Miss Debenham's Secret: A Husband Hunters Club Book by Sara Bennett Page A
Authors: Sara Bennett
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eyes and imagined his face and then his voice and it was enough.
When she had a moment she wrote back to him, telling him how she was doing well at the school, and how Mr. Marly was soon to leave and he had put her name up to the board of governors as headmistress. She was proud of her advancement and couldn’t help but boast a little. Alistair would be proud of her too, she thought.
She told him to take care and come home safely; she didn’t think there was anything wrong in that. They were friends, after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They’d engaged the enemy over an hour ago and already the stench of gunpowder and blood was heavy in the air. Alistair was grim faced, his skin blackened, as he roared out orders in a hoarse voice, urging his men to greater efforts when he knew they were as exhausted as he. But there was no other option, certainly not surrender.
His Majesty’s navy did not give up and nor did he.
Another blast from the enemy’s cannon almost deafened him. They were coming around, drawing closer, and although that was good for his range of fire it was also good for theirs. Any shot from this close would be devastating and if it holed the ship . . . most vessels could stay afloat for a good while, but if a spark reached the gunpowder in the holds below . . . well, that would be the end of them. Alistair was determined that wouldn’t happen to the Amazonian, nor to his men.
He had a fleeting thought of Clarissa, her image so clear he could have reached out and touched her. She was smiling, her blue eyes bright and happy, her fair hair brushed by a gentle breeze. Lately, since her letter arrived, he’d been thinking about her a great deal. He’d even been considering whether he should return to Lyme when he was back on shore. Some nights he dreamed of her and he woke with that strange ache in his chest.
Now, in the midst of battle, he was bitterly glad she wasn’t waiting for him.
“Steady!” he roared. “Get ready, wait! Aim . . . hold . . . fire!”
The cannons on the starboard side roared. He saw some of the cannon balls strike home, ploughing into the decks of the enemy ship. He ran down along the deck, checking that all was well, eyes taking in the damage and automatically assessing what would need to be done later. One of his men lay still and bleeding and he quickly ordered him to be carried below to join the others who lay waiting for help. The ship’s surgeon was frantically doing his best to repair damaged and mangled limbs but his skills were limited and he was forced to choose which of the men he was most able to save and leave the really severe cases to die.
Alistair’s hand went to his pocket and he felt the letter in there. The last one he’d received from Clarissa. It had come all the way from Lyme to Gibraltar, and in it she said that her letters were far more travelled than she would ever be, and she was quite jealous of them.
It made him smile even now, in the midst of all of this hell.
Another blast of enemy cannon and he was back in charge, shouting orders, before he hurried toward the poop deck where the other officers were standing with strained faces. Things were close. They may not win. They may not survive. He knew that in the pragmatic way of any sailor who went to sea, but he also knew he wanted to live.
Before he hadn’t had a reason to stay alive, no one who would miss him terribly much. His sister would mourn, and his friends, but there was no one else. Suddenly there was Clarissa, and his desperate need to get back to her, to tell her that he’d been a fool and he wanted to marry her after all. How she would laugh at that!
Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion. It seemed to be right on top of him. His head rang, and then there was a terrible ripping pain in his leg.
He fell and the sky whirled around him, filled with puffs of smoke from the guns and the tattered remains of a flag. Alistair stared upwards and wondered why everything was so quiet.
When she had a moment she wrote back to him, telling him how she was doing well at the school, and how Mr. Marly was soon to leave and he had put her name up to the board of governors as headmistress. She was proud of her advancement and couldn’t help but boast a little. Alistair would be proud of her too, she thought.
She told him to take care and come home safely; she didn’t think there was anything wrong in that. They were friends, after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They’d engaged the enemy over an hour ago and already the stench of gunpowder and blood was heavy in the air. Alistair was grim faced, his skin blackened, as he roared out orders in a hoarse voice, urging his men to greater efforts when he knew they were as exhausted as he. But there was no other option, certainly not surrender.
His Majesty’s navy did not give up and nor did he.
Another blast from the enemy’s cannon almost deafened him. They were coming around, drawing closer, and although that was good for his range of fire it was also good for theirs. Any shot from this close would be devastating and if it holed the ship . . . most vessels could stay afloat for a good while, but if a spark reached the gunpowder in the holds below . . . well, that would be the end of them. Alistair was determined that wouldn’t happen to the Amazonian, nor to his men.
He had a fleeting thought of Clarissa, her image so clear he could have reached out and touched her. She was smiling, her blue eyes bright and happy, her fair hair brushed by a gentle breeze. Lately, since her letter arrived, he’d been thinking about her a great deal. He’d even been considering whether he should return to Lyme when he was back on shore. Some nights he dreamed of her and he woke with that strange ache in his chest.
Now, in the midst of battle, he was bitterly glad she wasn’t waiting for him.
“Steady!” he roared. “Get ready, wait! Aim . . . hold . . . fire!”
The cannons on the starboard side roared. He saw some of the cannon balls strike home, ploughing into the decks of the enemy ship. He ran down along the deck, checking that all was well, eyes taking in the damage and automatically assessing what would need to be done later. One of his men lay still and bleeding and he quickly ordered him to be carried below to join the others who lay waiting for help. The ship’s surgeon was frantically doing his best to repair damaged and mangled limbs but his skills were limited and he was forced to choose which of the men he was most able to save and leave the really severe cases to die.
Alistair’s hand went to his pocket and he felt the letter in there. The last one he’d received from Clarissa. It had come all the way from Lyme to Gibraltar, and in it she said that her letters were far more travelled than she would ever be, and she was quite jealous of them.
It made him smile even now, in the midst of all of this hell.
Another blast of enemy cannon and he was back in charge, shouting orders, before he hurried toward the poop deck where the other officers were standing with strained faces. Things were close. They may not win. They may not survive. He knew that in the pragmatic way of any sailor who went to sea, but he also knew he wanted to live.
Before he hadn’t had a reason to stay alive, no one who would miss him terribly much. His sister would mourn, and his friends, but there was no one else. Suddenly there was Clarissa, and his desperate need to get back to her, to tell her that he’d been a fool and he wanted to marry her after all. How she would laugh at that!
Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion. It seemed to be right on top of him. His head rang, and then there was a terrible ripping pain in his leg.
He fell and the sky whirled around him, filled with puffs of smoke from the guns and the tattered remains of a flag. Alistair stared upwards and wondered why everything was so quiet.
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