Page 32 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

May

I trudged up to the forecastle, my feet heavy as lead.

Though my mind would not still to allow me more sleep, my body regretted the two-hour rest deficit.

Malta’s harbor, where we’d returned for repairs, lay blanketed with purple light that peeked through the masts and shrouds of dozens of ships bobbing drowsily on the waves.

A figure stood at the starboard rail near the bow, the breaking sunrise catching his brilliant hair. The corners of my lips turned upward despite the heavy fog in my brain. I hesitated. He valued his time alone. Perhaps he wouldn’t wish me to intrude. I’d already intruded last night.

The memory of his voice, warm as a newly poured cup of ginger tea, washed over me. He wouldn’t refuse my company.

“Mr. Doswell.”

He turned, eyes soft and eager in a way that made my toes curl. I bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss Byam,” he said with a deep bow. Performed by any other man, it would have seemed awkward or mocking, but his sincerity made the gesture infinitely pleasing. “How do you feel this morning?”

I sighed, stepping to the rail beside him. “Awful.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

I couldn’t look at him. At his gaze, my insides threatened to melt. He cared for me. That much was clear. Quarrelsome, stubborn, unfashionable me. It made little sense.

“Have you been up for long?” he asked.

Long enough that I’d heard him dressing for the day and leaving his cabin. And long enough to think so long on Frank that my thoughts had launched into a downward spiral that had left me fighting off tears. My weary eyes stung again, and I rubbed them roughly. “A couple of hours.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

I let out a sharp breath and dropped my hands. “It shouldn’t be.” My musings had taken a very different turn this morning from where they’d been last night, and the frustrating confusion had finally pulled me from my hammock.

Mr. Doswell put a hand on my elbow, that comforting gesture I’d come to enjoy too much. “He was a good friend.”

I shook my head. “But he wasn’t a good friend.

He hardly respected me or anyone else.” Not the officers, not Mr. Doswell, not even the captain.

“I cannot understand why I’m mourning like this.

” I’d spent the dark hours before dawn recalling how often he’d teased me when I’d asked him to stop or how he’d made suggestive jokes despite my continued discouragement.

He’d been a flirt and a flatterer, and I’d fallen for his charms. Our acquaintance hadn’t gone any deeper than that.

“He accepted you when no one else did,” Mr. Doswell said quietly, regret in his voice.

I tilted my head and gave him an exasperated frown. He was, of course, talking about our first meeting. “That was a misunderstanding.”

He shrugged, blushing. Why did his discomfort make me want to throw my arms around him and squeeze him tightly? I’d never had the desire to do that to someone not my kin before.

I brushed at my front curls, now a wavy jumble from lack of styling. I’d thought him a pompous dandy intent on judging me when we’d first met. A laugh bubbled up as I remembered his panicked expression when he had realized I wasn’t a trollop. “I was so angry with you.”

He ducked his head.

I turned to face him, leaning one elbow on the rail.

“Little did I know you’d prove the greater friend.

” I pulled a little packet from my apron pocket and held it up, a whiff of peaches tingling my nose.

I’d found it late last night while preparing for bed.

All this time, I’d thought Frank had sneaked the dried peaches into my cabin.

Of course it had been thoughtful Mr. Doswell. “These are from you, are they not?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “I was trying to make some sort of small reparation. And then I found some more when I went ashore yesterday and thought perhaps they’d bring a little light to your day.”

My throat tightened until I couldn’t speak to explain how much these meant—at the start of our journey and now. So I opened the packet and slipped out a piece, then offered one to him. He hesitated before accepting it.

The fruit’s sweetness filled my senses as I bit into it, hoping the distraction would keep me from crying again.

I watched him eat. The light had intensified, growing rosy as the sun awoke, and now brightened his features.

Joy sparkled in his eyes as he chewed. I couldn’t help tracing the line of his jaw with my gaze.

How did someone like me catch the notice of a gentleman like him?

I was hardly worthy of it and not simply because he came from the gentry and I from trade.

What did he see in me that made him want to dry every tear?

He swallowed, and I lost myself in the gentle folds of his cravat that moved with his throat, remembering its smoothness against my face as I’d wept.

“Most everyone deserves to be mourned,” he said. “We are none of us perfect. He was your friend, even if he had his flaws.”

I pursed my lips. Mr. Doswell was right. It was so easy to think of Frank as all good or all bad. He was neither. I pulled my attention from Mr. Doswell’s cravat. “As I’ve considered it, I think he wanted there to be something more between us.” I looked up, waiting for Mr. Doswell’s reaction.

He inclined his head. “To be fair to Mr. Walcott, who wouldn’t?”

My pulse quickened, spreading heat through my body. I tucked the peaches back into my apron, uncertain where to look or what to think. I wasn’t one of the dainty assembly room beauties the wealthy gawked at. I scolded carpenters’ mates and shouted at boatswains’ wives in threadbare gowns.

His hands wrapped around mine and held them between us.

“I only wish for you to not berate yourself for mourning him,” he said, voice humming in my ears and wrapping me in its tenderness.

“He was taken suddenly in rather traumatic fashion. He was young, he was lively, and he made a place for you among the crew. We can acknowledge his faults while still grieving him and the ways he contributed to our lives. You aren’t the only one affected by his death.

Many among the crew have been affected.” He would be the first to notice. I did not doubt it.

I gave an uncertain laugh. “But I am the only one who seems to not be capable of performing her usual tasks because of it.” And here I stood at the break of another day of quietly tending to Mrs. Peyton’s needs, lost in my sorrow while mingling with the captain, officers, marines, and seamen.

Most of whom had practically already forgotten Frank.

Yesterday, that realization had only sunk me lower into the waters of grief.

I wanted to shake it, especially after this morning’s musings, yet I couldn’t.

“It simply shows the depth of your loyalty.” He tentatively reached up and smoothed a lock of hair from my face. The tickle of his touch sent a thrill coursing through my veins. “You love so fiercely, even when you have been wronged. That is to be commended.”

Papa. Lewis. Mama. Frank. I couldn’t help but care, even in my anger.

“I’m tired of the hurt,” I said, closing my eyes as he continued to play with my hair.

“Then, I’ll try to ...”

I opened my eyes as his voice trailed off. He cleared his throat, looking away quickly and releasing my hand. “Would you like to come ashore with me this morning?” he asked.

Yes, but even more, I wished to know what he’d been about to say.

“If Mrs. Peyton does not mind, I would appreciate a few hours on land.” I didn’t have money to spend or duties to attend to, but it would be nice to have the ground under my feet for a short time.

Perhaps I could convince him to finish his sentence.

“You should ask. I hope to leave after breakfast.”

I nodded. “I will see if Mrs. Peyton is awake.” I doubted it. She never rose early, though I couldn’t blame her in her condition. A whole morning with Mr. Doswell. I stifled a grin.

I bid him what I hoped was a brief farewell and scurried down the hatchway. The ship suddenly felt impossibly cramped and dank. Just the promise of freedom to truly stretch and walk about made me giddy.

I hustled to the great cabin, nodding to the marine on duty, who nodded back his approval to pass.

The door was ajar, and faint morning light touched the room.

I halted at the sight of a figure in a chair in one corner.

Mrs. Peyton? This was early for her to be out of the cot.

A blue-clad figure knelt at her feet, his head in her lap.

The Peytons being young lovers again. I reached to pull the door shut to give them more privacy, but I halted.

The captain’s shoulders rose in harsh breaths.

His wife ran her hand over his hair in the same soothing motion Mr. Doswell had fingered mine a moment ago.

Her face creased with heartache as she murmured something to him. I held my breath, leaning in to hear.

“It wasn’t your fault, love,” she said. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

I retreated a step, raising my fist to my mouth. Frank’s was the first death under his command. Under his collected facade, Captain Peyton was struggling as much as I was. I backed up farther until the scene of the Peytons huddled together disappeared behind the door’s planks.

I’d been terribly wrong. About them. About Frank.

About Mr. Doswell. The prejudices and impressions I’d once held to so tightly unraveled before my eyes.

The deck felt unsteady beneath my feet as I trudged back toward the hatchway.

How many times would I have to retract my own convictions?

I hadn’t let myself see these people for who they were.