Cato bade him a courteous good night and descended the companionway. He entered the cabin, yawning deeply, to find it in darkness, the oil lamp out of fuel. By the faint moonlight coming through the small porthole, he struck flint on tinder and lit the candle that stood on the table.
His foot caught the stool beside the table and he glanced down. At first what he saw merely bemused him. A heap of clothes that were not his own had no place in his cabin. But there was something familiar about these garments. Something familiar…
With a creeping sense of inevitability Cato turned slowly towards the bulkhead, raising the candle high.
The golden light fell upon a tangled glowing mass of light brown hair, a pale cheek pillowed on the curve of her forearm, the crescent shadow of her eyelashes, the soft full mouth, lips slightly parted in sleep.
Cato regarded his sleeping wife in disbelief.
Grimly he picked up a copper jug that stood beside the commode and went back up on deck to the scuttlebutt. He filled the jug and returned to his cabin.
Phoebe slept on.
Cato dipped a towel into the jug, wrung it out perfunctorily, and approached the bunks.
Phoebe came to in a spluttering shower of cold water, arms flailing, incoherent protest on her lips. Her eyes shot open and she found herself looking up into her husband’s flinty black eyes.
“Oh,” she said inadequately, trying to dry her drenched face with the back of her hand. A complaint about his method of waking her died stillborn as she absorbed his furious countenance.
“How dare you!” Cato demanded.
Phoebe wiped her face on the scratchy sheet, trying to think of something to say. Unfortunately she was still half asleep and words seemed to have deserted her.
“Come down here,” Cato commanded, tossing the soaked cloth into the jug.
Phoebe sat up properly and looked doubtful. It didn’t seem like a wise move in the light of Cato’s expression. “There’s not a lot of room. I’m sure we could have a more comfortable conversation if I stayed up here,” she suggested tentatively.
“Phoebe, get down here!” The softness of his voice did nothing to detract from its ferocity.
There seemed nothing for it. She pushed aside the thin blanket and wriggled around so that she could come down the ladder backwards. She tugged at the hem of her chemise, aware that it only reached mid-thigh and was riding up as she descended the ladder. It did nothing for her sense of vulnerability.
“I saw Brian on the quay. That’s why I came on board… to tell you that,” she declared in a rush, glancing hopefully over her shoulder to see the effect of her explanation.
Cato took her by the waist and swung her down the last two rungs of the ladder, setting her on her feet with a jarring thump. “What?” he demanded.
“Brian.” Phoebe tugged again at her chemise. “On the quay. He was talking with two men. I thought you’d wish to know.”
Cato stared at her. “Are you telling me you crept on board, hid in my cabin, waited until the ship was well out of port, just to inform me that my stepson has found his way to Harwich?”
“Isn’t it something you would wish to know?”
“That’s beside the point.” Cato dismissed the question with an impatient gesture. “And don’t be disingenuous. If you wished to tell me something, just why did you wait until now to do so?”
“I was asleep,” Phoebe offered.
Cato drew in a sharp breath.
Phoebe, regretting her flippancy, went on the attack. She said hastily, “You told me you were going to Italy, and you’re not. Why did you lie to me? You could have been killed and I’d never have known where you died… always supposing someone bothered to tell me you were dead,” she added with undisguised bitterness.
“My destination had to be a secret.” To his astonishment Cato found himself on the defensive. “For safety reasons as much as anything.”
“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” Phoebe demanded. “I wouldn’t jeopardize your safety… or did you think I might?”
“That has nothing to do with it. A secret mission is just that. No one can know of it.”
“I’ll lay odds Giles Crampton knows,” Phoebe stated.
“That is different,” Cato said firmly. “Giles is my lieutenant.”
“And more important than your wife,” Phoebe retorted.
“In some matters, yes. But none of this is to the point. I cannot believe you… even you.. . would have the brass-faced nerve to do this, Phoebe. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? What you have put in jeopardy by your blind and utterly thoughtless impulses?”
“I saw Brian Morse on the quay and thought you ought to know of it,” Phoebe reiterated. “Does he know where you’re really going?”
“He didn’t. I daresay he does now,” Cato observed. “But that has nothing to do with you.”
“It does! Everything that concerns you is to do with me,” Phoebe said. “But you won’t understand that. You’re always telling me to sit at home and ply my needle-”
“I never said that!” Cato interrupted, thrown off course by this image. “I’d never say anything so ridiculous. Just the very idea of you plying a needle is an absurdity.”
“Well, you didn’t say that exactly,” Phoebe conceded. “But you told me my place is at home.”
“Which it is.”
“No!” she cried. “No, it’s not. My place is with you. You’re where my home is… it’s beside you.” Impassioned, she jabbed at his chest to illustrate her point.
Cato caught her wrist. He looked down into her flushed face, her fiery eyes. She was impossible to ignore, impossible to manage, utterly determined, and so very, very loving. There was absolutely no point in being angry. It was a complete waste of time and effort. All his legitimate fury simply washed off her like rain on an oiled hide. She was so absolutely sure of herself, of what she believed was right.
A deep sigh, almost a groan, of resignation escaped him. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he muttered, his fingers still clamped around her wrist.
Phoebe put her head on one side, her bright eyes regarding him just like the ragged robin he so often called her. “A very good deed once that you’ve probably forgotten,” she suggested with a smile that while tentative was also mischievous.
Cato put his hands lightly around her throat, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. “For two pins, Phoebe-”
The cabin floor suddenly shifted beneath his feet as the ship rolled violently. It seemed to hang in midair, then it pitched forward. The jug of water slid across the table, then back again as the ship pulled itself up and out of the trough.
Cato’s hands dropped from Phoebe and with an incoherent mutter he turned and half ran from the cabin.
Puzzled Phoebe stood with one hand unconsciously at her throat where she could still feel the warmth of his fingers. The ship rolled sideways again and she allowed herself to move with it, realizing instinctively that fighting the motion would only unbalance her.
Where had Cato gone in such a hurry?
She scrambled into her clothes and left the cabin, grabbing onto the doorjamb as the pitch and roll intensified. She made her way towards the companionway, holding on to the passage wall for balance, and climbed up onto the deck.
It was a brilliant, star-filled night but the wind was strong and cold. Phoebe pulled the hood of her cloak tightly over her ears and looked around for Cato. She couldn’t see any sign of him at first and watched for a minute as sailors swarmed the creaking rigging, taking a reef in the sails. No one seemed perturbed by the wind or the swell of the sea; indeed the men were chattering and laughing as they worked, clinging to the rigging as the ship rode the waves, as she plunged into deep troughs and hauled herself back up again.