Natalya by Cynthia Wright

calvados and the turmoil of the past several days. By the time they reached the Essex's quarterdeck and George Bumblethorpe bent over her hand during their introduction, she found that she had difficulty focusing. British seamen seemed to swarm around them and to leer at her from the masts.
    "Grey?" She reached for his arm. "I believe I may be going to faint...." With that, her knees gave way and she slumped to the deck.

 
     
     
    Chapter 7

     
    March 31, 1814
     
    "She isn't ill, is she? Or injured?" Captain Bumblethorpe peered anxiously at the lovely young woman who lay across his cabin bunk, unconscious.
    "I doubt it," Grey replied. "I think that a mixture of exhaustion and the excitement of our narrow escape from St. Malo are to blame." He added wryly, "I doubt there's cause for alarm, however. I'll wager that she'll be fully restored to good health after a few hours' sleep."
    "I daresay you could use a bit of that yourself, my dear chap. Sorry I can't offer you better accommodations, but as you know, my cabin is the only oasis of privacy on board." He patted the younger man's back with a beefy hand. "I hope Miss Beauvisage isn't the sort of chit who carries on about propriety...?" Bumblethorpe ventured.
    "We'll worry about appearances in London," Grey replied wearily, sitting down at the captain's desk to remove his boots. "In the meantime, I'm exhausted."
    "Never fear. I'm the soul of discretion," Bumblethorpe assured him. "Do carry on, old boy, and sleep if you can. We'll be more than happy to ferry you across the Channel. This blockading nonsense can be frightfully boring, particularly as we all know that the war is virtually ended. In any case, the regent will probably thank me personally for delivering you safely back to British soil. Might even get a medal! I heard a rumor or two that you were dead."
    "That's cheering." Grey yawned, hoping Bumblethorpe would take the hint. "D'you suppose they'll be glad I'm not?"
    The captain laughed heartily. "You've always had a ready wit!"
    "It will doubtless improve with sleep...."
    "Right, then... I'll leave you alone. You're certain you don't want food first?"
    "I'm too tired to eat just yet." Grey looked longingly at the bunk, then smiled at Bumblethorpe, who was backing out into the gangway. "My thanks, George. You're a splendid host."
    "Sleep well, old boy."
    When the paneled mahogany door closed at last, Grey leaned back in the captain's chair and sighed deeply. His body felt leaden and his eyes burned with fatigue, but he needed a few moments to reflect before he could surrender to sleep.
    He stared at Natalya. Now that they were safely out of France, he no longer needed her help, but he had made promises to Nicholai Beauvisage that he meant to honor. Very soon, he would see England for the first time in four years. He ached for his homeland. The prospect of being reunited with friends and family, of revisiting familiar haunts, was almost more than he could fathom. How difficult it was to realize that freedom was his again!
    Yet he could not forget Natalya during his homecoming. She was his responsibility, and a prickly one at that. Perhaps she'd spend her time writing while he investigated possibilities for her passage to America—and caught up on his own life.
    Yes, his own life.... What of Francesca? he mused dispassionately. Would she still be at Hartford House, waiting dutifully for him, or were the rumors he'd heard true?
    He almost hoped for the worst: hoped that Francesca had left him and that he'd be able to make a new beginning unencumbered by marriage to a woman he didn't love....
    "Please, don't," Natalya whimpered. She looked kittenish to him with her long-lashed eyes that tilted upward at the corners and that tangle of honey-colored curls. Seeing the way her little hands suddenly balled into fists as she slept, Grey felt his heart soften, and he went to her.
    She was curled on her side, her bottom pushed against the paneled bulkhead. The boy's costume