Owen could not believe the woman had done this to him. Not until he struck the cold water and was instantly assailed by salty waves buffeting him from all sides. The worst part was that he sensed another body next to his—a flailing body whose skirts wrapped around his legs, restricting his movements. Panic coursed through his veins. Had the foolish woman also fallen in?
Hang it all!
The sea rushed about him, pushing him this way and that like a band of ruffians. His lungs ached for air. He grabbed a handful of skirts and drew the woman toward him, then kicked his legs free and swam for the surface.
He broke first and gulped in air, then yanked her up beside him. Her head popped above the water, arms thrashing until they clutched him in a death grip. She heaved in air before a terrified shriek emerged from her lips.
“Hold on. Hold on. Calm yourself. I’ve got you!” Owen glanced around and found the ship just twenty feet away.
But the woman continued to struggle. She clawed at his chest, neck, head, trying to heave herself from the sea. A wave struck them, forcing them beneath the water again.
When Owen surfaced, they were farther from the ship. No! Seizing Miss Baratt, he crushed her against him and attempted to paddle back to the ship even as he heard someone shout, “Man overboard!”
Lightning flung white spears to the sea. Two ropes appeared over the railing, dangling to the water. Thunder followed with a reverberating roar.
Miss Baratt gulped for air and screamed.
Owen prided himself on being a strong swimmer, but he’d never attempted it in a storm with an oversized flopping fish strapped to his side.
“Kick your feet!” he shouted at her.
She merely wrapped her legs around his as if he were a buoy.
More lightning coated the scene in a deathly silver. Thunder bellowed out a warning. But the ship was closer, thank God. Saltwater filled his mouth, and he spit it out, gasping for air. Waves slapped his face. The woman gripped his shirt, his hair, her body trembling.
Several minutes passed. He fought the waves and the lady. Seawater spilled into his stomach. Still he paddled. His muscles burned. His lungs heaved. Finally, the dark hull rose before him. He reached for one of the ropes, but a wave knocked him back. Growling, he paddled forward with all his strength. There, he gripped the sodden line. After several attempts, and with great difficulty, he tied it around Miss Baratt’s waist. Clutching it, he braced his shoes against the hull and signaled for the men above to pull them up.
For such a tiny thing, the woman weighed as much as a cannon in her wet clothes. With her eyes closed and her lips quivering, nothing but whimpers emerged from her mouth the entire way up.
For a moment, Owen actually felt pity for her. Storms didn’t bother him. In fact, he loved them. This one in the bay was hardly a full-fledged sea storm.
But to the poor woman, it must seem like a typhoon.
Sailors reached and hauled her over the bulwarks. She landed like a dead fish on the deck. No, not dead. She rose like a drowned leviathan just as Owen swung his legs over the side. And she was just as frightening.
“You almost killed me, you bumbling oaf!”
“I almost killed you!?” Lieutenant Masters snorted as he nudged Emeline into her cabin. He entered behind her before she had the chance to slam the door in his face.
Which she fully intended to do.
She backed away from him. “I was trying to save you.”
“Save me?” He gave a sordid chuckle and placed two blankets on the cot. “You’re the one who pushed me!”
Emeline glanced down at her sodden attire. Water dripped from the hem of her gown onto the deck and trickled from strands of her hair that had fallen to her waist. “Why would I push you into the sea and then jump in after you? Clearly you lost your balance and grabbed me to bring me with you.”
His brows rose over a sardonic grin. “I never lose my balance, miss. I had everything under control until you shoved against me.”
Emeline grimaced. The man was handsome, she’d give him that, with his coat missing, his wet shirt plastered to his firm chest, water dripping from his hair hanging around his chin, and those hazel eyes of his sparking in anger … or was it playfulness?
“I didn’t— Oh, fie.” Grabbing her wet skirts, she sank onto her chair and sighed. If she kept her anger at the forefront, perhaps panic would not set in. She felt for her mother’s locket around her neck and breathed a sigh when her fingers gripped the cold silver. She’d nearly drowned! The thought sent shivers through her that had naught to do with her wet attire. She would have drowned if not for this man standing before her. But she didn’t want to thank him. She didn’t want to owe him anything. He was the enemy.
And the enemy had just burned her capital to the ground.
“What is it you want, Lieutenant? It’s been a rather long couple of days.”
“Long?” He chuckled. “Is that what you call nearly drowning?” When she didn’t respond, he released a sigh. “Merely to bring you these blankets.”
“Well, you have done so. Now you may leave.” She began playing with a saturated strand of hair hanging in her lap.
He didn’t leave. Instead, he chuckled again.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You look like a drowned pelican.”
“Oh, do I?” She rose and met his gaze head-on. “And you look like a wet … a wet …”—Greek god, if she were to admit it as he raked back the hair from his face—“pirate!” she finally hissed, stomping her foot at the annoying grin on his lips. But then an odd thing occurred. She started laughing. A low rumble at first, but then it emerged rather loud and uncontrollably. The lieutenant joined in. They carried on for several minutes, staring at each other and gripping their bellies until they both swiped tears from their eyes and gasped for air.
There was something spiritual about laughter that banished all ill feelings between two people. At least for a moment. And in that moment, Emeline felt a connection to this man that extended far beyond a physical attraction.
He certainly could have left her in the sea and no one would have blamed him, especially since it was her fault he had fallen. But he had risked himself for her. Why? When she found so little honor among these British.
And now the way he was looking at her—with an intensity that both alarmed and thrilled her. She’d never reacted this way to any man.
He tore his gaze from her, as if he too felt the pull between them. “I checked on your patient when I was fetching the blankets. You did a good job. He will heal nicely.”
Her mood suddenly soured. “I did all I could.”
“Why would you do that for an enemy?”
“Why do you give extra rations to your enemies?” she countered, obviously catching him off guard, as shock flashed across his face. Then a gleam of approval appeared in those daring eyes of his, and he stepped toward her. Water continued to drip from both of them onto the deck, but Emeline didn’t care. Her heart sped up as he closed the distance between them. He lifted his hand, hesitated, then slid a finger down her cheek.
Why, she couldn’t say, but the sensation it caused was more than pleasurable. Another sin for which God would surely punish her.
Then as if her skin burned his fingers, he yanked back his hand, turned, and darted out the door. She went to close it but not before Lieutenant Dimsmore passed by in the hall, offering her a sly smile.
Five days later with Robert mending as well as could be expected and no further encounters with Lieutenant Masters, Emeline was putting the finishing touches on the captain’s portrait as he sat in his usual pose on the stern window ledge. They conversed about various topics, none of which included battle plans or tactics, and despite the fact he was her enemy, Emeline still found the man’s company enjoyable. Though he was as rigid in rules as her father, he also bent those rules slightly for the sake of mercy.
For one thing, he admired her painting and did not consider it unbefitting for a lady to charge for her work. For another, he had allowed Emeline to visit Hannah in the hold and bring her extra rations and comforts. Something she was sure was not normally permitted with British prisoners.
She could learn much from this man about following rules and proper behavior, while still maintaining one’s humanity, and she found herself, once again, wishing she’d had a father like him.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, highlighting the gold epaulets on his shoulders and winking at her from his row of brass buttons.
A knock on the door caused her to pause with paint-loaded brush in hand as three officers entered and surrounded the captain’s desk, Lieutenant Masters among them.
“HMS Hawk has just signaled, Captain, with this message from Admiral Cockburn,” Lieutenant Camp said.
“Very good.” Blackwell slid from his perch and took the paper handed to him. “I hope it’s what we’ve been waiting for.” He took no time to break the seal and open it, perusing the contents as his officers waited.
No sound but their breathing and the creak of wood filled the cabin.
“Yes, indeed, this is it!” Blackwell tossed down the paper, plucked a map from his desk, and began rolling it out across the oak.
The men, Lieutenants Masters, Camp, and Dimsmore, listened intently as their captain laid out the plans for a land invasion of Baltimore.
Baltimore! Emeline’s heart shriveled, and she nearly fell from her chair. Bracing herself, she sat frozen in place, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe for fear they’d notice she was still there. All the while, she listened intently for any important detail, any bit of information that would help the American cause. Not that it mattered. She was stuck on this ship, and no one but Robert knew how to swim. But she listened, nonetheless.
And as she listened, her anger grew, pushing aside her fear. No doubt emboldened by their success in Washington, the British were planning a major attack on her hometown. Both by land and by sea! The thought set aflame every nerve as she pictured the beautiful buildings of her capital lying in crumbled piles of smoldering ash.
“We are being called, as is every able-bodied soldier remaining from the Washington campaign, to assist in this final endeavor.”
Final? Emeline gulped.
“For the sea attack?” Lieutenant Masters shifted his stance.
“Aye, and on land.” The captain rubbed the back of his neck. “We are to provide men to assist with the land invasion, both marines and sailors.”
Emeline gripped the paintbrush so hard, it nearly snapped. A blob dripped onto her palette. She could not allow them to attack her home.
“By God we’ve got them now,” Dimsmore proclaimed. “This will seal their fate.”
“And end this blasted war,” Camp added.
“That is our hope.” Captain Blackwell rose to his full height. “Once Baltimore is taken, the rest of the country will follow, mark my words!” He stared out the stern windows. “Then it will be an easy transition once our troops and officials arrive to take over their ragtag government.”
“These savage wood hicks won’t know what hit them.” Dimsmore chortled.
Captain Blackwell leaned back on his desk and sighed. “There’s just one problem. We need information on the size of their militia in Baltimore and where their nearest army is stationed. We must discover how much armament they have and how many reinforcements they can call up from nearby cities in a moment’s notice.”
Emeline wanted to vomit. She set down her paintbrush, but it fell to the deck.
Blackwell glanced her way, but instead of ordering her to leave, he cocked his head. “You have relatives in Baltimore, Miss Baratt, do you not?”
She forced down a lump of terror. Unable to respond, she glanced over the surprised gazes of the men.
“I know it’s a rather large town,” Blackwell continued. “But surely your father knows someone in the local militia, perhaps someone of high rank?”
“What exactly are you asking me to do, Captain?” she managed to squeak out.
Turning, he gazed out the stern windows and fisted his hands at his waist. “If you are acquainted with someone in the militia, you would be able to gather the information we need and also discover how much of our plans they are privy to.”
Emeline smiled to herself. Yes, she could do that. Or she could inform them of the upcoming invasion. “I believe I do have connections. Last I heard, a dear friend of my father’s is a captain in the Maryland infantry. But I am here on the ship, Captain.” She shrugged.
“A dear friend?” Dimsmore blew out a breath. “How fortuitous.”
Lieutenant Masters slid a finger down his scar, unsuccessfully hiding a deepening frown.
Captain Blackwell nodded. “Fortuitous, indeed.” He tapped his chin beneath a scowl. “But I could never put you in such danger.”
Yet she wanted to be put in such danger, to do something for her country, something to prevent these men from winning the war.
“The lady has been gone a long time.” Lieutenant Masters avoided her gaze. “Why would this family friend trust her? Why not just send some of our men disguised as American farmers?”
“I doubt they could get close enough to garner anything of value. Whereas Miss Baratt, a native of the city and well-known throughout I would imagine … well, she could walk right into the commander’s tent, view maps and documents, overhear plans … But no matter, I would never send a lady into a war zone.”
Emeline picked her paintbrush off the deck, but found it trembled so much, she immediately put it down on her tray.
It wasn’t the danger or the adventure she feared. In truth, it all sounded far too enticing. It was whether a lady should be doing something like this. A double spy? Did women do such things? What would her father say? What would God say?
Still, she had the information, at least some of it. It was the perfect way off this ship and the perfect way to help her country. She knew the countryside and could no doubt lose whatever marine they assigned to escort her, make her way to the Baltimore militia, and warn them of the upcoming attack.
Why was she even thinking this over? Of course, she had to do it. She was the only one who could. But would her antics only cause others pain as they so often had in the past?
“I’ll go,” she blurted. And no sooner did the words fire from her undisciplined lips than she believed she’d lost all reason.
“What a brave girl!” Captain Blackwell exclaimed, joy lighting his eyes. Dimsmore offered her a smile, Lieutenant Camp looked at her with concern, while Lieutenant Masters scowled. Odd.
“Begging your pardon, miss.” Lieutenant Camp nodded her way but addressed the captain. “But can we trust her? She was born in America.”
“So was Masters, here.” Blackwell gestured toward Owen. “And they both have more than proven their loyalty in my book.”
The captain circled his desk and approached her. “I will personally assure your safety, Miss Baratt. A landing party will accompany you, and I will assign my best man to protect you.”
Daring to trust the sturdiness of her legs, Emeline slowly rose. “I am no spy, Captain, but I will do my best.”
“The Baltimore campaign is vitally important, Miss Baratt, or I wouldn’t ask. It could mean the end of the war and hence, your free passage back to England where you belong.”
Forcing a smile, she nodded. Over her dead body. Britain had more rules for women than America did. Yet at the thought of finally getting off this ship, a real smile overtook the fake one.
Now, what buffoon marine would Blackwell assign to escort her? Whoever it was, she would have no trouble ditching him at her first opportunity.