Now he was cork-brained in love with a woman who was apparently trapped between two worlds. What was he thinking when he thought she could change worlds as easily as her clothes?
She hadn’t considered the consequences to herself, or to him, before taking off on her spectacular ascent up the mizzen to save a ship’s boy from cracking his fool skull on the deck. He worried that now the crew would treat her differently, or, God forbid, treat him with less respect after the spectacle of his wife climbing to the tops, her skirts billowing in the wind in full view of everyone. And then there was First Lieutenant Dalton. That one would bear watching. Willa had admitted the man had made advances to her when she was Will. What the hell was he playing at now?
Willa stared into the dark of the cabin. After she’d finally gotten rid of Madame de Santis, she’d snuffed the lantern and climbed onto the bunk to sit cross-legged and think.
The locket with the miniature on the lid that she’d reluctantly accepted from the sorry hussy was now hidden in the folds of one of Wills’ old shirts in her sea chest. She sifted over and over in her thoughts the contents of the letter Ariadne had shown her. On the one hand, she wanted to renounce the letter out of hand as a fabrication and refuse to serve as Ariadne’s courier. But on the other hand, if it were true, her husband could hang if the evidence were sent to the Admiralty.
The rational thing to do would be to confront Cullen and demand an explanation. But, if the incriminating facts were true, a small, shameful part of her did not want to know. A sudden chill made her want to layer on another shawl, and her heartbeat stuttered at the thought of such a difficult conversation. When had this man come to mean so much to her? And why was she so terrified of what the incriminating letter contained that she was refusing to face up to what she should do?
She nearly jumped out of her skin at the light tap on the cabin entry followed by Cullen’s appearance with the softly glowing lantern they now kept outside when one of them went above decks in the evening.
In the darkened cabin he’d probably assume she was asleep. She leaned back against the bulkhead and closed her eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of him preparing for bed and stowing his writing desk before padding softly toward the bunk.
“You’re awake?”
“Yes. I wrote for awhile and then decided to stare into the dark to think.”
“And what you’re thinking - is it anything you’d like to tell the doctor?”
“No.”
He chuckled across the silence before climbing up next to her. He took her in his arms and gave an humph. “You’re still dressed. I feel naked. Wait, I am naked. Why isn’t my wife naked?”
In spite of all the tension and fear boiling inside, Willa laughed at the silly man. The silly man who had come to mean everything to her.
Later, Cullen held Willa until her deep breathing signaled she’d slipped off to sleep. If anyone had told him a year ago that unfulfilled love-making would be something he’d not only accede to but crave, he would have called them a liar.
He recalled the now-distant day in the tea shop where they’d quarreled about how Wills, the man, should leave the ship and complete his education. The stubborn set of her chin and the imperious look she threw him from beneath dark lashes when he’d said something wrong-headed had not changed. She was still the same person.
How bitter a pill his advice on that far-off day must have been to a woman who had already been working in disguise as a physician’s assistant for years. Only her sex prohibited her from taking formal training, or receiving formal recognition. The skills she’d exhibited that day by his side trying to save the crew member who’d fallen from the tops were extraordinary for an un-trained surgeon. But then, she’d stood by her father’s side during some of the heaviest naval battles against the French. She would have served with her father from 1810 until the present. They’d been on H.M.S. Cerberus with Captain Whitby at the Battle of Vis in 1811 in the Adriatic Sea. According to Captain Still, there had been thirteen deaths and forty-one wounded on their ship.
At twenty-nine, Cullen had seen his share of action as well, from the bloody Battle of Pirano in 1812 in the Adriatic aboard H.M.S. Victorious to the Battle of Algiers in 1816 with Lord Exmouth’s expedition aboard the H.M.S. Leander.
Much of the medicine he’d practiced with the African Squadron had involved trying to save as many crewmen as possible from tropical fever. And then there were the slaves they liberated. They’d been exposed to malnutrition, yellow fever, and typhus. The conditions on slave ships were abominable. The stench was something you never forgot. Sometimes he’d dream and re-live the horrors, waking up with his bed linens soaked with sweat.
He smoothed the hair from Willa’s forehead and feathered kisses across her brows before settling her down next to him on the bunk. The rest of the passage would be bumpy, and they’d both probably wake off and on that night as the Arethusa lumbered her way through the strait’s foaming, contrary waves.
Cullen folded his hands behind his head and took his turn staring into the cabin’s murky corners, wondering what had happened to make his wife sit in the dark and contemplate God knows what.
The sun dominated and terrorized a sky bereft of a single cloud while they made gradual progress toward Gibraltar. They’d already sighted the rock at about six miles in the distance, but the wildly divergent currents and tidal flows made forward progress an on-again, off-again thing. Willa did not envy the sailing master or the man at the wheel guiding
