Page 31 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
T he brief relief of movement after the interminable stillness was short-lived.
Docila had watched the distant horizon with growing unease, noting the ominous darkening that bordered the sky’s edge.
She had sailed enough with her father to recognize the signs of an approaching storm — the peculiar stillness of the air despite the light wind, the unnatural clarity that made distant objects seem closer, the faint metallic taste that tinged each breath.
The crew had been too intent on getting the Seraphim moving again to notice at first, their attention fixed on unfurling sails and adjusting rigging.
But as the light breeze strengthened, carrying them forward with increasing speed, the dark line on the horizon grew more pronounced, expanding upward into towering clouds that seemed to consume the sky itself.
Captain Peters had seen it too. She had caught his gaze scanning the horizon repeatedly, his expression growing more troubled with each assessment.
They had shared a brief look across the deck, a wordless acknowledgment of the danger approaching.
Then he had turned away, barking orders to Fletcher about sail configurations and course adjustments.
Docila had joined the feverish activity without hesitation, working alongside Harrison to secure loose items on deck, coiling ropes that might become deadly whips in high winds, making sure hatches were properly sealed against the inevitable deluge.
The young sailor moved with the nervous energy of someone who had seen enough storms to respect their power but not enough to be truly afraid.
“We might outpace it, don’t you think, Miss Archer?” he asked, his voice artificially bright as they lashed down a barrel. “The Seraphim’s fast when she gets a proper wind.”
“Perhaps,” Docila replied, not wanting to dampen his tentative optimism but unwilling to offer false reassurance. “Though it looks to be moving quickly as well.”
As they worked, she found herself watching Sidney covertly.
He moved with purpose across the deck, checking rigging personally, conferring with Turner about the best sail configuration, his voice carrying clearly despite the rising wind.
There was no panic in his manner, no indecision — only the focused authority of a man who had faced such challenges before and knew exactly what needed to be done.
The contrast with the earlier agitation surrounding the potential mutiny was striking.
Those men who had been grumbling mutinously mere hours ago now jumped to obey his commands without question, their personal grievances temporarily forgotten in the face of a common threat.
Even Jenks worked with grim determination, his earlier defiance subsumed by the ingrained habits of seamanship.
For all their fear of a woman aboard bringing bad luck, they had adapted quickly enough to taking orders from her during the calm.
Now, with a real threat looming, they had reverted to the established hierarchy without hesitation.
Fear of the supernatural gave way to practicality when survival was at stake.
Her own fear was a physical presence, a tightness in her chest and a metallic taste in her mouth.
She had experienced rough weather at sea before, but those times she had been aboard her father’s ship, in the familiar environment of the Minerva with men she had known for years.
Now she faced the tempest as an outsider, acutely aware of her precarious position aboard the Seraphim.
“Miss Archer!” Fletcher’s voice cut through her anxious reverie. “Captain wants all non-essential personnel below decks immediately. Storm’s coming in faster than we anticipated.”
Docila looked up, surprised to find that the dark clouds had advanced alarmingly.
The wind had strengthened considerably, no longer the gentle breeze they had welcomed but a forceful gust that pulled at clothing and hair, whistling ominously through the rigging.
The first fat droplets of rain splattered against the deck, each one seeming to expand the moment it landed.
“I’m hardly non-essential, Mr. Fletcher,” she replied, raising her voice to be heard over the increasing din. “I’ve weathered storms before. Let me help.”
Fletcher’s weathered face creased with concern. “Captain’s orders, miss. He was quite specific.”
Docila glanced toward where Sidney stood at the wheel, his tall figure somehow more commanding in the face of the approaching chaos. He was looking in their direction, his expression unreadable at this distance, but the set of his shoulders suggested he would brook no argument on this matter.
“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “But if the situation worsens —”
“Then you’ll be safer below,” Fletcher interrupted firmly. “No offense intended, Miss Archer, but the deck of a ship in a storm is no place for —”
“For a woman?” she finished, unable to keep a hint of challenge from her voice.
Fletcher had the grace to look slightly abashed. “For anyone not required to keep the ship afloat,” he amended. “The captain would say the same to any passenger, regardless of their sex.”
It was a fair point, though Docila suspected her gender played a larger role in the decision than Fletcher was acknowledging. With a nod of reluctant acquiescence, she turned toward the companionway.
She had barely taken three steps when the ship lurched violently, a massive wave catching the Seraphim broadside and sending her rolling sharply to port.
Docila lost her footing, sliding across the suddenly slick deck toward the rail.
Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the wet planks, finding nothing to halt her momentum.
The rail hit her mid-thigh, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs even as her instincts made her grab for the wooden barrier.
Outside the rail, the sea churned dark and menacing, no longer the glassy surface of the becalming but a living entity that seemed eager to claim her.
Spray lashed her face as the ship rolled back, giving her a moment’s respite to tighten her grip.
“Hold fast!” Fletcher shouted from somewhere behind her, his voice nearly lost in the sudden howl of the wind.
Docila clung to the rail, her knuckles white with the effort, heart pounding painfully against her ribs. The rational part of her mind knew she should pull herself back, find better shelter, but her body seemed frozen in place, every muscle locked in the desperate effort to simply hold on.
Another wave crashed over the rail, the force of it striking her like a physical blow.
Cold seawater engulfed her, stinging her eyes, filling her nose and mouth with its bitter salt taste.
For a terrifying moment, she felt her grip loosening, her body being pulled inexorably toward the churning darkness beyond the rail.
Then strong arms encircled her waist, anchoring her against the solid warmth of another body. She was pulled backward, away from the rail, away from the hungry sea, into an embrace that was as protective as it was firm.
“I told you to go below!” Captain Peters’ voice in her ear was harsh with anger, but underneath it, Docila heard the tight strain of fear. “What were you thinking?”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words through the chattering of her teeth and the shock of her near fall. Instead, she turned instinctively into his embrace, burying her face against his chest as another wave crashed over the deck, drenching them both.
For a moment, they stood locked together amid the chaos, his arms tight around her, her hands clutching the sodden fabric of his coat.
The strange intimacy of it struck Docila even through her fear — this was the closest they had ever been, this man who had been first her reluctant rescuer, then her stern captain, and now, increasingly, something she couldn’t quite define.
“Can you walk?” Sidney asked, his voice closer to her ear now, pitched to carry through the storm without shouting.
Docila nodded against his chest, not trusting her voice.
“Good. We need to get you below. Now.”
He adjusted his grip, keeping one arm firmly around her waist while using his free hand to grasp a nearby line for stability. Together they began a treacherous journey across the pitching deck, each step carefully timed to the ship’s motion.
The storm’s fury increased with each passing moment.
Lightning split the sky in jagged forks of brilliant white, illuminating the scene in stark flashes that burned themselves into Docila’s vision.
In those frozen instants, she saw the crew fighting to maintain control of the ship — Turner lashed to the mast as he adjusted rigging that threatened to tear free, Fletcher at the wheel now, his entire body straining against the force of the sea trying to wrench control from him.
Between lightning strikes, darkness enveloped them, so complete it seemed to swallow the world beyond their immediate surroundings.
Rain fell in sheets now, driven horizontally by the howling wind, stinging like needles against any exposed skin.
The noise was overwhelming — the crash of waves, the shriek of wind through rigging, the groaning of timbers stressed beyond their normal limits, the shouts of men fighting to be heard above nature’s fury.
They had nearly reached the companionway when the Seraphim was struck by the largest wave yet, a mountain of water that seemed to rise out of nowhere to crash over the bow. The ship shuddered from stem to stern, timbers creaking in protest as the wave swept across the deck with unstoppable force.
Docila felt herself torn from Sidney’s grasp, her feet leaving the deck entirely as the water carried her backward.
There was a moment of disorienting weightlessness, of being suspended between ship and sea, before she slammed into something solid — the mainmast, she realized dimly, her arms instinctively wrapping around its wet surface.