Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress. Margaret McPhee

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      She said nothing, just focused on the injured man lying so helplessly before her.

      Murthly’s feet clattered back along the gun deck. He threw open the wooden box that he carried and handed the surgeon a large and wicked-looking knife. ‘Tourniquet already in place,’ he observed, and saw the surgeon’s eyes flit to the captain’s nephew.

      ‘Yes,’ he said drily. ‘Speed is our saviour,’ he proclaimed, ‘let’s not waste any more time.’ He paused before the blade contacted the bloodied pulp of reddened tissue and addressed Georgiana. ‘See what you can do for the others. There are clean linen strips within the box.’

      She did as she was bid, using the knowledge she had gleaned from her furtive reading of Mr Hunter’s A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds. A fascinating book, if not one of which her stepfather would have approved for either her or Francis. Thankfully her stepbrother’s secret medical ambition had led him to lodge the book safely beneath his bed. When the last of the men had been transferred to the sick berth down on the lower deck, Georgiana slipped away to discover what had become of Nathaniel. She had just made her way up the companion ladder when the answer to her question appeared most suddenly, for, as she stepped from the last rung up on to the uppermost deck, she practically collided with Captain Hawke.

      ‘George!’ The word escaped unbidden, as his hands closed around her upper arms. His gaze swept over her, taking in the dried blood streaking her face, the pale fragility of the skin beneath and the dark stained clothing, and a pulse of horror beat in his breast. Behind him Lieutenant Anderson cleared his throat, and with a start he came crashing back down to the reality of the situation. Not only had Georgiana blatantly disobeyed his order, but she was now risking her secret in an awkward situation. Perdition, but the girl seemed utterly determined to destroy her own reputation despite all his efforts. His eyes darkened. ‘Get back down below, Robertson,’ he barked.

      Georgiana blinked, the breath caught in her throat. He was safe, unhurt. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. Thank God. But even as she relaxed with relief she saw the change wash over his face. And the tide that it brought with it was not one of love or even affection, but one of blazing fury. ‘Nathan …’ She remembered herself in time. ‘Captain Hawke,’ she amended, deepening her voice.

      ‘That is an order.’ His words were hard and angry, a stranger to her ear. Just as she turned to retreat she caught sight of the two smartly dressed French captains standing proudly behind him, their intense, dark eyes trained on Nathaniel. For one awful minute she froze, suddenly aware of how close she’d come to betraying herself. Wandering about the ship without the protection of her bindings, almost calling the captain by his given name, and all in full view of not only their own men, but also the French!

      It was Nathaniel who recovered first, releasing his rather overtly intimate grasp on his ship’s boy’s shoulder. The breath had stilled in his throat, alarm bells ringing in his head. But the face he presented to the captives was calm and self-assured. ‘Lieutenant Pensenby will escort you both to your quarters. Those of your men taken aboard will be held below, the remainder will be well treated upon your own ships. Please make your needs known to Mr Pensenby. I shall endeavour to call upon you in a short while.’

      Only when his prisoners had been removed from earshot did Captain Hawke turn to his ship’s boy. ‘I’ll have the key, if you please.’ The handsome features appeared completely devoid of emotion. He did not trust himself to reveal a hint of the torrent that raged within him.

      ‘Yes, sir.’ From within her pocket she produced the cabin door key and held it to him.

      He grasped it, taking care great care not to brush against her still bloodstained fingers. The dark eyes remained carefully shuttered as he turned away. A muscle twitched in the firm line of his jaw. ‘Lieutenant Anderson, escort my nephew to my night cabin. See to it that the door is locked, from the outside, and return the key to me.’

      Georgiana’s turbulent blue eyes swung to meet his, but his gaze remained fixed hard and uncompromisingly ahead.

      ‘I’ll be in the sick berth with the surgeon, Mr Anderson.’ With that the tall figure climbed down the companion ladder and strode off to check upon the injuries his men had sustained.

      A cold breeze raked across the deck, rippling the British flag above. And below John Anderson moved quietly to take hold of the boy’s arm.

      Walter Praxton lifted the tankard before him and sipped at the ale. The Crown was quiet on account of the Impress Service’s activity in the area. Only once the Leander had sailed would the men return from the surrounding villages. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, lightening the grey misery of the cold December day. He barely noticed the slant of winter rain that pattered against the mullioned glass windows, so intent was he on the small weasely man seated opposite.

      Bob Blakely was five foot in height, of skinny build with hair the colour of the rats that meandered leisurely through the streets of Portsmouth. A short ragged moustache perched upon his upper lip, and a peppering of stubble added to the impression that washing did not constitute one of Mr Blakely’s favourite pastimes. He sucked on a long pipe and regarded the rich gent with small glassy eyes.

      ‘Like I said, Mr Praxton, sir, me contact saw the boy you’re after pressed aboard a frigate that was then in dock. They don’t normally take boys, but he wasn’t alone, was he?’

      Walter Praxton raised an enquiring brow that did not so much as crease the perfection of his handsome face.

      ‘Was with them three seamen from on the mail. It was them that the Press Gang was after. Expect they took the lad ‘cos he was there in the wrong place at the wrong time, so to speak.’

      ‘Which frigate?’ The ale tasted smooth and mellow to Mr Praxton’s jaded pallet.

      A grubby hand displaced the runny discharge seeping from his nose before Bob Blakely saw fit to continue. He swigged at the ale, smacking his thin chapped lips as the last of it slid like nectar down his throat. ‘Could do with another of those.’ He eyed Mr Praxton hopefully.

      As the ever-parched Bob had proved himself efficient in obtaining the information that he was so eager to learn, Walter averted his eyes from the black grimy fingernails cradling the empty tankard and gestured for the serving woman to fetch another jug of ale. ‘We wouldn’t want you going thirsty. Drink up, my good man. Remember the payment we’ve arranged.’

      Bob Blakely tapped his nose and gave the rich man a sly wink. ‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Praxton, and if I don’t have the info that you’re after, me name’s not Bob Blakely.’

      Walter stifled a retort and forced a smile to his face.

      ‘Was the Pallas, as sailin’ under Captain Hawke, sir. Left here start of last month, but under sealed orders. No one knows her destination, but me friend—’ he stressed the word most forcibly ‘—in a certain place, heard tell that she’s due back before Christmas. Ain’t that ‘andy. Not long to wait for that boy of yours, if he’s still alive, that is.’

      In a furtive gesture Praxton slid three guinea pieces to the man and bid him good day. Pulling his hat low and turning up the collar of his great brown coat, he braced himself to face the onslaught of the hostile English weather.

      ‘Nice doin’ business with you, gov,’ came the contented reply, and Bob Blakely settled down to the comfort of another night within the snug warmth of the tavern.

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