“Having actually read the Voltaire in question, I can confirm the quote is, as different from ours as the breed of spaniels is from that of greyhounds,” Nicholas said coldly. “Interesting, though, that in the end we’re all just dogs.”
“Perhaps,” Wren said, leaning forward in his seat. “But not all of us are mutts without pedigree.”
Etta stood at the same moment as Chase, only she was the one close enough to land a slap on the officer’s face. The crack of flesh on flesh stunned Nicholas, who’d leapt up to restrain his friend from lunging across the table.
“And these are the actions of a lady?” Wren sputtered.
“Aye,” Chase said approvingly. “And a damn fine one at that.”
“Can you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth?” she demanded, pieces of her hair falling out of its braid as she threw an arm out toward the door. “You need to leave the table—right now.”
Wren’s eyes narrowed at her tone. Nicholas didn’t like the way the man was looking her over, as if preparing to strike. Strike her.
Nicholas’s fingers pressed against the knife he’d set on his plate.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” Wren said, “if I’ve caused you any offense.”
“You know I’m not the one you offended!” she said, trembling with anger. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Wren folded his hands together and rested them on his chest. “I haven’t eaten my pudding yet.”
“Oh my God, you are despicable!” Etta snarled.
“Careful, madam, blasphemy is still a sin—”
Even if Nicholas had been the gambling sort, he never would have wagered a single coin on her next words being “Then I guess I’ll see you in hell!”
The look of outrage on her face would have sent even Nicholas flying to the other end of the ship; he wondered, not for the first time, when she was from. What era had produced such a fearsome, magnificent temper? But Wren stayed precisely where he was, the smug arse, and it was Etta who left the room in a whirl of skirts.
Chase craned his neck around. “That one, I like.”
Nicholas waited, but didn’t hear the telltale slam of a second door…meaning, she hadn’t gone back into her cabin. “That one is up on the deck. Alone.”
He implicitly trusted his crew, but no lady of this era was allowed to wander in these circumstances unescorted, and there were plenty of ways for her to be injured, never mind tossed overboard in a swell. Moreover, he was a little frightened that she had set out to find another grappling hook.
He stood, turning back to his friend. “See to it that Mr. Wren is returned to the hold. And, sir,” he said, returning his gaze to the weasel, who was contently eating beside a shocked Goode, “you will not be dining with us for the duration of our journey. Call my character into question as you like, but if it reaches my ears that you’ve attempted to besmirch Miss Spencer and her reputation, you will find yourself without a tongue to enjoy your future meals.”
It was a relief to be free from the warm, muggy air inside the cabin; what with the wine, and the upset in his stomach, he’d felt like he was being slowly drawn into an unwilling sleep. The dark autumn air brushed his skin sweetly, a balm to the heat trapped beneath it.
She’d walked only a short distance along the starboard side on the quarterdeck, and was standing at the rail. The wind pressed back against her gown, molding it further to her shape. The full moon cast her in ivory light, stretching its hand out over the water in a trail leading to the horizon. If not for her pose, the arms crossed over her chest as she surveyed the dark sea churning around her, she might have been one of the great masters’ statues, brought to life.
And in a thousand different ways, she was just as entirely out of his reach.
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN…
Etta scrubbed the cold, salty water from her eyes and cheeks with one hand, and clawed at the front of the dress with the other. She couldn’t dislodge the ball of panic that had settled just under her ribs; the stays were squeezing so tightly that her spine ached each time she took a shallow breath. Worse, though, was the throbbing sting in the palm of her right hand. An unwelcome reminder of how badly she’d blown dinner.
If—when—word got back to Sophia that, one, she’d gone to dinner, and two, had made a mess of it, Etta would be lucky if the girl let her go to the head unsupervised to relieve herself. Wandering the ship and winning over the crew? Out of the question entirely.
Everything had been fine—or mostly fine—through the first hour. Mr. Wren—no, just Wren, he didn’t deserve any better—had droned on until his dinner grew cold in front of him, sucking up whatever energy she had left. Despite the worldly airs he put on, Etta didn’t think Wren—or Edward, whatever name he’d tried to whisper in her ear—was all that older than herself, or even Nicholas.
She pressed a hand to her mouth. Nicholas.
Every ounce of Etta beat back against the thought, but there was no way around the truth: Sophia had been right. Etta really had no idea what it was like to live during a time where you had no legal or societal protections in place. All she’d learned from that dinner was how very helpless you were to other people’s perceptions.
Nicholas didn’t need her to fight his battles for him. He’d been doing a masterful job of handling Wren, turning each remark back on the other man—proving, without directly stating so, what an absolute idiot he was. He never gave in to the anger that the other man was obviously trying to stir up.
Etta hated the tired resignation she’d seen in his face as Wren had exposed his own ignorance and hatred, the obvious expectation of it. And then Wren had the nerve to look around the table, like he was waiting for the rest of them to agree.
The anger that had flooded her veins was so pure, she thought it must have turned her blood to acid. You could read a hundred books about the attitudes and beliefs of the past, but the impact of witnessing this casual, ignorant cruelty firsthand was like having a bucket of ice upended over your head. It forced Etta to see that the centuries padding this time and hers, along with simple privilege, had protected her from the true ugliness of it. People believed this trash, and they were spreading it around like it was nothing. Like they weren’t even talking about humans.
Etta braced her arms against the rail, looking out over the dark water. The peak of each ruffling wave caught the moonlight, turning them a sparkling silver. A symphony of sounds moved around her. The slap of the water against the ship’s curved sides, the fluttering of the huge sails overhead, the thump of something deep below—a rudder, maybe? She’d found the creaking wood unnerving at first, wondered if there was a chance the ship might just split apart at the seams, but now it reminded her of the way her old prewar apartment settled and resettled into its bones every day.
You messed up.
She couldn’t make mistakes. Not when Alice’s life was at stake.
She laced her fingers together, resting her forehead against them. Was she going to have to apologize for hitting him? Cough up the words from some numb place inside herself, and hope she didn’t throw up in the process? I won’t do it, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t—she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Look at you, a regular Jack Tar.”
She turned at the smoky, deep voice. The sight of Nicholas cutting a path through the dark finally popped the bubble of panic. She counted the steps between them, and he finally stopped to consider her, running a hand over his closely cropped hair. He searched her face as if wondering how to start.