Page 52 of The Swan Syndicate
“What’s this?”
She snorted. She couldn’t help it. He was so serious. Especially when the object was self-explanatory. But that wasn’t his question. He wanted to know why. Silly man.
“There’s only so much reading, walking the deck, or cleaning the galley that can be done when sailing between ports. I thought this would be a nice change.”
“This is for us?”
“Who else?”
“I thought perhaps a gift.”
“It is. For you.”
She stood and took the queen he was still holding, placing it back inside the chessboard. She tugged on him until he stood, and she began removing his jacket.
“I need to get my letter to Simmons.”
She sighed and let go of his jacket but not before rubbing up against him.
His kiss was swift and possessive. He didn’t want to go, but his task was important, so she stepped back.
He picked up his letter, glanced at the chess set, then gave a last look at her before opening the door.
She grinned at him. “Don’t be long.” She tilted her head. “Have you ever heard of strip chess?”
18
Stella, dressed in pants and shirt, her hair rustling with the soft coastal breeze, sat on a barrel on the starboard side of the ship, watching the portion of the dock visible to her. Her fingers worked rapidly on creating another swan. Six of them had been tucked into a partially enclosed gap in the railing, but they still fluttered with the breeze as if wanting to take flight.
The sail to Gowerton had been uneventful, and she was proud that she’d discovered the best formula of herbs to balance her equilibrium, keeping her motion sickness at bay. Her time was spent helping Cook in the galley, walking the deck as she watched the men at their work, sometimes asking a question if they were chatty, and alone time with Beckworth, playing chess in bed.
They’d bought a beautiful chess set in Baywood and kept it near the window in the living room, giving them time to enjoy the neighborhood while waiting for the other person to make a move. She would need to buy a smaller set for the bedroom and their lazy Sunday mornings.
They’d been in port for two days, waiting on word from Hensley. She’d spent the first day taking walks around town,adjusting to being on land again. The port wasn’t as large as the last port, which meant fewer shops and activities to occupy her time. Beckworth and Lando spent most of their days running surveillance at the pubs and inns while also monitoring the ships that came and went.
Jamie, making sure she remained occupied, asked her to help with the inventory records until he discovered a minor problem.
“You can’t write?”
“I can, but I’m not used to working with a quill. I managed to complete the invitations for the hunting party.” She glanced at the floor and bit her lower lip. She sighed as she admitted, “It required several attempts and wasted several pieces of paper. Barrington hid the wasted attempts from the staff.”
He laughed. “Is it so different in your time?”
“First, we don’t use inkpots anymore.” She picked up the quill lying on his desk. “Though I do find the idea of using a feather as a writing instrument quite inspirational.”
He pushed a piece of paper over. “Sit and write.” He waved a hand. “It doesn’t have to make sense, but the only way you’ll improve is with consistent writing.”
“You sound like Barrington.”
“A wise man.”
She sat and pulled the paper to her, then glanced up. “I probably should have asked first. Would you prefer I take this to the galley?”
“No, stay here.” He stood and put on his jacket. “It’s time to go up and see what the men are up to.” Before he left, he said, “You know he worries for you.”
She laid down the quill and turned to face him. His brows had scrunched with his own worry, maybe for her, but thought it was more for Beckworth. The two had developed a lasting friendship after some difficult times when Beckworth worked forthe duke. Her first instinct was to make light of the concern, but their simple surveillance mission was turning into something more. How much more they wouldn’t know until Hensley’s message arrived. Perhaps his request would be to simply watch and monitor. Yet, her gut said it wouldn’t be that easy.
“I know he struggles at times with how to deal with me.” She picked up the quill again. “But it’s a two-way street.” When Jamie’s brow rose, she chuckled. “A modern-day term, meaning I grapple with the same thing. In this day and age, women worry for their men when they leave for war or—” she smiled, “—to sail the seas. But they’ve been taught their place is to care for their home and children. All they can do is hope for the occasional letter, but they don’t stop worrying until their husband walks through the door.
