Chapter Six
Suez City (Port Tewfik) - Egypt
Gulf of Suez
The captain's quarters aboard the SS Lambridge were modest but dry, and for that, they were unspeakably grateful. The ship—a merchant steamer—creaked and groaned beneath them, a living thing, humming with the weight of goods and seawater and lives saved by sheer providence.
Alex sat beside Spencer at the table, her back straight but her shoulders slack. Her hair had dried in wild salt-tangled waves, and her face bore the unmistakable stamp of the sun—cheeks reddened, the bridge of her nose pink and peeling. Spencer looked no better; wind-chafed, sea-bitten, and nearly silent.
The two of them stared ahead, still coming to terms with the face that they had survived.
The British captain poured a generous finger of brandy into a tumbler and handed it wordlessly to Spencer. Spencer took it, nodding once in mute thanks.
Alex, her voice still rough with thirst and disbelief, said, "Could I have one of those?"
The captain raised an eyebrow, but obliged.
"I suppose it's unnecessary to point out how lucky you are to be alive," he said dryly, pouring her a matching measure.
Alex downed the brandy in a single motion and let out a small cough.
"You both seem keenly aware," he said, as he observed her.
"You'd suppose right," she rasped, holding out the glass for another pour.
The captain gave a wry nod as he obliged, then sat opposite them.
"Our port of call is Marseilles. Was that your intended destination?"
"The tug was headed for Suez. Beyond that, I don't know.
Our final destination is the United States."
"Quite the journey." The captain leaned back in his chair. "Where in the States?"
"Montana."
The man blinked. "I'm afraid I don't know it."
"It's in the mountains. Middle of the country."
The captain exhaled slowly. "Your journey is only beginning when you get to port."
"You could say that," Spencer said.
The captain's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I'd recommend disembarking through the Gulf—Galveston or Port Arthur. Ellis Island is a cesspool of disease. I hear it takes months for an immigrant to gain entry."
Spencer turned toward Alex, meeting her gaze with quiet intensity. Then he looked back at the captain.
"I was hoping you could help me with that."
The man's brow furrowed. "I've no dealings with American immigration."
"You're the captain of this ship."
"I am."
"These are international waters."
"They are."
"Marry us."
Alex's breath caught. She turned to Spencer, stunned. He didn't look at her—his eyes were fixed on the captain—but she could see the smile forming at the edge of his lips.
"Marriage for citizenship is illegal," the captain wisely pointed out.
"It's a benefit." Spencer met Alex's eyes now, his voice softer. "Not why I'm doing it."
The captain looked between the two of them and nodded slowly. "No. No, I wouldn't think so."
A pause. The air between them shifted—lighter now, reverent.
"I'd be honored," the captain said. "I'll prepare the color guard."
"I'd like to do it now," Spencer said. "If you could."
The captain chuckled. "We can't make much of a ceremony here, but we can make something."
"Putting things off a day isn't proving conducive to our current lifestyle."
Alex laughed, her voice hoarse, "Too true."
"No, I don't suppose it is." the captain agreed. "Very well."
He crossed the room and returned with a small wooden box. Opening it, he revealed a collection of mismatched rings.
"We keep them," he said gently, "when sailors pass with no widow to send them to. See if any fit."
Alex and Spencer knelt beside the box, sifting through the worn metal bands. Some were corroded, others polished smooth by years of skin and salt.
"Rather morbid," Alex mused, "Getting married with a dead sailor's ring."
The captain's tone was kind. "Yes, I would endeavor to replace at the first opportunity."
Spencer turned a weathered silver band between his fingers. "The ocean nearly took us. Now it gives us rings." He and Alex share smile, "I think I'll keep mine."
Alex has sorted through most of them, "They're all too big," she laughed gently.
The captain touched beneath his collar with a fond look, and withdrew a slender chain. From it, he slipped off a simple gold band.
Try this one," He placed it gently in Alex's palm.
"Belonged to my wife," he explained. "I wear it when I'm at sea."
Alex hesitated to take it. "Are you sure?"
The Captain smiled. "I'm certain she would approve."
They were married in minutes.
The lantern swung gently with the ship's motion, casting its low glow over the scene. The captain spoke the vows in his measured voice, a single witness standing at the back of the room. Alex and Spencer faced each other, still salt-rimmed and sun-flushed, their hands clasped tightly between them. No gown, no music, no guests—only the warmth in his eyes and the steady anchor of her fingers.
All her life, her mother had planned an elaborate wedding for her, draped in silk and duty and titles. She had hated it. This—this was imperfect and breathless and achingly human. This was everything. The way he looked at her was all that mattered- all that she ever wanted.
When Spencer vowed to be hers forever, she believed him.
A few minutes later, they trailed behind a young sailor who led them down the narrow corridor with a tray balanced in his hands.
"Your quarters, sir," the boy said, opening the door and stepping aside.
They barely made it inside before Spencer pulled her to him. The tray was left untouched in the hallway. The sailor, unfazed, knocked once more.
The door opened a crack.
"Your essentials, my lady," he said, offering the tray.
Alex took it with a flushed smile. "Thank you."
"Enjoy your—"
The door closed with a quiet click.
As eager as she was to be with him, they needed to shed the sea in the shower; drain the crust of salt and fear. The hot water stung their skin, but felt like absolution.
And when they fell into one another—fumbling, laughing, clinging—they did so not out of lust or relief but love. A deep, trembling love born of survival and silence and the certainty that whatever came next, they would face it side by side…
They lay together in the dim hush of the cabin, tangled in the sheets of a narrow bunk, skin against skin, breath and heartbeat gently synchronized in the afterglow of all they had endured—and all they had claimed as their own. The ship creaked around them like an old man settling into a chair, the soft pitch and yaw of the sea outside barely perceptible now.
He had married her. He'd really done it… and so quickly.
She'd known Spencer was a man of his word, but had no idea just how efficient he would be about it.
He was an honorable, good man. The best she'd ever known.
Even when she crawled into his bed that first night with the intent of attempting her first seduction, he'd done nothing but hold her as they slept.
In fact, he'd been reluctant to take what she'd offered the moment he discovered her virginity. It wasn't until after she accepted his marriage proposal, that he bedded her good and proper.
Very good, really. And not all that proper.
She'd quickly become addicted to his ravishing.
They had made love under the sun time and time again, in the ocean, on the shore, against a tree... she shivered at the pleasurable memory.
Spencer's arm that cradled her back, moved in soothing circles when he felt her trembles. Alex smiled, her head resting on his chest as her fingers absently created idle patterns through the coarse hair that covered it.
"You're very still," she whispered, noting his closed eyes, "Odd how you can stay in the exact same position, no fidgeting at all… You haven't moved in an hour. It's quite reptilian.
He didn't open his eyes. "Could be that I'm tired."
Alex chuckled softly as she stroked the thick line of his beard, "I think our age difference is showing when one good ravaging has you knackered."
He cracked one eye open, glancing down at her with lazy amusement. "Who says I'm older?"
She lifted her head, mock offense dancing in her gaze. "Are you saying I look as old as you?" Their noses brushed, a teasing kiss of a gesture. "Have you seen a mirror lately?"
Their laughter mingled, warm and intimate.
Alex flopped onto her back with a dramatic sigh, the sheet slipping down her shoulder as she stared at the ceiling above them. "I should be exhausted. I ought to be asleep. But alas…" She turned her head to look at him, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I fear no sleep for me tonight."
Spencer sighed the way only a man could when he knew he was helpless to resist her. "All right. What do you want?"
Alex laughed, delighted. "Surely our wedding night warrants celebration. Even from a curmudgeon like you."
He gave a soft grunt. "I don't know what that means."
"It's an insult, my love," she said sweetly, propping herself on one elbow. "Meant for my amusement."
Spencer leaned over her, his eyes still half-lidded. "I know a better way to entertain you."
She arched a brow, lips curving into a slow smile. "Do tell."
Instead of answering, he showed her. Leaning in, he kissed her softly—and then again, slower still, until the wine was forgotten entirely, and the cabin filled not with laughter, but with the quiet, reverent hush of new vows sealed.
By the time the next nightfall cast its long shadows across the deck, neither Alex nor Spencer had yet left their cabin—nor, for that matter, bothered with the pretense of clothing. Time had folded in on itself, reduced to a haze of laughter and whispers, wine and skin, the kind of quiet that only follows disaster and deliverance.
Spencer propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet slung low across his hips, and reached for the slender bottle of wine the young sailor had left them the day before. He uncorked the bottle with a sharp twist, sniffed cautiously, and grimaced.
Alex watched him with the fond bemusement of a woman who had expected nothing less.
"It's a port," she said, effortlessly reclaiming the bottle and pouring a modest measure into a chipped enamel cup. "Fortified wine. Do try to keep up."
Spencer took the cup, eyeing its contents as though it might grow legs and scamper off the table. "Looks like cough syrup."
"Tastes like velvet," she countered, taking a sip of her own with the practiced elegance of someone who had spent long hours perfecting the art of appearing unbothered in drawing rooms. "We used to keep a similar decanter in the library. One sip, and suddenly discussions of foreign policy became wildly engaging."
He took a tentative swallow and winced. "That's a real sweet velvet."
"Philistine," she said with a smirk, already rummaging through the crate of rations behind her. A moment later, she produced a squat bottle of whiskey and tossed it to him without ceremony. "Here. You poor, uncultured brute."
He caught it one-handed, grinning. "You married one."
A beat passed, and then Spencer glanced toward the porthole, where the faintest glimmer of starlight whispered of the open air beyond. He shifted upright, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as he moved. "Get dressed. Let's get some air. I've had enough of being horizontal for a while."
"Scandalous," she murmured, but rose with him all the same.
They dressed—he in a borrowed navy jumper, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and she in a baggy white sweatshirt and pants that dwarfed her slim frame. They looked like two stowaways from different worlds, awkwardly disguised as sailors. And yet, in the dim glow of the corridor lanterns, there was something seamless in the way they moved together.
Up on deck, the world felt dreamlike. The bow of the ship rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, and the water lapped lazily against the hull, broken now and then by the creak of rope or timber. Lanterns flickered in the dark, casting pools of amber across the deck like fireflies held captive in glass.
The harbor lay scattered with silhouettes: merchant steamers at idle, sleek military vessels standing watch, and the elegant curve of Arab dhows drifting idly in the hush of the evening tide.
Spencer sat first, perched on a storage chest with his legs stretched out and propped comfortably on the rail. Alex climbed onto his lap without invitation or ceremony, curling into him like she'd always belonged there. His arms circled her waist, and her head tucked into the crook of his neck as if by second nature.
The Red Sea, once a violent, surging force that had nearly claimed them both, now stretched out calm and glassy beneath a vast canopy of stars.
"How strange," she murmured, "to think this is the same sea. Yesterday, it tried to drown us."
Spencer didn't answer, just kept nursing his drink.
\She said nothing more for a while. Beneath her bare feet, the deck thrummed faintly with the memory of movement, and then even that was gone. She looked inland, where the Egyptian desert loomed beyond the port in an endless expanse of shadow.
The ship crept forward at a crawl—less than five knots, by Spencer's quiet estimation, then came to a halt, the engine giving a final shudder before falling silent.
The warm wind teased her hair as she watched the world go still. "Why are we stopping?"
He watched the horizon, expression unreadable. "Ships drop anchor for the night. Too dangerous to pass through the canal at night. Gotta wait your turn."
She arched an eyebrow at the simplicity of his tone, though she had learned by now not to mistake his brevity for ignorance. Spencer could explain a world in half a sentence, if he wanted.
"Why is it dangerous?"
"No light. Too many ships. Not enough room." He took another small sip of whiskey. "Canal's only wide enough for one at a time in most places. Convoys go through in order. Could take all day."
Alex turned back to the water. The reflection of a star trembled slightly as the anchored ship rocked gently with the tide.
The shore was awash with a soft glow of light, like the last embers of a fire burning low.
Alex got off his lap, leaned against the rail and pointed toward the glow. "There's a cocoon of light hugging the port," she murmured. "What city is that?"
"Suez," Spencer replied, without needing to look.
She watched it a moment longer, struck by its gentleness. "It's beautiful," she said. "London shines so bright, it throws light across the entire harbor."
Spencer shifted slightly behind her, the wood of the rail creaking beneath his weight. "No light where we're going," he said. "Just moon and stars. And whatever you burn in the fireplace."
She turned to glance at him. "Why no lights?"
"No electricity."
She gave a small, incredulous laugh, "Next you'll tell me there's no plumbing."
Spencer didn't answer. He only looked at her, saying nothing, a slow and unreadable expression settling into his features.
She blinked once. Then again. The wind caught a few loose strands of her hair and whipped them into her eyes. She turned her face to the breeze, brushing them back with a graceful flick of her hand, and drew her conclusion aloud.
"There's no plumbing."
He shook his head slowly.
She let out a breath of laughter—more startled than amused. Then she tilted her head toward him with mock indignation, her voice low and teasing. "Fascinating," she said dryly. "The things men fail to mention when they're trying to bed you."
His lip curled faintly. "Didn't hear you ask."
"Didn't think I had to."
Spencer stepped beside Alex at the bow's railing.
"So," she turned to him, "how do we get there? To your mountain in Montana."
He was quiet for a moment, as though plotting a map in his mind. "We'll disembark at Port Said," he said eventually. "From there we book passage to Gibraltar. From there, we can find a liner bound for London, then the States."
Her brows shot up. "Port Said?" Her voice brightened with sudden familiarity. "I've been there. Our party docked overnight on our way to Kenya. Just one night."
Spencer had as well, "It's nice."
"We had coffee in a café with striped awnings—Egyptian coffee, thick as molasses, and pastries that could've come from Paris." She smiled at the recollection.
"Sounds dreamy."
"It was," she said wistfully. "And the company was insufferable. My mother insisted I wear gloves in the sun."
He chuckled softly. "I can't picture you with gloves."
"I dream of a world without them," she joked, then sent him an arched look. "What do you dream of?"
Spencer's arms were folded across his chest, his back to the rail and the sea. "I don't dream."
Alex had suspected that would be his answer, but kept her tone upbeat, "Everyone has a dream. I have plenty."
"I can take some of yours, then."
Alex laughed, nudged her shoulder against his, "I mean it. Tell me. You're my husband now. Sworn to tell me everything."
He smirked, "I don't remember that vow."
"It was in there," she assured, "Right between your vow to honor and obey me."
His scoff was amused at least, "I think you got all that shit backwards."
Alex laughed, "Then you weren't listening." She started ticking items off on her fingers, "You must tell me everything, honor me and obey me." She poked him in the chest, "You are at risk of breaking all three vows on our wedding night, something else you didn't dare mention prior to bedding me."
Spencer's voice was low, almost reluctant. "I'll tell you one," he said at last, eyes tracing hers in the soft lamplight as he reached for the loose hem of her oversized sweatshirt—somehow she made it look damn good—and gave it a gentle tug. She slid into his embrace without resistance. "I'll tell you a dream."
"In my heart," he began, his fingers drifting to the curve of her cheek, brushing the sea-wild strands of hair that clung there, "I knew it was wrong to take you."
"And everything that happened up to now was a sign, the universe telling me to put you back." His hand fists in her blonde curls. "I'm just too fucking selfish to do it." he presses his forehead to hers, "So, my dream… My dream is that the universe is wrong. And you're mine to keep."
He rested his forehead to hers, his voice barely more than breath. "So that's my dream, Alex—" his hand cupped the nape of her neck, gently— "my dream is that the universe is wrong. And that you're mine to keep."
She smiled then, nuzzling him, voice a whisper warm against his skin. "The universe has absolutely no say in the matter." Her arms slipped around his neck. "I'm following you wherever you go. Whether you like it or not."
Her fingers threaded into his hair, combing through the thick waves at the back of his neck. "Choose another dream," she murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. "That one's already come true."
But Spencer's jaw tightened faintly beneath her hands. "It's far from coming true," he said, more to himself than to her. He had married her, yes. And that alone had changed the shape of his world. But the road ahead was long—and treacherous.
She knew that look in his eye before he spoke it. She was already shaking her head before the protest could form.
"There is no putting me back," she said firmly, her palms framing his face. She kissed one cheek, then the other, soft as falling dusk. "We are one now."
He closed his eyes, deeply inhaling her intoxicating scent.
"When the sun hits your face," she whispered, brushing her lips against one cheek, then the other, "I am your shadow. And when it finds my back—you are mine."
"I go where you go," she said, pulling back to see his face, her eyes dancing. "Even if it's the death of me." That was her vow.