“What helps, then?” she whispered, her gaze locked on the ominous scene out on the seas. The enemy ship had drawn nearer, so close she could now make out the distinct outline of each detail of the vessel, from its massive sails to the bold, bright colors of the French flag it flew to the uniformed men aboard . . . and the cylindrical heads of their cannon pointed at the Flying Dragon.
“A distraction,” Hayes said, and blinking back a dazed confusion, Cassia glanced over.
A distraction? A distraction. Yes, of course.
Cassia glanced about Nathan’s upended cabin; his quarters, always so neat, were now in disarray. His important papers were strewn about the room. She couldn’t be of any help to him out there, but here, she could do something.
Pushing onto her knees, Cassia proceeded to gather up the ledgers.
“That’s better,” Hayes said, climbing to his feet, and as she stooped, picking up those leather books, the quartermaster headed to the row of weapons hung at the opposite wall. Removing a bayonet, he studied the weapon and practiced aiming that muzzle.
“They are getting closer,” she whispered.
“Aye,” Hayes said quietly, confirming she’d spoken aloud.
Cassia tore her gaze from the horrifyingly entrancing tableau of that vessel sailing ever closer. You wanted to experience the world, and now you are experiencing it . . . in all its horror.
“I-is that normal?”
“Aye.”
“Will they . . . make it on board?”
“No one has before,” Hayes said, pride tingeing that pronouncement.
Setting Nathan’s books back upon his desk, she knelt and started collecting his maps. “How long are battles at sea?”
“It varies. Some have taken an hour. Others all day. Some last days.”
Cassia paused in her cleaning. “Days?” she whispered.
“This one won’t be that long,” he rushed to assure her. “Find comfort in the fact that the British are more successful because of our higher rates of accuracy and fire. We are a naval nation. The French? They aren’t as skilled. They are notorious for standing off downward at twice pistol shot, and they fire upward at their opponent’s rigging to take out their rival’s masts. It’s a bold move, trying to maneuver astern, but it has proven ineffectual, too.”
It was a logical argument he gave, one grounded in naval facts and experience, reminding her that Mr. Hayes was not just a gentleman; he was a skilled naval officer. She’d cost Nathan a reliable fighter in his quartermaster. Just as her presence had wrought problems with Carlisle and Turner and Oliver and the other men who’d served on Nathan’s ship and taken exception to her being here.
She was a distraction that none of them could afford.
Her heart spasmed.
Cassia went back to tidying Nathan’s space. As she did, Hayes continued his examination of different weapons affixed to the wall. And her mind shied away from the reasons he was testing those guns, what that evaluation meant. Why he occasionally paused to point a gun or musket at the doorway . . . knowing he prepared for the possibility of the enemy overtaking the ship and storming Nathan’s cabin. There was only one reason they’d storm the captain’s quarters, because—
Mmm. Mmm.
Her mind balked and shied away from what it meant, because she couldn’t let her thoughts go there. She couldn’t imagine a world without Nathan in it.
Cassia set the last of the maps down, and then set to gathering up the hundreds of sheets of parchment scattered throughout the room.
The cannon fired once more, and she stared with horrified eyes, unblinking as it sailed nearer, landing just a handful of paces from the Flying Dragon, and the ship rocked violently, again throwing her sideways.
Through this latest assault, Hayes remained unflustered, his legs not even faltering under that latest blast. Instead, he caught her, keeping her on her feet. After Cassia found her legs, Hayes released her and headed to stare out the windows at the fight unfolding.
As Cassia worked her chest heaved, and her body sweat . . . because of fear.
Yes, she was afraid.
Only, she wasn’t afraid of dying.
Rather, she was afraid of not . . . living.
Odd, she’d lived twenty-one years, and never had she appreciated how little she’d experienced until she’d had a taste of it with Nathan.
And she wanted to. She wanted it so very desperately.
She’d set out to see the world, and she had . . . with Nathan, but this had just been a glimmer of a taste, and she wanted all of it with him.
The whole thing.
She didn’t want to paint the same paintings or sketches of the same people and places she’d known forever.
She wanted to sail the waters and see where the other side of sailing brought them.
And she wanted all that to be with Nathan, too.
As she tidied the scattered papers, she skimmed her gaze over words inked in bold, strong strokes, a confident hand so very clearly that of Nathan, a powerful man who would be in possession of those sturdy letters.
Cassia reached for another; unlike the others, this was crumpled. She smoothed it out and made to set it with the others . . . and then stopped.
This one was different.
Written in a delicate hand.
My dearest son,
Each time you leave, my heart is full from knowing the joy you find in your travels, and yet it weeps because you are gone, and because of the dangers you face out there. Even with my fear for you, however, I’ve never sought to intervene or interfere, because I know the love you find in your seafaring ways . . .
She paused.
Those tender words were ones conferred from a mother to her son. They were intimate and private, and she’d no place reading them.
And yet . . . she stole a glimpse at Hayes, who continued to examine his gun.
Unbidden, her gaze slipped down once more.
You believe, following your last meeting with your dear father, that his threatening to end your seafaring ventures if you do not marry is driven by his need to be in control. It isn’t.
I will confess, selfishly, that I’ve longed for you to give up your time at sea. I’ve lived with fear that you will one day lose your life on those waters that you so love, and that in so doing, you will never know what it is to have the love of a wife and a family of your own. I worry I will lose you as I lost Marcus. There has always been an understanding between Lady Angela’s family and ours, one that was cemented with your late brother’s engagement to Angela . . . but this is about far more than just that connection. I know . . . she will make you a good wife. She is all things good and clever. If you are to be angry and carry resentment at the requirements your father put to you, then I’d have you place blame where blame is owed. We both want you to come home.
Cassia stopped reading, her gaze locked on that single word, and her heart ceased to beat, too.
What was Nathan’s mother saying?
Only, Cassia knew. It was stated clearly there; even so, her mind shuttered and her soul balked. And because she was a glutton, Cassia glanced down at the note a second time and made herself read every last word written there, again.
Please know, it is not just a fear of losing you to the seas that resulted in my interference. I truly believe you need more than a life of work, my son. You need a love like I have with your father. Angela understands the future that awaits her as a duchess, but she’ll also become a friend to you, as your father and I are friends. Yes, I know you probably don’t believe either of these possible, but—