The Consul's Daughter by Jane Jackson

Author:Jane Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Accent Press

Chapter Twelve

Dazzled by the sunrise, Caseley watched Nathan and the two crewmen trim the sails. Hauling in and loosening ropes, winding them in figures-of-eight around two-pronged wooden pegs with speed and dexterity, they ensured that each sail drew its dull share of wind.

‘Jimbo!’ Nathan bawled at a stocky figure in the bows. ‘Coil they jib sheets down clear for running. Likely the skipper’ll gybe when she’s clear o’ the Point for a broad reach down past the Lizard.’

Jimbo raised a hand in acknowledgement. Where the bight of rope fell from a peg he laid it in a wide circle on the deck. He added several more turns finishing with the loose end. Quickly flipping the whole coil over, he neatly overlapped both sides of the centre into a figure-of-eight with an extra loop in the middle.

If the sail had to be loosed in a hurry, once the rope was free of the peg it would rise from the coil with no risk of knots or tangles.

As the men worked swiftly round the deck tidying all the loose ropes, she wondered why they were lifting them off the deck and hanging them over stanchions or on the gunwale. Then Martin hauled a bucket of seawater in over the side. As he sloshed it over the deck and began scrubbing with a short-bristled broom, she realised she had not heard Jago issue one word of command.

‘The captain runs, how you say, a tight ship, no?’

The soft voice so close to her ear made her jump. She turned quickly.

‘Antonio Valdes,’ he introduced himself and bowed his head without breaking eye contact. ‘It is an unexpected pleasure to have the company of such a beautiful young lady.’ His brown eyes were soft and languid, his smile admiring. ‘Tell me I am not dreaming. I see this apparition before me, with hair as rich as cinnabar. Does she have a name?’

Suppressing a smile, Caseley offered her hand. ‘I am no ghost, Señor Valdes. My name is Bonython. Do tell me, what is cinnabar?’

Instead of shaking her hand he raised it to his mouth. Ignoring the convention that a gentleman stopped short of actual contact, he touched his lips to her knuckles.

When Jago had done the same, his touch had stirred new and powerful emotions in her. This felt impertinent.

Firmly withdrawing her hand, she saw surprise and speculation in his gaze. She realised he would take advantage of the slightest encouragement. Yet his lavish compliments were balm to her bruised heart.

He leaned on the gunwale beside her. ‘Cinnabar is the red ore from which quicksilver comes.’ He paused, smiling as he studied her. ‘Is there beneath those lovely tresses a silvery spirit that slips through the fingers, unwilling to be captured?’

His tone was light, bantering. Though she lacked experience in the art of flirting, Caseley recognised the skill in others. Perhaps Antonio Valdes was merely seeking to relieve a tedious voyage in a socially acceptable manner with no offence intended. But unease riffled over her skin like a cat’s paw of wind on still water.

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