Page 5 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
D ocila’s eyes flew open suddenly.
For the first time in two and a half days there were voices near her hiding spot.
She had managed to squeeze herself into a small opening at the very back of the cargo hold.
It was dark all the time, but she could tell from the footsteps around her, or above her, when it was daytime and nighttime.
There was far more activity in the daytime, of course.
The hold was dimly lit by a single lantern hanging from a hook near the entrance.
In its faint glow, Docila could make out the shapes of barrels, crates, and canvas-wrapped bundles surrounding her cramped sanctuary.
She had chosen her spot well — wedged between two large crates marked “NAVIGATIONAL EQUIPMENT” and a barrel that smelled faintly of salted pork.
The space was barely large enough for her to curl up, but it had hidden her from view during the crew’s regular visits to collect supplies.
Her makeshift bed consisted of a small blanket she had brought from home, now rumpled and damp from the perpetual moisture of the hold. A thin sliver of light from a crack in the deck above occasionally pierced the darkness, creating a ghostly beam that moved across the floor as the ship rocked
Docila clenched every muscle that wasn’t already tight from her close quarters.
She wrapped her hand around the small dagger she had tucked into her waistband.
While she had heard good things about Captain Peters’ reputation, it didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t trust anyone, let alone sailors she’d never met.
They might not know or respect her father’s reputation and, therefore, might not treat her properly.
So, she was prepared to fight, even to the death if need be.
The voices grew closer, accompanied by the heavy tread of boots on the wooden steps leading down to the hold.
Docila’s breath caught in her throat as she pressed herself deeper into her hiding place.
She had been so careful these past days, venturing out only in the dead of night when the ship was at its quietest to stretch her cramped limbs and relieve herself in a small bucket she had found.
Docila smirked. She might be feeling a little dramatic after the many hours of boredom hiding in the cramped spot in the ship. Brine and the faint sweetness of the few small possessions she had brought from home filled her nostrils as she took a deep breath to try to quell her quivering nerves.
What were the chances of her being discovered at this point? Not very likely, but she wouldn’t mind having more space if she was.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been nearly a day since she had last eaten.
The meagre provisions she had brought aboard — the bread, cheese, and apple she had pilfered from the kitchen — were nearly gone. Just that morning, she had allowed herself a small piece of the now-stale bread and the last bite of cheese, saving the browning core of the apple for later.
She had been careful to collect the crumbs in her handkerchief, knowing that even the smallest trace of her presence could give her away. Never mind her desire not to invite unwelcome company of the four-or-more-legged variety.
The lantern light swung wildly as someone set it down on a nearby crate.
The shadows danced across the walls of the hold, revealing glimpses of her surroundings in greater detail — ropes coiled like sleeping serpents, canvas folded and stacked in neat piles, wooden chests secured with heavy locks.
The air was thick with the smell of salt, pitch, and damp wood.
“Captain wants us to take inventory again,” said a gruff voice. “Says we need to know exactly what we’ve got before we hit the open water.”
“Stupid waste of time,” replied another. “We did this before we left port.”
“Aye, but Blackwell’s got him spooked. You know how he gets when he’s worried about being followed.”
Docila’s ears perked up at the mention of someone named Blackwell. Was this ship being pursued? The thought sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. She had hoped for a peaceful journey, at least until they reached their first port of call.
Her heart sank. They were rearranging the supplies. She was going to be discovered. Fear and anticipation surged within her as she crouched low and readied her dagger.
The crate hiding her from view began to scrape across the floor as the men moved it.
Docila held her breath, pressing herself against the damp wall, the knife clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turned white.
The sliver of space that had been her sanctuary for the past days suddenly opened, exposing her to the startled gaze of two sailors.
“What have we here?” sneered one rather disreputable-looking sailor, while the other grabbed the first one’s arm and stared at her assessingly.
The first sailor was a wiry man with a pockmarked face and a scar that ran from his left eye to his chin.
His companion was taller, broader, with salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a neat queue.
Both wore the simple, practical garb of experienced seamen — loose shirts, canvas trousers, and weathered boots.
“We don’t take too kindly to stowaways,” the second man said, not unkindly, as he held out his hand toward her. “Come along. We’ll see what the captain has to say.”
Docila hesitated, her dagger still raised defensively. Her legs felt weak from disuse, and she knew she had little chance of fighting her way past these men. But neither did she wish to appear completely helpless.
“I can walk on my own,” she said, her voice hoarse from days of disuse.
The friendlier sailor nodded and stepped back, giving her space to climb out of her hiding place.
Her legs trembled beneath her as she stood, and she had to grasp the edge of a nearby crate to steady herself.
The sudden movement sent waves of dizziness through her, and for a moment, she feared she might faint.
“Steady there, miss,” the second sailor said, his hand hovering near her elbow, not quite touching but ready to catch her if she fell. “You’ve been cramped up for a while, I’d wager.”
Docila nodded, taking a moment to find her balance. The small bundle containing her remaining possessions lay at her feet, and she reached down to retrieve it, careful to keep her dagger visible as a warning.
“I’ll be taking that,” the first sailor said, reaching for her bundle.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Docila replied, her voice stronger now. “These are my personal belongings, and they’ll stay with me.”
The man looked as though he might argue, but his companion shook his head slightly. “Leave it, Jenks. The captain will sort this out.”
Jenks scowled but withdrew his hand.
“Captain’s going to be furious,” he muttered. “A woman on board. It’s bad luck, that’s what it is.”
The older sailor sighed. “Save your superstitions for later. Let’s get her to the captain before he hears about this from someone else.”
As they led her through the narrow passages of the ship, Docila tried to take in her surroundings, committing the layout to memory in case she needed to escape.
The Seraphim was larger than she had initially thought, with multiple decks and a maze of corridors.
The gentle sway of the ship beneath her feet reminded her that they were far from land now, there would be no easy escape.
They emerged onto the main deck, and Docila blinked against the sudden brightness.
After days in the dimness of the hold, the sunlight was almost painful.
The sky above was a clear, endless blue, and the sea stretched out around them in all directions, sparkling like polished glass.
There was no sign of land anywhere on the horizon.
Several crewmen stopped what they were doing to stare as she was led across the deck. Some whispered to each other, while others made the sign against evil — a superstitious gesture she recognized from her father’s sailors when they encountered something they believed to be bad luck.
The sailors escorted her to a door at the stern of the ship, which Docila presumed led to the captain’s quarters. The older sailor knocked firmly.
“Enter,” called a voice from within.
Docila squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, determined to face whatever came next with dignity.
The door swung open to reveal a tidy cabin, more spacious than she had expected, with windows across the back wall that let in streams of sunlight.
Charts and maps were spread across a large desk, anchored at the corners by various nautical instruments.
To one side stood a narrow bunk, neatly made, and opposite it, a small bookshelf filled with volumes.
And there, standing with his back to the door, was Captain Peters himself. He turned as they entered, and Docila’s breath caught in her throat.
He was taller than she had imagined, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build evident even beneath his simple white shirt and dark waistcoat.
His chestnut hair was tied back, revealing a face that would have been considered handsome in any drawing room in London — strong jaw, straight nose, and eyes the colour of the sea they sailed upon.
But those eyes were now narrowing as they fell upon her, any natural warmth in them cooling rapidly to ice.
“So, you thought you could steal passage from me, did you?” the handsome man asked in a hard voice.
His narrowed eyes and firm features only portrayed irritation and mild curiosity — not anger nor interest. Docila was undecided whether this was good or bad; at least he wasn’t leering at her like the first man had done.
“That’s quite a dagger you have there,” Captain Peters acknowledged mildly.
“You’re going to scratch yourself if you’re not careful,” he said, holding his hand out to take it.
Docila took a step back.
“It’s mine,” she said firmly, “and no one will take it from me.”