Miss Debenham's Secret (The Husband Hunters Club 5.50)

“Thank you,” Clarissa said, and meant it sincerely.

“The navy gentleman. Is he still . . . ?”

“Lieutenant McKay has left with his ship.”

“He were a jolly man and handsome with it. I’m sorry for you, miss, that he’s gone. Do you think he’ll come back?”

Clarissa said she wasn’t sure and changed the subject. As far as she was aware Alistair was never coming back to Lyme.

Annie was keen for her first lesson; Clarissa set her some homework and the girl agreed to return at the same time the following week. As the months went by they became friends. Clarissa found it was very pleasant to have someone to talk to. She was also grateful to Annie for keeping quiet about the kiss. Her father was still angry with her but she was doing her best to soothe over the matter, and she certainly didn’t want anything else to stir up the matter again.

And then Alistair wrote to her!

Her father grunted when he saw the letter but he didn’t forbid her to read it—not that she would have listened—and when she showed it to him he barely glanced at it.

The fact that he had taken the time and trouble to write put a skip in her step. Not that Alistair said a great deal, only described the ship and what he was doing, and how weevilly were the current crop of ships’ biscuits. A lieutenant seemed to have a lot to do, and he said he was now a first lieutenant—he’d been promoted upon his return, and he was having a jolly time ordering all the other lieutenants about.

He made her smile, but then he always had. She closed her eyes and imagined his face and then his voice and it was enough.

When she had a moment she wrote back to him, telling him how she was doing well at the school, and how Mr. Marly was soon to leave and he had put her name up to the board of governors as headmistress. She was proud of her advancement and couldn’t help but boast a little. Alistair would be proud of her too, she thought.

She told him to take care and come home safely; she didn’t think there was anything wrong in that. They were friends, after all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

They’d engaged the enemy over an hour ago and already the stench of gunpowder and blood was heavy in the air. Alistair was grim faced, his skin blackened, as he roared out orders in a hoarse voice, urging his men to greater efforts when he knew they were as exhausted as he. But there was no other option, certainly not surrender.

His Majesty’s navy did not give up and nor did he.

Another blast from the enemy’s cannon almost deafened him. They were coming around, drawing closer, and although that was good for his range of fire it was also good for theirs. Any shot from this close would be devastating and if it holed the ship . . . most vessels could stay afloat for a good while, but if a spark reached the gunpowder in the holds below . . . well, that would be the end of them. Alistair was determined that wouldn’t happen to the Amazonian, nor to his men.

He had a fleeting thought of Clarissa, her image so clear he could have reached out and touched her. She was smiling, her blue eyes bright and happy, her fair hair brushed by a gentle breeze. Lately, since

her letter arrived, he’d been thinking about her a great deal. He’d even been considering whether he should return to Lyme when he was back on shore. Some nights he dreamed of her and he woke with that strange ache in his chest.

Now, in the midst of battle, he was bitterly glad she wasn’t waiting for him.

“Steady!” he roared. “Get ready, wait! Aim . . . hold . . . fire!”

The cannons on the starboard side roared. He saw some of the cannon balls strike home, ploughing into the decks of the enemy ship. He ran down along the deck, checking that all was well, eyes taking in the damage and automatically assessing what would need to be done later. One of his men lay still and bleeding and he quickly ordered him to be carried below to join the others who lay waiting for help. The ship’s surgeon was frantically doing his best to repair damaged and mangled limbs but his skills were limited and he was forced to choose which of the men he was most able to save and leave the really severe cases to die.

Alistair’s hand went to his pocket and he felt the letter in there. The last one he’d received from Clarissa. It had come all the way from Lyme to Gibraltar, and in it she said that her letters were far more travelled than she would ever be, and she was quite jealous of them.

It made him smile even now, in the midst of all of this hell.

Another blast of enemy cannon and he was back in charge, shouting orders, before he hurried toward the poop deck where the other officers were standing with strained faces. Things were close. They may not win. They may not survive. He knew that in the pragmatic way of any sailor who went to sea, but he also knew he wanted to live.

Before he hadn’t had a reason to stay alive, no one who would miss him terribly much. His sister would mourn, and his friends, but there was no one else. Suddenly there was Clarissa, and his desperate need to get back to her, to tell her that he’d been a fool and he wanted to marry her after all. How she would laugh at that!

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion. It seemed to be right on top of him. His head rang, and then there was a terrible ripping pain in his leg.

He fell and the sky whirled around him, filled with puffs of smoke from the guns and the tattered remains of a flag. Alistair stared upwards and wondered why everything was so quiet. Just for a moment he imagined himself back in the sailing boat with Clarissa, and the rogue wave coming over them, capsizing them. Only this time he was sinking, down, down, and then there was nothing but darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Clarissa read the details of the Amazonian’s dramatic encounter in the newspaper, her eyes wide, and a chewed fingernail between her teeth. She’d read it many times already and it was old news, really, but she kept hoping she’d missed something. Some mention of him.

Alistair’s ship had fought hard and although they had won the battle, coming away heroes, there was no further news about casualties or deaths. She prayed he was all right. Lieutenants, as he had told her once, were always in the thick of things, on the gun deck, giving the orders to the gunners. The gun deck was a dangerous place and she didn’t dare to think he might be injured.