Page 27 of A Siren for the Duke

Jemima wrinkled her nose as she looked at the liquid swirling in the mug.

“It’s warm,” she observed.

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s very hard to keep ice from melting on a Royal Navy ship.”

She brought the mug to her nose and sniffed it. It didn’t smell too awful and honestly reminded her a little of the smell of bread.

It was still too quiet, and when she looked up, she noticed all eyes were still on her.

Feeling emboldened, she addressed them all.

“What, have you never seen a woman drink before?”

That seemed to break the proverbial ice as they all laughed at her sauciness. Conversations broke out among them again, and the dining area returned to its previous jovial state.

“You haven’t drunk it yet,” Ellis pointed out.

“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Robinson,” she chided. Then she brought the mug to her lips, swallowed a little, and immediately grimaced. She even managed to spit some of it out.

“You enjoy this?!” she asked, but Ellis was laughing too hard to answer her.

“My dear,” he said through belly laughs, “it’s one of our delicacies!”

“Then you may have my portion and feast like a king,” she said, pushing her mug toward him.

As nasty as it was, she could not deny that it was comforting to sit there with a mug of ale and chat. Was this how men always felt? At ease, able to move freely through the world?

And suddenly... she understood why Lionel favored the sea.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Across the ship, Lionel sat alone in his cabin, his tired eyes fixed on the swirling reddish liquid in his glass. It was the good wine he usually saved for successful voyages, but as he had nothing else right now and did not fancy an ale, he decided to indulge himself. The scent of salt and gunpowder filled the air, a constant reminder of the life he had chosen — a life that had brought him to this very moment of indecision.

Jemima. The mere thought of her name stirred a maelstrom of emotions within Lionel's weary heart. This entire situation was maddening. Lionel was not a religious person, but he guessed that if God was real, he would have orchestrated this for His own amusement and would now be laughing at him from the heavens. Their argument from earlier still played in his mind. She claimed to have written to him, and he to her, but neither of them had ever received any of their letters. How could that have come to be? What outside force was acting to keep them apart? Perhaps whoever had uncovered their clandestine affair had intercepted the letters. To this day, Lionel still did not know who was responsible. It made his heart ache; he had once loved her so much he could not bear to be without her. Now, he was not so sure. His heart told him to love her, but his brain said differently.

Fatigue etched lines of weariness on Lionel’s handsome face. He rubbed a hand over his bristled jaw, the rasp of stubble against his palm a reminder of the days that blurred into nights. It seemed an eternity since he had last slept, since he had found solace in the embrace of dreams that didn't taunt him with what could have been.

His gaze flickered to the mahogany desk cluttered with maps and letters, and his eyes fell upon his brother’s name. He still had not heard from Lord Upton about whether or not he was to collect Jemima in Jamaica. A schooner had sailed by the day before with letters, but none from the Uptons and no more from his father. Lionel's duty to his family burdened his shoulders, a weight he carried as resolutely as the gold-braided uniform he wore.

His mind drifted to Jemima's cascading curls and how they had tumbled over his hands as he held her close. Her eyes, like twin pools of hazel, had once contained an innocence that drew him in, a vulnerability that had captured his soul. But now, there was a haunted look in those eyes, a weariness that mirrored his own.

The ship groaned, echoing the turmoil in Lionel's soul. He lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the taste of the wine as it warmed his throat. The liquid offered a fleeting respite, a momentary escape from the labyrinth of his thoughts. He needed a moment of clarity. He longed for the cool embrace of the night air, the open expanse of the starlit sky. Pushing himself up from his chair, Lionel left his cabin and made his way to the deck.

When he stepped outside, Lionel felt a gust of salty wind whip through his hair, ruffling the tired strands. The wood creaked beneath his feet, the familiar sounds of the crew going about their duties reaching his ears. It was a symphony of routine, a comforting backdrop that offered a momentary escape from the chaos within.

Lionel reached into his pocket and withdrew a weathered pipe and a pouch of fragrant tobacco. With deft hands, he packed the bowl and lit it with a practiced flick of a match. The pungent aroma of smoke enveloped him, its tendrils mingling with the salty tang of the sea. The routine of the familiar ritual provided a brief reprieve, a chance for his weary mind to find respite.

As Lionel took slow, deliberate puffs from his pipe, his gaze wandered across the vast expanse of water that stretched into the horizon. The moon, a silver crescent, cast an ethereal glow upon the restless waves. It was a sight that should have brought him peace, but the weight of his choices lingered like an ever-present shadow.

He leaned against the ship's railing, the solid wood cool against his palms. Jemima's face danced before his eyes, a bittersweet vision that stirred conflicting emotions. His heart ached at the thought of letting her go, but reason whispered that their love was a dangerous gamble, one that could cost him everything he held dear.

The pipe smoke curled around him, rising to the heavens, carrying the burdens that threatened to consume him. Lionel closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the weight on his shoulders eased, replaced by a sense of clarity that had eluded him for so long.

That clarity and peace were short-lived, however, as he heard a ruckus from the mess hall below. His men found time to occupy themselves with stories or music often, but this sort of noise was new and different. He had to investigate. Lionel's footsteps quickened as he descended the stairs. The commotion grew louder, a cacophony of laughter and muffled voices emanating from the mess area outside the galley. As he rounded the corner, the scene that greeted Lionel took him aback. Jemima, her skirts twirling in a wild frenzy, danced atop a table with a radiant smile adorning her face. Ellis, his first mate, stood beside her, his hands outstretched as if to steady her.

A mix of relief and worry flooded Lionel's heart. He was not jealous of Ellis, for he knew their relationship was strictly platonic. But witnessing Jemima's reckless abandon, he couldn't help but fear for her safety amidst the rowdy crew and the precarious balance of the table beneath her feet.

"Lady Jemima!" Lionel's voice rang out, cutting through the clamor like a blade. The room fell silent as heads turned toward him, surprised expressions etched on the faces of the crew members. Jemima's eyes widened; her dance momentarily halted as she looked upon Lionel.