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.
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?’