The Whaler's Treasure

Chapter Two, Scene 2

The path to the headland above Speyness cut steeply upward, around a copse of stunted pine, and through a thicket of gorse wrapped with blooms and shining yellow in the morning sun. A sharp turn toward the left brought Rob to the rocky outcrop at the top after a fifteen-minute climb. Before him spread the sea, a blanket of blues and greys that rippled in the sun. He longed to capture the wildness of it.

Wind whipped his hair, a cold bite in it, even in late summer. If he wanted to paint this day—his excuse for coming up here—he needed to find a sheltered spot, or his easel, small and portable, would never sit securely. A little used path led to the right and downward. He had gone but a few steps when another sight stopped his breath.

The woman from the tavern, still as the stone she sat on, gazed out to sea. She had pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around herself. Rob could see a three-quarter angle of the woman from where he stood, her left arm, the side of her face, and—saints be praised—the back of her neck. Her blouse slipped every so slightly in the back giving him a view of shoulder and the gentle curve upwards to her hairline. She had pulled her curls up into a knot, but two or three threatened to rebel.

Colors ran through his head. He would need several to begin to capture that hair, golds as well as reds, a mahogany brown, and perhaps some sienna. His fingers itched to paint. The rest of his body twitched as well with less innocent intent.

His pack made no sound when he dropped it to the ground, or, if it did, the sound was lost in the wind. The woman didn't hear the movement any more than she heard him approach. A small voice in his head reminded him he should alert her to his presence. He took out his notebook and began to sketch instead, quickly setting down the curves and graceful lines of her. Not one sharp angle met his practiced inspection; not one appeared on paper.

In moments he had a rough sketch. He began another and, in his haste, made an error. He moved sideways for a better angle, stumbled into the scraggly gorse to the right of the path, and yelped when it pricked his arm. His alarmed subject leapt to her feet and spun around. Her chest—under a disappointingly modest blouse and bodice—heaved.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Pulling blasted spines from my damned hand," he snapped.

The tavern wench—for that's what she was, he reminded himself—lifted her chin and looked down her nose. "I'll thank you to mind your language in front of a lady," she said.

Lady? Ha!

"And what are you doing here?" he retorted. "Shouldn't you be working? Looking after my men, serving ale, or something?"

"I sat with your disgusting seaman all night, I'll have you know!"

"By yourself? No lady would—" Even a crusty sea captain knew ladies didn't nurse men without a chaperone.

"Don't you dare criticize me!" Her entire body shook with indignation. Her distress—and awareness of his growing desire for the woman—shamed him. He ought to have let her know he was there.

Having no defense for that, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind. "James Farley is not disgusting."

Her shoulders sagged. "No he is not. He has been entirely respectful. Mr. Clarke, however is a despicable toad, a foul-mouthed dog, an odiferous snake, a, a..."

Rob's lips twitched. She described Alger Clarke perfectly. He couldn't stop the grin. "He is all that an more," he said.

"You agree?" she asked, astounded.

"If he has treated you disrespectfully, he'll be dealt with."

"Why do you keep him on your crew if he is so horrible."

"He can harpoon a whale as well or better than any man alive. At sea we don't worry much about respect for women."

"He called you a greedy bastard," she said, coloring at her own boldness.

"Did he now?" Rob had wondered how long it would be before Clarke made trouble over the ambergris locked in the captain's cabin. The thought sank away for later; for now, the sight of rosy cheeks distracted him.

"I don't think you should trust him," she went on.

"I don't. What is your name?" If Mrs. Haggart told him, he'd forgotten it.

When she didn't answer, he went on. "I know this isn't a proper introduction, but there's no one here to do it for us."

She looked around as if some companion might appear to do the pretty. A well brought up young lady oughtn't be alone with him like this, but then, she wasn't one, was she?

"Beth Gordon," she said at last. She glared at him as if that should mean something. What had the old man in the tavern called her?

"Pleased to meet you, Beth Gordon." He gave her a slight bow, more of a nod of the head. "I'm Captain Robert Thorpe of the whaler Molly Jane."

She seemed to calm a bit, but made no reply. When Rob picked up his painting supplies and started into the clearing, she took two steps away.

"Careful!" he called. The edge loomed beyond her.

The chin rose again defiantly. "I've been coming up here since I was ten years old. I well know where the edge is," she told him.

As he moved toward the flat rock she had been sitting on, she moved around it. They stepped as if they were engaged in some circle dance, one that continued until her back faced the downward path and his faced the sea.

Skittish as a cat, Matt had said. Rob had to agree.

"Don't leave on my account. I came up here to paint," he said.

"Paint?"

He leaned over and pulled his brushes and pallet from the pack. "Paint," he repeated.

The expression on her face remained dubious, as if she believed a sea captain incapable of art. "Then I'll leave you to it," she said, turning on a swish of skirts.

His gaze devoured her lovely neck, her graceful back, and the flare of her hips as she started down the path.

Perhaps his brother was right. It might take effort to entice one as skittish as this, but Rob suspected it would be well worth the effort. He might just have to try. She had fire under that prim bodice and he couldn't resist it.