“Aye.” Gabriel nodded. “We'll pick up the other two as we leave. Let's get these others sobered up. We'd do well to show all the force we can on the way out, although I doubt they'll be too anxious for a repeat engagement. Woman, make more coffee.”
Josefa, without a word, dropped her broomstick and went to the still-glowing embers of the fire.
“Help me load up the mules.” Julian beckoned Tamsyn, who came over with alacrity, her eyes sparkling in the firelight, her body thrumming with energy in the aftermath of excitement. “I want to be ready to go the minute the sky starts to lighten.”
“They won't give us any more trouble,” Tamsyn said confidently. “A tribe of shameful incompetents.” She grinned. “The baron would never have taken them into his band. His raids never failed.”
Julian chose to refrain from comment.
Two hours later they stormed out of the yard, Julian with drawn sword at the head of the column, Gabriel bringing up the rear on his charger, waving his broadsword and bellowing his war cry. Tamsyn drove the laden mules between them, cracking a mule whip with gleeful ferocity, the three less than fully conscious outriders swaying in their saddles but still brandishing weapons.
The village stayed behind its shutters, however, recognizing it had met its match. They found the other two outriders sitting beside the road, nursing bleeding heads but able to mount their horses, and the procession continued its way to Lisbon.
Chapter Twelve
“I DON'T KNOW THAT I CAN LET YOU HAVE THREE FOUR pounders, Captain Lattimer,” the ordnance master said with lugubrious satisfaction. “The Isolde took six yesterday.”
Captain Hugo Lattimer, R.N., controlled his irritation with difficulty. He ran a hand through his thick chestnut-brown hair and glanced around the ordnance wharf He'd been third in line that morning, and there were six other captains, as desperate as he to fit out their commands, waiting their turn to wheedle and cajole the ordnance master.
“If you could see your way to letting me have two, then I'll stand in your debt,” he said, smiling with what he hoped was sufficient obsequiousness. “How's Mrs. Huston? She was a bit under the weather last time I was in Lisbon.”
The other man's face softened slightly. “Oh, she's well enough, thank you, Captain. In an interesting condition.”
“Well, congratulations.” Captain Lattimer beamed as broadly as if it were his own lady about to present him with an heir. “Do give her my best regards.”
“Yes, yes indeed, I'll do that, thank you kindly. Now, it was three four-pounders you were wanting?”
“Exactly so,” Hugo said, allowing not a flicker of triumph to show in his green eyes. “And I'll be most grateful to you, sir.”
The ordnance master scribbled in his ledger, his face as pained as if he were losing blood, and handed over the precious requisition order. Hugo touched his gold-laced hat and left the ordnance wharf, exulting in his success.
The Lisbon morning was hot, but there was still a breath of spring in the air to soften the burning quality of a Portuguese summer that scorched even the coastal areas. The harbor seethed with life, feluccas, longboats, and fishing boats darting among the more ponderous merchant craft. Four British men-of-war lay in the outer roads, three ships of the line, and a dainty, thirty-six-gun frigate.
Captain Lattimer's eyes rested with pride on the Isaabelle's elegant lines as she swung at anchor. He raised his glass, examining his command. The Blue Peter was furled against her fore-top masthead, ready to be broken out when she sailed, and her decks were a bustle of activity. He nodded his satisfaction. Tomorrow morning they'd be under way, leaving the frustrating politics of harbor life behind.
“I beg your pardon, but do I have the honor of addressing Captain Lattimer?”
“You do, sir.” The captain turned and found himself facing a tall man of about his own age in the uniform of a cavalry colonel.
“Colonel St. Simon.” Julian extended his hand in greeting. “Admiral Moreton told me where I might find you.”
The harbor admiral was an infernal nuisance, always interfering in his captains' best-laid plans. “Indeed.” Hugo kept his expression impassive as he shook the colonel's hand. “How may I be of service, Colonel?”
“By giving me passage on your ship.” Julian came straight to the point. “I understand you're sailing for Portsmouth tomorrow.”
It was standard practice for a naval ship to carry diplomatic and army passengers. “I see no difficulty,” Hugo said, smiling with relief at this simple request.
Colonel St. Simon scratched his head a little uncomfortably and said, “Well, it's rather more. complicated than that, Captain. Do you have time to take a glass of wine with me, and I'll explain.”
“Tell me something,” Hugo said conversationally. “Am I going to have a choice, or do you have written orders for me from Admiral Moreton?”
“The admiral agreed to accommodate the wishes of the Duke of Wellington,” Julian said delicately. Traditionally, the navy was the senior service and even the commander in chief of the army would request rather than order a senior naval officer.
“I see. In that case perhaps you had better give me a glass of wine to soften the blow,” Hugo said wryly.
“I'm…” Julian cleared his throat. “We are putting up at the Rose. The taproom's pleasant enough.”
“By all means.” Hugo had not missed the change of pronoun.
They turned together away from the quay just as a figure came barrelling toward them in the broad-striped trousers and red waistcoat of a seaman, two hooped earrings swinging, a spotted handkerchief tied over his long tarred sailor's queue.
“Eh, Cap'n, sir. I've found us a brace of pigs, bonny as you please, and three nanny goats, burstin' with milk.” He beamed with pride.
“Good, Samuel. Listen, take this requisition and get it filled. Three four-pounders and as much round shot as you can squeeze out of ‘em.”
“Aye, sir.” The sailor took the parchment, cast an incurious glance at the captain's companion, and rolled away with his swaying seaman's gait.
“Samuel could find a filled scuttlebutt in a desert,” Hugo Lattimer commented as they turned into the cool dimness of the Rose. “Invaluable man.”
“I know the type,” Julian said, indicating a table in the window, instructing the waiter, “Lad, bring a bottle of port.”
The captain sat down, sweeping aside the skirts of his blue coat to free his sword. A dusty bottle and two glasses appeared; the wine was poured. The captain downed his first glass almost without tasting it.
“First one fast, second one slow,” he said without apparent humor, refilling his glass. “So let's hear the worst, Colonel.”
“Four passengers, three horses, and a mountain of baggage,” Colonel St. Simon stated bluntly.
“Dear God!” Captain Lattimer stared at him. “How am I to find room in a frigate? The Isabelle is not a ship of the line, sir.”
Julian moved his hands in a gesture combining both comprehension and powerlessness. “The admiral seemed to think…”
“The admiral is an interfering old busybody who doesn't understand the first bloody thing about commanding a man-of-war. He's sailed a desk throughout his entire career,” Hugo said furiously. He refilled his glass and tossed the contents down his throat with a flick of his wrist.
Julian was accustomed to men who drank deeply, and refilled the captain's glass without giving it a second thought.
“Oh, there you are, I've been looking all over for you. You'll be pleased to know that we'll be two chests lighter… Oh, I beg your pardon?” Tamsyn stopped in midspeech and looked inquiringly at the gentleman in his white-Iapeled blue coat with its deep white cuffs and gold-buttoned sleeves.
“This is Captain Lattimer. And a taproom is no place for a lady.” Julian made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. He'd hoped to have everything settled with the captain before exposing him to the full effects of Tamsyn's presence.