mr. Cranton.”
    Having seated her he retreated a step, smiling and clutching his hands behind his back, obviously uncomfortable but blushing a bit beneath the praise. “I was raised right, my lady. My ma taught me manners and just because I’m on a ship doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten them. I know you probably think we Americans are a low and awful sort, but we’re not.”
    She smiled, despite herself. “Actually, my more uncharitable thoughts are directed toward a certain Irishman aboard this ship, not the Americans.” She looked ruefully down at her skirts, the expensive blue-green silk now wrinkled and stained by the spray of foam and seawater, her fine shoes wet and ruined. “Three of my sisters-in-law are American.”
    “And my ma, she was English. Devonshire lass, she was. Worked for a high lady there before she married a sailor and off they went to Philadelphia.” He shrugged, not knowing what else to say. “I guess we’re all in this together, aren’t we?”
    She smiled, for he was trying his best to put her at ease and it would be nice to have a friend here even if her stay was likely to be a