The Whaler's Treasure

Chapter Four, Scene 2

Three days later Rob still didn't know what he ought to have said to the girl after the scene in the kitchen. The ale had been stale, the server remote as the hills, and Rob a worthless boor. He knew himself for a tongue-tied fool.

Her humiliation had left him unable to put two words together when she set the tankard down. She had bolted before he could gather his thoughts. Even now a shaking hand through already disheveled hair brought no relief, and he glowered up at the ceiling of his cabin still seeing her stricken face in his mind's eye.

The nasty handprint on the girls face had sickened him, but not as much as the slattern's hints and accusations. Beth Gordon could no more flaunt her femininity at men than she could fly. She didn't flirt much less attempt to "sell her wares."

Rob had bigger problems than the tender feelings of a girl from a tavern, however. Someone had tinkered with the lock to his cabin while he was ashore that morning and no one admitted to it. Threats hadn't worked.

A preemptory knock interrupted his thoughts. He barked, "Enter!" His brother Matt slouched in and sank to a chair looking grim.

"Well?" Rob demanded.

"Nothing. Not one man admitted to seeing anything. Every one of them was on duty or asleep, or so they claim."

Rob clenched his teeth in frustration. Matt's friendly approach hadn't worked either. "The stuff belongs to all of us. Most of them don't begrudge one another their share," he ground out. The thought that one of his crew, Nantucket men all, might try to cheat their fellows struck him to the heart.

"Clarke would. Ambergris is worth its weight in gold."

Rob grunted. He knew that statement to be literally true, and they had stumbled on over six pounds of the stuff. A fortune! Between that and the preponderance of spermaceti oil in the hold they'd made one of the richest hauls Rob had ever heard about. Every man of them would get a fair share based on position in the crew.

"Clarke," he agreed. "No proof though."

"He's been spinning up some of the ordinary seamen about the size of their shares since you threatened to cut his." Matt leaned forward abruptly. "Have you checked it carefully? He wouldn't need to take much. He could cut off a good sized chunk, go over the side and disappear into Scotland before we could stop him."

"Where would he sell ambergris?"

"The coast is thick with ports. He'd find a buyer soon enough. Check it again."

Rob crossed to the chest pushed up against his bunk and chased the ship's cat from the lid. The beast had taken to haunting the chest, drawn he suspected by the odor. Rob took out the heavy key and unlocked it for the third time that morning. The odor of feces and fish—the odor of money—slapped him in the face. Not one but two big lumps of ambergris lay inside.

Matt turned each one over, examining them thoroughly. "Nothing is missing. Whoever tried the door didn't get in this time, but the longer we sit in port the greater the temptation to just batter the door down, grab it, and take off. We need to sail, Rob." He lifted the pesky cat as it tried to crawl inside and closed the lid.

"We can't leave Farley." The cooper had lapsed into fever two days before. Rob wouldn't leave any crewmember behind, much less his sister's husband. Longing for home almost crushed him, though, longing and weariness. He couldn't heal Farley, prove Clarke tried to break in, or shake Beth Gordon from his mind.

"One of us needs to be watchful on board at all times," he said at last. "Can you stay for a while if I go ashore?"

"Sure, but what are you going to do?"

He needed to lock up Clarke before he corrupted the crew. He needed to decide what to do about that abused boy at Gordon's. He needed to get on with his life. "I need to paint," he said. All the rest meant trouble for certain.

He picked up has paints and gave his brother a half-hearted smile. "I'll be back by mid-afternoon." Matt waved him on.

The higher Rob climbed—and the farther he got from the Molly Jane, Alger Clarke, and Gordon's place—the better he felt. His gloom subsided and his pace picked up. He might have believed he left his cares behind if he hadn't peered around every turn hoping for a glimpse of Beth.

"You're a damned fool Thorpe," he muttered as he neared the top. Fool he might be but his heart gave a leap when he turned to the overlook and found her sitting as she had been before, on her smooth rock looking out to sea.

"The sea is calm today." His words startled the girl and she rose to her feet.

"Captain Thorpe!" Her cheeks burned red obviously embarrassed. He wondered if his sudden appearance or the memory of the scene he had witnessed caused her discomfort. He longed to ease it, but stared tongue tied for a long moment, fascinated by ruddy cheeks, auburn locks flying free in the wind, and eyes the color of the sea.

"You brought your paints again."

He peered down at his haversack as if surprised to find it there. "So I have." He dropped it.

"I'll leave you to your painting," she said. She approached the path, but his equipment blocked her way. When she began to skirt it, he reached out to grip her elbow."

"Miss Gordon, I—" Eyes, wary and much deeper blue close up, gazed back at him. "That is, your mother's words were grossly unfair to you. I know you would never, that is..."

"Stepmother." She didn't look away.

"I beg your pardon?" His gaze dropped to her mouth as if to understand her words.

"Janice Gordon is Alec's mother, but she is not mine." Her chin rose marginally, enough to show she had backbone. Her courage drew him to her. Hell, Thorpe, all of her attracts you like bees to honey.

She nodded to his hand on her arm as if to remind him to release her. He slid his hand down to her wrist but kept a gentle touch. He couldn't let go any more than he could pull his eyes from her face. She stilled, watchful but unafraid. When he leaned closer she didn't withdraw. Wariness remained in her expression—curiosity as well. He saw neither fear nor rejection, however, when he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

A sample only. One gentle taste.

Her mouth moved, tasting him back, and his resistance fled. When he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips she gasped and he took advantage, sliding in to taste more deeply and explore. Her moan of pleasure inflamed his senses. When he pulled her closer she clung to him, but a moment later she pushed against his chest, and he pulled back immediately.

She removed his hand from her arm and stepped away, pain marring her features. "You said you knew I'd never...I'm not. That is, neither my mother nor I—"

Unshed tears gleamed in her eyes when she rushed past him and ran down hill, ripping his insides apart, and he cursed himself for a bully. He meant to reassure her that he believed in her, but he caused her to think the opposite.

I meant no insult. Never that! One thing came into sharp focus. Not all tavern wenches are the same. One, at least, is a total innocent. He'd bet his share of the Mary Jane's haul on that.

Rob leaned over and the stuffed brushes and paints that had fallen out back into his haversack. He put it all aside; there'd be no work today. Visions of Beth Gordon aboard ship and on the streets of Nantucket took hold of him and he couldn't shake them.

Perhaps his brother had the right of it. He needed a wife. He could marry the girl and take her away from here. Dare he ask her? Would she come?

He shook his head to clear the foolish notion as he sank onto the rock still warm from her body. Three weeks ago he didn't even know her. When he leaned forward, elbows on knees, sun gleamed off an object at his feet, something the woman dropped when he startled her. He leaned over to pick it up and let out another curse. The shiny object was a cross at the end of a loop of beads.

A rosary? Not only a tavern wench, but a papist! She couldn't be a less suitable wife for a Nantucket captain. He dropped his head to his hands and groaned.

I should fetch Farley and sail away from this pestilential place. I owe it to my investors. I owe it to my crew. But what did he owe Beth Gordon?