Page 18 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

The midshipman rushed from the cockpit, and I followed, feet heavy as lead. Suddenly, I was twelve again, stumbling up the ladder with canisters of gunpowder. Each step shaky. Each rung hard to grip. Steeling myself against the explosions and fumes and blood that would soon encompass me.

Elias

I held to the wheel, awaiting Peyton’s instruction. Wearing the ship with such little wind and even fainter visibility was something Mr. Riddley had never let me do all those years ago.

“Up mainsail and spanker! Brace in the afteryards! Up helm!”

I turned the wheel left, toward the wind. Smoke from firing the long nines at the bow drifted across the deck, mingling with the mist, its acrid scent burning my nostrils.

“How many guns?” Peyton called near my side. His question repeated up the length of the ship.

The Marianne tilted lazily into her turn as we tried to pull her parallel to our foe.

The Fatalité . I adjusted my grasp on the handles, my palms sweating despite the chill evening.

We were fortunate Fatalité ’s raking broadside had only incapacitated Mr. Sanchez, but we would still be in a perilous position until we brought her around.

An answer passed back toward the quarterdeck. “Forty-eight guns, sir.”

The hair on my neck stood on end. Forty-eight? Nigh on twice Marianne ’s armament. And we’d sailed within a hundred yards before even catching sight of her?

Captain Peyton swore under his breath. A little frigate like ours could hold her own against bigger ships in favorable conditions with a bit of luck.

The lingering fog and weak wind didn’t give us much to work with.

Then there was the starless sky. Firing in pitch black meant lanterns near cannon and gunpowder, not to mention greater chance for mistake.

“Ready the port battery,” the captain called.

“Will you try to face her?” I asked.

“I’d prefer to outrun her,” Peyton said. “I don’t like the conditions.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Peyton adjusted his hat, eyes trained on the aggressor. “Blasted fool. Couldn’t even wait until morning.”

“She must be afraid of losing us in the fog,” I said.

“Or she hasn’t realized how much smaller we are yet and doesn’t think she can outrun us.”

Lieutenant Roddam made his way quickly from the bow, weaving between gun crews and seamen handling the yards and hopping lightly onto the quarterdeck.

“What are your orders, sir?” He was close to my age.

If I’d lasted in the navy, we might have had our lieutenant’s examinations together. “She’d make a fine prize.”

Only if we could find a way to overpower her.

“I don’t fancy a court-martial to end my first command,” Peyton said.

A captain who lost his ship, regardless of the cause, stood trial to ensure he hadn’t done anything stupid.

This engagement was a high risk. He glanced toward the sails.

“Get her around boys,” he growled. “Don’t let her rake us again. ”

Before we could bring the Marianne parallel to the enemy, guns up and down the Fatalité erupted.

Shot barreled past overhead, whirring shadows crossing at an angle all down the deck.

Lines snapped. One of the yards cracked, raining splinters down on the crew.

Something sliced the side of my hand. My grip faltered at the sting that erupted across my skin.

Splashes sounded behind us. A little lower and half the crew might have been hit.

“Doswell?” Roddam steadied the wheel so I could look at my hand.

In the faint light from the binnacle lanterns, a line of blood trickled toward my sleeve. I dabbed at it with the opposite shirt cuff, turning to catch more of the light housed in the cabinet-like case set directly in front of the helm.

“It isn’t deep.” I flexed my hand, wincing. It might bleed all over, but I could still manage my task. I straightened, glancing behind us.

A light winked through the fog, past the stern rail. I narrowed my eyes, adjusting my spectacles. Were the Marianne ’s lights reflecting off something to the north? Or perhaps it was Fatalité ’s reflection? Tendrils of mist rolled lazily past us, unconcerned about the impending battle.

Peyton strode to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Lay the headyards square! Shift over the headsheets!”

“Lieutenant,” I said, pointing with my bloodied hand. It wasn’t just one light to the north. And it was the opposite direction of the shore.

“What is it?” Of course Roddam couldn’t turn when at the helm.

“Lights off the stern to starboard,” I said.

Without a word, he handed me his telescope. “Investigate.”

My legs shook as I hurried to the stern rail, bringing the telescope to my eye.

It slipped against the lens of my spectacles as I trained it on the pinpricks in the darkness.

The impression of rigging crisscrossed the clouds.

My breath caught. A ship, if I read the angles right, and she was turning toward us.

“Another ship,” I called. I homed in on what I thought to be a stern lantern. Would she have her colors posted? If she was sailing toward the sound of battle, it could only mean she wanted a piece of the action. But was she ours or theirs?

Peyton appeared beside me. “What do you see?”

Very little in the dark. The new ship’s stern lantern rose in a swell, catching the ripple of a tricolor flag. Ice shot through my veins. “French.”

Peyton slapped the rail with a curse. “Frigate?”

“That would be my guess with the height of the lantern.” It didn’t really matter how big she was. We were already outmatched with the Fatalité .

Captain Peyton turned on his heel. “Haul aboard! Haul out!” Wearing, firing, leading.

I did not know how he kept all the orders straight.

I hurried back to the helm, exchanging the telescope for the wheel with Lieutenant Roddam.

Surrounded. Were there more Frenchmen out there?

Had we sailed into the middle of a squadron?

My fingers trembled against the wood. For fourteen years, I’d fought down memories of that dogfight with French ships of the line that had ended in Mr. Riddley’s death.

I’d kept them at bay, closed up in the chest of memories I rarely opened.

But at sea, that lid opened as easily as Pandora’s box.

Peyton strode forward but halted near the helm. He regarded our first opponent, scanned the deck of the Marianne , then looked over his shoulder toward the newcomer.

I took steady breaths, trying to drown the images of my first battle in the darkness around us.

“Guns are ready, Captain,” the lieutenant said.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye. This decision could define his captaincy. Marked in logbooks, recounted for Admiralty reports, and spoken of among officers’ circles.

His jaw went taut. “Set the topgallants and royals. We’ll give her a broadside and make our escape.”

Escape? How could we escape with two large frigates herding us in?

“When the new ship gets into position, we douse all lights. Every one. Pass the word. No light, no noise, as much as we can help it. On my signal.”

I snapped my head around. “No lights?” How was I to steer in the complete blackness? How were the men to tend the sails? Clean the guns?

“Not one.”

Mr. Hallyburton relayed orders, and seamen glanced toward the quarterdeck in confusion. The Fatalité’ s gun ports glowed a dim yellow a hundred yards southwest of us, no doubt waiting for the new ship to get into position before dealing us a devastating blow.

The Marianne crested a wave, and as she descended, Peyton cried, “Fire!”

The broadside rattled my whole being. Smoke billowed, filling the night air with its choking stench.

“The other is coming straight at us,” one of the midshipmen called. More lights flickered to life as the new ship approached.

“Thank you, Mr. Kingdon,” Peyton said. “Just as we want.”

I pulled my brows together. What could he mean by that?

Peyton motioned to me. “Steady as she goes, Doswell. Roddam, ready the starboard guns.”

For the first time under his command, I hoped he knew what he was doing.

May

étienne and I helped Mr. Sanchez into one of the hammocks, his head wrapped.

Mrs. Peyton sat with eyes closed and one hand still over her nose and mouth.

I had nothing to help her, and yet a part of me wished I could sneak into Mr. Doswell’s chests to find some ginger to help settle her stomach.

If only I knew where they’d stowed everyone’s things.

Fretting over Captain Woodall’s daughter. I pulled my gaze away, huffing inside. I was accomplishing my duties. That did not include upsetting myself over her seasickness. Aunt Byam would ridicule me.

The wounded man reached for his head, but I grabbed his hand and settled it at his side. He mumbled something in Spanish, his eyes unfocused.

“It is the blow to the head I am most worried about, not the wound.” Creases appeared around étienne’s eyes. “What is your name, sailor?”

Worried. About an enemy. I didn’t understand it.

When the man didn’t respond to the question, étienne said something in halting Spanish and watched the man’s face.

“Raimundo Sanchez Olibar,” the seaman said, his words slurred.

Little Harvey peeked over the side of the hammock, a bowl of water and a cloth in hand. “Will he be a madman the rest of his life?” he asked, looking pale despite the orange lantern light.

étienne chuckled as he wiped off his hands. Then he tousled the boy’s hair. “I don’t think so. Give him a few days, and he will be on the mend.”

Sanchez said something else in Spanish, which étienne responded to. I watched them converse, not comprehending a word. The surgeon spoke with care and compassion, never mind all his shipmates were firing on his countrymen above.

He said something in what sounded like French and looked at me. Had he asked me something? étienne blinked and shook his head. Switching between multiple languages must have made him forget which I spoke. “Apologies. Will you wash his face while we wait?”