My Own True Love (15 page)

******************

She found a clean shift to sleep in and left it on the bed while she braided her damp hair. She planned to have the lantern out and be in bed before Lewis got back to the wagon, but her luck didn't hold. He walked in just as she was pulling the shift over her head.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath and knew he got a good view of everything even though it took her only moments to cover her body. It wasn't that she was particularly body conscious, except that she was very aware of Lewis Morgan's body. She wished the linen shift wasn't so thin because he could no doubt see that her nipples were puckered into hard peaks. When she saw the hot gleam in his bright blue eyes she knew that he'd liked what he'd seen. She supposed it would be downright stupid to ask him what he was looking at.

"I'm, uh, going to bed now," she told him. "Good night."

He stepped forward. The
bardo
was small and narrow, and it took him only two steps to reach her.

The wagon was crowded; there was nowhere to go when he put his hands on her hips and shoved her down on the bed. The bed was just barely large enough for the two of them. His body pinned hers and his fingers flew, untying the drawstring she'd barely had time to fasten. The gown was halfway off and his mouth had closed around her left breast before she knew what had happened.

"Now, wait a minute .. . you can't.. ." She pulled on his hair. The tip of his tongue flicked across her nipple. Sparks flew to the very core of her and very nearly disconnected her brain. Her back arched up as he continued to tease and suckle the sensitive tip.

"Oh, yes," she breathed. "Very nice."

He weighted the other breast in his hand, kneaded it, made slow circles with his palm. Then he raised his head to look at her, while his hand moved down to the juncture of her legs.

The look of triumph in his eyes restored her to her senses. She kept her legs clamped firmly shut. She shook her head. "Get off me," she said. "Get off me or I scream."

"I want you," he said, voice rough with desire.

She could feel him against her thigh, hot and hard. "I know." She pushed at his shoulders. "You can't have me." His hand probed. He kissed her throat. Her blood simmered beneath the skin where he touched her. "No," she said, with more conviction than she felt. "I'm going to scream now." She filled her lungs with air.

Lewis sat up, too quickly; he ended up falling off the bed. The floor shook at his hard landing. He looked up at the girl, seething with need and anger. "What is the matter with you?" he demanded. "Do you want me or not?" He was tempted to force her, to give her what he knew she wanted. "No one will come if you scream," he pointed out. "You're my wife."

"We've been through that."

She pulled her shift up over her lovely, soft breasts. She was shaking. She stared at him with eyes as round as saucers and full of turbulent emotions. He didn't know whether she was reacting from anger or wanting him. It occurred to him that it might be fear. He didn't want her to be afraid. He supposed he'd frightened her enough already.

The thought was enough to kill desire, or at least shame him out of the notion of forcing her. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, as much to reassure himself as her.

Sara considered reminding him that everything he'd done to bring them to this place, this situation, had hurt her. But she saw no use in beating the subject to death at the moment. Talking about it wouldn't change his callous disregard for her. She did say, "You don't want me, just a body."

He didn't deny it. He flashed the charming Toma grin. "It's a very enticing body."

"I'll try not to expose it anymore," she promised. Damn it, she was talking to him!

"I don't mind."

She scooted down on the bed. It was too hot for a blanket but she pulled one over her anyway. She wanted all the barriers she could get. "I'm going to sleep now," she said, and rolled over. She hated having her back to him—it made her feel vulnerable— but it was also a denial of his presence. She registered darkness on her eyelids when he blew out the lamp. She heard his steady breathing for hours.

Eventually she drifted off to sleep.

She found a sheathed knife on the pillow beside her when she woke up. Lewis Morgan was gone from the wagon. She held the knife in her hands for some time, not sure what he meant by leaving it for her. She wondered if it was a joke, some sort of mock protection against his unwanted advances. They both knew he wouldn't have any trouble disarming her if he wanted to. Still, she had to admit she felt better when she tucked the knife between the mattress and the wall where it would be close if she ever needed it.

Fog would be a blessing,
Lewis thought, looking up at the clear night sky. It was too late for the smuggling ship to turn back now; they were well out in the Channel, prey for the taking by French or British navy. Lewis tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that smugglers had plied the trade between the coasts of the two countries for hundreds of years. The brandy merchants weren't going to let such a paltry thing as a blockade interfere with their business. He hoped. He had to get into France. He didn't want this to take any more time than necessary. He was responsible for all these people's safety—

Lord, where had that thought come from?

He wound his fingers tightly around the ship's railing. Sailors moved like wraiths across the deck, only moonlight shone to light their path; rigging and timber creaked. The gypsies and their possessions were crowded into the hold, well out of everyone's way. The water was far from calm, but the choppiness was not unusual for the English Channel. There was nothing he could do; the crossing was out of his hands.

He hated not being in control of every situation but tried to resign himself. He might as well get some sleep.

He went down into the hold. His father had sent him to sea young, so he'd had years to get used to the inconveniences of life on board ship. He paid no attention to the rats whose eyes glittered evilly out of the dark, but took a lantern from a peg near the stairs and used it to find his way to his own wagon.

The interior of the
bardo
was stifling hot. Sara lay curled on the bed, retching feebly. Lewis shook his head and put the lantern down beside the clothes chest. He took a silver flask out of the chest.

He sat down beside the seasick girl and brushed hair out of her sweat-streaked face. "A drink might help," he told her. He held the flask to her lips. She pushed it away.

Dramamine would help, she thought. "I want to go home." She groaned. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone. "I don't like boats."

He propped her up and presented the flask again. "Drink this."

She screwed her eyes shut. "Go away."

"No."

The sea kept rolling beneath them. She'd never experienced anything more turbulent than a waterbed.

This was the water bed from hell. The last thing she wanted was anything in her stomach. "I'll just throw up."

He made gentle circles on her temple with his fingertips. "Trust me." He pressed the rim of the flask to her lips. She took a drink.

The stuff burned down her raw throat and exploded in her empty stomach. It went straight to her head. She took another quick gulp. Numbness was replacing pain. "Can I die now?" she requested. He urged another drink on her. She didn't argue.

It didn't take more than five swallows before she passed out in his arms. She wouldn't feel any better when she woke, but at least the brandy would help her get some rest. Lewis settled down beside her. He held her in his arms, and hoped the rhythm of the sea would relax him.

She fitted neatly against him. Despite the heat he found the warmth of her body comforting. The last two days had been miserable. She'd shared the wagon seat with him as they traveled the road to Dover.

She'd fixed him his meals, she slept in the wagon, but she spent every possible moment in the company of Molly and Beth. Or she'd practiced her guitar.

She'd even played for a group of sailors at a dock-side tavern while the ship was being loaded. Other women had moved among the crowd telling fortunes, but as Lewis stood in the doorway watching, he'd been all too aware of the lustful attention directed at the girl with the guitar. He hadn't liked it one bit, even if his own attitude was just as lustful. He'd wanted to drag her out of the tavern and remind her that she wasn't just any man's whore, she was his. Except he wasn't quite sure what he meant, and she hadn't even noticed the men watching her. She never noticed anything when she was playing. He was beginning to wish she'd turn the same look of concentrated devotion on him as she did on the wood and wire instrument.

"Silly creature," he whispered, and kissed the side of her throat. Her skin was salty with sweat, and delicious. He buried his face in her hair and twined his fingers around her right hand. Odd, how he enjoyed being beside her. She was a criminal of the lowest class, and insane to boot, but sometimes he thought she might just be—

"Your own true love."

Lewis didn't know where the voice came from, but he denied it instantly. "Don't be absurd."

"Trust me on this one."

Sara shivered violently before he could form another thought. She pulled away from him with a miserable groan. She heaved upward, leaning over the side of the bed. "Oh, God, I'm gonna hurl!"

Lewis searched for a basin while Sara began to retch. As he hunted around in the dark, barking his shins on the clothes chest, he decided that no matter how long the actual crossing took, this was going to be the longest voyage of his life.

******************

He gestured her to silence. Even though they were alone in their wagon, the door was open and he worried about being overheard. "No," he admitted, leaning close to whisper the word. He looked at the paper. She'd asked for things to write with. He'd purchased the paper, ink, and quills in a village outside Le Havre while the gypsy caravan moved inland. Then he'd written a few lines from a poem across the top of the first sheet of paper.

"Is this English?" she asked, squinting at the scrawled words.

"It's Byron," he answered. "I'll wager you really can't read."

Sara gave him a superior look, then put the paper back on top of the chest, inked the quill, and began writing beneath his lines. It took her some time, some swearing, much ink spattered, and she tore through the paper completely with the quill point once, but she did produce legible words.

"'She walks in beauty like the night,'" he read when she was done. "'Of cloudless climes and starry skies.' What's this?" he asked.

"Byron," she said with a proud toss of her head. "I don't know the rest of it."

If there was one thing he knew, it was Byron. In fact, he knew Byron. He was a rakeshame scoundrel with a way with words. Lewis would not want to introduce Byron to Sara. "That's not Byron."

"Is too. I remember some English actor reading it on a PBS show about British literature. I only watched it because
Quantum Leap
got preempted for a hockey game."

"Not Byron," he insisted.

"He probably hasn't written it yet," she countered with her usual mad certainty. "I probably had to read it in high school, too."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "That brings up an interesting point. Who taught you to read? And write? Was it Richie?"

Sara was not surprised by his thunderous frown. The man had been acting distinctly weird for days.

He kept
looking
at her. The only description she could think of for that look was darkly proprietary. It couldn't be easy for anyone with eyes as bright blue as Lewis Morgan's to manage dark looks, but he was getting better at it all the time. "Jealous?" she asked, only partly serious.

"Yes," Lewis answered before he could stop himself. His grip tightened on her shoulder. "Who taught you to read?"

Sara couldn't remember a time when she couldn't read. "My parents, I guess. And
Sesame Street."

Wait a minute, she thought, why was he jealous?

"Guess."

The ring hadn't said anything in days. She wasn't interested in talking to it now.

"Your father can no more read than—"

"Sara, dear, I brought my Bible for Beth's reading lesson," Molly announced as she stepped up to the wagon. "Where's Beth?" she asked as Lewis automatically put a hand out to help her inside. "Thank you, Toma, dear. He's such a gentleman," Molly added to Sara. "So like the late Mr. Macalpine." She gave them a benign smile as she settled on the edge of the bed. She passed the heavy, leather-bound Bible to Sara. "I must say I'm amazed at how quickly you learned to read, child. I remember that time last year when you sneaked into the Blue Rose when that Bow Street Runner was looking for you. I tried to teach you a few verses from the good book but you just cried and cried and said it made your head hurt."

Sara twisted her fingers together. "Yes, well, that was last year."

She refused to look at Lewis. She would just encounter a triumphant smirk from the aristocratic spy.

It was odd, she thought, how they were honest with each other in private, but they both played the public roles of a young married couple. She just knew that it was easier to pretend with others than it was with Lewis, even if he didn't believe her. Of course, it was safer to pretend to be the girl they thought she was, and so satisfying to irritate her pretend husband with the truth.

"And I'm so glad you've mended your wicked ways, my girl," Molly went on. "And found this fine, loving man."

Lewis's hand landed on her shoulder again, so she exchanged a falsely adoring look with him, playing to their small audience. "Yes," she said with a strained smile. "Isn't it? Don't you have to go practice juggling sharp, possibly lethal, objects, darling?" she added to her erstwhile husband.