If she ever discovered his identity, he would be doing nothing with her.
He shook his head, made himself chuckle as if what he felt were merely pangs of unsatisfied lust. It had been a long, long time since he mooned over a woman. Those he wanted, he got. He could only give his lovers provisional affection, which they accepted, and so he moved on to the next. There was always a next.
Now here was a woman he couldn’t, shouldn’t have. No wonder he thought himself intrigued. There were more pressing concerns. Foremost was how to sneak aboard the Heirs’ ship, past armed guards, the father, and the deuced Fraser, and then steal a whole woman from under their noses.
Thinking of this, Bennett hummed an old sea shanty.
“Considering the certain hell we’re going to catch tonight,” one of the sailors muttered at him, “you’re a calm and cheerful son of a bitch.”
Bennett grinned. “I do so enjoy life’s little challenges.”
“Is there anything else you’ll be wanting, madam?” asked Sally.
London looked at her maid’s reflection in the mirror propped against a tin cup, a brush midway to her unbound hair. Sally had conquered her seasickness long enough to help London out of her gown before bed, but it seemed, alas, a losing battle for the poor maid.
“I’m all right for the rest of the night, Sally,” London answered. “But is there anything I can get you? I’ve heard plain water biscuits can help. Perhaps the ship’s cook has some.”
Sally gulped and gave her head a feeble shake, which made her moan. “I couldn’t possibly…eat anything, madam. Just a little lie down, I think, and I’ll be…fresh as Easter morning.” That seemed doubtful, considering the waxen, greenish cast to Sally’s face.
“Please,” London implored, “get to bed. I can put my clothes away.”
“Thank…thank you, madam.” Then Sally dashed from London’s cabin to her own across the passageway, slamming her door behind her, but leaving the door to London’s cabin hanging open. London rose from the small desk she used as a vanity and gently closed the door, but not before hearing the miserable sounds of Sally surrendering her dinner to a chamber pot. London winced in sympathy, grateful that, landlubber that she was, she somehow escaped the blight of seasickness. Well, it should not last too long for poor Sally. They would reach Delos by late tomorrow morning.
Remembering her father’s warnings, London locked the cabin door. She needed to be vigilant. Though it seemed unlikely that anyone could get aboard the steamship. Aside from the cannons that could blast away at any ship foolish enough to get within firing range, armed men patrolled the top deck. London had seen the rifles slung across the men’s backs, but the firearms weren’t nearly as intimidating as the hard faces and large bodies of the men themselves. They seemed more like hired mercenaries than sailors.
If her father thought them necessary, she could only imagine what kind of threat loomed. Though he often treated her like some fragile hothouse orchid, London knew that in everything else Joseph Edgeworth was exacting and precise, not the kind of man given to wild and fanciful elaboration.
Soon, they would reach Delos, where London’s work would begin. Despite the shadowy threat that loomed somewhere out in the world, her excitement could not be tamped down. The mythical birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. And all those writings upon the ruins for her to decipher. How marvelous it was to be.
She turned her attention to the gown laid across her narrow berth and readied it to be put away. London fussed with the hooks, knowing that Sally liked to keep her gowns tidy. It seemed rather unnecessary to maintain fashion out here. This was not a holiday jaunt, and this ship most definitely was not intended for anything but the most rudimentary services besides transportation and, dear Lord, warfare. Though the steamship had cabins for passengers, they were all small and plain. Perhaps the captain’s quarters held a little more luxury.
London carefully packed her gown into her trunk, wedged into a corner of the cabin, before returning to her nighttime toilette. She drew her wrapper close over her nightgown and sat back down at the desk. Her dark flaxen hair required thorough brushing, or else it ran the risk of looking like the inside of a mattress. And, as much as she did not want to draw attention to herself as one of two women aboard the ship, she didn’t want to resemble bedding.
She drew the boar bristles through her hair, idly watching her reflection in the mirror. Thomas Fraser had been exceptionally attentive tonight at dinner, asking her again and again if she found the food all right, or if it was too simple for her ladylike tastes. Such fawning felt out of character for him, particularly considering the way in which he barked orders at the stewards serving them, as if they were not human beings with thoughts and feelings. London knew it wasn’t polite to be overly solicitous to servants, yet it bothered her to treat them shabbily.
A thought had her brush still in mid-stroke. Good God, she hoped Fraser didn’t expect to court her. She knew with absolute certainty that he would never approve of her linguistic studies—no doubt he preferred to use books as heavy objects for clubbing people—and she would not marry another man who shared her father’s profession. If she married again. There had been little in her own marriage to recommend the state. She still nursed her ideas of love, crafted over years of reading about it, and she did get quite lonely. It could not be denied, as well—she craved a man’s touch. Her own had lost its excitement long ago.
Ben Drayton’s bedroom laugh tumbled through her mind. Surely that scoundrel understood how to touch a woman, and touch her well. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining such an encounter. Just to think of those clever hands on the curve of her shoulders, the soft flesh of her breasts, sent a thick wave of sensation cascading through her, warming the place between her thighs. She trailed her free hand along her collarbone, back and forth, letting her traitorous mind and body pretend that it was Drayton who caressed her. That he would push down her wrapper, peel away her nightgown and lay her upon the berth before settling his own weight over her, positioning himself between her legs. London’s nipples tightened beneath the soft lawn. Her hand began to trail lower to her breasts.
She stilled, sensing another presence in the cabin. London’s eyes opened, and she met the hot blue gaze of Ben Drayton in the mirror.
London jumped up from the chair and whirled to face him. The brush dropped from her hand to clatter on the floor. Drayton leaned against the cabin door, arms crossed over his broad chest. He seemed quite at ease, except for the fiery hunger in his eyes and noticeable arousal tenting his breeches.
“Don’t stop,” he rumbled.
Her heart slammed into her ribs as heat suffused her face. “How…how did you get in here?” she gasped. “I didn’t hear the door. And…it was locked.”
“A sorry day when a simple lock keeps me from a lady’s bedchamber.” He pushed away from the door and took a step toward her, a small smile tugging at a corner of his mouth.
London backed up until she pressed against the cool iron of the hull.
He came nearer. The cabin felt much, much smaller with him in it. He was quite male and quite close. “I haven’t much time.”
She dare not ask, but couldn’t help herself. “Time for what?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, God,” she gulped, her eyes flicking automatically toward the bed.
He laughed quietly. “Not that. Taking my time makes it so much better for everyone, and right now I’m on a