Nicole Jordan (18 page)

Antonia raised her head to stare at him. “You arranged that?”

“I asked Mrs. Peeke to see to it.”

“But Heward will never believe that spurious falsehood.”

“True, it’s unlikely. In fact, he’ll probably conclude—rightly—that I took you to prevent you from marrying him. He’ll doubtless be enraged that you are gone and that his goal has been thwarted. But he won’t want the world to know his enemy has you, for it makes him look impotent and could also ruin you socially—an unwanted stigma for his future bride if he can manage to salvage his marriage scheme. So I expect he’ll stick with the story of you visiting the country.”

Even with her head swimming, Antonia was able to follow Deverill’s logic and realize that it made sense. But there were others who would be concerned by her disappearance as well. “Emily . . . Lady Sudbury, will be worried sick for me.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Peeke will reassure her. And it shouldn’t be for more than a few weeks, a month or two at most.”

“Two months!” Antonia repeated weakly.

Then suddenly she gave a start, realizing that Deverill had removed his coat and was unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my blood-soaked clothing. I’ve had one hell of a night, and I intend to get some sleep.”

“You mean to sleep
here
?”

“It
is
my cabin, after all.”

Antonia glanced at the single bunk. “Then I should move to another cabin.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The one I originally put you in is damaged by smoke and needs to be scrubbed down to make it habitable.” He paused pointedly. “You remember whose fault that is, don’t you?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “You can’t expect me to sleep in the same cabin with you!”

“You can have the berth. I will put up a hammock in the corner.”

“That is totally unacceptable.”

Turning, Deverill folded his arms across his formidable chest and stood scrutinizing her. His stance was outwardly relaxed, but the look in his eye was all dominant, challenging male.

“You can scream and pout all you wish, vixen. But you’ll stay here with me, where I can keep an eye on you and prevent you from burning down my ship. After you knocked Fletcher witless, I don’t trust anyone else to guard you but me. You’ll find I’m not as easy a mark as poor Fletcher was.”

Antonia rose to her feet, silently fuming. Deverill’s attempt to protect her reputation had done little to lessen her smoldering resentment of him, and his continued provocation was enough to incite her to mayhem. But she strove to maintain a reasonably calm tone as she voiced her protest. “Surely even you realize the impropriety of such a sleeping arrangement.”

He did indeed realize the impropriety, Deverill reflected darkly as he proceeded to string a hammock in one corner of the cabin. He didn’t want to sleep here alone with Antonia, either. Not when he was so easily aroused just looking at her. But he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t attempt some other damnable stunt, one that would result in a worse injury than she’d already suffered.

Thinking of her injury made Deverill grimace. If he was any kind of gentleman, that nasty bruise on her forehead would be enough to quiet his sexual urges. He sure as hell shouldn’t be lusting after Antonia when she was hurt.

Yet seeing her now—her wild-eyed, stormy look, her cheeks flushed with temper—he wanted badly to turn that ire to passion. He wanted to strip her of her gown, stretch her out naked in his bunk, and spend what was left of the night making love to her. Just the thought was enough to drive his throbbing manhood tight against his breeches.

Deverill cursed silently. He didn’t want to want her this way. Rather, he should be remembering the accusation she’d thrown at his head only moments ago, when she’d accused him of murder.

But then, he understood why she had lashed out with wounded fury and knew he had to make allowances. She hadn’t asked for any of this—her revered father conceivably murdered, her own life in danger, an abduction in the middle of the night, a blow to her head that had rendered her unconscious. . . .

With a jerk, Deverill shed his shirt, then sat in the stuffed leather wing chair to remove his shoes and breeches.

Antonia watched him wide-eyed, tensing when he wadded up his blood-soiled clothing and tossed the bundle in the wastebasket.

“If you want to burn something,” he said dryly, “you can burn those.”

She scarcely heard his comment, though, for Deverill was now wearing only his drawers. He was apparently unconcerned with the lack of privacy, yet her senses jolted at the sight of that sleek, heavy body half naked.

He was broad and lean and hard, with muscles rippling under the smooth skin of his chest, sinews chording his arms. There were wicked patterns of crisscrossing scars on parts of his torso, but despite the ugly disfigurement, his body was sinfully, beautifully male. It was alarming how badly she wanted to touch him.

When he stood, he glanced her way. “Don’t you intend to undress?”

Antonia had to clear her throat before she could speak. “No, of course not. Surely you realize I have no clothing other than the gown I am wearing.”

Deverill’s green eyes gleamed at her. “I will be happy to loan you a nightshirt.”

“I am not about to undress with you in the same room.”

“Please yourself. But it will be two and a half days before we arrive. I thought you might want to keep your gown fresh until Lady Isabella can supply you with more.”

“I will make do,” she said stiffly.

To her surprise, Deverill crossed the cabin to her. With determination, Antonia stood her ground, but his starkly masculine appeal was having a deplorable effect on her weakened senses. The scent of his bare skin, warm and faintly musky, assailed her, making her impossibly aware of his heat and vibrancy, while the span of his naked, hard-muscled chest made her feel small and utterly feminine.

Her body reacted to his nearness as well. Her breasts suddenly became acutely sensitive against her bodice, while a treacherous tremor of desire pulsed between her thighs.

Deverill apparently noticed her growing arousal when his gaze drifted down her body. “You might want to reconsider. That muslin gown is almost as revealing as my nightshirt would be.”

Antonia drew a sharp breath, realizing he could clearly see the sharp points of her nipples through the thin fabric.

Her lips parted wordlessly, and she took a step back, but came up against the bunk.

Deverill smiled knowingly before shaking his head. “I told you, sweeting, I don’t intend to ravish you. I wouldn’t even if you begged me to.”

“Beg you . . .” Antonia’s eyes widened, and she nearly sputtered. “You arrogant lout. I am not about to beg you. And if you dare touch me—”

Provocatively, he tapped a gentle finger on her nose. “Easy, love. I’m putting out the lantern. Get into bed. You need to rest after that blow to your head.”

She obeyed, although mutinously, cursing Deverill beneath her breath all the while. She had never met a man so abominably sure of himself. She took off her half boots and stockings, then slid beneath the covers.

A mistake, she shortly realized. The cabin was warm, even with the porthole window open.

Suddenly darkness enveloped them, and she heard the creak of the hammock ropes as Deverill settled in.

Quietly she pushed off the blankets, leaving only the sheet, and turned her back to Deverill.

But it was awkward, being in the dark with him, in the same small enclosed space. His cabin was not much larger than the gazebo at home. . . .

Antonia shivered at the reminder. Her body tingled as she remembered the way he had touched her, aroused her that day. She was aching just thinking about the pleasure he had given her.

Trying to force away the memory, Antonia buried her face in the pillow.

After a few long moments, she could hear Deverill’s deep, even breathing. Yet she still had difficulty falling asleep—and not simply because of the unfamiliar pitch of the ship, or the appalling possibility that her father had actually been murdered by her betrothed, or the dismay she felt at her abduction, or her fury at Deverill for betraying her trust.

But also because Deverill had promised that he had no intention of ravishing her. And somehow that smarted almost as much as all the other indignities he’d subjected her to thus far.

Eight

Waking alone in the cabin, Antonia winced at the bright sunshine streaming through the porthole window, then groaned upon recalling the events that had brought her here.

For a moment she lay unmoving, taking stock of her predicament. She had slept fitfully, and her body felt bruised, but at least her head didn’t ache quite so abominably.

Her heart was another matter entirely.

Determined to keep despair from overwhelming her, she rose slowly and made her toilet at the washstand. She had no brush, so she borrowed one that must be Deverill’s and tied her hair back with a piece of twine she purloined from his desk. His shaving mirror showed her that the right side of her forehead was sporting a large, purple-black bruise, but her appearance was the least of her concerns.

Wondering if she was his prisoner, Antonia went to the door. To her surprise, she found it unlocked.

And to her startlement, the old man who had milled her senseless last night stood in the corridor, hand raised as if preparing to knock.

His bronzed, weathered face drew up in a scowl when he saw her. “I brought yer breakfast,” he muttered.

Last night, Antonia remembered, Deverill had addressed her assaulter as Fletcher. She stepped aside warily, allowing him entrance. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, missy. ’Tis my punishment for flooring ye. But I didn’t ken I could stand by an’ watch ye clout his nibs.”

“His nibs?”

“Cap’n Deverill. He was right unhappy that I scuttled yer nob, but ye had just done the same to me. I’m right sorry for that.”

She supposed he was apologizing for hitting her on the head. “I am sorry I hit you, too, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Just Fletcher, if ye don’t mind. Name’s Fletcher Shortall, but I’m not partial to the short part.” He set the tray down on the desk. “I’d say we’re even with the mufflers. ’Course, at the time I didn’t know who ye were.”

“And that would have made a difference?”

“Aye. Ye’re Sam Maitland’s gel.”

“You knew my father?”

“Not him. Know his ships, though. Ye’re safer in a Maitland vessel than any craft on the seas. So ye can’t be all bad.”

Antonia managed a smile. “I normally don’t go about, er, scuttling perfect strangers, but I was desperate. I suspect you would have acted similarly if you had just realized you were being abducted.”

“Mayhap I would. But his nibs took ye for your own sake. There’s a bad man after ye.”

Her smile faded. “Deverill told you about that?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Didn’t say much. Just that yer both in the suds.” He gestured at the tray. “Eat yer breakfast now, missy. ’Tisn’t grand, but it’s tasty. I’m standing in as cook this voyage. We’re shorthanded, having to leave port so sudden-like. Now, if ye’ll give me leave to go, I’m ter clean up the cabin where ye set that blaze.”

Feeling a trifle guilty, Antonia sent him a rueful look. “I expect I should be the one to clean it, since I made the mess. Especially if you are shorthanded.”

He looked startled by her offer. “But yer a lady. And like I said, ’tis my punishment. I have to fancy up the cabin so ye can sleep there tonight.”

It was a small consolation, Antonia reflected, that Deverill evidently hadn’t liked their sleeping arrangements last night any more than she had. When the old sailor turned toward the door, she stopped him. “Fletcher, am I a prisoner here? Am I required to remain belowdecks?”

“His nibs said ye could go topside if ye like. Just don’t get in the way of the crew. And take care ye don’t get too close to the rail, if ye please. If ye’re hurt again, he’ll have my nob on a platter.”

The breakfast
was
tasty, Antonia discovered. Oat porridge, smoked ham, wheat-flour cakes instead of the usual sailor’s hardtack, and a mug of ale. And
she was unaccountably hungry. She felt better after the nourishment as well.

Afterward, she took the tray above decks. She knew enough about a ship’s design to locate the small galley, where she left the tin breakfast dishes.

Then she made her way to the starboard bow, where she would have a good view of the ocean and the distant coast of England. She spied several seamen scurrying about the decks. And standing at the wheel was the man she’d last night heard addressed as Captain Lloyd. There was no sign of Deverill, however.

Seeing the gray-blue waves rushing past the sleek ship’s hull, Antonia couldn’t help feeling an unexpected surge of elation. It was a glorious morning, with sunlight sparkling on the vast expanse of whitecapped sea and a brisk wind billowing the tall sails overhead, even though it was chilly enough to make her realize she should have worn her cloak.

The truth was that she loved being on a ship. She had always longed to sail the open seas, always envied men like Deverill their freedom. She’d hungered for adventure her entire life.