Marrying the Royal Marine. Carla Kelly

      Hugh couldn’t say he had any power to encourage the wind and waves, but he considered it a boon from kind providence that Polly Brandon did need his help in the morning to kneel at the pot and wash her hair, while the deck slanted. They decided that his firm knee in her back would anchor her to the pot, and she had no objection when he lathered her hair, and rinsed it using a small pitcher.

      The entire operation involved another pot and pitcher, which led him to comment that between pots and pitchers, women were a great lot of trouble. If she hadn’t looked back at him then with such a glower, her hair wet and soapy, he could have withstood nearly anything. He had no idea a woman could look so endearing with soap in her hair. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, of course, which meant she held her eyes open wider than usual, perhaps seeking more depth and more clarity. The effect jolted him a little, because her nearsighted gaze was so intense, her eyes so blue. The shade reminded him of a spot of deep water near Crete where he had gazed long and hard when he was a younger man.

      When not coated in vinegar, her auburn hair was glossy. Hugh was half-tempted to volunteer to comb the tangles from her hair, but he had the good sense to strangle that idea at birth. To his surprise, he was finding her uniquely attractive.

      Even after two decades of war, he knew enough about women, having bedded them in all seaports when occasion permitted, no different from his navy brethren. By common wardroom consent after one memorable voyage through half the world, he and his fellows agreed that the most beautiful women lived on the Greek isles. He knew at least that he had never seen a flat-chested female there. So it went; he was a man of experience.

      But here was Brandon—why on earth had he started calling her such a hooligan name?—who, even on her best day, could only stand in the shadow of the earth’s loveliest ladies. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, and he had seen her at her absolute worst. No woman could have been more hopeless than Polly Brandon of two days ago, but here he was, wanting to devise all manner of subterfuges to keep her talking to him. It was a mystery; he had no clue what had happened in so short a time.

      He sat down at the wardroom table, hoping to keep her there with him while he thought of something clever to say. To his dismay, she went into her cabin, but came out a moment later with her comb. She was getting more surefooted by the hour, timing her stride to the roll of the ship, but she did plop unceremoniously on to the bench and laughed at herself.

      She fixed him with that penetrating gaze he was coming to know. ‘You have my permission to laugh when I am no more graceful at sea than a new puppy would be.’

      ‘I daren’t,’ he said. ‘Suppose some day you find me in desperate shape—say, for example, at Almack’s? I would hope you would be charitable, so I will be the same.’

      ‘Coward,’ she teased. She unwound the towel, shook her head, and began to comb her hair. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but when he didn’t, she took the initiative. ‘Three days at sea and my manners have taken French leave, Colonel. Miss Pym always did say I was too nosy by half, but what are you doing here?’

      Admiring you, he thought. That would never do; perhaps honesty deserved its moment in the sun. ‘I shipped out to the Peninsula because I could not stand one more moment of conference meetings in Plymouth.’

      ‘You’re quizzing me,’ she said with a laugh.

      ‘Well, no, I am not,’ he contradicted. ‘I probably should have turned down my promotion from Major to Lieutenant Colonel, but one doesn’t do that.’

      ‘No harm in ambition,’ she told him, trying to sound sage, and blithely unaware how charming was her naïveté.

      ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Trouble is, a step up means different duties at Division Three. Now I am chained to a desk and report for meetings, where I sit and draw little figures and yawn inside my mouth, so my tonsils won’t be seen.’

      She laughed and touched his sleeve. Just one quick touch, but it made him pleasantly warm. ‘Colonel, I used to do the same thing in theology class, where God was so cruel as to make time stand still.’

      ‘Exactly.’ Well, aren’t you the charming rogue, he thought. No vicar for a husband for you, I should think. ‘As with most things, there is more to it than that. I went to Stonehouse Hospital to visit the newest arrived Marines invalided there. One of them died in my arms, after wishing there was something more he and his fellow Marines could do to end this stalemate with Boney. I chose not to let his sacrifice be for naught.’

      Polly nodded, her face serious. He continued, ‘I asked permission of the Colonel Commandant to conduct impromptu visits to various ships off the Peninsula, and in Lisbon where a Marine brigade is based. I want to find out how the men feel about what they do, and if, indeed, we Marines could do more. Brandon, these are men with vast experience, who surely have ideas! I have carte blanche to stay as long as I wish, and then compile a report. That is why I am here.’

      She looked down at her hands, then up at him over her spectacles. ‘We are both running away, aren’t we, Colonel Junot? I could have stayed in Bath and taught the younger pupils at my school, or at least stayed in Torquay and helped my sister Nana, who is increasing again.’

      ‘But you want to see the wider world, even such a tattered one as this is proving to be, with its everlasting war?’

      She frowned, and he could tell she had considered the matter. ‘I think we know I don’t belong here. Maybe I should have stayed in Torquay.’

      Then I never would have met you, he realised. It was such a disquieting thought that he wanted to dismiss it. He chose a light tone, because that was all he could do, and even then, it was wrong to his ears. ‘If it’s any comfort, I felt the same way at my first deployment in service of King and country.’

      ‘When was that? Where did you go?’ she asked, her interest obvious.

      What could he say but the truth, even though he knew it would age him enormously in her eyes. ‘It was 1790 and I was bound for India.’

      ‘Heavens. I had not even been born,’ she told him, confirming his fear.

      Get it over with, Hugh, he told himself sourly. ‘I was fifteen and a mere Lieutenant.’

      She surprised him then, as she had been surprising him for the three days he had known her. ‘Heavens,’ she said again, and he cringed inwardly. ‘Colonel, I cannot imagine how fascinating India must have been. Did you see elephants? Tigers? Are the women as beautiful as pictures I have seen?’

      She didn’t say a word about his age, but calmly continued combing her hair, her mind only on India, as far as he could tell. He felt himself relax. ‘Do you want to hear about India?’

      ‘Oh, my, yes, I do,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘Colonel, I have never been anywhere!’

      ‘Very well,’ he began, eager to keep her there. ‘We landed in Bombay during the monsoon.’

      ‘You were seasick,’ she said.

      ‘I told you I have never been seasick,’ he replied, ‘and I meant it.’

      ‘Very well. Since I was not there, I shall have to believe you.’ She put her comb down and clasped her hands together. ‘Tell me everything you can remember.’

      If some celestial scamp in the universe—an all-purpose genie would do—had suddenly whisked away all the clocks and banished time to outer darkness, Polly knew she would be content to listen for ever to Colonel Junot. While her hair dried, she and the sentry who joined them at the Colonel’s suggestion heard of tiger hunts, an