“Has our patient had any signs of fever?”
“An hour ago, his brow was still cool to the touch.” Morton turned his head toward Cullen who noticed the young man had nary a sign of a beard even though it was late in the day. His hair, tied in a neat queue, was the deep black of a starless night, like a raven’s wings.
“How old are you, lad?”
“Old enough to serve on this ship.” He whipped his head away from Cullen in a signal clearly meant to end their conversation.
Cullen’s temper flared, but just as quickly he tamped it down. They had too much work ahead of them in the coming weeks of preparation for sailing all the way to St. Helena. There was no time to argue, or hash out any of Morton’s secrets.
“I’ll not check you on your impudent answer, because I know ye still grieve for yer da, but my patience will come to an end eventually.” Cullen clapped on his spectacles and moved beside Wills to help put together the medicines. “I’ll not tolerate a swab with secrets, Mr. Morton.”
Chapter Two
Cullen and his assistant, Morton, worked all afternoon into the evening making medicinal compounds for the long journey to St. Helena. At nightfall, both of them retreated to their shared cabin after checking on the solitary patient in the surgery.
Cullen lay on top of the blanket covering his bunk for at least an hour, rolling from side to side in agitation, before rising and donning his jacket. He left the cabin silently and gave the night watch on deck a salute before heading down the gangway, away from the Royal Navy docks, and into the streets of Portsmouth.
The best captain he’d ever served under was Arnaud Bellingham. He knew his friend would lend a wise ear to his litany of frustrations with his new posting. Captain Bellingham was temporarily living in a cottage near the naval harbor with his new wife, Sophie, while readying his prize ship, the Black Condor, for the return to the West African Squadron. Cullen tried to ignore a sudden pang of guilt. Newlyweds. They might not welcome his intrusion at this late hour. Belay that. He needed to get Arnaud’s counsel on what to do with his stubborn surgery assistant.
When Cullen finally strode up the Bellinghams’ street, the glow of candles shone through mullioned windows at the front of the cottage. At least his friends must still be awake and sitting in the front parlor. The welcoming glow made him feel a little better about intruding. He gave a sharp rap at the door.
Arnaud immediately appeared and beckoned him in. The broad smile on his former captain’s face reminded Cullen of how happy his old friend had been ever since he’d admitted he was cow-simple in love with Sophie and had made her his wife. For a while, Cullen had thought he might have to give the man a thumping to bring him around to what he and the rest of their crew had suspected all along.
When Cullen followed Arnaud into the parlor, Sophie joined them with a tea cart.
“Ginger biscuits?” Cullen groaned. “You’re going to spoil this swab.” He jabbed a finger at Arnaud. “And you’re making me homesick for the Howicks’ cook.”
Sophie’s dark eyes grew wide in the candlelight. “As a matter of fact, those are from their cook. Lydia keeps us well supplied.”
His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Lydia uses the biscuits as an excuse to come down to Portsmouth as often as possible,” Arnaud said, and raised his brow. “She’s convinced her grandmother that Sophie is such a bad cook, we’ll starve to death if she doesn’t bring provisions every week.”
Sophie sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care what she tells Lady Howick. We’re eating so well now, I’m getting fat.” She gave her husband a quick, teasing look, and Arnaud looked away, avoiding Cullen’s gaze.
“So that’s what Captain Neville is trying so hard to hide.” Cullen grinned at his friends in the candlelight.
“Please don’t say anything to either of them if you see them walking together. They don’t want anyone to know.” Sophie blew across her steaming cup of tea.
“Neville wants to make his way more in the service before he speaks to Howick.” Arnaud’s gaze remained on Cullen, but he moved his hand across to cover Sophie’s in her lap.
“Howick surely is aware of his daughter’s feelings for Neville,” Cullen observed. “Her father was always a hundred steps ahead of us when we were protecting Sophie.”
“Of course he knows,” Arnaud admitted. “But he’s staying quiet so the two of them can work out their feelings for each other. And of course, Sophie and I are the perfect chaperones.”
Cullen took in both of their faces, full of mischief. “And where might the young lovers be tonight since, obviously, their chaperones are otherwise occupied?” Cullen swept his arm to encompass their cozy, tiny parlor.
“Neville said they needed some restorative fresh air, so they’re taking a turn around the park.” Arnaud bit down on his lower lip.
“This late at night?” Cullen leaned forward, hands on knees, with a stern frown he suspected made him look like his father.
“You haven’t turned into a fusty old physician since you’ve been promoted to a fine frigate, have you, Dr. MacCloud?” There was a plea in Sophie’s huge, dark eyes.
“Nay, lass. Since Neville seems to be the only man who can make your friend listen instead of prattling on and on, maybe this is a match made above. Who am I to stand in their way? My lips are sealed.”
“What brings you out this late at night?” Arnaud tilted his head and gave his old surgeon a long look. “Something troubles your mind.”
Cullen swirled honey into his tea and took a long sip. “The Arethusa has the most well organized and ship-shape surgery I’ve ever seen, including my own.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Arnaud leaned closer to his old friend.
“It’s the surgeon’s assistant. He’s the son of
