Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

in the crow’s nest on the mainmast the lookouts sounded a warning: Two thundering rings of a bell that hung from the mast, followed by four fast, sharp gongs on the side. Smoke on the horizon.

      The crew took their emergency posts. If the ship was on fire or under siege, each hand knew what to do. Men manned the cannons and primed the guns; others unlashed the lines that held oiled tarps over huge barrels of seawater and readied hoses and pumps. Long before the acrid stench of burning oil and wood was carried to The Boxer, they were ready for the possibility of pirates or an untamed blaze, ready to give help or lend a hand in battle. And below decks, the ship’s doctor and his assistants readied bandages, instruments, medicines, and bunks.

      Matteo tried to stay out of the fray, keeping to the rail of the upper deck. He saw Rogan at the helm, his hands spread wide over his instruments and his brow furrowed with concentration.

      Unsure of what usefulness he could serve, Matteo withdrew his pistols and checked their priming. He was not a sailor, but if the ship came under attack, he could certainly do his part to defend it.

      Soon Matteo could see the tall masts of the ship, tiny in the distance, plumes of black smoke billowing around the crisp white sails.

      Sailors pulled lines and cranked pulleys to slow The Boxer as they approached. They could see that passengers were lined alongside the rails near the nested stack of dories that were lashed to the side. The crew of the vessel was scrambling about, calling to each other as they swarmed to try to put out the fire.

      The Boxer sailed closer, until it finally slowed to a stop, bobbing on the waves a safe distance from the other ship. Dories were lowered bearing crewmen, and Rogan among them, to see what the trouble was.

      Matteo watched as the sailors rowed over the giant swells.

      Soon enough the problem was revealed and solved: A small fire had broken out and caught in a sail, which licked its way upward. The crew had been able to extinguish the blaze; however, the main mast had been damaged and they’d lost a mainsail.

      Rogan stood in the dory and used sign language to communicate with the men who watched through their looking glasses: Bring The Boxer in closer; gather sails to give to the other crew so they could make temporary repairs; ready cabins, they’d be taking on the civilian passengers for the rest of their voyage to England. The closest port was Lisboa, and the ship would sail there for repairs.

      Within hours they were boarding passengers from the other ship, and Matteo watched in amusement as the overweight aristocrats had to heft their bulk up rope ladders. The ladders swayed and bumped the hull, nearly knocking people off to fall into the waiting sea below. Matteo leaned over the rail and hoped to see a particular man get dumped; he wore enough velvet, brocade, jewels, and furs that he would no doubt sink to the bottom of the sea. Red-faced and indignant, he cursed the captain of his former ship as sailors leaned down and grasped his upper arms, finally pulling him onto the deck in a most unceremonious boarding.

      The man scrambled to his feet, sneering at the crew as he smoothed his rumpled sleeves. “Mind yourselves, chaps. This coat is worth more than all of you combined.”

      Rogan ascended the ladder, easily brought himself aboard, and ran a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. He turned to Samuel, the Duke of Westminster, annoyance and dislike written on his face for all to see. “Ellsworth, while aboard my ship, mind your manners, aye? I’ll not have you insulting my men.”

      Samuel drew himself up to his full height but said nothing.

      Matteo watched the man, paying especial attention to the jewels that studded the collar of his coat and sparkled from his necklace and rings. There was something familiar about his speech, and Matteo tucked that tidbit away to think about later.

      Ellsworth, Rogan had called him. Matteo made note of that, and of the arrogance of his posture, the way he sniffed at the crewman who mopped too closely to his feet. A curl of excitement tightened in Matteo’s belly as he studied what came only second to the pleasure he took at looking at a beautiful woman. His next mark.

      Hours passed. Kieran paced the tiny cabin. She wrung her hands, agitated. The needlework did not soothe her. Her books could not hold her attention. She kept returning to tap Matteo’s papers neatly in alignment.

      A knock sounded, and Kieran swung around. She grabbed the doorknob and held still, eyeing the three bolted locks. “Who is there?”

      “Matteo de Gama. I come at your invitation, no?”

      Relief had her sagging against the door.

      “You certainly took your time.” She heard her tone, cold and detached and full of resentment.

      After a pause, she heard him ask, “I should go?”

      Nothing like presenting a dignified appearance, she chided herself. Humiliation stung her cheeks. Could she do nothing right anymore? If she could only forget the memory of Matteo de Gama holding her like a cello whilst he kissed her neck, perhaps she could feign a semblance of normalcy. Kieran opened the door. “No. Of course not. I apologize.”

      Matteo de Gama stood, a puzzled look on his face. He offered a crooked smile. “If you are angry that it took me so long to respond to your note, I received it only moments ago, and it was not my intention to keep you waiting. Indeed, would I not run to see why a beautiful woman summoned me?”

      Matteo leaned on the doorjamb. He offered her a seductive smile. “What do you want?”

      Kieran ignored the thrill that ran through her and moved to allow him entrance, then spoke to Nilo. “Would you wait out here, please? I need to speak with Signore de Gama privately.”

      Nilo tapped his ear and grinned down at her. “I will listen for you, Miss Keerahn.”

      “Thank you, Nilo,” Kieran said softly, grateful as ever for his presence. She closed the door, turned, and looked straight into Matteo’s eyes.

      He was confident in his demeanor, a swaggering smoothness in his charm. He bowed as if he were an exiled prince, and not a romancer who got caught with a married woman.

      Kieran permitted a tight smile for his benefit and swept across the small room. She laid her hand on the papers for which Matteo had duped her into the exchange.

      “I am ready for my translation, signore. I believe ’tis already paid for.”