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‘One would wonder.’
Somehow, through the process of the conversation or mayhap the pitch and fall of the ship’s motion, they’d become closer. The wooden bowl still remained between them, but their bodies angled, almost touched, and in an odd, confusing urge she had no way to explain, she yearned to lay her head upon his shoulder and draw from his steady support and relax into his strength. Anything to quiet the clamouring churn of her stomach.
‘Running from things hardly solves the problem.’
His voice dropped an octave and a tremor coursed through her to settle deep and remind of her cashmere blanket, a gift from her father when he’d travelled to India several years ago. She treasured that blanket, not just for its warmth and sentimental value, but its unique comfort. Whenever she missed her mother or allowed sadness to grip her heart, she’d wrap herself tight in the incredible softness and dream herself to sleep. How odd his voice would console with equal measure.
‘Are we still discussing my unfortunate appearance upon this ship?’ She honestly couldn’t be sure.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter overmuch. I’m sure you’ve a bevy of suitors to demand your attention, no matter your small family. Anyone would notice you’re a beautiful woman.’ He didn’t turn; still, the impact of his words echoed with sincerity.
That may have been the nicest thing a man had ever said to her. Lord, she must look her worst, skin clammy and sea-green. She’d managed not to cast up her stomach, though every minute the battle waged stronger and, despite the quivery sensation deep in her abdomen, the mortifying feeling, the one that said she would most certainly make use of that bowl before evening’s end, another part of her, separate and not as impacted by the rigorous turbulence, tucked his kind words away for later.
She took a minute to admire his profile in the lantern’s glow. He possessed a strong chin and aristocratic nose. High, sharp cheekbones composed a distinctly handsome face. She knew his eyes to be cerulean, bluer than every shade and depth of the ocean surrounding their voyage, yet nothing could overshadow the beauty of his hair, dark gold threaded through with fairer strands that glistened like captured starlight.
Running. She’d never considered it, but Crispin spoke with such affirmation she was tempted to enquire from what he ran.
‘So, you need to return to England for your wedding then?’
She might have corrected his preposterous presumptions, but the ship dove and plunged, uplifted with a brave hurdle, and when she opened her mouth to answer, she gagged, a dry heave of embarrassment and insipient nausea.
‘Does the mention of marriage always evoke that reaction?’ Humour laced his words and he slanted a mischievous glance in her direction. ‘I possess the same opinion.’
She gulped some air. ‘You have an unconventional viewpoint.’
‘I warned you. I’m not a good man.’ This was said matter-of-factly and then nothing more.
The sparse calm between turbulent shifts had ceased and, before she’d recovered, the galleon rolled left, suspended by a wailing surge before it righted to a vertical position. In a moment of unexpected boldness or abject fear, she lifted her palm from where it lay braced on the floor and gripped his shirt sleeve. Her first thought was of heated strength, the muscles of his forearm under her fingertips hard and unyielding, but then his body shifted at her touch and became pliant and infinitely welcoming.
To her dismay, all was lost after that. The first retch gripped her with tactless discourtesy and she reached for the wooden bowl as the galleon gave a sharp jerk. She might have found herself as helpless and adrift as a piece of flotsam had Crispin not caught her at the shoulders. He hauled her to his side, in an inelegant but effective motion, and wrapped her braid around his fist so it wouldn’t fall forward into the bowl she’d positioned on her lap.
Nothing emerged despite her harsh convulsions and when the wave of nausea passed, she croaked out her own attempt at levity. ‘See. I knew you to be a good man.’
His hands held her firm, braced to offer support and comfort, despite the floor tilted and the storm raged on. When his hold eased, she tried to reclaim her portion of the floor until, all of a sudden, she doubled over, a retched gargle of bile and whatever little contents were left inside her expelled alongside her mortification.
Tendrils of humiliation crept up her spine. She longed to sink through the floor to the bottom of the ocean. Anything to hide from the self-censure and embarrassment of vomiting in front of this man who’d done nothing but rescue her since she’d stepped aboard the ship. Anchored by his hold on her shoulders, her hair tight in his grasp, she pressed her lips closed and eased back against the hard wood wall.
‘Now we’re done with that…’ Crispin slid his eyes to the left, wary of how Amanda would accept his assistance. Ladies were delicate with matters males dismissed out of hand. Men drank too much, expelled their rotten gut into a nearby potted plant and reached for another drink of the same poison. The fairer sex became disconcerted when the lace on their sleeve wrinkled.
He dared another assessing glance. The worst of it seemed past, though there was no way to be sure. Perhaps he should see her to the bed. His mouth quirked as he suppressed a smile amused by a different circumstance than the norm. Not that Amanda conjured those kinds of thoughts. Thoughts of soft, fragrant skin, lush curves and seductive kisses. Nothing of the kind actually. Her hair was matted from perspiration, the braid tangled and partially unravelled, and despite she’d expelled next to nothing from her stomach, the last image she would evoke was one of a romantic nature.
Ferris was to blame. His nonstop lament over the lack of female companionship aboard the ship must have instigated Crispin’s wayward thinking, because even embarrassed and the worse for wear, at the peak of a serious bout of seasickness, Amanda remained delightfully attractive.
‘I must look and smell repellant.’
Her raspy admission broke him from his mental reverie. Heaving a breath more to cleanse his thinking than to clear his lungs, he lifted her into his arms, stalking cautiously across the floorboards to the bed, mindful in case the ocean should attempt a pitch of tomfoolery for good measure.
‘You’d do well to stay put.’ Her sorrowful green eyes beseeched him as he spoke, apparently still dazed by his sudden effort as he placed her on the narrow mattress. ‘I believe we may have battled the worst of the storm, but there’s no way to know and I’m certainly not going to investigate at the moment. Why don’t you lie quietly? Try to rest. Close your eyes if you can bear it.’
‘What will you do?’
Did she worry on his behalf? He leaned in to offer reassurance. ‘I’ll sit in this chair and—’
The ship asserted a portside roll and he stumbled forward, catching himself from a teetering collapse at the last opportunity lest he’d have tumbled atop her on the mattress. The situation as it was, was highly improper; a bachelor’s private quarters, a naïve, unchaperoned miss who believed herself in love, more be it the most foolish notion as she hurried home to England, a disillusioned rogue who considered affection akin to the plague. He remained nose to nose, eyebrows to eyebrows, perched above the narrow mattress, a scarce hair’s breadth apart.
He drew a long, unsteady breath that had nothing to do with his precarious position and the ocean’s continual turbulence and everything to do with her startled green gaze.
Very pretty eyes, at that.
Her lashes lowered and he wondered at her thoughts. Had they wandered towards avenues other than the complications of storm and stowaway? The moment ended as abruptly as it had begun and he righted himself, taking extreme care not to touch, though the temptation insisted like a fever in his blood.
The very devil.
‘Pardon.’ He didn’t say more and pivoted on his heel, no longer surefooted. ‘I’ve just the thing.’
He walked to the stacked trunks in the corner, shoved the first aside and straightened the second. Removing a key from his trouser pocket he unlocked the trunk and unbuckled the leather straps, to at last open the lid with caution should the ship conspire to foil his efforts. Rummaging through the assorted contents, he withdrew an embossed leather case, unbuttoned the closure and recovered a tin of tooth powder, along with a tortoiseshell comb, cake of soap and square of clean linen.
‘I realize this is highly irregular.’ He returned his attention to the bed, prepared to offer her use of his personal toiletries, but his words died away, arrested as her peaceful repose.
She’d fallen asleep. He would have doubted it possible considering the erratic rhythm of his heart and considerable upheaval of prevailing stormy weather, but from exhaustion or escape she slept soundly now. He placed the items on the table, a bit more disappointed than he anticipated, before he closed the trunk and attempted to find rest in the hard, spindle-backed chair.
Amanda feigned sleep, willing her soul to quiet, convinced the unusual circumstances were to blame for the unrelenting conflicted emotion she experienced. When Crispin had stumbled and almost fallen atop her on the bed, she’d anticipated the contact rather than prepared to ward him off. When he’d caught himself, a misplaced pang of disappointment riddled through her. Clearly her disastrous bout of seasickness wreaked havoc on her sensibilities. It posed the only intelligent explanation.
This muddle of disputed logic carried her into a fitful sleep and when she awoke, the ship had quieted significantly, on course with her pulse. She rolled to her side and peered across the murky interior, the single flame from the lantern on the table the only source of light. The hour remained late.
Crispin sprawled in an unforgiving chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded atop his chest. With regret, the pose promised aches and pains come morning and the realization pierced her as sharply as a well-aimed arrow.
How selfish of her to claim his bed. How chivalrous of him to sacrifice on her behalf. She smiled with the knowledge he’d showed her the consideration. With her grin in place she lay back onto the pillow and drifted softly into sleep once more.
When next she woke, he was gone, the lamp extinguished. Muted daylight leaked into the room via the open corridor. A new day dawned. She sat up, tested her stomach’s resilience with the motion and found her constitution returned and intact. Her eyes fell to the table and his proffered kindness. Tender appreciation drenched her at the sight.
He was a good man.
A tortoiseshell comb waited beside soap, clean linen, a glass of water and small tin of tooth powder. Her fingers shot to her braid, at work immediately to unravel the matted strands.
Crispin rocked on his boot-heels, his eyes on the horizon. A lazy glimmer, not unlike his mood, seamed the precipice where sky and ocean became one. As was his habit, he waited for the new day, only this time he didn’t so much contemplate his personal situation as much as the woman locked away in his private quarters. They were only two days into a three-week voyage. How long would he be able to perpetuate the charade?
And more importantly, why should he risk his reputation, freedom and future for a stranger who fancied herself in love, anxious to return to her beau in London? He was not that man, the noble-hearted hero of whom poets composed ballads or taverngoers created bawdy songs. When he’d fled London, his pride in tatters, he’d had but one thought: to recoup his losses and return to England to restore his good name. Redemption and vindication. He wouldn’t only repay his debt. He’d return to the Underworld, nothing more than a disreputable house of sin, and reclaim his reputation.
Vivienne and Maxwell Sinclair, be damned.
If the lady chose a bastard over pristine heritage, he could do little more than wall his heart and refuse emotion to penetrate. He’d accomplished each of these goals.
Still, his family deserved better. First, he would clear his enormous debt at the gaming hell with the wealth he’d accumulated in Venice.
As of a few days prior, all seemed neat and as intended. Even Ferris’s unexpected accompaniment hadn’t disrupted his plans. Therefore, he would not allow Amanda to rearrange a homecoming ten months in the making.
Some uninvited, niggling voice chided he should enquire as to her intentions once the voyage ended. A young woman could not hie into the streets of London without escort or security.
‘She reminds me of Sophie. Led by the romantic notion of love and powered by impetuous energy.’
‘Of whom do you speak?’ Ferris’s rich baritone sounded overly intrusive in the stillness of the dawn.
‘I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.’ Crispin turned and eyed his friend.
Ferris joined him at the rail, a curious expression on his face, though his eyes were clear and his face shaven aside from the dark scurf on his chin.
‘My sister.’ Crispin purposely confused the question. ‘Sophie thinks with her heart not her head.’
‘Si. The improved version of you, with a much more appealing figure.’ Ferris moved his hands in a shapely silhouette of luscious feminine curves, his brows a-waggle.
‘Sophie is slim, intelligent and forthright.’ Crispin stifled a laugh. ‘Not your type at all.’
His friend allowed a chuckle and leaned against the well-worn railing as he dismissed the subject. ‘If you say so, amico. You should forget the one who hurt your heart. If Venice didn’t cure you, there’s no use for it. Women are like butterflies, pretty to see and difficult to contain. Set her free. Enjoy the moment.’
Relieved Ferris did not pursue exactitude in clarifying what he’d overheard, Crispin promptly changed the subject. ‘Wicked storm last night. How did you fair?’
‘With a glass of brandy and little discomfort.’ He slanted a glance, another question alive in his eyes. ‘I expected camaraderie. What happened?’
Somehow the conversation had taken an ill-advised roundabout. ‘I was caught portside when the worst of the storm struck and barely managed to find cover in a cofferdam. At least I was protected from the onslaught of ravaging wind.’ Was his embellishment sufficient or overmuch? ‘I hunkered down without a plan and waited it out. Only a fool would venture above deck in that gale.’
‘Perhaps.’ Ferris remained quiet for a long moment, though his gaze was unrelenting. ‘But it’s passed now, eh?’ He wagged his chin at the rising sun. ‘A new day dawns. Who knows what one will discover?’
Crispin didn’t reply, unwilling to fuel Ferris’s imagination, or worse, increase his doubt.
Chapter Six (#u2b54607f-70a3-52ce-b648-a92d62979884)
Amanda strode the length of the room, practising her stride in a pair of ill-fitted purloined breeches. She’d availed the tawny garment from the trunk Crispin left unlocked in the corner, spied after she’d made use of the items he’d left graciously on the table. How heavenly to feel clean, as clean as possible without a bath, breath freshened, hair combed and plaited, her face and hands scrubbed. It was after her makeshift toilette that she’d noticed the ugly stains on her skirt, a reminder of utter mortification when she’d emptied the contents of her stomach in front of a handsome gentleman.
She rolled the waistband of the trousers a third time and took a few more strides before she pivoted to cross the floor on the diagonal. He was handsome, wasn’t he? And exceptionally kind. He’d helped her through her seasickness, his voice a deep, lulling tone, almost tender, as he wiped her brow and held her shoulders firm, yet all the while possessing a gentleness that revealed the greatest fragility in his care.
She tucked in the hem of her chemise and the tails of the white linen shirt she’d also borrowed from the trunk. Crispin’s clothing smelled good, fresh with starch and a hint of bergamot. She buried her nose a little deeper into the cloth at her shoulder and inhaled again. Did his skin smell this wonderful or was it the other way around, his clothing offering the scent? With hope, he would understand her liberties in borrowing the garments in the same fashion as the items he’d left. She’d used the cake of shaving soap and remaining water to scrub her skirts clean, and once they dried she’d redress with little complaint. Perhaps she’d never need explain at all if he kept from the quarters longer than a few hours. Though that reality didn’t sit well. She didn’t rummage further than necessary, but if Crispin had a book or two in his trunks, she would thank him graciously. Boredom and restlessness were a constant battle. Perhaps she could venture above deck if she wore breeches instead of a gown.
A sturdy knock brought her eyes to the door. Two beats and then a pause and two more.
Crispin. They’d decided on the knock as a code in one of the many conversations shared in an attempt to calm her queasy stomach.
Now, she opened the latch and stepped away, anxious to see his reaction.
‘Those are my breeches? Are those my breeches?’
His incredulous questions and startled reaction had her smile inching higher. ‘Yes. They’re yours.’
‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘That’s worse.’
‘I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to wear while my gown dried. It was stained from…well, it was stained.’ She motioned to where her yellow day gown lay draped over the spindle-backed chair.
‘This is highly irregular.’
‘Then you do mind.’ Her voice dipped with disappointment. She hadn’t meant to displease him. At present, her world had become rather small and narrowed down to interaction with one person only.
‘I didn’t say that.’
Funny how his tone suggested the exact opposite. Whatsoever could be the problem? The situation was only temporary and it wasn’t as though she could sit around in her chemise waiting for her gown to dry. ‘Surely the sight of a woman in trousers shouldn’t come as a shock. You claim to be a notorious rakehell. I’d gamble you’ve seen women in all states of undress.’ She couldn’t resist the jibe. The look on his face worth every word.
‘I’ve said no such thing. But I have,’ he added belatedly. His eyes skimmed over her a third time and she wondered at his peculiar reaction. ‘I just didn’t expect you. In more ways than one.’
‘I’ll only wear them a bit longer, then I’ll take them off.’ She placed her hands on her hips for lack of somewhere else to put them. Had she chosen the wrong words? His eyes flashed brilliant and blue against his long lashes.
Crispin swallowed thoughtfully, his tongue thick and mind blank all of a sudden. The last thing he expected when walking into his quarters was to find Amanda dressed in his breeches and shirt, the sheer white linen no disguise for her lacy chemise beneath. If he stared too long he swore he could see the outline of her breasts, the delicate points of her nipples a dangerous lure.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She canted her head to the side, apparently confused at his silence. ‘I don’t have any clothes.’
He groaned and cleared his throat in an effort to evoke vocabulary.
‘Since I have no clothes—’
‘Stop saying that.’ He matched her eyes and then looked towards the far corner, focused on alleviating the growing situation in his smalls.
‘Why do you keep looking away? I didn’t think your breeches looked so terrible on me.’ She strode to the cheval glass and eyed her profile. He told himself not to watch.
‘They don’t.’ He dashed a smile as he watched. ‘This reminds of something my sister, Sophie, would do.’
‘Honestly, men have all the advantages. I rather like breeches. They offer so much unencumbered freedom. I’m always getting tangled in my skirts.’ She bent over and touched her toes. ‘Just look how easily that was accomplished.’
Caught on the lovely curve of her bottom, he was slow to respond. Then, tearing his gaze away, his answer came out too forcefully. ‘Indeed. You’re of Sophie’s mind. Upset with the imbalance.’
‘Men can gamble, drink, stay out late and ride astride.’
She rambled these off, caught up in the subject no matter he couldn’t stop staring at her body in his clothes. Worse yet, the reminder that her skin wore what he might, that her scent would linger, did nothing to tamp down unbidden desire. ‘I didn’t invent the rules. I just break them.’ He offered a devilish smile, determined to recover the upper hand.
‘I very much like breeches. I may try to go above deck in these.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. One look at that pert nose and sassy chin and every man on this ship would be panting after you.’ He swallowed, guilty of the very same accusation.
‘But I’m bored within these walls.’ She tossed her braid over her shoulder and paced a length, then back again.
He didn’t miss the swish of her hips, outlined nicely by the clingy wool. If she continued to parade around in front of him he would be forced to leave…eventually.
‘You might have considered that before you chose to stow away. Did you think you could have run of the ship? Blend in with the passengers and never be questioned?’ He waved his hand for emphasis though it might very well be true. How would anyone know if she was aboard? She could likely take her meals and walk the deck without ever being challenged. It was his own selfishness that kept her locked away. And then, of course, there was the matter of Ferris.
Albeit safety for a woman, never mind a proper young beautiful miss, alone and unprotected, was madness in every sense.
‘I’m not so sure.’ She gave him a pleading stare that did strange things to his insides.
‘I’ll make it a point to return later. Perhaps we can play cards to pass the time. Then you won’t be so bored. Is that amenable?’ He could at least make an effort.
‘Oh yes.’ She brightened, the lamplight catching a gleam in her eyes. He didn’t dare approach to examine the effect closer.
