It had been his little act of rebellion to cut it much shorter than most gentlemen. His trimmed hair curled at the ends in the dampness, and he tucked a lock behind his ear. In the dark, there was no one to comment on his state of undress, and he supposed the crew didn’t care a whit anyway. His untucked shirt flapped in the breeze, the lower fastenings on his breeches unbuckled under his knees. He brushed a fresh spray of briny seawater from his face as he stared out at the endless night, keeping a firm hold on the rail.
So Nathaniel would do the only useful thing he could and marry.
Elizabeth Davenport stood to inherit quite a fortune, and for the colony-and Walter-to thrive, alliances had to be made. Walter Bainbridge had found his fortunes in England not the least bit fortunate, and as a governor in the New World had the thing he loved most dearly: power. No, for the foreseeable future, home would be Primrose Isle, a new colony his father desperately wanted to see flourish. Its verdant trees and round, tranquil lake would now be home to another family.
Of course, the estate wasn’t theirs anymore, sold off to pay debts, so even if he made his way back to Kent one day, he would never return to those rolling hills. Men did not climb trees or swim for hours, and certainly they didn’t run for the sheer pleasure of it the way he had at Hollington. If only the ability to run and jump and swim was worth anything at all in his world instead of being childish folly he was supposed to have outgrown. Hardly any distance at all, but trapped on the ship, that much clear land would be a marvel. He gripped the railing, longing for dirt beneath his nails, scratches on his palms from tree bark as he climbed and explored, wonderfully aching muscles from hours in the lake. If only he could move, he would keep boredom at bay. Not that he actually wanted pirates to attack their ship and massacre them. Nathaniel shook his head at his foolishness. People spoke as if the ocean teemed with the brigands, but the voyage had been mile after mile of… nothing. In England, he’d heard countless tales of villainous pirates and their dastardly deeds. Instead he was confined by an endless, restless sea taunting him with its wildness. What he wouldn’t give for the freedom to run across the fields of Hollington Estate, wind rushing in his ears over the steady thump of his heart, the world falling away in his wake. The windswept deck was damp beneath his bare feet, prompting thoughts of the dewy grass of home. If pirates were to be the bloody, savage end of Nathaniel Bainbridge, he wished they’d get on with it.
The Next Competitor (Italian Translation).
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