Cassia took a step forward, setting a foot on the boards, and then froze; the plank shifted and swayed with the rise and fall of the boat, and she along with it.
Her entire stomach lurched, and Cassia planted her feet firmly, fighting to keep her balance.
Only, the weight of her bag bore her backward, and she gasped, staggering, fighting to stand. And then, miracle of miracles, she retained her footing.
Swallowing hard, she glanced over the side at the space between the boat and the wharf. The dark waters lapping against the side of the vessel churned and slapped in a violent tug. Unlike most young misses of her acquaintance, she did know how to swim. She had that going for her. And yet swimming in her family’s loch in Scotland was entirely different from being plunged into the inky-black waters of the Thames.
More than halfway up, Mr. Hayes seemed to have realized she’d not followed.
He glanced back and then, with a frown, jogged. “Come along,” he called, and she gave another heave of her bag and forced herself to keep moving.
They reached the main deck, and the same level of buzz of activity that filled the wharves played out aboard the vessel.
Men lugged lines of ropes. She lifted her gaze skyward and took in up close the sight of those men scaling the masts. My God, they must be higher than fifty feet in the air—
“I’ll show you to your hammock in the crew quarters. Then get you scrubbing down the ship.”
“Hayes!” The bellow Cassia had heard before came a second time, its proximity making it boom like a shot of thunder, and she jumped.
“Aye, aye. I’m coming, Fox,” he called back. Mr. Hayes signaled to one of the deckhands, and a child an inch or so smaller than herself hurried over.
“Will you see to . . . ?” The gentleman paused and looked questioningly at her.
She could not allow herself to be discovered just yet. Yes, Jeremy was like another brother to her, but neither was she foolish enough to believe he’d allow her to flee her family and the London Season.
“Cassius.” She supplied that fake name, holding her breath, all but bracing for Jeremy or one of his men to shout, “Liar! You are Arran McQuoid’s sister Cassia!”
And yet a moment later, when the gentleman left and the boy, Timothy, was showing her to her temporary quarters, Cassia was seized by another thrill of triumph.
She’d done it.
She’d slipped away from her family and boarded Jeremy’s boat.
After they set sail and were well away from the English shore, she’d share everything with both Jeremy and her brother, who was accompanying the gentleman on this latest voyage, and then she’d begin her study of the sea.
Chapter 3
Three days out of port with a smaller crew, and one comprised of many new sailors, and everything had gone smoothly—as it invariably did when the Flying Dragon set sail.
But then, sailing was something Nathaniel understood, an endeavor he excelled at. And in a world where noblemen’s spare sons were expected to live a life in the military, or of the cloth, or worse, some indolent existence based on nothing more than one’s pleasures, Nathaniel had established a real purpose in life. He did meaningful work and, in doing so, provided other men—ones who’d not had the same advantages Nathaniel had been born with—options that allowed them to escape a lifetime of drudgery.
Where nearly all noblemen lived off the comforts that came from the titles they’d come to by nothing more than the sheer luck of their blood, Nathaniel had sold his commission and, with it, built something of his own.
At that moment, he stood at the wheel of his ship with his sailing master, Lieutenant Alexander Albion, at his side. As the other man ran through the navigation charts and maps for this voyage, Nathaniel sucked in a deep breath, letting the crisp salt air fill his nostrils and flood his lungs.
The bright orange sun had long begun its ascent into the morning sky and now hung upon the horizon. The blue waters gleamed a titian hue.
All around, the crew carried on with their assigned roles as they pulled farther out to sea. Even as Nathaniel listened to Albion, he privately marveled at the considerable number of differing accents he heard among the men calling out to one another across the deck. With this many new sailors, he was still learning all their voices.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the approach of Nicholas Hayes, his quartermaster, the second son of a marquess. Like Nathaniel, Hayes was also a forgotten spare, and they had gotten on well from the moment they’d gone away to Eton. That friendship had continued into their Oxford days before ultimately being cemented when, after their service in the navy, Nathaniel had established his shipping enterprise and Hayes stepped in to serve as his number two.
Albion and Hayes exchanged brief greetings, before Hayes turned his attention fully on Nathaniel. “We’ve got a problem, Captain.”
He tensed.
It was the first time in the whole of his almost ten years of sailing the other man had uttered those words. Hayes had never been unable to handle the problems which had arisen.
“What is it?” Nathaniel asked tersely.
They’d a mission to see to, one that the Royal Navy’s plans in the Adriatic hinged on. Unless it pertained to those plans, it was irrelevant.
“It’s . . . the new deckhand . . . Cassius.”
The other man twisted his cap in a display of unease Nathaniel didn’t recall witnessing in all the years they’d set sail together. “And?” he asked impatiently.
“You see, the repairs weren’t completed because of our early departure. As such, I instructed him to apply fresh paint to the interior walls. And . . . and . . .” Color splotched the other man’s cheeks.
“And?” he prodded for a second time.
“And . . .” Hayes dropped his voice to a whisper. “He painted them.”
Nathaniel stared confusedly at his quartermaster. “Weren’t those the instructions?”
“Yes.”
When it became apparent the other man didn’t intend to elaborate, Nathaniel prodded him. “And you . . . find his work problematic?”
Hayes cleared his throat. “I . . . suspect you might?” There was a slight upward tilt of a question there.
It was also the first time in all their years together the other man had come to Nathaniel with something as inconsequential as a deckhand’s performance. “Hayes, I trust you are entirely capable of seeing to the matter. If you think it should be painted again, then have him paint it.”
“I had him paint it twice.” Hayes shot his fingers up. “This would be his third attempt. The other lads aren’t being too kind about—”
“I’m not running a nursery,” Nathaniel clipped out.
“Uh . . . yes . . . no, of course. I know that,” the other man rushed to assure him. “I just thought I should mention—”
“You don’t have to mention it. If there’s conflict between the crew, deal with it. But the ribbing of new crew members is suddenly something you’re concerned with?”
“The lad almost cried.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes. Bloody hell. The last thing he cared to tolerate were tears, and the absolute last place for those pathetic drops was on a damned ship—especially his damned ship. “Then give him a damned kerchief and tell him to build a skin, Hayes.”