‘Here you are.’ She handed him the most worn shirt, lips still tight. ‘I will go and find out about food. There is a chamber pot under the bed.’
‘And who will deal with that?’
‘I will, Major. And if you are seasick, I will deal with that also. Nurses cannot afford to be missish.’
‘I am beginning to appreciate that,’ he said, his face without a trace of expression. Meg stalked out. Either he was utterly humourless or possessed a gambler’s control of his face and was secretly laughing his head off at her. It was uncomfortable not knowing which. ‘And see what there is to drink,’ he called after her. Meg closed the cabin door with exaggerated care. If he thought he was going to get overheated drinking rum or brandy and inflame that leg, Major Brandon was in for a surprise. Ale, and perhaps some claret when the wound was less inflamed, was what he was going to get.
Ross waited until the brisk click of her heels faded away, then delved under the bed. He could not place his nurse—his wife—he corrected himself with a grimace. She was not a whore, even if she had been a camp follower of some sort, and her voice was that of a well-bred woman. Her clothes, although worn, were decent and modest, shielding a trim, curved figure, and she moved like someone used to physical work. If she had held his waterlogged body against the pull of the river until help came, then she was stronger than she looked.
Perhaps she was just what she said she was—a widow who had been forced to accept the protection of another man, one who did not see fit to marry her. He frowned. Why not? He shrugged, pushing the battered pewter pot back under the bunk, and lifted his legs back with wincing care. As he drew up the sheet he hesitated. She might be reduced to nursing, but she was no drab from a dockside tavern to have to perform the most menial tasks for him. He put his feet back on the deck and stood up, the long shirt flapping around his thighs as he hobbled painfully to the door, cracked it open and leaned against the frame while he watched the passageway.
‘Here, boy!’
The skinny lad stopped, eyeing him warily. He was used to that reaction to his saturnine looks and size. Looking like a killer was useful on the battlefield, less so in everyday life. ‘Aye, sir?’
‘You part of the crew?’
‘Aye, sir. Cabin boy, sir. Name’s Johnny.’ He tugged his forelock, his expression changing to an ingratiating smile. ‘I’ll do odd jobs, sir.’
‘Then you can empty the slops from this cabin and fetch hot and cold water every day.’ The deck pitched and Ross had to grab at the doorframe, cursing his weak, throbbing leg. The damned woman had been in there with an entrenching tool by the feel of it. ‘Are we at sea yet?’
‘No, sir, still the estuary. Do you want hot water now?’
‘Yes. Now, and get a move on. There’s three pence a day for you if you’re sharp.’ He’d wash and shave himself before she came back. He had a pretty fair idea that he looked and smelled like the dead bear Mrs Halgate had likened him to, not that he was ever much to look at, shaven or bearded.
The boy shot off and Ross cursed his way back to bed. He hated being unfit, loathed the vulnerability of it and the loss of control. It was easiest to carry on as though nothing was wrong. Eventually most things healed if they didn’t kill you first. To find himself relying on a woman, for anything, was the outside of enough.
The lad came back with a steaming bucket and dealt with the dirty water and the pewter pot so fast he was probably overpaying him. When he was gone Ross wedged the door closed and stripped off his shirt.
It was perhaps half an hour later, while he drew the razor in a satisfying glide down the last strip of foam, that the handle rattled. ‘Major Brandon! Open the door, if you please.’
‘I’m stark naked.’ He wiped the razor and packed away the things with a casual efficiency born of long practice, waiting for the explosion from outside.
Ross counted in his head while he pulled the shirt back on and dragged a comb through his hair. Nine…ten.
‘Then kindly put your shirt on and open the door.’ So she had decided on sweet reason, had she? Ross grimaced. He was not used to having a woman underfoot, certainly not a halfway respectable one. The women in his life were for one purpose only, were paid well enough for that and then left.
His body stirred at the thought of those purposes. No need to frighten the poor woman with the evidence of what she was sharing a cabin with, although she did not seem alarmed by the sight of him. He limped back, got on to the bunk under the sheet and reached out to pull the wedge out of the latch.
‘You’ve been out of bed,’ she accused the moment she was inside, balancing a precarious assortment of objects. For some reason the bossiness amused him. A bottle fell on to the bunk and Ross scooped it up: claret.
Mrs Halgate put down a small pail with a lid, a bundle that looked loaf-shaped, a flagon and two beakers, then turned and twitched the bottle out of his lax grasp while he studied the seal. Perhaps bossiness was not so amusing. ‘Tomorrow, if you have no fever. Ale now, and stew and bread. You deserve to have a fever,’ she added, peering at him. ‘I told you to stay in bed.’
‘I needed to shave.’ She continued to stare, probably wondering if he looked any better without stubble or perhaps she thought she could cow him into apologising. Hah! Still, it gave him a chance to study her. Oval face, tanned, with freckles across her nose that should send any lady into despair. Dark brows and lashes—darker that the heavy plait of medium brown hair that lay across her shoulder or the sun-lightened curls that softened her forehead. A firm, determined mouth that betrayed strong will and courage. Candid blue-grey eyes that seemed to reflect her changing mood. A lance of lust had him hardening all over again.
‘Where did the hot water come from? And where has the dirty water I used gone?’
‘I have hired a cabin boy. His name is Johnny, I’m paying him three pence a day and don’t be cozened out of any more.’
‘I could have done all that.’ She dished up the food, managing it neatly in the confined space. There was a vertical line furrowed between her brows and she glanced again at the pile of worn shirts.
‘Just because I do not choose to spend my money on linen does not mean I cannot afford to pay a servant,’ he observed, seeing the colour touch her cheeks when she realised her thoughts had been so obvious. She was used to making ends meet, it seemed.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘And it ill befits the wife of a major to be carrying the slops,’ he added, interested to see if he could provoke her.
‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed gravely. ‘We must preserve your dignity at all costs. James was a mere lieutenant, so I must be more aware of your status.’
Ouch. That was a nasty dig. ‘I was thinking more of yours, Mrs Brandon,’ Ross said, then remembered that if she was his wife, she would not be plain Mrs at all. He really was going to have to get used to the title and life awaiting him in England, now it appeared that Fate was not going to drown him in the Gironde or allow a French sniper to kill him. He could stop worrying about whether his leg was ever going to work properly again: he wasn’t going back to the army, however much he might try to forget the fact.
The darkness deepened in the major’s eyes, turning them black. Best not to answer back, perhaps. Just because he had not savaged her with his tongue or the back of his hand yet did not mean he was not capable of either. There was something beyond his wound that was troubling him and whatever it was, it was hurting him deeply. And in her experience men who were hurt, in body or mind, were more than likely to lash out.
Was it as simple as the fact that he would no longer be fit enough to serve in the Rifle Brigade and had lost his occupation?