and throw her travelling cape over her wet clinging nightgown and, disregarding both her bare feet and her dripping hair, she raced off in the general direction of the fire.
It was a scene that would send most young ladies into gracefully executed swoons, but to Samantha it was a sight to inspire poetry. Orange-tongued flames licked hungrily at the walls and ceiling of the galley but although the passageway—the initial site of the blaze—was obviously soot-darkened and even charred in places, there was no sign of fire there anymore.
No, all efforts were now being directed towards beating down the flames that had already inflicted considerable damage on the left side of the compartment and were now threatening to burst out of control entirely. It was easy to spot Zachary's tall figure in the center of the group of black-faced, tattered men, his calm and authoritative voice issuing crisp, clear commands that urged his crew to keep beating at the fire with their water-soaked blankets.
Samantha hot-footed back to the main cabin and yanked the offensive burgundy bedspread onto the floor with one mighty heave, sending three (by now) generations of pillows spinning into the air. Then, using the nail scissors from her reticule, she cut into the fabric until she had enough of a handhold to be able to tear the spread into two ragged parts. That done, she went on deck and plunged the material into a nearby water barrel before running back to the galley, clutching the soggy bundle to her breast.
For a considerable time, perhaps even a quarter hour, Samantha swung her impromptu fire-beater with all the gusto of her young muscles. Her hair was soon dreadfully tangled, and bits of ash and splinters of charred wood nested there in abundance. Her face became as black as the others; so did her bare feet and uncovered arms. On the whole, it could be said that Samantha was having the time of her young life—and when the last sparks in her little area of concentration could no longer elude her flailing bedspread, she was more than a teeny bit pleased with her accomplishment.
Then Zachary saw her. A second later Zachary saw red—the crimson hot heat of anger. He advanced on his bride with menace in his eyes, eager to take her out of sight and sound of his crew so he could box her smoke-begrimed ears, when Samantha pointed out in an amused voice:
"Zachary, you're black as pitch from your head to your toes. If the haut ton could see you now, they would surely be convinced you were not just in league with the devil, but were, in truth, old Fire-and-Brimstone himself! Oh, and Zachary, if your Lady Foxx could just have a moment's sight of you with half your one eyebrow all but singed off and your hair all spikey and out of order, she would run so fast the whole Quorn couldn't catch her!"
The crew melted discreetly away, especially Samantha's supposed bodyguard—who had considered rowing back to Margate and disappearing out of the reach of the Earl's punishment, but who had decided instead to come back and fight the fire and then hopefully hide himself away below decks until his lordship got so occupied with his honeymoon he forgot the crewman's existence.
At any rate, within moments, Samantha and Zachary were left alone among the debris of the destroyed galley.
St. John glared at his wife for some moments as she met his gaze stare for stare, and slowly he began to see the humor in the situation. Samantha looked like a chimney sweep after a long hard day, and if she was correct, he looked no better. "Madam," he told her, "as Cervantes said, 'the pot calls the kettle black.' "
Samantha looked down at her damp and dirty cape and examined her grimy hands and feet before looking up at her husband and bursting into laughter—laughter into which he quickly joined. In between chortles Samantha explained her impromptu swim, which St. John applauded as quite inventive. And even he found humor in her admission of destroying a very costly bedspread
It was a scene that would send most young ladies into gracefully executed swoons, but to Samantha it was a sight to inspire poetry. Orange-tongued flames licked hungrily at the walls and ceiling of the galley but although the passageway—the initial site of the blaze—was obviously soot-darkened and even charred in places, there was no sign of fire there anymore.
No, all efforts were now being directed towards beating down the flames that had already inflicted considerable damage on the left side of the compartment and were now threatening to burst out of control entirely. It was easy to spot Zachary's tall figure in the center of the group of black-faced, tattered men, his calm and authoritative voice issuing crisp, clear commands that urged his crew to keep beating at the fire with their water-soaked blankets.
Samantha hot-footed back to the main cabin and yanked the offensive burgundy bedspread onto the floor with one mighty heave, sending three (by now) generations of pillows spinning into the air. Then, using the nail scissors from her reticule, she cut into the fabric until she had enough of a handhold to be able to tear the spread into two ragged parts. That done, she went on deck and plunged the material into a nearby water barrel before running back to the galley, clutching the soggy bundle to her breast.
For a considerable time, perhaps even a quarter hour, Samantha swung her impromptu fire-beater with all the gusto of her young muscles. Her hair was soon dreadfully tangled, and bits of ash and splinters of charred wood nested there in abundance. Her face became as black as the others; so did her bare feet and uncovered arms. On the whole, it could be said that Samantha was having the time of her young life—and when the last sparks in her little area of concentration could no longer elude her flailing bedspread, she was more than a teeny bit pleased with her accomplishment.
Then Zachary saw her. A second later Zachary saw red—the crimson hot heat of anger. He advanced on his bride with menace in his eyes, eager to take her out of sight and sound of his crew so he could box her smoke-begrimed ears, when Samantha pointed out in an amused voice:
"Zachary, you're black as pitch from your head to your toes. If the haut ton could see you now, they would surely be convinced you were not just in league with the devil, but were, in truth, old Fire-and-Brimstone himself! Oh, and Zachary, if your Lady Foxx could just have a moment's sight of you with half your one eyebrow all but singed off and your hair all spikey and out of order, she would run so fast the whole Quorn couldn't catch her!"
The crew melted discreetly away, especially Samantha's supposed bodyguard—who had considered rowing back to Margate and disappearing out of the reach of the Earl's punishment, but who had decided instead to come back and fight the fire and then hopefully hide himself away below decks until his lordship got so occupied with his honeymoon he forgot the crewman's existence.
At any rate, within moments, Samantha and Zachary were left alone among the debris of the destroyed galley.
St. John glared at his wife for some moments as she met his gaze stare for stare, and slowly he began to see the humor in the situation. Samantha looked like a chimney sweep after a long hard day, and if she was correct, he looked no better. "Madam," he told her, "as Cervantes said, 'the pot calls the kettle black.' "
Samantha looked down at her damp and dirty cape and examined her grimy hands and feet before looking up at her husband and bursting into laughter—laughter into which he quickly joined. In between chortles Samantha explained her impromptu swim, which St. John applauded as quite inventive. And even he found humor in her admission of destroying a very costly bedspread
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