Louise Allen – Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch (страница 22)

“It’s not a bed, it’s a bunk,” he growled. “This isn’t your precious Blackstone House, you know.”

“And you, sir, aren’t my husband to lecture me.” In the wind the veil spun up before her face and irritably she yanked it aside. “Good night.”

“Wait!” He grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him, pulling her close so he could speak for her ears only. “I am your husband, at least in the eyes of Captain Bertle and his men, if not God. Don’t make a mistake like that again.”

She glared at him. “What’s the point in pretending now that we’ve left Portsmouth? Why don’t we just go back to being who we are, with our real names?”

“Because if Bertle thinks we lied to him and we’re doing sinful things together under his deck, he’ll put us both off the first chance he gets, and I don’t have a great wish to be marooned in some blasted little Portegee fishing village.” He pulled her closer, so close his hair blew across her face. “Now I’m going to bend down and kiss your cheek for whoever’s watching, and I’ll thank you not to slap me.”

She closed her eyes as his lips brushed across her cheek, a kiss so cold it might have come from Captain Bertle. Maybe Jeremiah was strong enough to say one thing to her and then pretend otherwise before others, but she wasn’t, not about this. She felt close to tears, all pleasure in the day gone.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked, almost pleading. “I’ve done nothing to you, have I? I keep reminding myself that you’ve been kind to me before—look at how you agreed to come to Naples!—and that you will most likely be kind to me again, but now, now you’re making it very hard for me to even like you.”

“Then don’t,” he said sharply. “It will be easier on us both that way.”

She shook her head, not understanding. “How can that help anything?”

“Dear God, Caro, think!” He raked his fingers through his hair, clearly searching for the right words. “You’re trying to remember how I’ve been kind to you, and I’m trying not to forget that you’re another man’s wife!”

“But it’s not like that between you and me! I love Frederick too much to—”

She broke off, appalled by the longing she saw in his eyes, a longing that she realized echoed the one she felt within herself.

“Too much to do what, Caro?” asked Jeremiah harshly. “Too much to do what with me?”

Her face hot, she shook her head again, this time understanding too much. “What you want I will not give you. Even if I—I wished to, I could not, for it is not mine to give.”

He released her arm so swiftly that she had to grab on to the rail to steady herself. “By God, I’ve never forced any woman—especially a married woman—against her will, and I won’t—”

“You don’t understand!” she cried with anguish. “I mean my soul, my loyalty, who I am. That is what Frederick has given me with his love, and that is what I owe him in return.”

“You owe your husband your soul?” he demanded, incredulous. “You may have more in common with Captain Bertle than I realized.”

She couldn’t argue with him. She knew that no matter what she said he wouldn’t understand. “Why did you insist I come with you?”

“Why?” The single word hung between them, so much behind it that he couldn’t find the words to tell her.

Why? Because he would need her connections to arrange Davy’s release? Because she would suffer at George Stanhope’s hands without him to defend her, because she was too lonely, because the yearning she didn’t understand herself seemed to mirror his own? Because she needed him, because she gave him hope and faith in the future and himself?

All of these. None of these. Did he dare tell her the truth?

She stood very still, waiting.

“Because,” he said hoarsely, “because, God help me, I want to be there with you if Frederick is—”

“No, Jeremiah, don’t say it!” she cried. “I beg you, please, I—I hope you never have your blasted wish!” She turned swiftly and left him before he saw her tears, her black skirts swirling in the wind, black against the bloodred sky of the finished day.

Jeremiah stared out over the taffrail, watching the creamy wake the Raleigh left behind as she cut through the dark water. Over and over again this afternoon he’d caught himself gazing up at the sloop’s sails, gauging the wind and how he should trim the canvas or steer a bit closer, as if he were captain still. Better to look back to where they’d been, to something he couldn’t hope to change. A course once sailed could never be retraced, any more than the past itself could be relived or changed. So why, then, was he torturing himself with what he’d said to poor Caro?

Behind him he heard the bell that marked the end of one watch and the beginning of another. How long had he been standing here, anyway? Long enough for the sun to vanish and the moon to arc across the clear night sky, and long enough for his arms to become stiff as he leaned against the rail and for the cool air from the water to make the long scar beneath his ribs ache.

He had intended to remain on deck only long enough to give Caro time to undress and hide herself decently away in her bunk. And be asleep. If she were asleep, then he wouldn’t have to talk to her, or apologize, or do whatever other damned thing he should to set things right. How they’d manage the question of privacy had been something they should have discussed earlier, but he had kept putting it off, until now, after what they’d said this evening, any such discussions would be impossible.

Three weeks he’d be alone with her each night, three weeks they’d torture each other, whether they meant to or not.

He sighed, a sigh that stretched into a yawn. High time he went below and tried to sleep, or he’d be in an even worse humor in the morning.

“You’re still about then, Mr. Sparhawk?” asked Bertle as he came to stand beside Jeremiah. He cupped his hands to light his pipe, the spark flaring briefly across his full-cheeked face. “Mighty late for a stroll.”

“But a fair night for one.” Jeremiah didn’t welcome the other man’s company, but how could he decently object to Bertle walking his own quarterdeck?

“True enough, true enough.” Bertle sucked on his pipe, studying the sky intently. “You’re a seafaring man, ain’t you, Mr. Sparhawk?”

“I was once, aye,” said Jeremiah cautiously. “Not now.”

“Not now, maybe, but it never leaves your blood, or your legs. You can put on those fancy shore-going clothes and pretend you’re the same as any other lubber, but you won’t fool another sailor, no, you won’t.”

Jeremiah didn’t answer, offering no encouragement.

“You’re a Yankee, ain’t you, Mr. Sparhawk?”

“And you ask a lot of questions, Captain Bertle.”

Bertle shrugged. “Nothing uncivil about questions, Mr. Sparhawk. How can you learn about a man if you don’t ask him what he don’t give up himself?”

“You can ask away, Captain Bertle, but you might not hear what you want.”

Bertle peered at him shrewdly above his pipe. “So you’re still touchy after your skirmish with the missus, eh? I guessed things was still not what they ought if you was still here.”

Jeremiah’s brows dropped lower over his eyes, warning enough. “My wife’s no concern of yours, or any other man on board this sloop.”

“You keep it that way, Mr. Sparhawk. When she put aside that veil, why, she had half my men crazy in love with her right then and there.” Bertle sniffed and spat over the side. “She’s a handsome woman, your wife. Got breeding, don’t she? More’n you’d expect in some godforsaken Yankee jack’s wife.”

“You know, Bertle,” said Jeremiah so calmly that only a fool would mistake the current of violence that ran beneath it. “I could pitch you over the side and no one would ever be the wiser. A man gets to feeling sleepy during the dogwatch, the ship heels a bit, and he tumbles overboard in the dark. Happens all the time at sea. But you being a sailor and all, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you making threats against me?”

“Are you still asking questions?”

“The devil take you!” Angrily Bertle jerked the pipe from his mouth, using its stem to punctuate his words. “You can’t threaten an English captain, sir, and brag about it. One more time, sir, and I’ll have you put in irons below! Is that what you want?”

“Don’t try it,” said Jeremiah, “unless you mean to swim to Gibraltar. Good night, Captain Bertle.”

Caro had left the cabin door unlatched, and Jeremiah frowned and shook his head as he bolted it from the inside. He must warn her against that, especially if Bertle and the others were eyeing her like the white-belly sharks they were. He felt sure that the only reason one of them hadn’t tried her door already was that none had guessed she’d be so careless.

She had left the lantern lit as she’d promised, a single stubby candle swaying gently in its gimbal with the sloop’s motion. To his surprise she’d taken the top bunk, and at once he imagined what he’d see, lying below, whenever she climbed up or down, her skirts hiked far up her long legs. He almost groaned aloud. He’d just have to make sure he faced the bulkhead when he heard her stir. God help him, he was going to need the patience—and the purity—of a saint to survive this voyage.