Page 5 of Pride of Duty

She turned away and washed her face in the corner china basin before settling in front of the mirror to continue brushing her heavy, dark hair. He always joined her and took over the long strokes needed to finish off the back side of the curls that tumbled down below her waist.

The thin muslin night dress she wore revealed the outlines of the body beneath he’d come to know so well. When he finished brushing out the tangles, he reached around to the front of her gown to run his hand gently over the slight swell of her lower abdomen that had appeared just that week.

Thank the gods he’d made sure she’d agreed to be his wife the first time they’d made love. Sophie had been a very difficult woman to convince.

She turned in his arms and pulled his face down to hers for a long kiss. “Take me to bed, Captain Bellingham,” she ordered. And so he did, forgetting he was going to demand she tell him what she knew about Cullen and his stubborn surgeon’s mate.

Chapter Three

Cullen tookthe gangplank up to the deck of theArethusafrom the dock in long, easy strides. He’d been turning the puzzle of young Morton over and over during the short walk back to the ship. It was like one of the carved wooden puzzles he’d played with as a child. Just when two pieces looked as if they’d lock together, they didn’t quite fit.

After passing the night watch on deck, he made a side trip to the surgery to look in on his patient. He used the back of his hand to feel the man’s forehead. The hard callouses on his palms made it harder to detect rising heat on a patient.

No fever yet. Maybe he could chance leaving first thing in the morning to spend a fortnight finding out exactly what his aunt was up to in London. And just how serious an illness afflicted her.

In all the years he’d known Elspeth MacKenzie, he’d never seen her pass a sick day, or spend a minute more abed than absolutely necessary. She was the no-nonsense woman who had held his world together all these years. She was the one who had been there for all of his childhood illnesses: covering his chest with eucalyptus-soaked flannel, or making him swallow one of her many foul-tasting, special willow-bark teas.

And she was the one who had fearlessly nursed his grandfather’s tenants through many an outbreak of infectious illnesses, such as smallpox, or measles. When anyone for miles around their estate needed a midwife, his aunt responded to the call. Now, for the first time in his reckoning, she was ill, and she needed him.

Cullen threaded his way back in darkness to the tiny cabin he shared with Morton. He did not light a lantern so that he wouldn’t wake the young sprig’s sleep. Morton suddenly rolled over and moaned in his sleep. Cullen nearly dropped the stub of a candle he carried to his sea chest. He scraped a flint to light the wick, and when he straightened, he got a clear view of the young man’s face in sleep, with all the anger gone. The neat queue he affected during the day had loosened in his sleep, and his dark hair splayed across the pillow.

Cullen sucked in a breath. The logical part of his mind was working furiously. Something was not right… He refused to ponder this puzzle too closely. Instead, he quickly shed his clothes, pulled on a night shirt and pinched out the candle’s flame. Normally, he would have fallen onto his bunk without the shirt, but a niggling itch on his back between his shoulder blades made him pull the linen over his head and tuck the blanket up to his chin. He stared at the ship’s beams for a long time before drifting off into a fitful sleep.

Cullen cast a critical weather eye toward the skies when he headed toward the public mews in Portsmouth to hire a mount for the first leg of the long trip along the road to London. The cloud formations over the Channel were usually constant, but today, the edges of the clouds were tinged a light purple which could darken as the morning wore on. A brisk breeze freshened off the harbor snapping the many flags on ships in the Royal Navy basin.

The main west-east road to London remained in fairly good condition, depending on the weather, because of the constant need for traffic between the Royal Navy yard in Portsmouth and the Admiralty in London. Naval communications could be handled through a semaphore system from atop the Admiralty to Portsmouth, but men and goods still had to be shuttled back and forth between the two cities.

The worst part of the ride would be through the Devil’s Punchbowl where the many winding twists of the roadway were conducive to attacks from highwaymen. He carried his Navy-issued pistol, but the club he always lashed to his saddle when taking a trip on land usually made thieves think twice before accosting a highlander of Cullen’s heft and height.

However, that very advantage made hiring a horse difficult. He needed a stout fellow he could ride hard until the next coaching inn at Peterfield. When the Portsmouth stable owner saw Cullen leaning against the wide opening, he’d sent one of the stable boys to a nearby farm to recruit a sturdy work horse. An hour later, when the boy led the beast through the stable doors, Cullen stood quickly, his blood up from having to delay his trip.

“He don’t much like being ridden,” the boy offered. The belligerent look on the youth’s face revealed the horse had probably given him a hard time while leading him into town.

“How did you persuade him to come along?” Cullen’s face quirked toward a grin.

“He do like his apples, and I keep a bit of oats in me back pocket.”

Cullen moved slowly toward the animal, wary to keep his eye on its face. He crooned some Gaelic he’d learned as a lad in the highlands from grooms in his aunt’s stables, and the great beast seemed to settle back a bit.

“Where could I find some of those apples?” Cullen moved softly toward a bag of oats and filled his coat pocket.

“Over ta Mrs. Taylor’s orchard. She don’t mind a pence or two if you want ta pick up a few off the ground.” The boy hitched a shoulder and turned his head in the direction of the nearby orchard.

“Oh, and what is this gentleman’s name?”

“Heracles.”

Cullen shook his head. “Does this beast live up to a title like that?”

“Dunno,” the youth admitted after a few moments of an awkward attempt to sling a saddle across the animal’s broad back. Cullen intervened and tossed the boy a few coins. “I’ll take it from here, lad.”

After carefully attaching his saddle bags which held extra shirts, drawers, and a spare jacket, as well as an assortment of medical supplies, he and Heracles departed the stable in search of Mrs. Taylor’s orchard.

Wills stood before Captain Still, struggling to remain stoic, the very portrait of a young man who’d just lost his father and was now leaving the only life he’d known for the last ten years. “I regret to inform you, Sir, that I’ve taken a position as an assistant to Dr. Partlow, an acquaintance of my father, who has a practice in Peterfield.”

The captain, who had been seated when young Morton entered the cabin, stood and came around his chart-littered desk to stand near the young man. “Wills, I’ve known you since you were a child. Are you sure you’re ready to leave the ship and face the world on your own? I know you’ve had some differences with Dr. MacCloud, but surely, your feelings might change with time. He’s a good man.”

“Yes, I must leave as soon as possible.” Wills gave the captain a clipped answer, eager to end the exchange. The small space between them was thick with tension and unspoken words which were tearing their way through Wills’s gut like a finely honed scalpel.