“Baltimore? Do you mean to live?” she asked, her green eyes wide.
What did he see in their cloudy depths? Doubt? Fear? He could have kicked himself for the way he had started the conversation. He should have given the matter his full attention instead of assuming he could possibly think and speak clearly while in the process of making love to her.
“Yes, I could help you get set up in town somewhere.”
“Set up?” Suspicion shone in her narrowed eyes.
“Yes, or at least settled. There’s no need to return to the farm if you prefer not to.”
“But once I am settled, what am I to do then?”
He grappled with the question, trying to latch on to the right answer, the one that would keep her in his life.
Independence should be among her options, if that was what she desired. He didn’t want her to feel as though marrying him were the only option available to her. She had enough money to live comfortably, independent of any man.
But did she want to be? Most women yearned for a home and family. The idea of her marrying somebody else made his stomach clench, but this was her choice. She would not be forced into marrying him just because she felt she had no other options.
“Whatever you want to do,” he suggested. “You could be comfortable for the rest of your life.”
She grasped the sleeve of her shift and tugged it back into place. Color rose from her neckline and returned the flush to her cheeks. Her eyes were shining again, and her spine was as stiff as a ship’s spar.
“You would set me up as your mistress?” she asked, her voice strained.
“No!” Will lowered his voice when he realized he had come close to shouting. “I simply meant you’d have enough money of your own. Of course, I could make sure you never wanted for anything.”
This discussion had not gone at all the way he had intended, but then no discussion with Amanda ever did. She could be more unpredictable than any tempest.
She cocked an eyebrow. “You would give me money for the rest of my life, not expecting anything in return?”
“That’s right.” His sense of relief in her understanding mingled with disappointment because it wasn’t the outcome he was looking for. “I will support you for the rest of your life unless you find a husband. In fact, I could even help you find a husband, if that is what you want.”
Like hell he would. He would spend the entire time convincing her to marry him.
She grabbed his feather pillow. “You stupid, stupid man!” Amanda shouted.
“What are you...?” He stood up, hands raised to fend off the attack.
Feathery blows rained down upon his head from the only weapon she could find. Luckily, she hadn’t notice the poker standing next to the small warming stove, or he would be in real trouble.
He tried to regain control of the situation and grabbed for the pillow when it came at him again. He held it tightly in one fist, but Amanda refused to relinquish the other end. She glared at him, but tears glistened in her eyes and her lower lip trembled.
Dammit, he hadn’t meant to make her cry. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Perhaps he didn’t understand women as much as he thought, but then, he had never met a woman like her. He had better remove himself before he made more of a mess out of it than he already had.
He dropped his end of the pillow and strode toward the door.
Will considered locking the door behind him, but it would be pointless. There would be no stopping her if she managed to locate a more damaging weapon and decided to come after him with it. Perhaps he would ask Buck to stand guard tonight—over him!
****
Amanda threw herself into the hammock and sobbed until the pillow turned into a sodden, lumpy mass with feathers squeezing out through the rents in the seams. She tossed it across the room, where it hit the wall with a dull thud and fell to the floor like an old, dead goose. Amanda choked, the sound half laugh and half sob. His pillow looked as pathetic as she felt.
She flopped on her back, letting one arm hang over the side of the hammock, her hand dangling limply from her wrist. Her sniffles subsiding, she stared at the rafters.
The wine had cleared from her head, and her skull felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. To make matters worse, she had never been so humiliated in her life, and her shame heated her skin until she felt like she was on fire.
She hadn’t meant to seduce the captain, but somehow she had found herself in his quarters...in her shift...his hand on her breast. Did he think she had arranged it all? He probably thought she had meant to seduce him as a way to get him to consent to her remaining aboard the Amanda. Instead he had offered to make her his…his…mistress was the kindest word she could come up with.
Or maybe she had read too much into his offer. He had, after all, offered to find her a husband! As though she couldn’t find one on her own!
Mistress or hopelessly pathetic—she couldn’t decide which idea she found more insulting. She drew in her limbs and curled into a ball on her side, cradling the pain that settled in the pit of her stomach.
As a girl, Amanda had imagined marrying eventually. While she knew not everyone had the opportunity to marry for love, she had been determined to marry an honorable man. One she could respect, and one who would respect her in return. She had always imagined that love, of a sort, would follow.
Now that she had found an honorable man, one she truly loved, she had nurtured a girlish hope that he might eventually love her in return. He hadn’t said so in so many words, but he had called her “my love” at supper when he whispered in her ear. She remembered the way the small endearment had warmed her to her toes, a warmth more delicious that Buck’s best rum.
“But that was all it was. Just an endearment thrown about lightly, nothing more,” she told the pillow lying on the other side of the room.
Perhaps his physical need for her did not match her own either. She knew his attraction to her was real, simmering beneath his controlled facade. She wasn’t so naïve that she did not notice the hard length of him pressed against her belly. She had seen the heat in his eyes and felt it radiate from him. Her traitorous breasts still tingled with the memory of his kisses, and her humiliation deepened.
Despite his arousal, if he felt a fraction of what she did, he would never have stopped, certainly not to ask her if she wanted his help in finding a husband.
“Aaaargh!” She flopped to her other side, wishing she hadn’t wrecked his pillow. It would have helped her sleep.
She had drunk far too much wine, and the aftereffects were reminding her of why she had sworn off rum. Every inch of her head ached, even her teeth and her eyebrows. The wine and the passions it fueled had muddied her thinking, and she knew nothing would be resolved until the clearer light of morning shone through the windows.
She tossed and turned through the night, tormented by the replay of the evening’s events. Unbidden, every word, every action paraded through her memory. In the end, she fell into a fitful sleep. Her one solace was that she lay in comfort on the softest mattress on the ship, while somewhere in the dark roamed a grumpy and probably very tired man, looking for a place to sleep now that she had ousted him from his own quarters. She smiled through her tears when she imagined him trying to squeeze his large frame into her narrow hammock in the doctor’s quarters. It would not be an easy night for him either!
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Good morning, sailor!” Will said, in a voice even louder than usual.
Amanda groaned and rolled over in the hammock, pulling a quilt over her head.
Will nudged her hip with his foot. “I’d cut you down, but that’s my bed you’re in, so I have as much to lose as you do.”
She rolled onto her back and opened one eye little more than a slit. Her face had a decidedly green cast to it.
“I’m guessing wine doesn’t agree with you any more than rum.”
“What is that awful smell?” she groaned, ignoring his jibe.
“Breakfast?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“I had Cookie make it for you since you were unable to prepare mine this morning. Your just rewards, if I do say so myself.”
If anything, Amanda looked greener than she had a moment ago. He let her suffer for just a moment more before taking pity on her. “Of course he didn’t make it. I did.”
“You made it?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Yes.”
He felt rather proud of himself too. The eggs looked passable, the toast a light caramel color, and there were no grounds floating on the surface of the coffee. For a man who hadn’t cooked his own meals in years, he had done quite well.
Amanda flopped onto her back and laid a limp hand over her eyes, blocking out the morning light that streamed through the high, curtainless windows. She swallowed, then said in a thick voice. “Well, whoever made it, I’m not eating.”
“Yes, you are.” Will set the tray down on his desk. “And after you have eaten, we are going into town.”
Like a corpse reanimated, she sat up. “For what?”
“You need a new dress.”
It wasn’t exactly an order, but he hoped she would take it as such. She needed to eat, not talk.
“I have the one you gave to me yesterday.”
“Yes, and it didn’t fit you very well,” he said, unable to avoid casting a glance at the shadow of her breasts under the soft fabric of her shift.
He remembered the gentle curves straining against fine green silk. He could still feel the memory of her puckered nipple brushing the palm of his hand, see the desire shimmering in her green eyes. What a difference a few glasses of wine made. He eyed her puffy lids, wondering if she could see anything through the small slits above her freckled cheeks. Disheveled, stubborn, and cross—certainly not at her best—she still affected him. Fortunately, his long waistcoat hid much of his body’s reaction.
“I thought it fit fine,” she said with a small pout, crossing her arms in front of her.
“It barely covered you.”
A blush crept up her cheeks, and she averted her gaze.
Why didn’t she want to go into town? Most women loved shopping, didn’t they? Then again, Amanda had already proven herself to be unlike any other woman of his acquaintance.
Will watched her stumble out of his bed, wondering what it would take to make her happy. A few days ago, when he knew her as Adam, he thought he understood her. Now, he realized he didn’t know her at all. He would gladly spend the rest of his life learning what pleased her, but at this moment, she represented a mystery deeper than any sea he had sailed.
He pulled out his chair and motioned for her to take a seat.
Amanda drew the quilt about her shoulders, and, giving him a dubious look, padded across the room on bare feet.
She lowered herself to the chair, then her slender arm shot out from beneath the protective quilt and snatched the coffee cup. She took a tentative sip, grimaced, then drained half the cup before setting it down again. Next, she picked up the fork and stared at the eggs. Poking the yolk, she frowned at the bright yellow goo that oozed across her plate.
Perhaps he should have cooked them longer.
But whether she liked the way he prepared her eggs or not, she needed to eat something in order to have the energy to go shopping and to kick off the dreadful headache she was sure to have after last night. He was about to suggest she just eat the toast when she surprised him by taking a small bite of the eggs.
Will hunkered down to wait. Leaning against the wall, he crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and folded his arms across his chest. Amanda cast a frown that said she resented his being in the room, or possibly just resented him altogether. She probably thought he lingered to monitor her progress with breakfast. Partially true, his thoughts were also occupied with a review of his carefully laid plans for the day.
Even if she didn’t like shopping, he did want to buy her a new dress. Actually, he wanted to buy her whole wardrobe. If he never saw her again in sailor’s duds, that would suit him fine. But more than that, he wanted to set things right between them.
Last night, turning in his temporary hammock like a ship caught in a whirlpool, he had resolved to begin anew with his “options” proposal. Maybe an afternoon spent shopping would afford him an opportunity to speak more plainly. A leisurely afternoon ashore, browsing through—women’s things—whatever that included, might relax Amanda, make her more receptive to his proposal.
Lying awake in the long, quiet hours just before dawn, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the ship’s hull and trying to unravel exactly where he had gone wrong, it occurred to him that he had not included marriage, not to him at least, among her options.
When he said she could live comfortably for the rest of her life, he had been astonished at her assumptions. He thought she understood she need not rely on anyone, ever again—unless she wanted to, of course. That she would think him capable of offering to make her his mistress had pained him—no, insulted him, to the core.
However, replaying his proposal for the hundredth time, he realized that any woman might make the same mistake. That would be especially true of a woman in the process of being ravished. Well, not exactly ravished, he amended, since she had certainly been doing her part. But if she only knew how much effort he had put into maintaining his composure, she would never have accused him of wanting her for physical pleasures alone.
He gave up on sleep just as dawn filtered through the windows, bringing with it the calls of hungry gulls and eager merchants, and made plans to take her dress shopping. While he left her in the hands of a saleswoman with strict orders to dress her from head to toe, letting her choose whatever she wanted—so long as it didn’t include trousers or duck cloth, he would find a jeweler to craft a necklace. It would be a peace offering, and hopefully, a betrothal gift.
He watched Amanda polish off the two eggs and half the toast. She was made of strong stuff. He just hoped she kept it down all the while they were in town.
“That’s my girl.” He removed the plate in front of her. He reached to pick up her cup, but she snatched it away.
“You can have more of that once you’re dressed,” he said, prying it from her reluctant fingers.
Amanda stood and looked about. “Where are my clothes?”
Her dress lay over the chair behind her, her undergarments piled on the floor beside it.
“In the gut of a whale by now if we’re lucky,” he replied, knowing to which clothes she referred. “Wear the dress again.”
The dress would be a little formal for Baltimore, but if anyone noticed her, they might easily assume Amanda to be a wealthy foreigner. Her short blonde curls were of a style that a libertine French woman might favor. Certainly the green satin gown, with its lace trimmed bodice that covered her breasts only enough to avoid indecency looked worthy of a French woman.
Will scowled at the gown that lay draped so decadently across the back of his chair. With any luck, the first shop they visited would have a shawl she fancied.
****
“I don’t need anything except my old clothes,” Amanda protested.
They left the cool confines of Miss Francine’s dress shop, an establishment that catered to the more prudish among the well-to-do matrons of Baltimore, and stepped onto the narrow wooden walkway. In many ways a provincial town, Baltimore couldn’t boast of many fashionable dress shops, and even fewer with readymade clothing that wasn’t second hand or tawdry. It would take some extra coin to ensure Amanda’s wardrobe would be delivered by the time they weighed anchor the day after tomorrow. If only she would agree to be reasonable and allow herself to be fitted.
The saleswoman at Miss Francine’s had seemed relieved when they left, even though they departed empty handed. Perhaps she hadn’t relished the thought of trying to ta
ke the measurements of a woman whose crossed arms appeared glued to her chest.
“I threw your old clothes overboard, remember?” Will said.
Amanda took the arm he offered. Instead of strolling sedately down the street, looking in shop windows, he pinned her hand to his sleeve and strode so she had to walk double time to keep up. He cringed when she cursed her tangled skirts in words she could only have learned aboard his ship.
“Well, then, buy me some new ones if you must, but buy me something that doesn’t compel me to fear for my life.” She yanked on his arm, obliging him to stop so she could tug her skirt free from her ankles.
“On the other hand, I suppose there is a benefit to all these layers,” she said, in a saccharine voice. “If we should have to abandon ship, I will be mercifully saved from a slow death by pounds of petticoats dragging me to the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Will ignored her sarcastic remarks and looked over his shoulder for the tenth time in as many minutes. More than just his eagerness to clothe her in something more modest than the gown she currently wore had him dragging her alongside him at such a brisk pace. Some blocks back, he had noticed a man trailing them at a discreet distance.
Will tested his theory by extending the gap between them, rounding a few corners and then slowing to a more moderate pace. After traversing a few steps, he turned to see the man standing less than a block away, perusing loaves of bread through the window of a bakery. He glanced up, caught Will’s eye, then let his gaze drop.
Amanda grew more vociferous, extolling the merits of a pair of duck cloth trousers, oblivious to Will’s inattentiveness or the old man following them.
Who could he be?
The man appeared elderly, bordering on old, yet he had no difficulty keeping up with them. Despite Amanda’s trouble with her skirts, they set a pace that would have left any man unused to physical exertion gasping for breath.
Aside from the uncomfortable feeling of being followed, Will didn’t sense any malice from the man. Nothing of the criminal sort anyway. A man intent on doing them harm would lie in wait in one of the many dark alleys between buildings. Even that wouldn’t be sufficient since Will could easily overpower the old man. He glanced over his shoulder at the man’s bent back and shuffling feet. Hell, Amanda could overpower him.
Caution to the Wind (American Heroes) Page 23