by A. G. Howard
He was surprised at himself. For a man who struggled to form even one coherent stream of words in a woman’s presence, he had managed a fine poetic epigram. It appeared all those hours spent reading his sister’s chapters had unearthed an unmined skill. Bolstered by the accomplishment, he pushed off the rail. “Well, as we have our musical accompaniment, would you honor me with a dance?”
She faced him. “A waltz beneath the heavens with Adonis,” she said softly. Her smile deepened as she offered her gloved hands. “How could I refuse?”
He placed his palms against hers and gestured to her hairpiece. “I do ask that you keep your snakes at bay.” He almost cringed as he said it, feeling more like Nick by the minute.
His flirtatious innuendo had the desired effect, for she giggled and entwined their fingers. “Rest assured. I won’t ask the same of you.”
His hands squeezed hers—a nervous reflex. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth again. He managed to begin the dance despite his weighted feet.
“So … you’re a bard and a jester?” she asked, glancing up into his face.
He had to lean in to hear her over the water.
“An amateur at both, I assure you.” He led her footsteps in a pattern of rhythmic squares. The sea’s wavelets provided the perfect cadence and they floated on the deck, a breeze stirring their costumes. The cool wood slid beneath his bare feet, gritty in places from dirt that had fallen off of people’s shoes.
“But you are no amateur dancer.” His partner’s breathless observance flattered him.
He studied her glittering eyes, finally comfortable in his skin for the first time since he’d arrived on the deck. His sweating had subsided, and his tongue shrunk to its normal size. He felt at home when he danced. He felt in control—like himself.
Having grown up on a holiday resort, he’d attended his share of galas; waltzed with his sister and Willow countless times to allow them to partake in the festivities while maintaining their pristine reputations. All of the Thornton children knew how to spin their heels.
Julian still remembered the first time he’d danced with Willow. He had been fourteen and she thirteen. Even then, there’d been taut threads of tension between them at the proximity. He’d always assumed it simply because they so often argued and challenged one another … but now he realized that it had been so much more complex than that.
Deep in thoughts of Willow, Julian twirled his partner along the deck. A mist settled over them, cutting the moonlight considerably. The bottom half of her face blurred in the shadows, and the mask of feathers and satin became his focal point lest his thoughts wander to her flimsy gown and the delicacies hidden beneath. Delicacies he kept at arm’s length, so as not to tempt either of them.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, his companion stopped mid-step. Julian had to compensate for her sudden change of direction and nearly tripped over her bare feet. Their toes brushed and Julian couldn’t ignore the titillating tingle that passed between them at the contact.
She stared up at him, swathed in mist, expectant. They were close enough, that if he bent his neck just so, their lips would touch. Her slender, gloved fingers reached up to trace his chin. The crackle of silk catching on his whiskers launched a pulse of white heat from his neck to his chest.
Vaguely, behind them, Julian thought he heard something—a thump outside the wheel house. He turned to look but could see nothing for the darkness and fog.
His partner cupped his chin and steadied his gaze on her. “Accompany me to my stateroom.”
Julian balked. He had no intention of going to her room. “Did Mr. Sala send you?” He relied on his caution to calm his body’s uproar.
“No one sent me. I came of my own accord.”
“But you are one of his troupe, yes?”
“If you wish to know my secrets … we should retire to a more intimate setting.”
“What say you show me what’s under your mask first? Here, I’ll lead by example.” He lifted off his covering and settled it atop his head.
She sighed approvingly. “Just as lovely as I imagined Adonis would be.”
“Now your mask,” he insisted, refusing to be captivated by the pretty words.
Hands joined to his again, she drew Julian toward her as she backed up to brace herself against the rail. “Do you not read mythology? You’ll turn to stone should you look upon me.”
Julian’s ear tips burned. Time to channel Nick once more. “Ah, but am I not a statue already? Inanimate until I feel your skin on mine? In your missive, you promised me a kiss.”
She sucked in a breath, as if his sensual poeticism pierced her lungs. “Is it yet midnight?” From beneath her glove, she eased out a pin-watch. “We still have an hour. Perhaps I could tantalize you with just one taste.”
Lifting up on her toes, she skimmed velvety lips over his chin. Her mask’s forehead brushed against his nose. The surge of her warm breath acted as a rope, pulling Julian closer. Fighting the instinct to embrace her, he gripped the rail on either side, their bodies pressing together gently. He swallowed hard, ready to become her pupil—to embrace the tutelage she was so willing to give. His eyes closed as her fingers worked into the plaited hair at his nape.
An instant before their lips met, something hard struck the back of his head, biting his scalp. A metallic thunk sounded and his companion yelped as the offending item clattered to the ground. Julian released the rails, looking down at his feet where a copper Zeus headpiece gleamed in the soft light.
Rubbing his pounding head, Julian bent to retrieve it.
“Your head is bleeding—”
“Shush…” Julian pressed a finger to his lips. “Listen.” Panting breaths broke from behind the wicker chairs surrounding the wheel house—barely audible over the lapping water. “We’re being spied upon.” He made the announcement loud enough to be heard by the intruder.
With a burst of speed, Julian sprinted toward the darkness.
Flushed out, the raven-haired Zeus bolted from behind a chair where he’d been hiding beneath a blanket. The underarm seam of his robe caught on the wicker weave and he struggled to get free, still draped in shadow. He’d just managed to rip the costume loose at the expense of the seam when Julian—from a few feet away—leapt to tackle him. “Got you!”
They crashed to the ground. The youth was a wildcat, gouging fingers into Julian’s biceps, grunting and writhing his legs with such fervor Julian couldn’t get him pinned down. Medusa stayed linked to the rails, clear of their struggle, rooting for Julian over the short distance.
He finally managed to pin the wiry Zeus’ belly to the deck and secured his arms behind his back, crouching over him.
“Get me a crewman,” Julian bade Medusa, his body aching all over from the encounter. “I’ll hold him here until you return.”
“No … no please … no crewmen,” Julian’s captive whispered on muffled gasps, his masked face pressed into the ground.
Julian leaned closer. “Why shouldn’t I turn you over to them, after such an affront upon our persons? You could have put the lady’s eye out had I moved but an inch.”
Medusa had come to stand beside them now. Her body eclipsed what little moonlight filtered through the mist to illumine the scene. As if spurred by the renewed darkness, Julian’s captive started to writhe again. To regain control, Julian straddled the young man’s hips—which come to think of it, where rather shapely for a man…
“Should I bid the captain?” Medusa asked.
Her question shook Julian from the assessment of his captive’s body. He tightened his grip on the youth’s wrists. “Yes, yes I think that would be best. Perchance this lad needs to spend tonight in the brig, until he sobers up.”
“I’m not drunk, you dog,” Julian’s captive sputtered in a hoarse voice.
“What else could possibly explain your unfounded malevolence? Go get the captain, please.”
“What is that all over your arms?” Medusa touched the smudge of black on Julian’s
wrist.
Curious, Julian noted the smears along both of his forearms. The same color—black as his captive’s hair—was also on his bedsheet costume in several places, as if it had come off during their wrestling episode. “Ah. I believe we have an imposter here.”
“An imposter?” Medusa’s query hung in the air.
Julian smiled. He’d been right earlier. This had to be the immigrant lad that had stolen his shoes. “Get the captain. This boy has some explaining to do.”
Julian’s captive stiffened between his thighs and mumbled beneath his mask. “Wait, il mio piccolo cavolo … wait.”
The words drained the blood from Julian’s face. He shoved his own mask—having fallen around his neck in the chaos—back to the top of his head. “Oh Lord.”
“What is it?” Medusa asked. “What did he say? I couldn’t hear him…”
Holding his captive’s wrists with one hand, Julian used his free elbow to nudge Medusa out of the line of moonlight. He drew open the tear in the robe’s side seam, shoving aside the fabric just enough to expose his captive’s lower back and the cinched waist of a pair of pantlets. Ladies’ lingerie. Inching the waist down, Julian found half a feathered wing staring up at him—a tattoo where those shapely hips curved in perfect female geometry.
“Blast it.” He gritted his teeth on the words.
“Whatever is that?” Medusa inched closer to study the exposed skin.
Julian covered up Willow’s back, adrift between fury and elation. “A … bruise. He must’ve been hurt in our tussle.” He could feel Willow’s panting breath where his knees braced her ribs, and lessened the pressure between them. He cursed himself for not realizing sooner … for being so rough with her. His mind scrambled for some way to get rid of Medusa so he could check her wounds.
He carefully eased off, helping Willow up, all the while holding her costume’s torn seam closed to maintain the charade of her identity. “Perhaps I should take the lad to my cabin. He appears to be docile enough now. I’ll send a steward for a physician and the captain. Forgive me for cutting our time short. Can you find your way back to your stateroom?”
Eyes narrowed beneath her mask, Medusa checked the pin-watch in her glove again. She appeared annoyed, but nodded. Julian held his breath until she vanished down the stairwell.
Willow glared at him, a fire raging from behind the crooked mask’s eyeholes.
“Are you hurt?” Julian reached to straighten the mask.
She slapped his hand aside before he even made contact. “Only my pride.”
He winced, remembering how he’d been dancing and romancing Medusa… how close he came to kissing another woman.
In front of Willow. Damn.
Voices drifted from below as passengers headed back to their staterooms. The masquerade gala was ending.
“Stay close to me.” Julian grasped Willow’s elbow against her reluctance to comply. He led her to the stairs. “And don’t speak a word until we reach my cabin.”
Twelve
“It wasn’t what it seemed.” Julian shut his stateroom’s door behind him.
“Oh?” Willow chunked her mask to the floor and spun to face him in the midst of the parlor, her olive complexion gilded with the lamp’s soft yellow glow. “You weren’t sneaking around hugger-mugger with that painted lily so you could pluck her petals? How presumptuous of me.” The black smudges where color had drifted from her hair to her forehead and cheeks accentuated her scowl.
Julian tamped the urge to wipe away the smears. “What did you put in your hair?”
“Soot.”
“Ah. You are the resourceful one, aren’t you?”
“And you are a disloyal pig-snout. Come la sfida voi bacia un'altra donna!” Her hands waved in the air to accentuate her words.
Julian fought a smile. Despite her flaring temper and sullied appearance, she was a sight for sore eyes—standing there in a torn toga with cropped hair the color of coal—which come to think only made her lashes appear darker and accentuated the greenish-gold glimmer of her irises. “Now, that is not wholly true. I didn’t actually kiss her … as you well know.”
Willow tsked. “Aw, poor deprived statue of stone. To think, tonight you could’ve become a real living man. Had I not been there to—”
Julian lifted a finger. “Ah-ha! Had you not been there. As in here. As in what in heaven’s name are you doing on this ship after swearing to me you’d stay put?”
“Ugh!” Willow flopped to the floor and proceeded to peel her pantalets off while holding the robe strategically in place at her thighs. “I swore no such thing. I simply vowed that you would see me again, without having to look all over the world for me. Ergo, I held true to my end of the bargain.”
Julian gaped in wide-eyed wonder at her profile. What was she doing? Undressing? How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on winning this argument with her long legs exposed?
Visions of her contortionist poses rattled through his frazzled mind—teasing him with all the things that toned, limber body could do. He struggled to rein in the lewd fantasies, but there seemed to be no strong enough incentive. Not now that they were at last alone together: on a ship, in an isolated room … no chaperones, no chance of interruption. No one with any idea what they were doing in this moment. Not even their family.
Family.
That managed to halt his rampant musings.
“Uncle Owen and Aunt Enya.” He cleared his throat upon hearing how ragged his voice sounded. “Just think of the panic your absence will cause back home. We must apprise them of your safety. That’s our most pressing concern.”
“No, I believe the most pressing one is why your body was pressed to Miss Queen of Vipers up there.”
Dumfounded again, Julian watched Willow stand so the robe’s hem fell back in place to cover her legs. She then carried the discarded pantalets across the room. Something glimmered at the waist and he recognized the pin-watch his Uncle Owen had given her.
“You brought the watch with you?” Julian said, trying to connect all the puzzle pieces in the midst of battling his screaming libido. “Why didn’t you sell it instead of your hair?”
“You would ask that. Always so logical … so analytical. Ever heard of sentimental value? I will never part with my watch, you insensitive clot. It enriches my life and brings me luck. Least it did in the past.” Glaring at him, Willow shook her pantalets waist-side down over the table where he’d left his spectacles. Two cloth napkins tumbled out, formed into airtight bags which were secured shut by the pantalets’ drawstring. Untying the string, Willow exposed the contents of each makeshift bag to reveal the crushed remains of the restaurant’s main supper entree—fish and oyster pie. “Dinner’s ruined, thanks to you and your faithlessness.”
Julian wrinkled his nose, catching a whiff of the seafood while she smoothed each napkin open.
“We must understand our inner selfhoods before we commit to anything prematurely.” Willow bobbed her head as she jabbed at the crumbles of crust and fish with a rigid finger. “A person must reach their full potential as an individual before they can give themselves over to another.”
Before Julian could respond to her blatant mockery of his earlier sentiments, Willow scooped a handful of food and flung it at him. The cold, crusty bomb slammed his forehead and disbursed like a slushy snowball around his bare feet. Pungent gravy oozed along his brow and crumbs clung to the fine hairs at his temples.
“Damnit! Must you always throw things at me?” Growling, he scraped away the mess from his stinging forehead, gravy squishing between his fingers. He wiped his hands on his toga. “Have you lost your mind?”
Edging away from the table, she propped her shoulder blades against the wall, her expression as ravaged and broken as the damaged fare which now spotted the floor and rug. “Possibly. But I have an even better question. Have you reached your full potential yet? Or is waking up in a strange woman’s bed to be the pinnacle of your selfhood? You’re more like your broth
er than I ever deemed possible.”
The hackles on his neck raised. Scraping muck from his brow, he strode over to her. He stopped long enough pick up his spectacles. He glanced at the mirror on the wall over the table, erasing his brother’s image by placing the wired frames on his face. “Take that back.”
He read her intentions, saw her shoulder tense to send her hand to the table for more ammunition. Julian got to the food first, raking it off into the floor behind him. A flaming heat suffused his entire neck. “I said take it back.”
Smug, she braced her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I wish I could; I wish I didn’t believe it. Men are all the same. It is always about the beauty and money, isn’t it? Well, I’ll never have money. And I haven’t a chance to win you … especially now that I …” Her fingers absently reached up to her shoulder to find a strand of hair to twist, meeting nothing but skin.
“Now that you what?” Julian prompted, looming over her small frame.
“Look like a man—” Her voice broke, her hands covering her face.
Julian froze as she began to weep—her body a heaving mass of emotion. Had the wall not been behind her and him in front, she would have crumpled to the floor.
Was this the same woman who had lashed out at him two seconds earlier with her lukewarm leftovers? Was this the same girl that used to stock crickets in the coffee bin at the manor, just to watch the maids skitter atop the table and expose their bloomers at breakfast? Or was this the broken child she never let him see?
He had no idea what levels of poverty and degradation she’d witnessed over the past hours to bring her to this place, what sort of desperation she’d felt. She’d had to have been at wit’s end to cut off her locks and pawn them for a measly handful of farthings.
Julian started to reach for her then paused, afraid she might come out swinging. He wasn’t sure how he should dredge the depths of this new, vulnerable Willow. He wanted to take her in his arms and calm her tears … assure her that he’d keep her safe.
The old Willow would slap him senseless should he infer she needed his protection. What would this new one do?