Her breath caught in her throat and she gripped the stair rail so tightly it hurt her fingers. The sky was magnificent. Dark, threatening, rolling patches of charcoal gray brushed over lighter spots, engulfing the earthly sphere. Lightning zigzagged through the sky, cutting a swath and striking the ocean in the distance. She was frightened beyond words and absolutely thrilled at the same time.
“Oh, mercy,” she breathed. She sat down on the top step, wrapped one arm around the railing, and stared. It was quite the most overwhelming and majestic thing she’d ever witnessed. She looked around the deck, noting the deck chairs had been tied down, the on-deck shuffleboard pieces had indeed been secured—that was a relief!—and she was alone, save for one other person who sat huddled over a bucket at the top of another staircase across from her position.
The poor wretch. Valentine really was fortunate in that she didn’t feel so much as a twinge of discomfort; instead, she felt a sense of euphoria as the wind snuck beneath the awning overhang and completely destroyed her coiffure. She squinted at the sick man, her heart thudding as she recognized the coat he was wearing. Max had told her about the pin on his lapel. It had belonged to his mother.
“Max!” The wind tore her yell away before it could reach the other side, and she realized he would never hear her. He sat slumped against the railing, eyes closed, his long legs bent at the knee and the bucket suspended between his hands.
Oh, dear. She couldn’t leave him alone in his misery, and he likely needed a fresh bucket. She glanced around but didn’t see anything, of course, as all loose items had been secured. She turned around and slipped her way down the stairs to her stateroom, the journey taking much longer than usual because she lost her footing every other step. Once in her own room, she located the bucket used to chill the champagne that had been placed in her sitting room before they boarded. She set the wine in the tiny powder room sink and emptied the melted ice. She left her room, twisting her way around the ship and up the other set of stairs where she’d seen Max.
By the time she reached him, she was breathless, and she sank down next to him on the deck at the top of the stairs, holding tight to the railing opposite the one around which he’d looped his arm. She touched his shoulder and he started in surprise, whipping his gaze up to her face and then grimacing and gagging as though he’d moved too quickly. He coughed violently into the bucket but brought up nothing, and then glared at her.
“What are you doing up here?” he managed.
“The better question is what are you doing up here? I am not ill, but you should be in bed!”
He answered her but she couldn’t hear him. She stood and took his bucket, and tossed it clear out onto the deck in the midst of the slashing rain, and his eyes widened in disbelief.
“Here.” Valentine thrust her ice bucket into his hands. “Use this one.” She clutched the railing, stepping gingerly around his bent legs and sat on his other side, closer to his face. She grasped the railing below his arm and held on tightly as the ship pitched. She slid away from him and then back again as the steamer righted itself.
“Why are you up here?” she said, wondering how scandalized he would be if she lifted her sodden skirts out of the way and hooked a leg around the railing.
His eyes closed and he leaned against their iron lifeline. “Sometimes it isn’t as bad if I can see out.”
She nodded, reflecting that one of her nieces grew sick in carriages and preferred to ride up top with the driver. “But it hasn’t helped?”
“Not so much. The good thing is I’ve nothing left to puke,” Max gave her a ghost of a smile, his eyes still closed. “Thank you for the bucket, though.” He cracked an eye open and squinted at her. “I cannot believe you threw my disgusting mess out there onto the deck.”
“Look at it, the rain has already washed everything away.”
“Mmm. Likely it will all wash back toward us.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She’d cross that bridge when it slid to her, she supposed, wrinkling her nose.
“Go back to your room, Valentine. You’ll catch cold.”
“I am hearty as an ox. And I’ll not leave you out here alone.” She frowned, taking in his pale face and narrow lines bracketing his mouth, whether in pain or stress she couldn’t tell. Probably both. He was usually so healthy; he looked invincible, really, and she found herself very unsettled at his discomfort.
“Perhaps I would rather be alone,” he muttered. As an afterthought, he added, “No offense intended.”
“None taken. But remain, I shall. What sort of friend leaves another to suffer through a storm alone?”
He chuckled, or rather, a small puff of air escaped his nose, and he managed a smile. “What sort of friend forces an adorable little woman to deal with his bucket of flashed hash?”
“You find me adorable, do you?” She was determined to keep him talking, or at the very least, distracted. “And you didn’t force me to do anything.”
She paused for a moment, allowing his casually spoken words to sink into her heart. He found her adorable? She caught her lip between her teeth, at once exhilarated and unsure. Without allowing herself to overthink it, she reached up with her free hand and brushed the sodden hair away from his forehead.
He sighed, his brow drawn over tightly closed eyes. “I want to die.”
“Come now, is it as bad as all that? Truly? A big, strong pugilist felled by a little thunder and lightning?”
Her lips twitched as he again cracked open the one eye and directed the force of it at her. She laughed and shifted around so that she sat facing him.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, just turning so I can see you.”
He grimaced. “Cannot imagine why you would want to, for the life of me.”
I could look at you every day for the rest of my life and never see enough. Valentine knew she would never dare voice that particular thought aloud, but she felt it to her very core. She also knew she didn’t evoke the same sensation in him, adorable or not. She had been raised largely in the country and away from important society, and he was a business man who was extending his personal empire into different countries.
“Tell me something about your life. Anything,” he mumbled. “Just let me hear your voice.”
“And here I was prepared to be silent as a church mouse so as not to disturb you.”
“Disturb me, please. I benefit from the distraction.”
And so she began to talk. Valentine told him about life as a child, the scrapes she got into with her brothers, her mother’s despair at her propensity to run around instead of walking like a lady, her mother’s despair at her propensity to firmly hate embroidery, her few friends, village social events, anything she could think of. She told him of two suitors who had been less than sincere in their efforts to actually see a courtship to fruition, her disappointment over one of them and her relief at the departure of the other.
She told him about the cottage she was to inherit the following year and her anticipation for it. About her intentions to take in female borders to help maintain costs, the delight she found in creating floral scented soaps and her desire to sell them at the local market, especially to tourists who flocked to the seaside each year to rest and spend their money.
The violent pitching of the ship began to calm somewhat, and Valentine was finally able to relax her grip on the railing. Rain still fell in a steady shower, but movement calmed, at least. Max shuddered a sigh.
He opened his blue eyes a fraction and squinted against the light. His brow creased in a frown as he looked at her, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious. “You’re drenched, Valentine. And shivering. Look at you, your lips are blue!”
He took one of her hands and sandwiched it between his, which were equally cold, but his grip was solid and she considered that a good sign. He rubbed her hand briskly, only to halt and close his eyes as the ship rocked. He grabbed the railing again with one hand but still retained possession of h
er hand in his other. She wished she could believe he did so as a gesture of something more than friendship.
She cleared her throat, which was suddenly a bit rough, and not only because she’d been speaking to him nonstop for well over an hour. “You’re more miserable than I am, Gentleman Maxwell. Shall I help you to your stateroom?”
“Not just yet, I think.” He released a shallow sigh. “But you should go.” He still maintained possession of her hand.
“Hmm. Not just yet, I think.”
He smiled at her, and her breath caught. “Why have you never married, Mr. Maxwell, if I might be so bold?”
His brow creased lightly. “Most women of my acquaintance, thus far, have not necessarily been interested in becoming Mrs. Maxwell. Other attention they would welcome, possibly, but marriage is rarely mentioned.”
“Fools, the lot of them.” She tried to keep her voice light.
“I am not exactly of noble stock, and I make my living teaching men how to punch each other in the face. Most mamas frown on such barbarism.”
Her heart ached for him. His tone was casual, off-handed, even, but there was an underlying thread of tension she felt as his grip on her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. “Any woman should be proud to be your wife,” she said. “Who wouldn’t rest easy in the knowledge that she would always find herself protected? Besides, gentlemen all seem to hold you up as an idol.”
“Yes, but what gentlemen hold in high regard and what their wives do are often two very different things. The wealth is a draw, but it has the stink of new money, and more often than not a mother also wants status for her daughter. She holds out for better offers.”
Valentine swallowed, glad he’d closed his eyes again because her own were beginning to burn with tears, and she didn’t imagine he would appreciate the sympathy. He would see it as pity, and he was nothing if not proud. “Well, again, I say they are all fools.”
He must have heard the emotion in her voice because his eyes flickered open. He regarded her for a moment. “Too sweet for your own good,” he murmured. “But I do appreciate the valiant defense.”
She cleared her throat, wanting to turn the direction away from herself and back to him. “My sister-in-law mentioned once that eating ginger snaps helps her when nauseated—do you suppose that might help you?”
He grimaced. “I’ll try anything once, but the thought of food right now is unpleasant, at best.”
“Ginger snaps were served with dessert two nights ago—I’ll see if there are any available. When you feel like nibbling on one, you can give it a go.” Noise from the storm lessened, and she glanced over her shoulder at the rain, which no longer pounded the deck but fell in lighter streams.
They sat in comfortable silence for some time as the world continued to right itself and the ocean grew calmer. He still had hold of her hand. Finally, Max groaned and pulled himself to his feet. He tugged her up with him and put a hand under her elbow when she slipped on the wet deck.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Of course.” She looked up at his face, which was a much lighter shade of green than it had been. She swayed closer to him and his grip tightened. Before she could make a fool of herself, she turned and began picking her way down the stairs. He maintained his hold on her arm, and she wished . . . oh, how she wished.
Valentine spent the bulk of her afternoon in her own stateroom, surprisingly tired. She rested and felt much refreshed afterward. She was disappointed, when she checked on Contessa, to find her still indisposed.
“Go, enjoy dinner, young Valentine. I shall never eat anything again.” Contessa managed a smile to accompany her dramatics and shooed at Valentine.
“Shall I visit with you in the morning, then?”
“Yes, dear girl. That would be lovely.”
Valentine smiled at Martina, who accompanied her to the door. “Thank you ever so much for helping me with my hair. I fear it was quite a disaster.”
Martina laughed. Her English was less polished than Contessa’s, but she understood Valentine well enough. “Bella, bella.” The pretty Italian maid patted Valentine’s cheek and smiled with a small wave before closing the door.
Valentine’s timing was impeccable, for Max emerged then from his suite across the hall. She was caught entirely by surprise, however. “Oh! I did not think to see you for another day, at least!”
He smiled and straightened his tie, looking resplendent in his formal dinner attire. His face had yet to regain its full, healthy complexion, but, in comparison to the way she’d left him earlier in the day, the difference was marked, and she was relieved.
“I do not know that I’ll be eating much, and my head is still spinning like a top, but I may as well leave the room as stay shut up inside.”
She tilted her head to the side and pretended to examine him. “You look much improved and, I daresay, fit for polite society.”
He laughed and offered her his arm as they made their way to the formal dining salon. “Whereas, earlier, I was not fit for the jungle, even?”
“I suppose a friendly jungle, perhaps.”
“A friendly jungle?” He raised a brow, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Is there such a thing, do you suppose?”
“Surely there must be some that are tamer than others. It bears further inquiry. Your brother is a man of study, yes? Perhaps he would know,” she grinned at him as they approached the salon’s double doors.
“I don’t know that he is well informed on jungles. Egyptian deserts are more to his liking.”
Valentine spied Dr. Henry in the salon, and The Trio, as Max referred to Chauncey, Alfred, and Colin. Dr. Henry had also invited a few additional people to sit at the table, likely people of influence on whom he hoped to make a favorable impression.
She wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps Dr. Henry is knowledgeable about jungles.”
Max’s arm tensed beneath her fingers. He looked down at her, his face impassive, “I would imagine the doctor is knowledgeable about many things. Ask him, if you would like to know.”
She frowned and narrowed her eyes the slightest bit, attempting to understand what it was that Max wasn’t saying. She glanced at Dr. Henry and felt the same vague sense of unease she’d experienced since first meeting the man. Even playing chess with him in the ship’s library hadn’t dispelled the odd disquiet she couldn’t define. “I do not care to ask him any more than I must, to be truthful. From your exchange with him I presumed your past together is less than amicable, and while I am not privy to details, I am not surprised.”
He raised a brow. “Very astute of you, Miss Baker.”
She shot him a wry glance, “One must be dead to have not sensed the animosity. It has little to do with my powers of observation and more to do with the simmering undercurrents that were shooting just beneath the surface of your exchange.” She gestured toward the table, “Even The Trio likely realized the two of you are hardly the best of friends.”
He chuckled and escorted her into the room. “It most assuredly must have been obvious for those three to comprehend it.” As they neared the table, his smile dipped and he glanced at her, “Do keep your guard up around him.”
“Keep my guard up?”
He grinned, then. “It’s a boxing term. I’ll explain later.”
She beamed at him. “Excellent! I was hoping you would teach me to box!”
“Wait,” he said as she slipped her hand from his arm and smiled at the people gathered at what she had come to regard as “their” table. When she selected a seat, Max tucked the chair beneath her and then claimed the empty spot to her right.
“I never said that.”
She quirked her mouth into a smile and glanced at him as a server placed the first course before her. “What could it hurt?” she murmured. “I’d love to surprise my brothers by planting them a good facer when I get home.”
He muttered something about a code of ethics as it concerned women and fighting, but she smiled to herself.
Teasing him was becoming second nature, and she’d redirected his attention from Dr. Henry. She was sorry she had mentioned the man to begin with. She knew her adventures would eventually come to a close, and she wanted to enjoy every moment with Max that she could. The last thing she wanted to discuss was his brother’s nemesis.
She glanced at him as he leaned back slightly from the bowl of soup he was served. She took a quick glance around the table, and then the salon as a whole, and realized most passengers were giving their food the same wary distance as did Max. Likely, everyone gathered in a valiant attempt to return to normalcy, but more people than not were still somewhat green about the gills.
Dinner conversation flowed, and much of it consisted of personal anecdotes about the storm and the general havoc it had wreaked. Dr. Henry introduced Valentine and Max to his new friends, Mr. Stewart, a middle-aged art patron, and Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale, recently widowed, quite pretty, and traveling as a means of dispelling her ennui and enjoying some of her late husband’s money. She wore a splendidly lavish dining ensemble, completed by a large ostrich plume tucked into her elegantly coiffed hair.
Max shoved his food around on his plate, much as Valentine had done her first evening in Venice, and she teased him about it. He glanced at her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“What were you about to say?”
He smiled, “Nothing.”
“Unfair and entirely unacceptable. You must tell me.”
“You were very quiet and ate little that evening, as I recall.” He placed a hand to his chest. “I presumed, wrongly, I admit, that you were a quite self-important socialite.”
She gasped and laughed. “I am the farthest thing from that!”
He lifted a shoulder. “I know that, now.” He glanced at her with a grin and picked up his wine glass. He sipped gingerly at first, and then raised a brow. “I may be able to keep this down.”
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 4