You are cordially invited to the weddings of Lord Ratliffe’s three daughters as they marry their courageous heroes

A captain, a surgeon in the Royal Navy and a

Royal Marine prove true husband material in

this stirring Regency trilogy from Carla Kelly

MARRYING THE CAPTAIN

THE SURGEON’S LADY

MARRYING THE ROYAL MARINE

Praise for Carla Kelly, recipient of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews and winner of two RITA® Awards

‘A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.’

—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

‘Kelly has the rare ability to create realistic

yet sympathetic characters that linger in the mind.

One of the most respected … Regency writers.’

—Library Journal

‘Carla Kelly is always a joy to read.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Ms Kelly writes with a rich flavour that

adds great depth of emotion to all her

characterisations.’

—RT Book Reviews

About the Author

CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years—stories set in the British Isles, Spain, and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service, and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs, and too many box elder beetles in the autumn.

Novels by the same author:

BEAU CRUSOE CHRISTMAS PROMISE

(part of Regency Christmas Gifts anthology)

MARRYING THE CAPTAIN*

THE SURGEON’S LADY*

*linked by character

MARRYING THE ROYAL MARINE features

characters you will have met in MARRYING THE

CAPTAIN and THE SURGEON’S LADY

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Marrying the
Royal Marine

Carla Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Lynn and Bob Turner, former U.S. Marines.

Semper Fi to you both.

Prologue

Stonehouse Royal Marine Barracks,

Third Division, Plymouth—May 1812

Black leather stock in hand, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junot, Royal Marine, stared into his mirror and decided his father was right: he was lonely.

Maybe early symptoms were the little drawings that deckled Hugh’s memorandum tablet during endless meetings in the conference room at Marine Barracks. As Colonel Commandant Lord Villiers covered item after item in his stringent style, Hugh had started drawing a little lady peeking around the edge of her bonnet. During one particularly dull budget meeting, he drew a whole file of them down the side of the page.

Hugh gazed more thoughtfully into the mirror, not bothered by his reflection—he knew his height, posture, curly brown hair, and nicely chiselled lips met the demands of any recruiting poster—but by the humbling knowledge that his father still knew him best.

He had written to his father, describing his restlessness and his dissatisfaction with the perils of promotion. While flattering, the promotion had bumped him off a ship of the line and into an office. I know I should appreciate this promotion, he had written, but, Da, I am out of sorts. I’m not sure what I want. I’m sour and discontented. Any advice would be appreciated. Your dutiful, if disgruntled, son.

A week later, he had read Da’s reply over breakfast. He read it once and laughed; he read it again and pushed back his chair, thoughtful. He sat there longer than he should have, touched that his father had probably hit on the matter: he was lonely.

Damn this war, he had thought then. The words were plainspoken as Da was plainspoken: My dear son, I wrote a similar letter to your grandfather once, before I met your mother, God rest her soul. Son, can ye find a wife?

‘That takes more time than I have, Da,’ he had said out loud, but Da was probably right. Lately, when he attended the Presbyterian church in Devonport, he found himself paying less attention to the sermon and more attention to husbands, wives, and children sitting in the pews around him. He found himself envying both the comfortable looks of the couples married longest, and the shy hand-holdings and smouldering glances of the newly married. He tried to imagine the pleasure of marrying and rearing children, and found that he could not. War had ruined him; perhaps Da wasn’t aware of that.

It was food for thought this May morning, and he chewed on it as he took advantage of a welcome hiatus from a meeting—the Colonel Commandant’s gout was dictating a start one hour later than usual—and took himself to Stonehouse Naval Hospital. He had heard the jetty bell clanging late last night, and knew there would be wounded Marines to visit.

The air was crisp and cool, but threatening summer when he arrived at Block Four, where his friend Owen Brackett worked his surgeon’s magic on the quick and nearly dead. He found Owen on the second floor.

The surgeon turned to Hugh with a tired smile. ‘Did the jetty bell wake you?’

Hugh nodded. ‘Any Marines?’

‘Aye. If you have a mind to visit, come with me.’

Hugh followed Brackett down the stairs into another ward. With an inward sigh, he noted screens around several beds.

‘There was a cutter returning from Surgeon Brittle’s satellite hospital in Oporto. The cutter was stopped at sea by a frigate with some nasty cases to transfer,’ Owen said. ‘Seems there was a landing attempted farther north along the Portuguese coast. Sit.’

He sat, never used to ghastly wounds, and put his hands on the man’s remaining arm, which caused the Marine’s eyes to flicker open.

‘Meet Lieutenant Nigel Graves, First Division,’ Brackett whispered before leaving.

‘From Chatham?’ Hugh asked, putting his lips close to the man’s ear.

‘Aye, sir. Serving on … Relentless.’ It took ages for him to get out the words.

‘A regular mauling?’ he asked, his voice soft. ‘Take your time, Lieutenant. We have all day.’ He didn’t; the Lieutenant didn’t. It was a serviceable lie; both knew it.

Lieutenant Graves tried to sit up. Hugh slipped his arm under the young man’s neck. ‘What were you doing?’

‘Trying to land at Vigo.’

‘A one-ship operation?’

‘Four ships, sir.’ He sighed, his exasperation obvious. ‘We didn’t know each other! Who was in charge when the Major died?’ He closed his eyes. ‘It was a disaster, sir. We should have been better.’

Hugh could tell he wanted to say more, but Lieutenant Graves took that moment to die. Hugh gently lowered him to the cot. He was still sitting there when Owen Brackett returned, enquired about the time of death from him, and wrote it on the chart.

‘A botched landing at Vigo,’ Hugh said. ‘Uncoordinated Marines working against each other, when all they wanted to do was fight! I’ve heard this before.’

‘It makes you angry,’ Owen said.

‘Aye.’ Hugh smoothed down the Lieutenant’s hair. ‘Each company on each vessel is a well-oiled machine, because we train them that way. Put one hundred of them on a ship of the line, and you have a fighting force. Try to coordinate twenty-five here or fifteen there from three or four frigates operating in tandem, and it can be a disaster.’

The surgeon nodded. ‘All they want to do is their best. They’re Marines, after all. We expect no less.’

Hugh thought about that as he took the footbridge back over the stream to the administration building of the Third Division. He was never late to anything, but he was late now.

The meeting was in the conference room on the first floor. He stopped outside the door, hand on knob, as a good idea settled around him and blew away the fug. Why could someone not enquire of the Marines at war how they saw themselves being used in the Peninsula?

‘You’re late, Colonel Junot,’ his Colonel Commandant snapped.

‘Aye, my lord. I have no excuse.’

‘Are those stains on your uniform sleeve?’

Everyone looked. Hugh saw no sympathy. ‘Aye, my lord.’

Perhaps it was his gout; Lord Villiers was not in a forgiving mood. ‘Well? Well?’

‘I was holding a dying man and he had a head wound, my lord.’

His fellow Marine officers snapped to attention where they sat. It might have been a tennis match; they looked at the Commandant, as if on one swivel, then back at Hugh.

‘Explain yourself, sir,’ Lord Villiers said, his voice calmer.

‘I visited Stonehouse, my lord.’ He remained at attention. ‘Colonel, I know you have an agenda, but I have an idea.’

Chapter One

Lord Villiers liked the idea and moved on it promptly. He unbent enough to tell Hugh, as he handed him his orders, ‘This smacks of something I would have done at your age, given your dislike of the conference table.’

‘I, sir?’

‘Belay it, Colonel Junot! Don’t bamboozle someone who, believe it or not, used to chafe to roam the world. Perhaps we owe the late Lieutenant Graves a debt unpayable. Now take the first frigate bound to Portugal before I change my mind.’

Hugh did precisely that. With his dunnage stowed on the Perseverance and his berth assigned—an evil-smelling cabin off the wardroom—Hugh had dinner with Surgeon Brackett on his last night in port. Owen gave him a letter for Philemon Brittle, chief surgeon at the Oporto satellite hospital, and passed on a little gossip.

‘It’s just a rumour, mind, but Phil seems to have engineered a billet for his sister-in-law, a Miss Brandon, at his hospital. He’s a clever man, but I’m agog to know how he managed it, if the scuttlebutt is true,’ Brackett said. ‘Perhaps she is sailing on the Perseverance.’

‘Actually, she is,’ Hugh said, accepting tea from Amanda Brackett. ‘I’ve already seen her.’

‘She has two beautiful sisters, one of whom took leave of her senses and married Phil Brittle. Perhaps your voyage will be more interesting than usual,’ the surgeon teased.

Hugh sipped his tea. ‘Spectacles.’

‘You’re a shallow man,’ Amanda Brackett said, her voice crisp.

Hugh winced elaborately and Owen laughed. ‘Skewered! Mandy, I won’t have a friend left in the entire fleet if you abuse our guests so. Oh. Wait. He’s a Royal Marine. They don’t count.’

Hugh joined in their laughter, at ease with their camaraderie enough to unbend. ‘I’ll have you know I took a good look at her remarkable blue eyes, and, oh, that auburn hair.’

‘All the sisters have it,’ Amanda said. ‘More ragout?’

‘No, thank you, although I am fully aware it is the best thing I will taste until I fetch the Portuguese coast in a week or so.’ He set down his cup. ‘Miss Brandon is too young to tempt me, Amanda. I doubt she is a day over eighteen.’

‘And you are antiquated at thirty-seven?’

‘I am. Besides that, what female in her right mind, whatever her age, would make a Marine the object of her affection?’

‘You have me there, Colonel,’ Amanda said promptly, which made Owen laugh.

She did have him, too, Hugh reflected wryly, as he walked from Stonehouse, across the footbridge, and back to the barrack for a final night on shore. Perhaps I am shallow, he considered, as he lay in bed later. Amanda Brackett was right; he was vain and shallow. Maybe daft, too. He lay awake worrying more about his assignment, putting Miss Brandon far from his mind.

Hugh joined the Perseverance at first light, the side boys lined up and the bosun’s mate piping him aboard. His face set in that no-nonsense look every Marine cultivated, and which he had perfected, he scanned the rank of Marines on board. He noted their awed recognition of his person, but after last night’s conversation, he felt embarrassed.

He chatted with Captain Adney for only a brief minute, knowing well that the man was too busy for conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Miss Brandon standing quietly by the binnacle, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, the picture of rectitude, or at the very least, someone just removed from the schoolroom herself. Amanda Brackett had said as much last night. She was a green girl.

He had to admit there was something more about Miss Brandon, evidenced by the two Midshipmen and Lieutenant grouped about her, appearing to hang on her every word. She had inclined her head to one side and was paying close attention to the Lieutenant. Hugh smiled. He could practically see the man’s blush from here on the quarterdeck.

Miss Brandon, you are obviously a good listener, he thought. Perhaps that compensates for spectacles. The moment the thought swirled in his brain, he felt small again. What a snob I am, he concluded, turning his attention again to Captain Adney.

‘… passage of some five days, Colonel, if we’re lucky,’ he was saying. ‘Is it Oporto or Lisbon for you?’

It scarcely mattered, considering his carte blanche to wander the coastline on his fact-finding mission. Perhaps he should start at Lisbon. ‘Oporto,’ he said. He knew he had a letter for Surgeon Brittle, Miss Brandon’s brother-in-law, but he also knew he could just give it to her and make his way to Lisbon, avoiding Oporto altogether. ‘Oporto,’ he repeated, not sure why.

‘Very well, sir,’ Captain Adney told him. ‘And now, Colonel, I am to take us out of harbour with the tide. Excuse me, please.’

Hugh inclined his head and the Captain moved towards his helmsman, standing ready at the wheel. Hugh watched with amusement as the flock around Miss Brandon moved away quickly, now that their Captain was on the loose and prepared to work them.

Hardly knowing why, Hugh joined her. He congratulated himself on thinking up a reason to introduce himself. He doffed his hat and bowed. ‘Miss Brandon? Pray forgive my rag manners in introducing myself. I am Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junot, and I have some business you might discharge for me.’

She smiled at him, and he understood instantly why the Lieutenant and Midshipmen had been attracted to her like iron filings to a magnet. She had a direct gaze that seemed to block out everything around her and focus solely on the object of her interest. He felt amazingly flattered, even though she was doing nothing more than giving him her attention. There was nothing coy, arch or even flirtatious about her expression. She was so completely present. He couldn’t describe it any better.

She dropped him a deep curtsy. Considering that it was high summer and she wore no cloak, this gave him ample opportunity to admire her handsome bosom.

‘Yes, Colonel, I am Miss Brandon.’

As he put on his hat again, her eyes followed it up and she did take a little breath, as though she was not used to her present company. He knew she must be familiar enough with the Royal Navy, considering her relationship to a captain and a surgeon, but he did not think his splendid uniform was ringing any bells.

‘I am a Marine, Miss Brandon,’ he said.

‘And I am a hopeless landlubber, Colonel,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I should have known that. What can I do for you?’

What a polite question, he thought. It is almost as if I were infirm. She is looking at me as though I have a foot in the grave, no teeth, and more years than her brothers-in-law combined. What an ass I am.

Feeling his age—at least every scar on his body had not started to ache simultaneously—he nodded to her. ‘Miss Brandon, I have been charged by Surgeon Owen Brackett to take a letter to your brother-in-law in Oporto. I suppose that is why I sought to introduce myself, rather than wait for someone else—who, I do not know—to perform that office.’

That is marvellously lame, he thought sourly, thinking of the gawking Midshipmen who had so recently claimed her attention, and mentally adding himself to their number.

The deferential look left her face. ‘Taking a letter to my brother-in-law is a pleasant assignment, sir. I am headed to the same place. Do you know Surgeon Brittle?’

‘Not yet.’

‘If you are too busy to discharge your duty, I can certainly relieve you of the letter, Colonel,’ she told him.

‘I am going there, too.’

He could think of nothing more to say, but she didn’t seem awkwardly waiting for conversation. Instead, she turned her back against the rail to watch the foretopmen in the rigging, preparing to spill down the sails and begin their voyage. It was a sight he always enjoyed, too, so he stood beside her in silence and watched. Although he had scarce acquaintance with the lady beside him, he felt no urge to blather on, in the way that newly introduced people often do.

The Perseverance began to move, and he felt his heart lift, so glad he was to be at sea again and not sitting in a conference room. He would range the coast, watch his Marines in action, interview them, and possibly formulate a way to increase their utility. With any luck, he could stretch his assignment through the summer and into autumn.

‘I have never sailed before,’ Miss Brandon said.

‘You’ll get your sea legs,’ he assured her, his eyes on the men balancing against the yardarms. He hoped it wasn’t improper to mention legs to a lady, even the sea kind.

In a few more minutes, she went belowdeck. He watched Marines working the capstan with the sailors, and others already standing sentry by the water butt and the helm. He nodded to the Sergeant of Marines, who snapped to attention, and introduced himself as the senior non-commissioned officer on board. A thirty-six-gun frigate had no commissioned officer. Hugh explained his mission and told the man to carry on.

He stayed on deck until the Perseverance tacked out of Plymouth Sound and into the high rollers of the Channel itself. He observed the greasy swell of the current and knew they were in for some rough water. No matter—he was never seasick.

He went belowdeck and into his cabin, a typical knocked-together affair made of framed canvas, which was taken down when the gun-deck cleared for action. His sleeping cot, hung directly over the cannon, was already swaying to the rhythm of the Atlantic Ocean. He timed the swell and rolled into the cot for a nap.

Because Miss Brandon had admitted this was her first sea voyage, Hugh was not surprised when she did not appear for dinner in the wardroom. Captain Adney had the good sense to give her the cabin with actual walls, one that probably should have gone to a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines, had a woman not been voyaging. The Sergeant had posted a sentry outside her door, which was as it should be. There were no flies growing on this little Marine detachment, and so he would note in his journal.

There was no shortage of conversation around the wardroom table. The frigate’s officers let him into their conversation and seemed interested in his plan. Used to the sea, they kept protective hands around their plates and expertly trapped dishes sent sliding by the ship’s increasingly violent motion. When the table was cleared and the steward brought out a bottle, Hugh frowned to hear the sound of vomiting from Miss Brandon’s cabin.

The surgeon sighed and reached for the sherry as it started to slide. ‘Too bad there is no remedy for mal de mer,’ he said. ‘She’ll be glad to make land in a week.’

They chuckled, offered the usual toasts, hashed over the war, and departed for their own duties. Hugh sat a while longer at the table, tempted to knock on Miss Brandon’s door and at least make sure she had a basin to vomit in.

She didn’t come out at all the next day, either. Poor thing, Hugh thought, as he made his rounds of the Marine Privates and Corporals, trying to question them about their duties, taking notes, and wondering how to make Marines naturally wary of high command understand that all he wanted was to learn from them. Maybe the notion was too radical.

Later that night he was lying in his violently swinging sleeping cot, stewing over his plans, when someone knocked on the frame of his canvas wall.

‘Colonel, Private Leonard, sir.’

Hugh got up in one motion, alert. Leonard was the sentry outside Miss Brandon’s door. He had no business even crossing the wardroom, not when he was on duty. Your Sergeant will hear from me, Private, he thought, as he yanked open his door.

‘How dare you abandon your post!’ he snapped.

If he thought to intimidate Private Leonard, he was mistaken. The man seemed intent on a more important matter than the potential threat of the lash.

‘Colonel Junot, it’s Miss Brandon. I’ve stood sentinel outside her door for nearly four hours now, and I’m worried.’ The Private braced himself against the next roll and wiggle as the Perseverance rose, then plunged into the trough of a towering wave. ‘She was puking and bawling, and now she’s too quiet. I didn’t think I should wait to speak until the watch relieved me, sir.’

Here’s one Marine who thinks on his feet, Hugh thought, as he reached for his uniform jacket. ‘You acted wisely. Return to your post, Private,’ he said, his voice normal.

He had his misgivings as he crossed the wardroom and knocked on her door. Too bad there was not another female on board. He knocked again. No answer. He looked at Private Leonard. ‘I go in, don’t I?’ he murmured, feeling suddenly shy and not afraid to admit it. There may have been a great gulf between a Lieutenant Colonel and a Private, but they were both men.

‘I think so, sir,’ the Private said. ‘Do you have a lamp?’

‘Go get mine.’

He opened the door and was assailed by the stench of vomit. ‘Miss Brandon?’ he called.

No answer. Alarmed now, he was by her sleeping cot in two steps. He could barely see her in the gloom. He touched her shoulder and his hand came away damp. He shook her more vigorously and was rewarded with a slight moan.

No one dies of seasickness, he reminded himself. ‘Miss Brandon?’ he asked again. ‘Can you hear me?’

Private Leonard returned with his lantern, holding it above them in the tiny cabin. The light fell on as pitiful a specimen of womanhood as he had ever seen. Gone was the moderately attractive, composed young lady of two days ago. In her place was a creature so exhausted with vomiting that she could barely raise her hands to cover her eyes against the feeble glow of the lantern.

‘I should have approached you sooner, sir,’ Private Leonard said, his voice full of remorse.

‘How were you to know?’ he asked. ‘We officers should have wondered what was going on when she didn’t come out for meals. Private, go find the surgeon. I am relieving you at post.’

‘Aye, aye, Colonel.’

Uncertain what to do, Hugh hung the lantern from the deck beam and gently moved Miss Brandon’s matted hair from her face, which was dry and caked. She didn’t open her eyes, but ran her tongue over cracked lips. ‘You’re completely parched,’ he said. ‘Dryer than a bone. My goodness, Miss Brandon.’

She started to cry then, except she was too dehydrated for tears. Out of his element, he didn’t know how to comfort her. Was she in pain? He wished there was a porthole he could open to let in some bracing sea air and banish the odour. Poor Miss Brandon was probably suffering the worst kind of mortification to be so discovered by a man she barely knew. If there was a better example of helplessness, he had never encountered it.

Private Leonard returned. Hugh looked behind him, but there was no surgeon.

‘Sir, the surgeon and his mate are both tending to a foretopman who fell from the rigging.’ Private Leonard made a face. ‘He reminded me that no one dies of seasickness and recommended we get some water and vinegar so she can clean herself up.’

‘Private, she can’t clean a fingernail in her condition,’ he said. He stood there a moment, looking down at Miss Brandon, then at the Private. ‘Go get a quart or two of vinegar from Cook and a gallon of fresh water. If anyone gives you any grief, tell them they don’t want to know how bad it will be if I have to come up and do it myself!’

The Private stood even straighter. ‘Aye, aye, sir. Should I get some cloths, too?’

‘As many as you can gather. Good thinking.’

He closed the door behind the Private, who pounded up the companionway, obviously glad to have a purpose. He found a stool and pulled it close to the sleeping cot, which was swaying to the ship’s roll. He tried to keep his tone conversational, knowing that nothing he was going to do in the next hour would be pleasing to a modest lady. ‘Miss Brandon, the surgeon cannot come, but he has declared that no one dies of seasickness. You will not be the first, and certainly not on my watch.’

‘I. Would. Rather. Die.’

At least she was alert. ‘It’s not allowed in the Royal Navy, my dear,’ he told her kindly. ‘When Private Leonard returns, I am going to tidy you, find you another nightgown, and put you in my sleeping cot, so I can swab down this one.’

She started to cry in earnest then, which was a sorry sight, since there were no tears. ‘Leave me alone,’ she pleaded.

‘I can’t leave you alone. I would do anything to spare you embarrassment, Miss Brandon, but you must be tended to.’

‘The surgeon?’

‘Busy. My dear, you’ll just have to trust me, because there is no one else.’

She hadn’t opened her eyes in their whole exchange, and it touched him to think how embarrassed she must be. She was obviously well educated and gently reared, and this was probably the first time in her whole life she had ever been alone with a man who wasn’t a relative. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he put his hand against her soiled cheek and held it there until she stopped her dry sobbing.

Private Leonard returned with the vinegar and water. He had tucked clean rags under his arm, and removed them when he set down the bucket. ‘I’ll get some sea water, too, Colonel,’ he said. ‘That fresh water isn’t going to go far, and you can swab her down with salt water.’

‘Do it, Private. When you return, close the door and resume your sentry duty. If there are two of us trying to help Miss Brandon, it’ll be too much for her.’

He could see that Private Leonard was relieved by that order. He came back soon with two buckets of sea water; God knows there was plenty of it to spare on a frigate in a squall. Private Leonard closed the door quietly.

Miss Brandon tried to sit up and failed. ‘If you leave the water, I can do this myself,’ she managed to say.

‘Begging your pardon, Miss Brandon, but I don’t think you even have the strength to scratch your nose right now,’ he told her. ‘I am so sorry that no one knew the extent of your extremity, or believe me, it would not have come to this.’

She opened her eyes then, and he saw all the shame, embarrassment, and humility in the world reflecting from them. All she could do was shake her head slowly and put up her hands to cover her chest.

It was such a defensive gesture that his heart went out to her. She was soiled and smelly and more wretched that the worst drab in the foulest slum in the rankest seaport he had ever visited. The last thing he wanted to do was violate her dignity, which was all she had remaining. He rested his hands gently on hers. ‘Whatever I do for you, I do out of utter necessity, Miss Brandon. I can do no less because I never back down from a crisis.’ He smiled at her. ‘My, that sounds top-lofty, but it is true. Take a leap of faith, Miss Brandon; trust me to be kind.’

She was silent a long while, her hands still held stubbornly in front of her. ‘I have no choice, have I?’ she said finally.

‘No, you don’t. Take that leap, Miss Brandon. I won’t fail you.’

Chapter Two

Miss Brandon didn’t say anything, but her hands relaxed. Hugh did nothing for a moment, because he didn’t know where to begin. He looked closer in the dim light. She was wearing a nightgown, which chastely covered most of her, so his task was not as uncomfortable yet as it was going to get. He opened the door.

‘Private, go in my cabin. Bring my shaving basin, plus the silver cup next to it.’

He was back in a moment with the items. Hugh put his hand behind Miss Brandon’s back and carefully raised her upright. He dipped the cup in the fresh water Private Leonard had brought, and put it to her lips.

‘It will only make me vomit,’ she protested weakly.

‘Just swirl it around in your mouth, lean over the edge of the cot and spit it out.’

‘On the floor?’ she asked, aghast.

‘Yes, ma’am. The deck—the floor—has suffered some ill usage. I’ll never tell.’

She sighed. He held the cup to her parched lips and she took a small sip, doing what he said and spitting on the deck.

‘Try another sip and swallow it this time.’

She started to protest, but gamely squared her shoulders and did as he said. ‘My throat is on fire,’ she said, her voice a croak.

‘I imagine it is raw, indeed, Miss Brandon, considering the ill treatment it has suffered for nearly two days.’ It smote him again how careless they had all been not to check on her. ‘Try another sip. Just a small one.’

She did, then shook her head at more. They both waited, but she kept it down.

‘I’m encouraged. Just sit here,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to mix some vinegar in this little bit of fresh water and wipe your face and neck. I’ll see what can be done with your hair.’

Silent, she let him do what he wanted, turning her head obediently so he could swab around her eyes and nostrils. ‘Soon I’ll have you smelling like a pickle, Miss Brandon,’ he joked, trying to lighten the mood. She did not indicate any amusement, which hardly surprised him. When her face was as clean as he could manage, he added more vinegar to the bucket of sea water and wiped her neck and ears.

Her hair took much longer, as he pulled a few strands at a time through the vinegar-soaked cloth between his fingers, working as quickly and gently as he could. He had to stop for a while when the ship began to labour up and down steeper troughs, as the storm intensified. She moaned with the motion, so he braced the sleeping cot with his body so it would not swing. As he watched her face, it suddenly occurred to him that part of her problem was fear.

‘Miss Brandon, I assure you that as bad as this seems, we’re not going to sink,’ he said. He spoke loud enough to be heard above the creaking and groaning he knew were normal ship noises in a storm. ‘Ships are noisy. The sea is rough, I will grant you, but that is life in the Channel.’

She said nothing, but turned her face into his shoulder. Hugh kept his arms tight around her, crooning nothing that made any sense, but which seemed to calm her. He held her close as she clung to him, terrified.

When the waves seemed to subside, he released her and went back to cleaning her long hair. When he felt reasonably satisfied, he knew he could not avoid the next step. ‘Miss Brandon, do you have another nightgown in your luggage?’

She nodded, and started to cry again.

‘I’d happily turn my back and let you manage this next part by yourself, my dear, but I don’t think you’re up to it. You can’t stay in this nightgown.’

After another long silence during which he made no attempt to rush her, her hands went to the buttons on her gown. She tried to undo them, but finally shook her head. Without a word, he undid her buttons. ‘Where’s another nightgown?’ he asked quietly.

She told him and he found it, fragrant with lavender, in her trunk. Taking a deep breath, Hugh pulled back the sheet. Her hand went to his wrist, so he did nothing more until she relaxed her grip.

‘I’m going to roll up your nightgown, so we can best keep the soiled part away from your face and hair when I pull it over your head. Miss Brandon, I regret the mortification I know I am causing you,’ he said.

She was sobbing in good earnest now, and the parched sound pained him more than she possibly could have realised. Not only was he trampling on her female delicacy now, but jumping up and down on it.

‘No fears, Miss Brandon, no fears,’ he said quietly, trying to find a balance between sympathy and command.

Maybe she finally realised he was an ally. He wasn’t sure he would have been as brave as she was, considering her total helplessness to take care of herself. Feeling as stupid and callow as the merest youth, he couldn’t think of a thing to say except, ‘I mean you no harm. Not ever.’

He wondered why he said that, but his words, spoken quietly but firmly, seemed to give Miss Brandon the confirmation she needed of his utter sincerity. She stopped sobbing, but rested her head against him, not so much because she was tired now, but because she needed his reassurance. He could have been wrong, but that was what the moment felt like, and he wasn’t one to quibble.

Without any talk, he continued rolling up her nightgown as she raised her arms. His fingers brushed against her bare breast, but they were both beyond embarrassment. Even though the night was warm, she shivered a little. He quickly popped her into the clean nightgown, pulling it down to her ankles, then helped her lie back. She sighed with relief and closed her eyes.

The winds picked up and the ship began another series of torturous swoops through the waves. He braced the cot against his hip and kept his arms tight around Miss Brandon as she clung to him and shivered.

‘I don’t know how you do this,’ she said finally, when the winds subsided.

‘It comes with the job,’ he replied and chuckled.

‘Are you never seasick?’

‘No.’

‘Are you lying?’

He wasn’t, but he wanted her to laugh. ‘Yes.’ He knew nothing in the rest of his life would ever put him at ease more than the slight sound of her laugh, muffled against his chest.

Since his arms were around her, he picked her up. She stiffened. ‘I’m going to carry you across the wardroom to my pathetic cabin, and put you in my cot. You’re going to promise me you won’t be sick in it, and you’re going to go to sleep. I’ll come back in here and clean up everything.’

‘A Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Marines,’ she murmured, and Hugh could hear the embarrassment in her voice again.

‘I can’t help that,’ he told her, and was rewarded with another chuckle. ‘I’ve swabbed a deck or two in my earlier days.’ He wasn’t going to tell her how unpleasant that had been, cleaning up a gun deck after a battle. Nothing in her cabin could ever compare with that, but he wasn’t going to enlighten her further.

He was prepared to stay with her in his cabin until she felt easy, but she went to sleep almost before he finished tucking his blanket around her. He looked down at her, smelling of vinegar now, but as tidy as he could make her, in his clumsy way. He looked closer. There was something missing. He gave her a slight shake.

‘Miss Brandon, where are your spectacles?’

She opened her eyes, and he saw nothing but remorse. ‘I … I fear they landed in that basin by the cot, when I vomited.’

She started to laugh then, which must have hurt because her hand went to her throat. ‘Don’t look so stunned, Colonel,’ she told him. ‘I am quizzing you. They’re in my trunk, next to my hair brush.’

He grinned at her, relieved that she could make a joke. ‘I’ll get you for that.’

‘You and who …?’ she began, then drifted to sleep.

He stood there another long moment, watching her sleep, dumbfounded by her resiliency, and not totally sure what had just happened. ‘I’d have looked for them in that foul basin, I hope you know,’ he whispered, then left his cabin.

He spent the next hour cleaning Miss Brandon’s cabin. Before Private Leonard went off duty and was replaced by another sentry, he swore him to utter secrecy on what had passed this evening.

‘Sir, I would never say anything,’ the Private assured him. ‘She’s a brave little trooper, isn’t she?’

Hugh would have spent the night in her cot, except that it was wet with vinegar and he didn’t relish the notion. He could put his greatcoat on the floor in his cabin and not disturb Miss Brandon at all. He put her nightgown to soak in the bucket with sea water, and poured in the remaining vinegar. He found his way to the orlop deck, where the surgeon, eyes bleary, was staring at a forefinger avulsion that gave Hugh the shivers.

‘He caught it on a pump, if you can imagine,’ the surgeon murmured. He patted the seaman who belonged to the finger. ‘Steady, lad, steady. It looks worse than it is, as most things do.’

While the seaman stared at his own finger, Hugh took the surgeon aside and explained what had happened to Miss Brandon.

‘Poor little lady,’ the surgeon said. ‘I hope you were gentle with her, Colonel.’

‘I did my best.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘Only two days out, and already this voyage is more than she bargained for, I’m certain. All’s well that ends. Give her some porridge tomorrow morning and a ship’s biscuit, along with fortified wine, and all the water she will drink. That should take care of the dehydration.’

Hugh walked thoughtfully back to his deck, after looking in on the unconscious foretopman, with the surgeon’s mate sitting beside him. A howl from the orlop told him the surgeon had taken care of the avulsion. Give me Miss Brandon and her troublesome seasickness any day, he thought with a shudder.

Counting on his rank to mean something to one of the captain’s young gentlemen, he asked for and received a blanket and returned to his cabin. He looked down at her, asleep in his gently swaying cot. Poor little you. The surgeon was right; you didn’t bargain on this, he thought.

Surprisingly content with his lot, Hugh spread his overcoat and pulled the blanket over him. He woke up once in the night to check on her, but she was breathing deeply, with a small sigh on the exhalation of breath that he found childlike and endearing. Feeling charitable, he smiled down at her, and returned to his rest on the deck.

A fierce and nagging thirst woke Polly at sunrise, rather than the noise of a ship that she had feared last night would sink at any minute. She stared at the deck beams overhead, wondering where she was, then closed her eyes in total mortification when she remembered. Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, the entire world will move back four days. I will remain in Torquay with my sister Nana and none of what I know happened will have taken place, she told herself.

No such luck. She smelled of vinegar because she had been doused in it, then pulled from her nightgown and—horror of horrors—been set right by a Royal Marine of mature years who would probably rather have eaten ground glass than done any of the duties her care had required.

If she could not forget what had happened, perhaps Lieutenant Colonel Junot had transferred during the night to another vessel, one sailing to Australia. Failing that, hopefully he had suffered amnesia and remembered nothing past his tenth birthday. No such luck. She could hear someone snoring softly, so she rose up carefully on her elbow and peered over the edge of the sleeping cot.

There lay her saviour, a mature man—not a Midshipman—with curly dark hair going a bit grey at the temples, a straight nose, and chiselled lips that had caught her attention a few days ago, when she was still a reasonable being. He lay on his back and looked surprisingly comfortable, as though he had slept in worse places. He had removed his shoes, unbuttoned his dark trousers, and unhooked his uniform tunic, so a wildly informal checked shirt showed through. The gilt gorget was still clasped around his neck, which made her smile in spite of her mortification, because he looked incongruously authoritative.

He opened his eyes suddenly and he smiled at her, because she must have looked even funnier, peering at him over the edge of the sleeping cot like a child in a strange house.

‘Good morning, Miss Brandon. See? You’re alive.’

If he had meant to put her at her ease, he had succeeded, even as he lay there all stretched out. He yawned, then sat up, his blanket around him again.

‘Would you like some water?’ he asked.

She nodded, then carefully sat up, which only made her lie down again, because the room was revolving.

He was on his feet in an instant, turning his back to her to button his trousers, then stretching his arm up to grasp the deck beam as he assessed her. ‘Dizzy?’

She nodded, and wished she hadn’t. ‘Now the ship is spinning,’ she groaned.

‘It will stop.’ He brought her a drink in a battered silver cup that looked as if it had been through a campaign or two. His free arm went behind her back and gently lifted her up just enough to pour some water down her sorely tried throat. ‘Being as dried out as you are plays merry hell with body humours, Miss Brandon. You need to eat something.’

‘Never again,’ she told him firmly. ‘I have sworn off food for ever.’

‘Take a chance,’ he teased. ‘You might be surprised how gratifying it is to swallow food, rather than wear it. Another sip now. That’s a good girl. Let me lay you down again.’

After he did so, he tucked the blanket up to her chin again. ‘You’ll do, Brandon,’ he told her in a gruff voice, and she knew that not a kinder man inhabited the entire universe, no matter if he was a Marine and fearsome. ‘Go back to sleep.’

She closed her eyes dutifully, certain she wouldn’t sleep because she was so embarrassed, except that the Colonel yawned loudly. She opened her eyes at such rag manners, then watched as he stretched and slapped the deck beam overhead, exclaiming, ‘I love a sea voyage, Brandon. Don’t you?’ which made her giggle and decide that perhaps she would live, after all.

When she woke again, it was full light and the Colonel was gone. She sat up more cautiously this time, pleased when the ship did not spin. She wasn’t sure what to do, especially without her spectacles, except that there they were in their little case, next to the pillow. What a nice man, she thought, as she put them on.

She looked around. He had also brought over her robe, which she had originally hung on a peg in her cabin. I think he wants me gone from his cabin, she told herself, and heaven knew, who could blame him?

As for that, he didn’t. Colonel Junot had left a folded note next to her robe on the end of the cot, with ‘Brandon’ scrawled on it. She couldn’t help but smile at that, wondering why on earth he had decided to call her Brandon. All she could assume was that after the intimacy they had been through together, he thought Miss Brandon too formal, but Polly too liberal. Whatever the reason, she decided she liked it. She could never call him anything but Colonel, of course.

She read the note to herself: Brandon, a loblolly boy is scrubbing down your cabin and will light sulphur in it. The stench will be wicked for a while, so I moved your trunk into the wardroom. Captain Adney’s steward will bring you porridge and fortified wine, which the surgeon insisted on.

He signed it ‘Junot’, which surprised her. When he introduced himself, he had pronounced his name ‘Junnit’, but this was obviously a French name. That was even stranger, because he had as rich a Lowland Scottish accent as she had ever heard. ‘Colonel, Brandon thinks you are a man of vast contradictions,’ she murmured.

She climbed carefully from the sleeping cot, grateful the cannon was there to clutch when the ship shivered and yawed. I will never develop sea legs, she told herself. I will have to become a citizen of Portugal and never cross the Channel again. When she could stand, she pulled on her robe and climbed back into the sleeping cot, surprised at her exhaustion from so little effort. She doubled the pillow so she could at least see over the edge of the sleeping cot, and abandoned herself to the swaying of the cot, which was gentler this morning.

She noticed the Colonel’s luggage, a wooden military trunk with his name stenciled on the side: Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junot. ‘And you sound like a Scot,’ she murmured. ‘I must know more.’

Trouble was, knowing more meant engaging in casual conversation with a dignified officer of the King’s Royal Marines, one who had taken care of her so intimately last night. He had shown incredible aplomb in an assignment that would have made even a saint look askance. No. The Perseverance might have been a sixth-rate and one of the smaller of its class, but for the remainder of the voyage—and it couldn’t end too soon—she would find a way to avoid bothering Colonel Junot with her presence.

In only a matter of days, they would hail Oporto, and the Colonel would discharge his last duty to her family by handing her brother-in-law a letter from his former chief surgeon. Then, if the Lord Almighty was only half so generous as both Old and New Testaments trumpeted, the man would never have to see her again. She decided it wasn’t too much to hope for, considering the probabilities.

So much for resolve. Someone knocked on the flimsy-framed door. She held her breath, hoping for the loblolly boy.

‘Brandon? Call me a Greek bearing gifts.’

Not by the way you roll your r’s, she thought, wondering if Marines were gluttons for punishment. She cleared her throat, wincing. ‘Yes, Colonel?’

He opened the door, carrying a tray. ‘As principal idler on this voyage, I volunteered to bring you food, which I insist you eat.’

If he was so determined to put a good face on all this, Polly decided she could do no less. ‘I told you I have sworn off food for the remainder of my life, sir.’

‘And I have chosen to ignore you,’ he replied serenely. ‘See here. I even brought along a basin, which I will put in my sleeping cot by your feet, should you take exception to porridge and ship’s biscuit. Sit up like the good girl I know you are.’

She did as he said. As congenial as he sounded, there was something of an edge in his imperatives. This was something she had already noticed about her brother-in-law Oliver, so she could only assume it had to do with command. ‘Aye, sir,’ she said, sitting up.

He set the tray on her lap. To her dismay, he pulled up a stool to sit beside the cot.

‘I promise to eat,’ she told him, picking up the spoon to illustrate her good faith, if not her appetite. ‘You needn’t watch me.’

He just couldn’t take a hint. ‘I truly am a supernumerary on this voyage, and have no pressing tasks. The Midshipmen, under the tender care of the sailing master, are trying to plot courses. I already know how to do that. The surgeon is pulling a tooth, and I have no desire to learn. The Captain is strolling his deck with a properly detached air. The foretopmen are high overhead and I wouldn’t help them even if I could. Brandon, you are stuck with me.’

It was obviously time to level with the Lieutenant Colonel, if only for his own good. She set down the spoon. ‘Colonel Junot, last night you had to take care of me in ways so personal that I must have offended every sensibility you possess.’ Her face was flaming, but she progressed doggedly, unable to look at the man whose bed she had usurped, and whose cabin she occupied. ‘I have never been in a situation like this, and doubt you have either.’

‘True, that,’ he agreed. ‘Pick up the spoon, Brandon, lively now.’

She did what he commanded. ‘Sir, I am trying to spare you any more dealings with me for the duration of this voyage.’

His brown eyes reminded her of a spaniel given a smack by its owner for soiling a carpet. ‘Brandon! Have I offended you?’

She didn’t expect that. ‘Well, n … no, of course not,’ she stammered. ‘I owe you a debt I can never repay, but—’

‘Take a bite.’

She did, and then another. It stayed down, and she realised how ravenous she was. She ate without speaking, daring a glance at the Colonel once to see a pleased expression on his handsome face. When she finished, he moved aside the bowl and pointed to the ship’s biscuit, which she picked up.

‘Tell me something, Brandon,’ he said finally, as she chewed, then reached for the wine he held out to her. ‘If I were ever in a desperate situation and needed your help, would you give it to me?’

‘Certainly I would,’ she said.

‘Then why can’t you see that last night was no different?’

He had her there. ‘I have never met anyone like you, Colonel,’ she told him frankly.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. She took another sip of the wine, then dipped the dry biscuit in it, which made him smile.

‘Look at it this way, Brandon. You have a friend.’

What could she say to that? If the man was going to refuse all of her attempts to make herself invisible for the remainder of the voyage, she couldn’t be little about it.

‘So do you, Colonel Junot.’

Chapter Three

‘Excellent!’ he declared. ‘If you’re up to it, I recommend you dress and go on deck. The surgeon found quite a comfortable canvas chair—I tried it out—and moved it to the quarterdeck. Believe it or not, it’s easier to face an enemy, which, in your case, is the ocean. We can’t have that, Brandon. Fearing the ocean is scarcely patriotic, considering that we are an island nation.’

‘I believe you are right, Colonel,’ she said, amused.

He lifted her out of the sleeping cot, set her on her bare feet, and walked next to her, his hand warm on the small of her back to steady her, across the short space between his door and the door to her cabin. She could smell sulphur fumes behind the door, and was glad he had moved her trunk into the wardroom.

She shook her head when he offered further assistance, even though she did have trouble standing upright.

‘You’ll learn,’ he assured her, then bowed and went up the companionway.

She took what clothing she needed from her trunk, pausing a time or two to steady herself against the ship’s movement. She hadn’t even crossed the small space back to Colonel Junot’s cabin when a Marine sentry came down the companionway, the same Marine who had stood sentinel last night.

‘I want to thank you, Private, for alerting the Colonel to my predicament last night,’ she told him.

‘My job, ma’am,’ he replied simply, but she could tell he was pleased.

That was easy, Polly thought, as she went into the cabin and dressed. Her hair was still a hopeless mess, but at least it smelled strongly of nothing worse than vinegar. ‘My kingdom for enough fresh water to wash this tangle,’ she murmured.

She cautiously made her way up the companionway to the deck, where she stood and watched the activity around her. No part of England is far from the sea, but she had spent most of her eighteen years in Bath, so she felt herself in an alien world. It was not without its fascination, she decided, as she watched the Sergeant drilling his few Marines in a small space. Close to the bow, the sailing master was schooling the Midshipmen, who awkwardly tried to shoot the sun with sextants. Seamen scrubbed the deck with flat stones the size of prayer books, while others sat cross-legged with sails in their laps, mending tears with large needles. It looked endlessly complex and disorganised, but as she watched she began to see the orderly disorder of life at sea.

She looked towards the quarterdeck again and Captain Adney nodded to her and lifted his hat, indicating she should join him.

‘Let me apologise for myself and all my fellow officers for neglecting you,’ he said. ‘Until Colonel Junot told us what was going on, we had no idea.’

Hopefully, he didn’t tell you everything, Polly thought, even though she knew her secrets would always be safe with the Colonel. ‘I am feeling much better,’ she said.

‘Excellent!’ Captain Adney obviously had no desire to prod about in the workings of females, so there ended his commentary. He indicated the deck chair Colonel Junot had spoken of. Clasping his hands behind his back, he left her to it, resuming his perusal of the ocean.

Polly smiled to herself, amused by the workings of males. She looked at the chair, noting the chocks placed by the legs so the contraption would not suddenly slide across the quarterdeck. She tried not to hurl herself across the deck, wishing she understood how to ambulate on a slanted plane that would right itself and then slant the other way.

‘Brandon, let me suggest that, when you stand, you put one foot behind the other and probably a bit farther apart than you are used to.’

She looked over her shoulder to see Colonel Junot on the steps to the quarterdeck. He came closer and demonstrated. She imitated him.

‘Much better. When you walk, this is no time for mincing steps.’ He smiled at her halting effort. ‘It takes practice. Try out the chair.’

She let him hand her into it, and she couldn’t help a sigh of pleasure. Amazing that canvas could feel so comfortable. I could like this, she thought, and smiled at the Colonel.

He smiled in turn, then went back down the steps to the main deck, where the Sergeant stood at attention now with his complement of Marines. A word from Colonel Junot and they relaxed, but not by much. In another minute the Sergeant had dismissed them and he sat with Colonel Junot on a hatch.

Polly watched them both, impressed by their immaculate posture, which lent both men an ever-ready aspect, as though they could spring into action at a moment’s notice. I suppose you can, she told herself, thinking through all of the Lieutenant Colonel’s quick decisions last night. He had not hesitated once in caring for her, no matter how difficult it must have been. And he seemed to take it all in stride. ‘You were my ever-present help in trouble,’ she murmured.

She gave her attention to the Colonel again, after making sure the brim of her bonnet was turned down and they wouldn’t know of her observation. While Colonel Junot was obviously a Scot, he did look French. She realised with a surprise that she wanted to know more about him.

Why? she asked herself. Knowing more about Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junot would serve no useful purpose, beyond pointing her out as a flirt, something she knew she was not. ‘Bother it,’ she muttered softly.

She had convinced herself that the best thing she could do for the remainder of this voyage was to follow her original plan and have as little to do with the Marine as possible. Once he was busy with whatever it was that had taken him on this voyage, she would be ignored, which suited her down to the ground. She had never sought the centre of the stage.

Come to think of it, why was Colonel Junot on this voyage? Bother it, she told herself again. I would like to ask him.

She knew better. Through Nana, she knew these men sailed with specific orders that were certainly none of her business, no matter how great her curiosity. ‘Bother it,’ she muttered again, and closed her eyes.

She slept, thanks to the gentle swaying of the canvas seat, comforting after the peaks and troughs of last night’s squall. When she woke, her glasses rested in her lap. Lieutenant Colonel Junot stood next to her chair, his eyes scanning the water. She was struck all over again with his elegance. Compared to naval officers in their plain dark undress coats, the Marines were gaudy tropical birds. He had not an ounce of superfluous flesh, which made him different from the men she noticed in Bath, who were comfortably padded in the custom of the age.

I am among the elite, she told herself, as she put on her spectacles, bending the wires around her ears again.

Her small motions must have caught Colonel Junot’s eye because he looked her way and gave her a slight bow, then came closer.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘I am better today,’ she said simply. ‘Perhaps this means I will not have to seek Portuguese citizenship and remain on the Iberian Peninsula for ever.’

He laughed and looked around for something to sit on, which gratified her further. He didn’t seem to mind her company. He found a keg and pulled that beside her chair.

He looked at her a moment before he spoke, perhaps wondering if he should. He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you will think me a case-hardened meddler, Brandon, but I have to know—how on earth did you receive permission to travel into a war zone?’

She was surprised that he was curious about her. She leaned towards him. ‘Haven’t you heard? I am to be a spy.’

‘I had no idea, Brandon. I will tell only my dozen closest friends.’

It was her turn to smile and brush aside the crackbrained notion that the Colonel was flirting with her. Now it was his turn for disappointment, because she couldn’t think of a witty reply. Better have with the truth.

‘I don’t know how I got permission, Colonel,’ she told him. ‘I wrote to my sister, Laura Brittle, whose husband, Philemon, is chief surgeon at a satellite hospital in Oporto.’

‘I have heard of him. Who hasn’t? That little hospital in Oporto has saved many a seaman and Marine in just the brief time it has been in operation.’

She blushed, this time with pleasure that he should speak so well of her brother-in-law. ‘I wrote to Laura and told her I wanted to be of use.’

‘I’ve also heard good things about Mrs Brittle.’

‘She’s incredible.’

‘Aye. And your other sister?’

‘Nana loves her husband and sends him back to sea without a tear … at least until he is out of sight,’ she said frankly. There wasn’t any point in being too coy around a man who, in the short space of twenty-four hours, knew her more intimately than any man alive.

He wasn’t embarrassed by her comment. ‘Then he is a lucky man.’

‘He knows it, too.’

She realised their heads were close together like conspirators, so she drew back slightly. ‘Colonel Junot, I thought I could help out in the hospital. Laura said they have many men who would like to have someone write letters for them, or read to them. I could never do what she does, but I could help.’ She shook her head, realising how puny her possible contribution must sound. ‘It isn’t much, but …’

‘… a letter means the world to someone wanting to communicate with his loved ones, Brandon. Don’t sell yourself short,’ he said, finishing her thought and adding his comment. ‘Still, I don’t understand how a surgeon and his wife could pull such strings. Are you all, by chance, related to King George himself?’

‘Oh, no! I have a theory,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you think. I’ll have to show you the letter from the Navy Board, addressed to Brandon Polly, which I received whilst I was visiting Nana. Do you think … Is it possible that Laura or Philemon transposed my name on purpose? Polly Brandon would never do, but Brandon Polly would cause not a stir.’

He thought a minute. ‘What is more likely is at one point in the correspondence there may have been a comma between the two names. Orders or requests are often issued that way.’

He looked at her, and seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘There now. You’ve answered my question, which surely must entitle you to one of your own. Go ahead and ask what everyone wants to know. How does someone who sounds like a Scot look like a Frenchman, and with a Froggy name, too?’

‘I am curious,’ she admitted.

‘Simple. A long-ago Philippe Junot—he had a title, so I’m told—came to Scotland from France as part of the entourage of Mary of Scotland. No one precisely knows how it happened, but he managed to avoid the turmoil surrounding her and blended into the foggy, damp woodwork of Scotland near Dundrennan. He lost his title, but acquired considerable land near Kirkcudbright.’

‘My goodness.’

‘My goodness, indeed. The Junots are a prolific breed, and each generation traditionally rejoices in a Philippe. My father is still well and hearty, but some day I will head the family.’

‘You chose to serve King and country?’ Polly asked, fascinated.

‘I did. Granted, Kirkcudbright is a pretty fishing village, but it is slow and I liked the uniform.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t laugh, Brandon. People have been known to join for stranger reasons.’

‘I cannot believe you!’ she protested.

‘Then don’t,’ he replied serenely. ‘I love the sea, but I require land now and then, and an enemy to grapple with up close. That’s my life.’

‘What … what does your wife say to all this?’ she asked. That is hardly subtle, she berated herself. He will think I am an idiot or a flirt, when I am neither.

‘I wouldn’t know, since I don’t have one of those luxuries. I ask you, Brandon—why would a sensible woman—someone like yourself—marry a Marine?’

He had neatly lofted the ball of confusion back in her court. ‘I can’t imagine, either,’ she said without thinking, which made him laugh, then calmly bid her good day.

I’ve offended him, Polly thought with remorse. She watched him go, then reasonably asked herself why his good opinion mattered.

Captain Adney’s steward kindly brought her bread and cheese for lunch. She went below later, and found that her trunk and other baggage had been returned to her cabin. The sentry had moved from the Lieutenant Colonel’s door to her own, as though nothing had happened.

When she went topside again, the Captain told her the afternoon would be spent in gunnery practice, and that she might be more comfortable belowdeck in her own cabin, one of the few not dismantled, so the guns could be fired. ‘It is your choice, but mind you, it’s noisy up here,’ he warned, then shrugged. ‘Or down there, for that matter.’

She chose to remain on deck. The chair had been moved closer to the wheel—’Out of any stray missile range,’ the captain told her.

He didn’t exaggerate; the first blast nearly lifted her out of the chair. She covered her ears with her hands, wishing herself anywhere but at sea, until her own curiosity—Miss Pym called it an admirable trait, if not taken to extremes—piqued her interest. Cringing in the chair, trying to make herself small with each cannonade, she watched as each man performed his task.

Someone tapped her shoulder. She looked around to see Colonel Junot holding out some cotton wadding and pointing to his ears. She took the wadding from him and stuffed it in her ears, observing that he seemed as usual, and not in any way offended by her earlier comment. Perhaps I make mountains out of molehills, she told herself, as he returned to the main deck, watching the crews there as she watched them from the quarterdeck.

His eyes were on the Marines. Some of them served the guns alongside the naval gunners, and others lined the railing, muskets at the ready, their Sergeant standing behind them, walking up and down. A few Marines had ventured aloft to the crosstrees with their weapons. Through it all, Colonel Junot observed, and took occasional notes.

It was all a far cry from Bath, and she knew how out of place she was. I wonder if I really can be useful in Oporto, she thought. Nana had wanted her to stay in Torquay. What had she done of any value on this voyage yet, except make a cake of herself with seasickness? She wondered why Colonel Junot thought her worth the time of day.

It was still on her mind as she prepared for dinner that evening. Only three more days, she thought, as she reached around to button her last button.

When she ventured into the wardroom, Colonel Junot came up behind her and without a word, buttoned the one in the centre of her back she never could reach. The other men were already busy at dinner; no one had noticed. I can’t even dress myself, she thought, flogging her already-battered esteem.

Polly had little to say over dinner. For all she paid attention, she could have been shovelling clinkers into her mouth, and washing them down with bathwater. All she could think of was how ill equipped she was to leave England. Probably she should never have even left Bath, uncomfortable as Miss Pym had made her, especially after she had turned down Pym’s invitation to stay and teach the youngest class. At least at the Female Academy, she knew precisely where she stood, in the order of things.

Bless his heart, Colonel Junot tried to engage her in conversation, but she murmured only monosyllables. Before the endless meal was over, even he had given up, directing his attention to war talk, and then ship talk. She was as out of place as a Quaker at a gaming table.

Polly had never felt quite this gauche before, almost as though her spectacles were ten times too large for her face, with every freckle—real and imagined—standing out in high relief. And there sat the Lieutenant Colonel next to her, an officer with handsome features, distinguished hair going grey. He was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen, and what had he seen of her except someone who needed to be cleaned up, held over a basin, or buttoned up the back? She burned at her own failings, compared to Colonel Junot’s elegant worldliness, and longed to leave the table as soon as she could decently do so.

The dinner ended after a round of toasts to the ship, the men, and the King. She was free to go. She stood, and all the men stood out of deference, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was the weakest link at the table.

Polly was only two or three steps from her door, but there was the Colonel, bowing and offering his arm, as he suggested a turn around the deck. She didn’t know how to say no, or even why she wanted to, so she took his arm.

The wind blew steadily from the west, making it the fair wind to Spain her brother-in-law Oliver had mentioned during his last visit to Torquay. Polly breathed deep, half-imagining she could smell the orange blossoms in Nana’s garden, while she wished herself there.

Colonel Junot walked her around the deck, commenting on the workings of the ship, pointing out the phosphorescence in the water, which he didn’t understand, but which intrigued him. She could tell how much he loved the sea, and she felt her shyness begin to recede. He still seemed to be taking care of her, as though someone had given him that role when he first saw her on deck in Plymouth. She knew no one had, which made her feel protected. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to; probably none of Lord Ratliffe’s daughters was.

‘This voyage has been a real trial for you, Miss Brandon,’ he said finally.

She wished he had continued calling her simply Brandon. He steadied her as they went down the more narrow companionway, and into the wardroom again, which this time was full of Marines.

All twenty of the frigate’s small complement of Marines had assembled, each carrying a flask. Private Leonard had borrowed a medium-sized pot from the galley, which he set by her door. He saluted the Lieutenant Colonel and stepped forwards, eyes ahead.

‘Colonel Junot, if we may take the liberty …’

‘By all means, Private.’

The Private looked at her then, flushed, and glanced away, addressing his remarks to someone imaginary over her shoulder. ‘Miss Brandon, there’s nothing pleasant about vinegar. We decided you should have an opportunity to wash your hair with fresh water. With the Lieutenant Colonel’s permission, we decided to give you our daily ration, and we will not take no for an answer.’

He said it practically in one breath, then stepped back. As she watched, tears in her eyes, each Marine poured his drinking water for the day into the pot. When they finished, Colonel Junot went to his cabin and brought out his own flask, adding it to the water in the pot.

‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she protested feebly, when everyone finished and stood at attention.

‘Just for a day, ma’am,’ the Sergeant of the guard said. ‘We’ve been thirsty before.’

He turned around smartly on his heel, and with a command, the Marines marched back to their posts, or to their quarters between the officers’ berths and the crew. Private Leonard remained at his post outside her door, eyes ahead again, every inch the professional.

‘Open your door, Brandon, and we’ll get the pot inside,’ Colonel Junot said.

She did as he directed, standing back as Lieutenant Colonel and Private lifted in the pot, careful not to splash out a drop of the precious fresh water. She had never received a kinder gift from anyone in her life.

The Private went back to his post, but Colonel Junot stood in her room, a smile playing around his expressive lips.

‘Colonel, I could have waited until we reached port. They didn’t need to do that,’ she said.

‘It was entirely their idea, Brandon,’ he replied, going to her door. ‘They only asked that I distract you on deck long enough for them to assemble. Look at it this way: if you ever decide to take over the world, you have a squad of Marines who would follow you anywhere.’

‘Why, Colonel?’ she asked.

It was his turn to look nonplussed. He was silent a long moment, as if wondering what he should say to such a question. ‘Possibly just because you are Brandon Polly, or Polly Brandon. Sometimes there is no reason.’

‘No one ever did anything so nice for me before,’ she said, wincing inwardly because she didn’t want to sound pathetic. It was true, though.

‘No? Not even your sisters?’

She could tell he was teasing her now, but there was still that air of protection about him, as though she had become his assignment for the voyage. ‘My sisters are different,’ she told him, feeling her face grow rosier. ‘They are supposed to be kind.’

He laughed at that. ‘So is mine,’ he confided.

She didn’t mean to look sceptical, but the Colonel seemed to be sensitive to her expression. ‘Here’s how I see it, Brandon—you’ve made a tedious voyage more than usually interesting.’

She couldn’t imagine that tending a female through seasickness qualified as interesting, but she wasn’t about to mention it. She knew she should just curtsy and wish him goodnight. She would have, if some imp hadn’t leaped on to her shoulder, and prodded her. ‘I … I … most particularly like it when you call me Brandon,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Some of the other students at Miss Pym’s had nicknames. I never did.’ She stopped in confusion. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’

‘Never crossed my mind, Brandon.’

She held her breath as he lightly touched her cheek.

‘Goodnight, now,’ he told her. ‘If you need help with your hair tomorrow, I’m just across the wardroom.’

Chapter Four

Hugh couldn’t say he had any power to encourage the wind and waves, but he considered it a boon from kind providence that Polly Brandon did need his help in the morning to kneel at the pot and wash her hair, while the deck slanted. They decided that his firm knee in her back would anchor her to the pot, and she had no objection when he lathered her hair, and rinsed it using a small pitcher.

The entire operation involved another pot and pitcher, which led him to comment that between pots and pitchers, women were a great lot of trouble. If she hadn’t looked back at him then with such a glower, her hair wet and soapy, he could have withstood nearly anything. He had no idea a woman could look so endearing with soap in her hair. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, of course, which meant she held her eyes open wider than usual, perhaps seeking more depth and more clarity. The effect jolted him a little, because her nearsighted gaze was so intense, her eyes so blue. The shade reminded him of a spot of deep water near Crete where he had gazed long and hard when he was a younger man.

When not coated in vinegar, her auburn hair was glossy. Hugh was half-tempted to volunteer to comb the tangles from her hair, but he had the good sense to strangle that idea at birth. To his surprise, he was finding her uniquely attractive.

Even after two decades of war, he knew enough about women, having bedded them in all seaports when occasion permitted, no different from his navy brethren. By common wardroom consent after one memorable voyage through half the world, he and his fellows agreed that the most beautiful women lived on the Greek isles. He knew at least that he had never seen a flat-chested female there. So it went; he was a man of experience.

But here was Brandon—why on earth had he started calling her such a hooligan name?—who, even on her best day, could only stand in the shadow of the earth’s loveliest ladies. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, and he had seen her at her absolute worst. No woman could have been more hopeless than Polly Brandon of two days ago, but here he was, wanting to devise all manner of subterfuges to keep her talking to him. It was a mystery; he had no clue what had happened in so short a time.

He sat down at the wardroom table, hoping to keep her there with him while he thought of something clever to say. To his dismay, she went into her cabin, but came out a moment later with her comb. She was getting more surefooted by the hour, timing her stride to the roll of the ship, but she did plop unceremoniously on to the bench and laughed at herself.

She fixed him with that penetrating gaze he was coming to know. ‘You have my permission to laugh when I am no more graceful at sea than a new puppy would be.’

‘I daren’t,’ he said. ‘Suppose some day you find me in desperate shape—say, for example, at Almack’s? I would hope you would be charitable, so I will be the same.’

‘Coward,’ she teased. She unwound the towel, shook her head, and began to comb her hair. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but when he didn’t, she took the initiative. ‘Three days at sea and my manners have taken French leave, Colonel. Miss Pym always did say I was too nosy by half, but what are you doing here?’

Admiring you, he thought. That would never do; perhaps honesty deserved its moment in the sun. ‘I shipped out to the Peninsula because I could not stand one more moment of conference meetings in Plymouth.’

‘You’re quizzing me,’ she said with a laugh.

‘Well, no, I am not,’ he contradicted. ‘I probably should have turned down my promotion from Major to Lieutenant Colonel, but one doesn’t do that.’

‘No harm in ambition,’ she told him, trying to sound sage, and blithely unaware how charming was her naïveté.

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Trouble is, a step up means different duties at Division Three. Now I am chained to a desk and report for meetings, where I sit and draw little figures and yawn inside my mouth, so my tonsils won’t be seen.’

She laughed and touched his sleeve. Just one quick touch, but it made him pleasantly warm. ‘Colonel, I used to do the same thing in theology class, where God was so cruel as to make time stand still.’

‘Exactly.’ Well, aren’t you the charming rogue, he thought. No vicar for a husband for you, I should think. ‘As with most things, there is more to it than that. I went to Stonehouse Hospital to visit the newest arrived Marines invalided there. One of them died in my arms, after wishing there was something more he and his fellow Marines could do to end this stalemate with Boney. I chose not to let his sacrifice be for naught.’

Polly nodded, her face serious. He continued, ‘I asked permission of the Colonel Commandant to conduct impromptu visits to various ships off the Peninsula, and in Lisbon where a Marine brigade is based. I want to find out how the men feel about what they do, and if, indeed, we Marines could do more. Brandon, these are men with vast experience, who surely have ideas! I have carte blanche to stay as long as I wish, and then compile a report. That is why I am here.’

She looked down at her hands, then up at him over her spectacles. ‘We are both running away, aren’t we, Colonel Junot? I could have stayed in Bath and taught the younger pupils at my school, or at least stayed in Torquay and helped my sister Nana, who is increasing again.’

‘But you want to see the wider world, even such a tattered one as this is proving to be, with its everlasting war?’

She frowned, and he could tell she had considered the matter. ‘I think we know I don’t belong here. Maybe I should have stayed in Torquay.’

Then I never would have met you, he realised. It was such a disquieting thought that he wanted to dismiss it. He chose a light tone, because that was all he could do, and even then, it was wrong to his ears. ‘If it’s any comfort, I felt the same way at my first deployment in service of King and country.’

‘When was that? Where did you go?’ she asked, her interest obvious.

What could he say but the truth, even though he knew it would age him enormously in her eyes. ‘It was 1790 and I was bound for India.’

‘Heavens. I had not even been born,’ she told him, confirming his fear.

Get it over with, Hugh, he told himself sourly. ‘I was fifteen and a mere Lieutenant.’

She surprised him then, as she had been surprising him for the three days he had known her. ‘Heavens,’ she said again, and he cringed inwardly. ‘Colonel, I cannot imagine how fascinating India must have been. Did you see elephants? Tigers? Are the women as beautiful as pictures I have seen?’

She didn’t say a word about his age, but calmly continued combing her hair, her mind only on India, as far as he could tell. He felt himself relax. ‘Do you want to hear about India?’

‘Oh, my, yes, I do,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘Colonel, I have never been anywhere!’

‘Very well,’ he began, eager to keep her there. ‘We landed in Bombay during the monsoon.’

‘You were seasick,’ she said.

‘I told you I have never been seasick,’ he replied, ‘and I meant it.’

‘Very well. Since I was not there, I shall have to believe you.’ She put her comb down and clasped her hands together. ‘Tell me everything you can remember.’

If some celestial scamp in the universe—an all-purpose genie would do—had suddenly whisked away all the clocks and banished time to outer darkness, Polly knew she would be content to listen for ever to Colonel Junot. While her hair dried, she and the sentry who joined them at the Colonel’s suggestion heard of tiger hunts, an amphibious storming of a rajah’s palace in Bombay, and of the rise of Lord Wellington, the ‘Sepoy General’. India was followed by Ceylon and then Canada, as Colonel Junot took them through his Marine career.

It became quickly obvious to Polly that he loved what he did, because she heard it in his voice. She saw it in the way he leaned forwards until she felt like a co-conspirator in a grand undertaking. His storytelling had her almost feeling decks awash and seeing rank on rank of charging elephants and screaming Indians, as he told them so matter of factly about what he did to support himself. He was capability itself.

Through years of indoctrination, Miss Pym had pounded into her head how rude it was to stare at anyone, especially a man, but the Colonel was hard to resist. A natural-born storyteller, he became quite animated when he spoke of his adventures, which only brightened his brown eyes and gave more colour to his somewhat sallow cheeks—he had obviously spent too much time the past winter sitting at conference tables. She was having a hard time deciding if his finest feature was his magnificent posture and bearing, or his handsome lips, which had to be a throwback to his French ancestry.

Colonel Junot was different, she knew, if for no other reason than that he found her interesting. As she listened to him, injecting questions that he answered with good humor, Polly discovered she was already steeling herself against the time he would bow and say goodbye.

‘And that is my career, Private Leonard,’ Colonel Junot concluded, looking at them both. ‘Private, as you were. Brandon, excuse me please.’ He rose, bowed to her, and went his stately way up the companionway.

‘I live such an ordinary life,’ Polly murmured, watching him go.

She went on deck at the end of the forenoon watch, pleased to notice the chair she had sat in yesterday had been relocated to its original place, which probably meant there would be no gunnery practice today. She had brought a book topside with her, something improving that Miss Pym had recommended. She decided quickly that a treatise on self-control was a hard slog on a ship’s deck where so much of interest was going on. She was happy enough to merely close it, when what she really wanted to do was toss it into the Atlantic. Maybe that wasn’t such a shabby idea. Book in hand, she went to the ship’s railing.

‘Brandon, I hope you are not considering suicide.’

She looked around to see Colonel Junot. ‘No, sir. This book is a dead bore and I am about to put it out of its misery.’

He took the book from her hand, opened it, rolled his eyes, then closed it. ‘Allow me,’ he said, and impulsively flung the thing far into the ocean. ‘I hope you were serious.’

‘Never more so,’ she told him firmly. ‘It was a gift from my aunt, who was headmistress at the female academy I attended in Bath, and—’

‘I should apologise then for deep-sixing it,’ he said, interrupting her.

‘Oh, no. Don’t you have any relatives who annoy you?’

He thought a moment, then he laughed. ‘Who doesn’t!’

Walking with more assurance back to her chair, she seated herself, giving the Colonel every opportunity to nod to her and continue on his way. To her delight, he pulled up yesterday’s keg and sat beside her.

‘Brandon, give me some advice.’

‘Me?’ she asked, amazed.

‘Yes, you,’ he replied patiently. ‘Under ordinary circumstances, you appear quite sensible.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she teased, and put a hand to her forehead like a seaman.

‘I have told you what my aim is on my fact-finding mission.’ He must have caught the look in her eye, because he wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t you even presume to call it “taking French leave from the conference table”.’

‘I would never, sir,’ she said solemnly, which made him look at her suspiciously.

‘Seriously, Brandon, how can I approach Marines?’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Colonel, you would know far better than I!’

‘I don’t. On this ship, for example—which for our purposes we will call “Any Frigate in the Fleet”—I communicated my wishes to the Sergeant, and he passed them to his men. Everyone is stiff and formal, and I can almost see their brains running, trying to work out what it is I really want to know.’

Polly thought about what he had said, but not for long, because it seemed so simple. ‘Can you not just sit with them as you are sitting casually with me? Tell them what you told me about the dying Lieutenant, and what it is you wish to do. Look them in the eye, the way you look me in the eye—you know, kindly—and tell them you need their help. Why need you be formal?’

He watched her face closely, and she could only hope he had not noticed her odd little epiphany. ‘You are kind, you know,’ she said softly.

‘Thank you, Brandon, but no one can get beyond my rank to just talk to me. There is a larger issue here, one I had not thought of: this may be the first time in the history of the Marines that an officer has actually asked an enlisted man what he thinks.’

‘That is a sad reflection,’ she said, after some consideration. ‘Everyone has good ideas now and then.’

‘We never ask.’

He was looking far too serious, as though his good idea in Plymouth was already on the rocks. She put her hand on his arm, and he glanced at her in surprise. Just two days, and then you are gone, she thought. ‘I told you, you are kind. Don’t give up yet. You’ll find a way to talk to the men.’ She took her hand away and looked down, shy again. ‘When I was so desperate, you found a way to put me at ease.’

‘That was simplicity itself. You needed help.’

‘So did the Lieutenant who died in your arms, Colonel,’ she told him, finding it strange that she had to explain his own character to him, wondering why people didn’t see themselves as they were. ‘Just be that kind man and you will find out everything you want to know.’

She stopped, acutely aware she was offering advice to a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines, who, under ordinary circumstances, would never have even looked at her. ‘Well, that’s what I think,’ she concluded, feeling as awkward as a calf on ice.

He nodded and stood up, and Polly knew she had not helped at all. He put his hands behind his back, impeccable. ‘I just go and sit on that hatch and call over the Marines and speak to them as I speak to you, Brandon?’

‘You could take off that shiny plaque on your neck and unbutton your uniform jacket,’ she suggested, then could not resist. ‘Let them see you have on a checked shirt underneath.’

His smile was appreciative as he fingered the gorget against his throat. ‘I must remain in uniform, Brandon, and the gorget stays. I will try what you say.’ He did not disguise the doubt in his voice.

She clasped her hands together, unwilling to let him go, even if it was only to the main deck. ‘Colonel, you could practise right here. Ask me questions. I could do the same to you.’

‘Why not?’ He contemplated her for a moment, and she suddenly wished she was thinner, that her hair was not so wind-blown, and that her glasses would disappear. He was looking her right in the eyes, though, so maybe he didn’t notice.

He flexed his fingers and cleared his throat. ‘Private Brandon, as you were, please! Let me set you at ease. I’m here to ask questions of you that will never be repeated to your superior. I will not even name you in my report.’ He looked at her, his eyes sceptical. ‘What do you think so far?’

‘You could smile,’ she suggested.

‘Too artificial,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘That would terrify them because officers never smile.’

‘I don’t understand men,’ Polly said suddenly.

‘You weren’t meant to,’ he told her gently, which made her laugh. ‘All right. All right. Private Brandon, tell me something about yourself. Why did you join the Royal Marines? I’m curious.’ He peered at her. ‘Just tell me something about yourself, Brandon, something that I don’t know.’

She thought a moment, and realised with a sudden jolt that she had reached that place where Nana had once told her she would one day arrive. ‘“Polly, dear, you must never deceive a man about your origins,”’ Nana had told her only a week ago.

‘My father was William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe of Admiralty House,’ she said. ‘I am one of his three illegitimate daughters, Colonel.’

To her relief, he did not seem repulsed. ‘That accounts for all the years in boarding school in Bath, I suppose. Tell me more, Brandon. What do you like to do?’

‘After that, you really want to know more?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Indeed, I do, Private Brandon,’ he said simply. ‘Remember—I’m supposed to extract answers from you and keep you at your ease. I am interested.’

‘Our father tried to sell my older sisters to the highest bidder, to pay off his debts,’ she went on.

‘What a bad man,’ the Colonel said. ‘Is he the Admiralty official who died in a Spanish prison and is thought by some to be a hero?’

‘He died in Plymouth, and, yes, some think him a hero,’ she said, her voice barely audible.

He amazed her by putting his hand under her chin and raising it a little, so he could look her in the eyes. ‘You managed to avoid all this? How?’

Don’t you have eyes in your head? she wanted to retort. ‘Come now, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I am no beauty. My father chose to ignore me.’

For some reason, her bald statement seemed to embarrass the Colonel, whose face turned red. ‘Shallow, shallow man,’ he murmured, when he had recovered himself. ‘He never really took a good look at you, did he?’

Startled, she shook her head. ‘He demanded miniatures of my sisters, but not of me.’

‘Thank God, Brandon,’ the Colonel whispered, his eyes still not leaving her face. He gazed at her for a long moment, and then seemed to recall what he was doing. He sat back and regarded her speculatively. ‘I think I can do those interviews now,’ he said. ‘If I show a genuine interest in what these enlisted men are telling me, look them in the eyes and wait, I might have success. Is that it?’

‘I think it is,’ she replied, relieved that he had changed the subject, and a little surprised at how much information she had given him with so little encouragement. ‘You’re actually rather good at interviewing, I think.’ Then she couldn’t help herself. ‘Only don’t chuck them under the chin.’

He laughed and held up his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘Too right, Brandon! Wait. You never told me what you like to do, only about your dreadful father. There’s more to you than him.’

She had never thought of it that way before. ‘I like to plant things. Before I left Torquay, I helped my brother-in-law’s mother plant a row of Johnny Jump-Ups in pots. We … we were going to do snapdragons next, but the letter came and I went to Plymouth. It’s not very interesting,’ she said in apology.

‘You’d like Kirkcudbright, the village where I grew up,’ he said. ‘Everyone has flowers in their front yard. It smells like heaven, around July. And it is interesting.’

The Colonel put his hand on her cheek then, as he had the other evening. ‘Don’t ever sell yourself short, Brandon,’ he said quietly. ‘Incidentally, I like to carve small boats.’

He bowed and left the quarterdeck for the waist of the frigate, where the guns were tied down fast. She watched as he spoke to the Sergeant of the guard, then sat down on the hatch.

‘That’s the way,’ Polly murmured quietly, her heart still beating too fast. ‘Surely they won’t remain standing if you are seated.’

Trying not to appear overly interested, she watched as the Marines not on duty approached Colonel Junot. He gestured to them, and in a few minutes, they were seated around him.

‘Talk to him,’ she whispered. ‘Just talk to him. He’s nothing but kind. All it takes is one of you to speak.’

One of the Privates squatting on the edge of the gathering raised his hand. Colonel Junot answered him, and everyone laughed, even the man who asked the question. Then others joined in, talking to the Colonel, to each other, and even calling over some sailors.

You just have to be yourself, she thought, imagining Colonel Junot’s capable hands carving little boats for children. Just be the man who was so kind to me.

Chapter Five

Maybe it was the wistful way Polly Brandon had spoken of snapdragons. As Hugh had tried out his interviewing skills on a squad of obliging Marines, he’d found his mind wandering to the lady in the canvas chair.

He could be thankful he was aboard one of his Majesty’s typical warships, which did not believe in mirrors on the bulkheads. He had enough trouble frowning into his shaving mirror the next morning and seeing nothing but grey hair starting to attack his temples. As he stared in total dissatisfaction, a brave better angel of his nature did attempt to remind him of his own words to Brandon a day ago, when he so sagely advised her not to sell herself short. The angel shrugged and gave up when he chose not to admit he was doing exactly the same thing to himself.

‘I am too old,’ he told his reflection in the shaving mirror as he scraped at his chin, which only made him wince—not because the razor was dull, but because none of those obstacles loomed any higher than the molehills they were to him. All he could think of was his August 9, 1775 birth date in the family Bible back home.

When his face was scraped sufficiently free of whiskers, he sat naked on the cold cannon in his cabin, glumly willing himself to be as practical as he ordinarily was. He reminded himself he was on duty, in the service of his King, headed into the war, and destined to be busy. Another day or two would pass and he would never see Polly Brandon again. For his peace of mind, it couldn’t come too soon. Hugh did know one thing—what ailed him had a cure, and it was probably to continually remind himself that he was too old for the bewitching Polly Brandon.

Two days later, he could have made his resolve less problematic if he hadn’t been pacing on deck in the early hours, dissatisfied with himself. If he had a brain in his head, he would skulk somewhere on the ship when it docked in Oporto. Brandon would go ashore, and he would never see her again. He could go on to Lisbon.

That was his plan, anyway—a poor one, but serviceable enough. Trouble was, the view of Oporto took his breath away, and he was down the companionway in a matter of minutes, knocking on her door to tell her to step lively and come on deck for a look.

Why did you do that? he scolded himself, as he returned topside. His only hope was that she would look unappetising as she came on deck, maybe rubbing her eyes, or looking cross and out of sorts the way some women did, when yanked from slumber. If that was the case, he might have an easier time dismissing her. He could go about his business and forget this little wrinkle in his life’s plan, if he even had a plan.

No luck. She came on deck quickly, a shawl draped over her arm. He smiled to see that she still couldn’t quite reach that centre button in back. I won’t touch it, he thought. Her face was rosy from slumber, her eyes bright and expectant. She merely glanced at him, then cast her whole attention on the beautiful harbour that was Oporto. She had wound her long hair into a ridiculous topknot and skewered it with what looked like a pencil. She looked entirely makeshift, but instead of disgusting him, he wanted to plant a whacking great kiss on her forehead and see where it led. Lord, I am hopeless, he thought in disgust.

She was too excited to even say good morning, but tugged on his arm. ‘Where is the hospital?’ she demanded.

He pointed to the southern bank. ‘Over there, in that area called Vila Nova de Gaia. Turn round.’

She did as he demanded, and he buttoned up the centre button. ‘You need longer arms,’ he commented, but she was not paying attention to him.

‘I have never seen anything so magnificent,’ she said in awe. ‘Perhaps it was worth all that seasickness. Have you been here before?’

‘Years ago, Brandon. I think I was your age.’ He chuckled. ‘For what it’s worth, my reaction was much like yours.’ There, Miss Brandon, that should remind you what a geriatric I am, he thought grimly.

If she heard him, she didn’t seem to mind. Brandon watched as a cutter swooped from the southern shore to the side of the Perseverance and backed its sails, then watched as the flag Lieutenant ran up a series of pennants. ‘What’s he doing?’ she asked.

‘Giving the cutter a message. Our surgeon told me the hospital sends out this cutter at every approach of the fleet, to enquire of the wounded. Ask the flag Lieutenant what message he is sending.’

Surefooted now, Polly hurried to the Lieutenant. ‘He is signalling “Wounded man on board. Prompt attention.” He said the cutter will take the message to the hospital wharf and there will be a surgeon’s mate with a stretcher there when we dock,’ she told him in one breath as she hurried back to his side.

‘It appears that your brother-in-law doesn’t miss a trick,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m impressed.’

Polly nodded, her eyes on the shore again. ‘I asked the Lieutenant if he could also signal “Brandon on board”, and he said he would.’ She leaned against him for one brief moment, or maybe she just lost her footing. ‘I have not seen Laura in nearly two years.’

The winds were fair into Oporto. As the harbour came nearer, she hurried below to finish dressing. When she came back, she was as neat as a pin. He stood close to her when they approached the mouth of the mighty river, knowing there would be a series of pitches and yaws that might discomfort her, as the Douro met the Atlantic. Besides, it gave him plenty of excuse to grip her around the waist to prevent her losing her footing. He couldn’t deny he was touched by how completely she trusted him to hold her.

‘I may never get used to the sea,’ she confessed, as he braced her.

‘It isn’t given to everyone to relish going down to the sea in small boats, despite what the psalm says.’

‘No argument there,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘The less business I have in great waters, the better.’

It wouldn’t hurt to ask. ‘Of you three sisters, are you to be the only one who avoids the navy?’ What about Marines? he wanted to ask.

She wasn’t listening to him, but was back at the railing, intent on the shoreline, her mind and heart on her sister, he was certain. He tipped his hat to her and went belowdeck to find the letter Surgeon Brackett wanted him to deliver to Philemon Brittle. Better to just hand it to Brandon and let her do the honors. The voyage was over, after all.

He couldn’t bring himself to hand it to her, not there at the railing, or after the gangplank came down on the wharf, and certainly not when Polly had thrown herself into the arms of a tall, beautiful woman with auburn hair.

It was a brief embrace. The woman—she must be Laura Brittle—quickly turned her attention to the foretopman on the stretcher, as her husband planted a quick kiss on Polly’s cheek, shook hands with the Perseverance’s surgeon, and engaged him in conversation.

‘Are you planning to stay in Oporto, Colonel Junot?’ Captain Adney asked.

‘Perhaps,’ he temporised.

‘We’ll be at the navy wharf today and then sailing the day after, if winds and tide are willing.’

‘Very well, sir. I’ll sail with you.’ He couldn’t very well say anything else. He stood at the railing, uncertain, wanting to go down the gangplank and introduce himself, and suddenly shy. He looked at Polly for a clue, and she beckoned him.

That was easy. In another moment he was smiling inwardly at Polly’s shy introduction, and bowing to Mrs Philemon Brittle, who truly was as beautiful as her younger sister had declared. Philemon Brittle held out his hand and he gave it a shake, impressed with the strength of the surgeon’s grasp.

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