So at ease.
All they’d done was talk about scenery.
Closing her eyes, she saw him in her mind’s eye, standing against the rail in the moonlight. She felt her lips curve….
And fell asleep.
The next afternoon, Loretta was sitting in a deck chair on the observation deck embroidering in the weak sunshine when Rafe drew another chair up alongside and dropped into it.
After a moment, she glanced at him. He’d stretched out his long legs, leaned back, and closed his eyes. But she caught a glimmer of blue beneath his lashes.
“Strange,” he murmured, “but I hadn’t taken you for the embroidering type.”
She smiled and looked back at her work. “I don’t embroider much usually, but during this trip I’ve frequently given thanks I remembered to pack my embroidery bag. When she’s not actively doing, Esme is relatively quiet—she’s not a big talker.”
“How do you come to be traveling with her? Is she your only relative?”
“Oh, no. In fact, until she came and whisked me away on this adventure, I hadn’t seen Esme in years.”
“But she’s your great-aunt.”
“Yes, but she’s led a very active life. Her husband was a high-ranking diplomat and he was sent all over Europe to represent our government at this court or that, and of course Esme went with him. He passed away last year, and Esme was stuck in Scotland sorting out his estate until recently. To celebrate the end of that, she decided to visit many of the cities where she and Richard had spent time—hence this trip.”
“And she chose you to accompany her? You must be her favorite great-niece.”
“No—just the one who could leave London at a moment’snotice. My sisters are both married, and we’re all the family Esme has, at least on her side.”
Rafe searched for a question that would get her to reveal more about herself and her family. He couldn’t ask directly, but asking about Esme had got him some tidbits.
After a moment, he ventured, “Where had you visited before Buda?”
She named a string of cities from Paris, through France, then Spain and Italy. “From Trieste, we came to Buda.”
He knew Spain and France well, enough to guess how long they’d been away. “So you left London … when? In September?”
“The eighteenth. Esme descended and whisked me up and we were in Dover that night.”
He’d been away for decades, but some things he hadn’t forgotten—like his older sisters’ excitement over the Little Season. “So you left just before the Little Season started?”
She nodded.
He cast again, a little more directly. “Unless things have changed dramatically since I was last in town, I’m surprised Esme was able to inveigle you away from the balls and parties. Your mother must be a lot more accommodating than mine.”
Her lips curved, but from this angle he wasn’t sure it was in a smile. “My parents are dead—it was my eldest brother Esme had to convince, and I assure you when she has the bit between her teeth, it takes someone a great deal more resolute than Robert to deny her.”
“But what about you?” The crucial question. “Weren’t you looking forward to whirling giddily around Almack’s floor?”
She gave a little snort—of derision?
“I assure you Esme didn’t have to argue her case with me.” She set a stitch, then added, “I have little real passion for ballrooms—my interests lie elsewhere.”
“Indeed?”
He waited, hoping, but all she gave by way of answer was a “Hmm.”
He wanted to know more. Why he wasn’t sure, but when did Reckless ever stop to work out the reasons behind his impulsive acts? That would make them “not reckless.”
If he couldn’t be his usual self with respect to his mission, then he needed an outlet, and he’d decided she was it. That was answer enough.
So how to tease more information from her?
The sun, although weak, was pleasantly warm. He closed his eyes, and gave the matter his undivided attention.
Loretta waited for his next question, carefully setting stitch after tiny stitch, quite willing to give him time to think … she heard a soft snore.
Turning her head, she studied his face, saw his broad chest rhythmically rise and fall, saw that this time his eyes truly were closed.
A soft smile spread across her face. There was no one else on the deck to see it, so she allowed it full rein. She remembered the previous night, remembered him standing guard in the moonlight.
Watching over them all.
He deserved to sleep, to catch up, in safety.
Returning to her embroidery, she continued stitching, content to watch over him while he did.
Some hours later, after taking tea with Esme and the other ladies in the salon, Loretta swung her shawl about her shoulders and went up on the deck, feeling the need for a brisk walk before dinner, not least to clear the clamor of ladies gossiping from her head.
Not only did they gossip, but their dearest topic was Rafe Carstairs-Jordan. The Honorable Rafe Carstairs-Jordan, brother of the current Viscount Henley of Oxfordshire, late of His Majesty’s Army in India. Etcetera, etcetera.
She didn’t need to hear more on that subject, the very one she was trying, without notable success, to steer her too frequently avid curiosity from.
She’d completed one circuit of the deserted observationdeck when she heard laughing and cheering. The sound drew her toward the stern.
At the rear of the observation deck, a small gate barred the walkway that ran along the side of the elevated bridge. She paused, debating, but the captain saw her through the bridge’s window, smiled, bowed, and waved her on. Too curious to resist, she pushed open the gate and walked through.
The walkway ended at the rear of the bridge, where a sloping ladder led down to the open rear main deck. She hadn’t previously been that far into the crew’s territory. Pausing at the head of the ladder, she looked down, past the various masts, spars, and sails that helped propel the boat along, to the stern deck. The shouts and laughs were coming from there.
Numerous men were congregated at the stern, hanging over the rails, laughing, talking, clapping each other on the back and generally having a good time. Various crew members and most of the male passengers were there, including Rafe and Hassan.
Her eyes locked on Rafe’s blond head. She strained her ears, trying to make out what he was saying, what was going on.
Then his head came up; he turned and looked at her.
One of the German passengers followed his gaze and beamed genially. “Fräulein! Come and join us.” He waved. “We need a lady’s eye—a lady’s wisdom to judge our contest.”
Others heard, saw her and beckoned her to join them. One of the crew came hurrying to help her down the ladder. Rafe prowled in the man’s wake.
He was there to take her hand as she stepped off the ladder. His eyes danced. “Fishing contest.”
“Ah.” Of necessity gripping his hand, she let him steady her around the coils of rope and various impedimentia strewn over the deck.
The men were on a slightly raised platform at the stern. Drawing in a breath, fixing a smile on her lips, she draggedher senses from the strong clasp of Rafe’s fingers about hers, from their warmth and the strange conviction of comfort, of safety, she now experienced whenever he was close, and focused on the group.
On the interesting way the passengers had mingled with the crew. Was it the fact they were traveling and so were out of their customary society that allowed them to ignore the usual social barriers and speak man to man? She knew that come dinnertime, the barriers would be back up and functioning. The concept would make an interesting vignette. She really should concentrate on that.
As they neared the group, Rafe said, “This curve of the river is apparently an excellent fishing spot, and the cook"— with a wave he indicated that individual, who grinned and bowed—"has declared that if the passengers catch fish enough for the purpose, he’
ll prepare a special fish dish for dinner.”
“Of course,” Herr Gruber said, “we must have a contest to see who catches the biggest fish.”
Loretta couldn’t help but smile. “Of course.”
Herr Gruber pointed into a large wooden barrel. “See? We have caught three so far, but we need many more.”
Loretta looked at the three gray-scaled fish flopping in the bucket. They were of decent size, much of a muchness.
“There are much bigger ones than that to be caught,” the purser informed her. “The rules of our contest are that if a passenger catches the biggest fish, then the crew clean all the fish, but if the crew catch the biggest, then the passengers—the men, anyway—have to help.”
Loretta glanced at Rafe, then at the other passengers. “That sounds like an excellent incentive to win.”
As one, they grinned—boys all as soon as a contest was in the wind.
“We need an impartial judge,” the purser continued. “If we could impose on you, miss?”
She smiled. “I’ll be your judge on one condition—that you give me a rod and line, too.”
Rafe’s brows rose, along with those of all the other men. But they were happy to indulge her whim, and quickly found her a rod with a wooden reel. One sailor helpfully baited her hook. Then they all went back to their own rods. Silence descended. Only when a fish was hauled aboard did they break out with exclamations and laughter.
Loretta eyed the group lining the stern rail, then went to the side rail closer to the bank and looked over. The boat was sliding slowly through the water under a single, large, high sail. It had been years since she’d fished, but she rather thought the river side of the boat would yield better pickings.
Rafe, standing with the group with their rods hanging over the stern, watched her as she crossed to the river-side rail. She smiled as she passed him, paused at the rail, checked her hook, then expertly flicked her line out over the water.
She watched it sink, then the line drew taut with the current. She played it out lazily, then let the line drift and settled against the rail.
Ten minutes later, she had her first bite. Her line bowed as she reeled in the fish. Rafe appeared by her shoulder. “Do you need help with that?”
“No, no.” She flashed him a smile. “I can manage.”
One of the sailors leaned over the side and scooped her catch up in a net. With it flopping on the deck, everyone gathered around to compare it to the others in the bucket. “It’s much the same size,” she declared, although in fact her fish was fractionally larger.
All the men smiled, laughed, and congratulated her. She accepted their accolades with a bright smile, and thanked the sailor who rebaited her hook.
Of course, they all thought it was beginner’s luck.
Their attitude changed somewhat with her next catch—a fish distinctly larger than her earlier one. Some shifted their rods to the river-side rail.
She smiled and sent her line snaking further out into the river.
Her next catch was simply enormous.
And then the contest truly was on. Every man shifted to the river-side rail and tried to get their hooks as far out as hers.
She couldn’t rein in her smile. As she sent her line whizzing out over the water again, she felt carefree, truly happy. Rafe stood beside her, his technique almost, but not quite as good as hers. The comments he mumbled under his breath nearly had her in stitches.
It was all good-natured—everyone laughed and joked and she encouraged them—yet there was no doubt whatever that both passengers and crew were exerting themselves to trump her monster catch.
None of them managed it, but they caught a lot of fish, enough to have the cook eventually declare the contest at an end—and her the winner.
They all cheered, and she laughed and accepted their applause. Then the passengers turned and made their way back to their side of the boat, and the mingling was at an end.
She was thinking of that—of the activities that welded men into a single group beyond the boundaries of class—as she climbed back up the ladder, at the top taking Rafe’s hand to step onto the walkway.
The other passengers had gone ahead; she and Rafe were the last of the group heading onto the observation deck.
Rafe fell in behind Loretta as she strolled the walkway. And wondered. Eventually, he said, “We’d never have switched to the river-side rail if you hadn’t shown us.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. An elementally female gleam lit her eyes. “I appreciate fish.”
With that, she faced forward and walked on.
Leaving him even more intrigued than before.
That evening, Loretta found herself blushing. Constantly.
First in the dining salon, where the sumptuous fish course was introduced with a toast to her, accompanied by a great deal of enthusiasm, laughter, and general merriment, and then later in the main salon to which the passengers retreated,when the gentlemen decided to relive the Great Fishing Contest, and her role as winner, for the edification of their wives.
Even more than the fulsome compliments the gentlemen paid her, the knowing looks and open encouragement from the ladies made her squirm. Especially those from Esme. Her great-aunt lived to see the day she, in Esme’s words, “emerged from her chrysalis and unfurled her wings as a true Michelmarsh.”
Her behavior at the fishing contest had definitely been a Michelmarsh moment. A moment when her true self, the one she normally kept well-reined, had stepped forward and taken charge.
And while she didn’t exactly regret relaxing just for that time, the outcome only emphasized the wisdom in keeping her Michelmarsh self well hidden, allowing only the assumed façade of the prim, proper, demure young lady to show.
As a prim and proper young lady, she could avoid notice she didn’t want, and temptation she didn’t want, too.
Like that of Rafe Carstairs. Despite her senses’ preoccupation with him, she didn’t have room in her life to deal with him, with the attraction he evoked. She had matters to observe, thoughts to think, vignettes to write, and her own rather different path to follow.
That no one but she knew of her secret career was neither here nor there. She was as devoted to it as, she judged, he was to his mission.
“Do not say a word.” She growled the warning as, a distinctly teasing smile on his lips, he joined her in the narrow prow end of the salon. “I am not some witch or harpy or siren who magically lures fish to her hook.”
His brows rose, but his eyes gleamed. Raising the glass of brandy he carried, he took a sip while surveying the others in the room. “If you say so.”
She shot him a sharp glance. “I do. There is no need to say anything more about that blasted contest.”
He faced her; the disturbing light in his eyes had growneven more pronounced. “The contest, while amusing, was not the principal element of the afternoon’s activities that caught my interest.”
She blinked, conscious of an impulse to take a step back. The look in his eyes, the intentness in his expression, made her nervous—made her pulse kick and her instincts come alive. But she had to ask … “What did catch your—I’m sure peripatetic—attention?”
He smiled. “You.”
Her senses skittered, but she arched a brow back, infusing the gesture with world-weary boredom. “Why? Because I can fish?”
“No. But incidentally, where did you learn?”
“At home in the local river—my sisters, younger brother, and I always ran our own competitions.”
“Did you win those, too?”
“Generally.” She lifted her chin. “I watched and learned better than they did.”
“I’ve noticed you’re very observant.”
The way he said the words made her nerves jangle. She fixed her eyes on his, felt her pulse leap as he shifted a fraction closer. “So?” She shrugged. “Many people are naturally observant.”
“Not like you.” He held her gaze. “Or me.”
&
nbsp; She let her eyes fly wide. “You?” She could see in his eyes that he was playing with her, but it was a game to which she’d refused to learn the rules.
“Indeed.” He smiled again. “For instance, I’ve observed that you are not quite the young lady you pretend to be, but the why of that is a mystery. A puzzle, a conundrum. And if there’s one thing guaranteed to fix my interest, it’s a mystery. I enjoy unraveling them.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are not going to unravel me. So just forget whatever revelation you think you’ve had, and put the entire notion from your mind.”
His eyes held hers while he took another sip. Then his lips curved. “Too late.”“Nonsense!” She was flustered, and she’d never been that before; she didn’t appreciate the sensation. She only just stopped herself from wagging a finger beneath his nose. “Listen—”
“Loretta, dear?”
Swinging around, she saw Esme gliding up.
Smiling, her great-aunt laid a hand on her arm. “I forgot my shawl, dear. Could you fetch it from my cabin?” Still smiling, she glanced at Rafe. “I’m sure Rafe will excuse you. You know the one I want—the black silk.”
“Yes, of course.” Delighted to escape any further verbal clash with her nemesis, she nodded his way. “Sir. If you’ll excuse me?”
She didn’t wait for any reply but quit the scene, heading for the stairs and the stateroom below.
Esme transferred her gaze to Rafe.
He met it, arched a brow. Waited.
She considered him, then, still smiling, patted his arm. “Do be careful, dear boy. I know dear Loretta is something of a prize, and a definite challenge even though she doesn’t mean to be, but while I have no doubt you’ll be able to prevail, I have to warn you it’ll be an uphill battle.” She lifted a finely drawn brow. “Are you sure you want to engage?”
He made no attempt to answer. He had no intention of giving her any more ammunition to use against him.
A tactic Esme understood. Her smile deepened and, with another pat, she turned away. “Good luck, dear boy. I’ll be watching your progress with interest.”
The Reckless Bride Page 7