“Why are you laughing at poor Cullen?” Sophie gave Arnaud a sharp jab in the side with her elbow.
“That insufferable swab has left a trail of broken hearts from the Highlands to the west coast of Africa, and bragged about it. Now it’s his fate to face the wrath of one angry woman, in small quarters, for months at sea.”
Cullen had sent one of the young stable grooms back to Dr. Partlow’s home in Peterfield to retrieve Willa’s sea chest. The smile on her face when she saw the chest waiting for her in their dark, cramped cabin was more than enough compensation for all he’d been through to make the stubborn Miss Morton his wife.
He was so intent on absorbing the only joy she’d exhibited since he’d met her, he stumbled and had to catch himself when passing through the tight entry from the surgery.
She reflexively held out a hand to steady him and Cullen blushed furiously. The lass was treating him like a small child, or an old man, when all he wanted was to see that smile again, maybe directed at him. After all, they were well and truly wed, maybe not exactly “truly,” but who was to say they could not at least grow to enjoy each other’s company?
There was a small tap at the bulkhead outside their quarters followed by the ship’s cook leaning through the entry with a tray of tea things. “Thought the two of you could use a bit of tea and a cose.” The man studiously avoided staring at Willa before stuttering as if in afterthought, “Welcome to the ship, Mrs. MacCloud.”
Cullen’s previously cautious optimism thudded to the bottom of his gut. None of the crew would be the slightest bit convinced that the new Mrs. MacCloud was not some iteration of the previous Mr. Morton. What had he, and his family, expected? This woman had nursed most of these men through various illnesses and injuries through the years while she’d worked side-by-side with her father.
“Thank you so much. We appreciate your thoughtfulness.” His wife’s back was ramrod straight and her lips formed a tight smile when she took the tray from the man and placed it on top of her sea chest, now solidly in place at the foot of one of the two narrow bunks. When the man lingered a few minutes longer, she walked to him and patted the hand supporting his bulk against the entryway. “Poppy, those fingers look as though you may have a bit of pain at times,” she said. “I’ll have some balm sent round to the galley.”
The man gave a quick nod, turned on his heel and left.
Cullen listened to the man head back toward the galley till his footsteps faded in the massive ship’s hold. When he turned back to Willa, a genuine tell-tale smile quirked at the corners of her mouth and her eyes sparkled.
“His real name is Melatiah Popham, and of course, everyone aboard the ship has trouble pronouncing his name in full, so…”
“Everyone calls him ‘Poppy.’ But won’t he think it odd you already know his ship name since you’ve never supposedly sailed on the Arethusa yourself?”
“I think he’s just grateful that he’s still going to get his salve, whether it comes from ‘Wills,’ or ‘Willa.’”
Cullen nodded in agreement. She was probably right.
Willa sat on her cot, awkwardly adjusting her skirts, and leaned over to pour a cup of tea for Cullen before helping herself. He produced an elegant container from his rough sea bag and placed it next to the teapot. At the question in her eyes, he explained, “The Howick cook in London and Arnaud’s mother’s cook at Bellingham House in Hampshire. They make sure all of us are kept well supplied with ginger biscuits while we’re in port.”
“Poppy probably isn’t fooled,” Willa admitted with a sigh.
“You don’t know that…”
Willa cut him short. “The man suffers terribly from pain in his hands and fingers. He always came to me, that is Wills, for a balm. That’s why he lingered. He suspects something, but just needed reassurance that nothing will change.”
Willa secretly studied her husband above the rim of her steaming teacup while he fumbled to pry open the lid of the tin containing the ginger biscuits. She’d had lots of practice hiding her true feelings and keeping secrets. Many sailors on the Arethusa over the years had smiled at her, or brushed their hands against hers while she tended them in the surgery.
When she was younger, there were a few who had been particularly kind and she’d imagined what it would be like to be the object of a man’s affection. But always, she’d snapped back to reality. Their kindness and affection had been directed at what they’d assumed was a young man.
Willa was no missish, ignorant young woman. She was well aware that love could take many forms aboard a ship. Even though the penalty for buggery was death, there were ways to avoid detection.
The man with whom she would be sharing close quarters for the next several years was like a new, unexplored country. She had no idea of how the intricate dance of courtship should proceed, but she did know one thing. She had no intention of allowing Dr. MacCloud’s dubious charms to cloud her good senses.
Although, she could see how other women might have succumbed to his blandishments. The soft green of his eyes darkened whenever he was intent on overcoming obstacles, like the tight lid on the biscuit tin. Or they could flash in warning, like the day before when he’d cajoled, argued, and then pried her away from her work as a groom at the inn’s stable.
His ginger hair curled down his neck and poked over his cravat. He was in need of a trim. She resolved she’d be his barber on the long sea trip ahead of them. The thought of running her fingers through his hair evoked a
