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Chapter Eight
December 19, 1817
“Uh, Captain? You’re about to squashed.”
Bartholomew vaguely heard Luke as they walked through the streets of Mayfair on their way back from Hyde Park. It had become a new custom, of sorts, since they’d pulled into port in London. So great was his concentration on his thoughts, he barely darted out of the way when the mail coach barreled down the street.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you for the warning,” he belatedly responded with a pat to the boy’s shoulder.
Then his memories intruded once more. The conversation with Miss Cowan from yesterday had given him a quick peek into her life. It appeared she’d been left bereft when her mother died and still suffered from that grief. But what had been the most amazing thing of all, and what continued to make his chest tight with shock, was the kiss he’d shared with her. That dratted mistletoe! Yet it had been the most natural thing in the world to go from a chaste peck on her cheek—decreed by his mother—to finally knowing the softness of her lips against his.
Her surprise had been adorable, and as the kiss lingered, he’d wondered if anyone had ever done so before. An untried innocent at her advanced age? How intriguing. She’d seemed unsure, a bit awkward certainly as she’d stood there unmoving, but when she’d relaxed and she’d fisted a hand into his lapel, the awareness he’d discovered for her the other day had intensified.
Damnation, if he wasn’t more interested in her vulnerability, in that naïveté, than he’d been by her tart mouth and her fiery spirit. Was kissing the only thing she was inexperienced with? And that still hadn’t answered an earlier question that nagged him: was she attached? Surely a woman of her years had a man in some capacity.
But if she didn’t…
Come off it, man. You don’t need a female complicating your life. Don’t you remember what happened the last time?
“Captain Grayson?” A quick tug to his greatcoat by Luke prevented him from taking a tumble off the pavement and into the street. “Where’s yer bloody mind, then?” Annoyance wove through the boy’s tone. But that and the self-admonishment brought him back to the present.
Bartholomew gave his head a good shake to clear his inappropriate thoughts. He frowned down at Luke. “Language, please. You’re part of society now. This isn’t the ship.”
“I wouldn’t ‘ave to use ‘language’ if you’d pay attention,” the boy groused. Now that he’d been scrubbed clean, his golden curls gleamed in the morning sun beneath the slouch-style cap he wore. Though the tailor had yet to complete Luke’s new wardrobe, his old clothes had been laundered and mended where needed. He looked presentable enough, if a touch outdated. At least his shoes fit. No longer did he need to stuff rags into the toes of castoffs. “Why’re you woolgatherin’? Never used to do it before.”
A trace of heat rose up the back of Bartholomew’s neck. “Nothing of importance. Perhaps I’ve grown too unaccustomed to London.” That was true enough. Town held a coldness to him now, a strangeness he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But why? It was the same place he’d grown up in, the same place he’d left years ago when he’d enlisted into the Navy.
Then the reason hit him. Since the last time he was here, he’d seen more than his fair share of death and the horrors that man could wreak upon each other. No longer was there an innocence to his sight or reasoning; war and the fight for dominance the world over had forever altered that.
Luke scoffed. He kicked at a pebble as they walked. “You got a woman? I’ve ‘eard they muck about in a man’s mind and make him not right in the ‘ead.”
Where the devil had the boy learned such gammon? “You know, the ‘h’ in words are there for a reason. You should pronounce them.”
“And you should learn not to lie, Captain,” the boy said with a raised blond eyebrow as if he were far older than his years.
“I’m not.” He didn’t know whether to smile or frown, so instead, he sighed. There was much educating to do with the lad. “No, there is no lady.” Unbidden, his thoughts returned to Miss Cowan and how her hand had trembled in his when he’d pulled her in for that kiss and how her violet perfume lingered in his nostrils even now. “I’ve had quite enough of their sort of treachery to last a lifetime.”
Hadn’t he? If that were so, why were thoughts of his mother’s companion so beguiling?
As they approached a flower vendor with a pushcart, Bartholomew paused to peruse the colorful offerings. “Good morning, miss.” He nodded politely to the young girl behind the cart.
“Morning, sir,” she replied with a fair amount of an accent that reminded him of the English countryside. “Fancy a bloom for a sweetheart?”
“’e ‘asn’t got one,” Luke replied for them both, apparently forgetting not to fall victim to London street talk. “Relieved, says I.”
As am I. The last one had shattered his heart past repair. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes heavenward even as the boy openly gawked at the flower vendor, Bartholomew withdrew a few coins from a pocket of his greatcoat. “I’ll take two bouquets please.” Once he’d put the coins into her mittened palm, she selected two of the prettiest assortments that were bound in delicate yellow tissue paper and tied with twine. He then handed one to Luke. “This is for my mother.” After touching the brim of his beaver felt hat to the vendor, he continued his walk. They were very nearly to Grosvenor Square now.
“Who’s the other one for?” Luke wanted to know with a quick glance at the bouquet of hothouse blooms Bartholomew carried.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say no one, but honesty was always best. “I thought Miss Cowan might appreciate flowers too.”
“Then she can get a man.” He shrugged as if that settled it. “Wot’s wrong wit’ her that she ain’t got one?”
“No more street cant.” Before the boy could read too much into his dodging the questions or his confusing intentions, he rushed onward. “How do you like living here so far?”
“It’s bleedin’ nice.” When Luke met his gaze, he shrugged. “I mean I like it. There’s always enough warm blankets and more food than I could ever eat.” Then he sighed. “’Cept Mrs. Grayson’s bloody bossy.”
This time Bartholomew didn’t bother to correct him, for the child had the right of it. “I’ll admit, my mother takes some getting used to, but you’ll come to appreciate her. That’s how she shows she cares.”
