‘A fine chestnut. You’d never get him willingly on a ship.’
‘So he’s exypnos—clever.’
‘Very.’
‘How did you come to be on the vessel?’ she asked, holding the comfits and flannel in one hand.
‘My brother convinced me to invest in something he could captain. We both own half.’ Warrington let himself settle into a more comfortable place. She needed to snuff the light so he could rest. ‘Ben can make having fleas sound like a lark.’
‘Should I expect fleas on this journey, as well?’
‘Not unless you get too close to the men.’
He saw her lashes sweep up as she checked to see if he jested. Let her guess. ‘You’ll have to put out the light,’ he reminded. ‘We’ve had one fire too many already.’
‘In a moment.’
Her head was against the wall. Graciously long neck. A delicious amount of skin creamy beneath it.
‘What is that mark at your breast?’ he asked.
Without looking, she reached to the colouration, running a fingertip along the skin, tracing the outline.
His gaze locked on her fingers.
‘I was born with a smudge and it seems smaller than it used to. My sisters have the mark, too, but none of ours is in the same place or shape. I think of it as an hourglass—to remind me to be useful because there is only so much time.’
‘Reminds me of...’ he paused and looked again ‘...two horses’ hooves close together.’
Again, she moved her fingers briefly to the mark and then stood, using both hands to brace herself against the table. She edged herself around the furniture and then doused the light, putting them in darkness.
‘How did you pry yourself from Chesapeake to get on a ship?’ she said, her fumbling movements leading her to the chair.
‘I hoped to see different sights and learn about the Turks, but mostly I’ve seen water not fit to drink, heard jests not worth repeating and eaten food with no appeal at all. I think this ship has no rats because they starved.’
He heard the slop bucket slide as the ship moved and pushed himself from the bed. ‘I’ll empty the pot for you—otherwise one of us might put a foot in it before morning.’ And he didn’t intend to sleep with the smell.
Not having illumination didn’t concern him. The walls were so close he could feel his way for what he needed. He slipped out through the door, his feet bare, and walked to the side, tossing the contents downwind. When he returned, he opened the small door to slip the pail back inside the cabinet.
‘I would like to keep that nearby,’ she murmured, stopping him.
He put it on the floor at her feet, and he saw the shadow of her pulling the bucket close so she could hook it again between her shoes.
‘Take the bed,’ he instructed, standing above her. He would have to pull together something so he’d have a place to sleep.
‘No,’ she insisted, moving her head. ‘I’m best here.’
‘Wake me if you change your mind.’ He reached to the bunk, took the pillow and then pushed it her direction. ‘At least put this behind your head.’
After she held the pillow, he took his shirt, rolled it and tucked it in the berth.
He slid back into the sleeping space. ‘My brother needs to get sailing out of his veins, return home and start a life there.’
‘You can’t fault him. The boat is his Chesapeake.’
‘Well, he’ll have to convince me we’ll find gold, silver and mountains of apple tarts to get me on board again.’
He could hear her silence. It wasn’t only that she was quiet—she was immobile. Not moving. Then she spoke. ‘Treasures convince people to risk much.’
Chapter Four
Warrington stepped out of the cabin. He’d not fallen asleep until dawn and the climbing temperatures of midday had awakened him. The sailors cleaned the deck, a daily job. They couldn’t risk growth of the green muck that flourished at sea emerging where men might slip.
Ben walked to his brother’s side, looking every bit a man without a care—even with clouds bundling above them. Air filling with steam. The sea too calm.
The unconcern in the men around him didn’t give Warrington a feeling of ease. He knew the men all too well. They didn’t fluster over a storm. They knew they’d either live or die through it and, either way, they’d still be at sea.
The captain leaned close to Warrington and spoke so no one else could hear. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Warrington ignored him. The young ferret could sniff for morsels awhile longer.
‘I’m thinking the earl is wantin’ for Stubby’s job.’ Gidley walked up. His whiskers quivered when he spoke. ‘Men said he emptied the pot three times in the night.’
‘Oh.’ Ben’s brows shot up. ‘I may have heard that rumour, too. When we get to London, I’m thinking he might become a lady’s maid.’ Ben looked to his brother and then jumped aside, dodging the boot swung at his heels.
‘For that...’ Ben’s chin went up ‘...you’re invited to spend the afternoon, and night, at the wheel.’
‘The woman’s in my bed.’ Warrington kept his voice light. ‘Mine. Slop bucket or no. My cabin. My bed. My woman. She’s perfection,’ Warrington added. He remembered the night before. Perfection—if you didn’t mind the greenish cast to her face. And seeing her fingers rubbing her own heated skin didn’t do him any favours. She must have touched that mark a thousand times and each time he’d become aroused.
And now a storm to toss the Ascalon about more. He was going to die before they reached port and without getting his own mast climbed. No. No matter what, he’d discover the real treasure before the storm hit.
‘You have any more of the medicinal you mentioned when we started out?’ Warrington spoke to Gidley.
The older man’s chin wobbled. ‘Two draughts.’
‘See that Melina gets them,’ Warrington told the first mate. ‘And remove the chair and table from my cabin. Get some bedding for her.’
‘Do as he says,’ Ben instructed Gidley, his voice light. ‘He’s not getting any younger and he needs all the help he can get.’
Gidley left to get the medicine and Ben looked at Warrington, saying, ‘I’d suggest, brother, that you attempt to manage—if you’re able—more than only a single tumble. I speak from experience when I say it is possible.’
Warrington’s hands tightened.
Ben put his hand at the back of his own neck, shut his eyes and rolled his head, then yawned. ‘I’ve had more than a lifetime of women already in my tender twenty-six—no, twenty-seven years—and probably your share, as well. That’s why you’re looking so sour at just past thirty. You’re fading and I’ve bedded more women than you could ever hope to count.’
‘If we take away the ones you’ve paid, how big would the number be then?’
‘Only ones worth having.’ Ben gave another stretch.
‘Said by a man who has only the single way of attracting a woman.’
‘At least when I pay,’ he drawled out the last word, ‘I manage to get her bedded.’
‘I’m sure they do so quickly so they can see the last of you.’
Ben