She quickly regrouped. “Smuggling would explain why the Wind Dancer has a windlass for bringing up the anchor instead of a capstan. A windlass leaves more room in the hold—or holds—for more cargo on each voyage. But why is she rigged with a tiller instead of a wheel for steering? I thought all pirate ships would have a wheel.” Before he could open his mouth to correct her, she added, “Privateer. I beg your pardon. You are a privateer, not a pirate. Were. Were a privateer.”
He took another drink of tea. Too bad a splash of whiskey would spoil the delicate jasmine flavor.
“Now, of course, you’re an honest merchantman.”
Given the smile lifting the corner of her mouth, he decided to ignore her condescending words. “It’s a matter of gears and ratios. She responds faster to a tiller than a wheel, and sometimes it’s handy to be more maneuverable.”
She nodded slowly, undoubtedly trying to picture such instances. “But a tiller requires more effort to steer, especially in bad weather like the storm we just had. It wouldn’t be practical on a larger ship such as a man-of-war.”
He touched his finger to his nose.
She ate another bite of stew, then put her spoon down to stare at him. “Why are you smiling?”
He hadn’t noticed he was grinning until she pointed it out. “I just realized you are the first female in a very long time to ask an intelligent question about my ship.” He relaxed against the chairback. “When did you learn about tillers and wheels?”
“Tucker was most loquacious today when we were stitching the bolt rope around the new jib sail.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “He was?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “For an old salt.”
And just how did she know to use the nickname for sailors? Oh yes, she said she was from the coastal village of Brixham. He imagined the majority of its male residents went to sea at one point or another, even if just on a fishing smack.
“I think he misses his wife.”
Tucker was married? How had Miss Chase managed to draw more personal information from the grizzled sailmaker in one day than Nick had learned from him in five years of sailing together? Though to be honest, Nick hadn’t interviewed him for the position so much as inspected the man’s seam rubber, fids, and other tools of his trade. The intricate carving and other details on the handles had told him all he needed to know about the man’s skill and pride of craftsmanship.
“She passed away more than six years ago, but I think he still mourns her.”
Nick had recognized at the time that Tucker desperately needed to sail away to far corners of the globe but hadn’t known the man was escaping sad memories. Tucker was usually the most sober one, safely leading his soused watchmates back to the ship after carousing in port. Trust a woman to sniff out intimate details—like a dead wife—in a short time. “Learn anything else of interest today?”
She fingered the silver H pendant on its chain, almost hidden by her shirt, as she stared at him, evaluating the sincerity of his query. “Of interest to me, yes, but would bore you. You already know the things I learned.”
“Such as?”
She ticked each item off on her fingers. “I didn’t know before today that you stock a small dry goods shop on board with the misnomer of ‘slop chest’. I didn’t know the sails are stitched from bolts of canvas only two feet wide, woven from flax and hemp, and that there must be 108 to 116 stitches to the yard. I didn’t know that if you … how did Tucker say it … ‘crowd the canvas,’ you have almost five thousand square feet of sail, and the ship has over six miles’ worth of rope. I forgot, most of it is correctly called rigging or lines, not rope. I also didn’t know—” She lowered her hands to her lap. “I beg your pardon.” A delicate flush stole across her cheeks as she stared down at her bowl and spoon.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Why?”
“I didn’t mean to carry on so. I’m just used to—”
“Sharing your knowledge with a room full of students?”
She gave him a sad smile. “I taught at the Academy for four years. Old habits die hard.”
Nick could certainly relate to that. Since Napoleon’s defeat, he’d been trying to figure out what to do with himself now that the Crown no longer had need of his services. There had been a few months of work that amounted to ferrying passengers and messages back and forth during the Congress of Vienna, with all the politicking going on as the Continent sorted itself out. But now, with Britain at peace, Nick was at loose ends. Most of his recent voyages had been for the sake of keeping his crew gainfully employed as much as for his own amusement, or running errands. He might even start carrying cargoes for pay, like an actual merchantman.
His friend Tony had been at loose ends this summer and ended up marrying a reformed smuggler and hiring her gang to start a cheese factory. One day he left London on a walking tour of England, a carefree bachelor, and a month later he had a wife and a business enterprise to run with her.
Just last month his other chum from school, Alistair, had fallen in love with and married Charlie … he should probably call her Charlotte now … and if Nick’s instincts were right, had joined her in being a spy for the Crown.
Both men, sworn bachelors, had fallen into the parson’s mousetrap within months of each other.
Nick eyed the woman across the table from him. She had said she was betrothed, and she was dressed in sailor’s togs, not a seductive gown, but she was still an unmarried miss, alone with him in the small, relatively dark, private space of his cabin. “I’m needed topside,” he said abruptly, and bolted from the cabin.
Harriet stared, mortified, at his retreating back until the door slammed shut. Had she really been such poor dinner company?
She picked at the remains of her meal, Sheffield’s abandoned dishes opposite her accusing her of… Wait. He had asked the question and she had warned him he’d find the answer boring. He’d pressed her for the answer anyway. It was his own fault he’d become bored to tears. And leaving so abruptly was simply boorish manners. She should feel insulted, not ashamed.
