Page 18 of A Stroke of Luck
“Mice,” she repeated, gratified to see his chiseled lips had taken on a slight green tinge around the edges. “Nibbling on your boot leather and shredding your linen.”
“Here, sir. You look as if you could use a bit of this Bruichladdich.” Stump passed over the small jug that McTavishhad left along with their supper. “A swallow or two of Islay whisky and you will be ready to confront fire-breathing dragons, let alone itty-bitty mice.”
Muttering under his breath, the duke tossed back a long draught. It nearly came up as quickly as it went down. Choking and sputtering, he winced, his face turning as red as flame from a monster’s mouth.
“Hell’s teeth,” he swore, clenching his own so hard that to Zara they looked in danger of cracking. “A swallow or two of that swill will do more than buck up my courage, it will likely put me out of my misery!” Wiping the drops off his chin, he growled, “Which, all things considered, may not be such a bad idea.”
“Aw, come on, sir. It ain’t been so bad as that. You always say you are keen on learnin’. Well, you learned somethin’ new today, didn’t you?”
“Yes—I learned that the next time you take it upon yourself to arrange our travel plans, I should lock myself in my library and throw away the key. That is, assuming we manage to survive this bloody fiasco.”
So, the peevish peer was back, she thought.In spades.
“Do try to temper your curses, sir. And if you plan on getting jug-bitten you can damn well do it outside!” With a flounce of the fleabitten blanket, she lay back into the straw. “I will not tolerate what passes in your circles for gentlemanly language in front of my brothers?—”
“Actually, he speaks Greek,” said Perry sleepily.
“He may speak Hindu, Russian or Cantonese for all I care, as long as he does it with a civilized tongue.”
“Civilized? Ha! That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black,” shot back the duke before turning on his side and drawing his own blanket up to his chin.
On that high note, the fire slowly burned down to ashes and darkness descended over the barn.
The rain had started again,a hard, slapping fall of drops that echoed the pounding of the seas against the wooden hull. Prestwick clutched at the gunwales and ducked a froth of flying spray, more out of instinct than for any practical reason. Already soaked to the bone, another splash was hardly going to make a difference.
His mood couldn’t be dampened any further either, he thought glumly. Though why he should allow a confounded chit to stir up such waves within him was unfathomable. He had thought for a brief time that they had been in harmony with each other, but for some reason, the feeling had proved as fleeting as the trilling adagio of a violin. He had seen the sudden change come over her face. One moment her features had been singing along with the beauty of the music. Then, in an instant, the notes had gone flat, the resonance gone, replaced by the clang of sharp steel.
Hell and damnation!The Admiral of the Amazon’s moods seemed as quixotic and unpredictable as the ocean itself.
A sound—something between a sigh and snort—escaped his dripping lips. All the other young ladies of his acquaintance were proper, well-mannered misses. They would not, in their wildest dreams, think of saying or doing anything that might rock the boat, while the confounding Miss Greeley kept him constantly off balance. Wiping at the rivulets of water streaming down his cheeks, he peered into the swirling fog and wondered how much longer it would be before they reached terra firma.
There, at least, he might feel on solid footing.
“Auch, just a wee bit further, around yonder point, an we’ll be there,” said McTavish, as if reading the duke’s mind. He shiftedhis pipe from one side of his mouth to the other so that he could take a small nip from his flask, then added, “Now, if the weather had been bad, it mighta become a mite rough.”
Stump gave a low groan. “Sir, if I ever suggest a sea voyage again, I give you leave to drown me in your bath tub.”
Prestwick’s hand shot out and grabbed hold of his valet’s collar just in time to prevent a repeat of their earlier mishap. “Trust me, I shall not require a second invitation,” he replied dryly. The slam of a swell forced a pause as a shower of seawater shot up in their faces. “The sooner we are off this cursed craft and can arrange for more comfortable transportation, the better.”
He and Stump would continue their journey to Uncle Aubrey’s estate, while the Greeleys …
Where were they headed? The duke realized he had not thought to ask. Just as well, he assured himself. It wasn’t any of his concern. They had made it this far on their own, so no doubt they would manage to reach their destination, even if a lack of funds forced them to wash a few more dishes or wield a few more spades.
He meant to smile, but his lips instead formed a harried frown.
“Land dead ahead!” Perry, his normal exuberance restored by a night of rest, had climbed up into the rigging and was clinging to the bucking spar.
“Do come down from there,” called his sister. She was sitting in the lee of the whisky barrels, the canvas bags containing their few possessions stacked neatly at her feet. “I would rather not risk yet another nautical disaster.”
Prestwick noted that she did not so much glance in his direction as she spoke, which only caused his expression to grow grimmer. Like the blisters on his toe and fingers, she was aniggling irritation, a constant prickling against his skin. But like them, she would soon be gone, he assured himself.
And his shout of relief would echo up to the very summit of Mount Olympus!
The small craft rounded the jutting rocks and with one last pitch and roll sailed into calmer water. A small wharf materialized from out of the mist, along with the silhouettes of several other boats and a cluster of whitewashed buildings.
“Hell’s bells!” exclaimed Stump, shading his eyes with his hand. “Do you see what I see?”
“Land. Not quite dry land, but it will do.” The duke forced a quip though he was not really in any mood for joking.Hell’s Bells,he repeated to himself. It made no sense. His spirits should be as light and airy as a Handel chorus, yet for some reason they felt as dark and stormy as a Beethoven symphony.
