A King's Commander Read Free

laugh-folds beneath which reflected her warmth, her caring, giving cheerfulness. In a face as slim and patrician as anyone at Court. For a year over the dreaded thirty, Caroline was as graceful, as lithe and lovely as a swan, sweet as swan’s-down to touch. No, this was no frumpy matron he’d married; not one to surrender easily to hearty country cooking and stoutness.
    Caroline ran the farm better than most men, presented him with a clean, orderly, well-run household as gracious, as stylish, as any great-house in England. Though there had not been time to see it, she swore that the gardens, the new furnishings, the finally finished salon and bedchambers for guests, were marvels. Everything Caroline turned her hand to was marvelous; everyone said so! Since their first tumbledown gatehouse home on New Providence, she’d been a wonder when it came to housewifery, at hosting—a spectacular blend of practical frugality when called for, a commonsensical North Carolina plantation domesticity, allied with a rich planter’s, a rich squire’s, easy and noble airs.
    A sensible woman, well-read and so easy to talk to, about silly things, about matters of import beyond the stillroom, nursery, and bloody fashion! Tongue-in-cheek waggish, she could be, too; a grown woman’s wry and witty waggishness, not the prattlings of some girlish chit fresh in her first Season in Society, still redolent of milk-pap and primer-level humor.
    Light brown, sandy-blond hair, still distressed into stylish witches’ ringlets, for “à la victime” was still all the “go”; a style that bared a graceful but strong neck and shoulders.
    And I’ve cheated on her? he wondered; to himself, of course! Why, a man’d be a total . . . !
    â€œIt’s time, I fear, beloved.” He sighed heavily. “Else we’d never, and . . .”
    â€œI know,” Caroline whispered, patting the broad dark blue lapels of his new uniform coat. One last stroke of her gloved hand on his cheek. One last proper, public, buss . . . soft and fleeting on the lips, at a proper distance at the entry-port gate. An incline of her head for a departing bow. A doff of his new gold-laced hat with the wide gold tape about the brim so new it hadn’t gone verdigris in salt air yet.
    She accepted his help into the bosun’s chair. One last squeeze of adoring fingers, as they had together once before, so long ago, at Charleston, after he’d evacuated her family from the impending Rebel takeover of Wilmington . . . twelve bloody years ago, and a bit, Alan marveled in reverie! Winter o’ ’81, and Fated t’be husband an’ wife e’en then? Damned if we didn’t both know it, too! Straightaway!
    Then, up and away, to a falsetto squeal of the stay-tackle’s blocks, the creak of the main-course yard as it swung her outboard of Jester ’s hull to dangle over the buoy-tender that was below the mainmast chain platform.
    Down there, Hugh was squirming against Mrs. Cony to crane and see everything about a ship getting underway. Sewallis . . .
    Poor, sad Sewallis, Lewrie thought, still doffing his hat to them all, finding something new to be rueful about as he attempted to recall how much attention he’d really given the lad.
    Prim as a parson, face reddened by wind and emotion, and about as screwed up as a hanged spaniel’s—looking just about that happy, too! Slim little scholar’s hands clasped tight below his waistcoat as if in supplication.
    Sophie de Maubeuge, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, too tearful (thank bloody Christ!) to recall her earthly savior’s— ahem—Fall from Grace! And pray God it don’t suddenly come to her, either, Lewrie asked his Maker most earnestly! Poor chit; not a  relative left alive, either guillotined—or killed in that last sea battle that got me this ship as prize. Fate’s been slamming her doors on Sophie’s