She lifted her hand and pulled the bandage down to reveal a very small reddened patch of skin with no signs of blistering. “I do not require a physician.”
He frowned at the undeniably minor injury. “Perhaps not.”
“Even the bandage is unnecessary, but Lilly—”
“You’ll keep it on. And clean. And you will keep Lilly and me apprised of the healing process.”
She dropped her hand to her lap. “Oh, for pity’s sake. There is no need for—”
“Haven’t you poured tea before?”
That question was greeted with narrowed eyes that held a hint of humor. “A change of subject on your part does not constitute an agreement on mine.”
It did as far as he was concerned. “Would you rather continue the discussion of your injury?”
“No.”
“Then tell me about the lesson.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shook her head and turned her eyes to the water. “I have poured before, but it’s different now. It’s not just Lilly and me sitting down in the parlor—it’s the whole of London. That’s how it feels to me. And instead of minding their own business, they’re all paying attention to see if I splash, or fill the cups too full, or not full enough, or let the china clatter.” She stood up but kept her eyes trained on the water. “It’s only hot water and some leaves. I don’t understand why the ton has to be so . . . so . . .”
She kicked at a small rock to send it tumbling into the stream.
“Ridiculous?” he offered. “Stringent? Pretentious?”
She blew out a short breath and smiled a little. “Yes, to all.”
“Well, try to remember that you’ll not be the only newcomer this season. Dozens of debutantes will be taking their first bows.”
“And will any of them scald their guests with tea, do you think?”
“Doubtful,” he admitted. “So you’ll let Lilly do the honors when someone comes to call. There are all sorts of ways to get around things when it isn’t just you trying to remember all the rules at once.”
“And if I can’t recall how to properly address a lord when introduced?”
“Try sneezing.”
She pulled her eyes from the stream to blink at him owlishly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Develop a sensitivity to cats, or flowers, or whatever happens to be nearby, and excuse yourself in a fit of sneezing.”
She choked out a noise that may have been a laugh but could just as easily have been a sound of surprise and disbelief.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly. You’ll have to be suitably contrite about it, of course, and affect a considerable amount of suffering. Garnering sympathy for your plight will be key.”
This time, it was clearly laughter. “I don’t know that I could summon a believable sneezing fit on command.”
“There must be something you’re good at. Focus on your strengths, Winnefred. Do you play an instrument?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Watercolor, sketch?”
“No.”
“Can you sing?”
“Not well.”
“Do you know any French?”
A corner of her mouth hooked up. “A bit.”
She cleared her throat. And then proceeded to recite a list of French invectives so extensive, so obscene, that she actually hit upon one or two he’d never before encountered.
He gaped at her for a moment. “It is a sad state of affairs, indeed, when a young lady can out-swear a sea captain. Or maybe just a curious one. I haven’t decided. Where on earth did you learn those?”
“Here and there.” Her grin spoke of pride and devilish delight at having shocked him.
“One does not pick up French curses here and there.”
“One can if there’s a prison not five miles away that used to have a wing filled with French soldiers.”
“Ah, yes.” He’d heard the townsfolk in Enscrum speak of the small and relatively new prison in terms both grateful and derogatory. They didn’t care to have the dredges of society at their doorstep, but they certainly appreciated the coin it brought in. “I suppose a few choice French phrases were bound to escape into town. Do I want to know how you managed to pick them up?”
“I rather doubt it.”
“I thought as much.” He rose from his seat and, placing a finger under her chin, tilted her face up for consideration. The color was back in her cheeks, and the dullness gone from her eyes. “Feeling better?”
She went very still at his touch. Her eyes darted to his mouth. “Yes.”
He shouldn’t have touched her again. He knew it even before he’d reached out with his hand. But he’d been unable to stop himself. Just as he was unable to stop himself now from brushing his thumb along the edge of her jaw and imagining what it would be like to taste her right there, where the skin was soft and tight. The light kiss, the brief flick of tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth along . . .
It took an enormous act of will to let his hand fall naturally to his side. The urge to snatch it away was almost as strong as the urge to wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck and pull her close.
“My pleasure.” His voice sounded muted over the roaring of blood in his ears. “If there’s anything else you need, you’ve only to ask.”
He told himself the offer was little more than a formality. It was simply the sort of thing a gentleman said to a lady directly before taking his leave. The suspicion that he would agree to any request she cared to make in that moment was studiously ignored.
Winnefred said nothing, as if she hadn’t even heard him. Her eyes, he realized with ever-growing discomfort, were still fixed on his mouth.
He took a full step back. “Well, if there’s nothing . . .” His imminent departure seemed to pull her from her thoughts. Her gaze snapped to his.
“What?” She frowned briefly and, to his immense relief, appeared to regain her composure. “Oh, yes, wait, there is something I should like, if it’s not too much bother. Are you going into town tomorrow?”
“I could manage it.” An errand several miles away. He could most certainly manage it. “Is there something you need?”
“Chocolate. I’d not tried it before you came, but now that I have, I can’t seem to stop drinking it. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious in my life. I’m down to my last cup’s worth.”
“I’m afraid the little I brought was all Mr. McDaniel had in stock. His next shipment isn’t due for another . . . fortnight, I believe he said.”
“A fortnight? We’ll be gone to London by then.”
The disappointment in her voice tugged at him. She shouldn’t have to wait until London. Not after waiting twelve years to start. “I’ll make the trip to Langholm.”
“For chocolate?” She laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. I thank you for the offer, but I’ve not become that spoiled. I’ll wait and save the final cup for a special occasion.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I don’t know yet, do I? Something monumental. My first gracefully executed curtsy perhaps.” She watched him as he chuckled. When she spoke next, it was with enough hesitancy to make him nervous. “There is something else I should like to ask of you.”
He hoped it was another errand. “I’m at your service.”
“Would it . . . Would it be a great deal of trouble for you to attend meals now and again? I know you prefer eating in your chambers,” she hurried on as if she could guess the direction of his thoughts, “but if Lilly were to have a distraction from time to time, it would help ease her burden, I think, as well as mine. With nothing else to do or think on, she’s become a bit fanatical about our trip. I don’t think it’s healthy.”
“She’s devoted.”
“She’s nearing deranged. Lord Gideon . . .” She swallowed and looked at him with a hope he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny. “Gideon, please.”
It was just a meal or two, he told himsel
f. Just an hour here and there, chaperoned and across the barrier of a sturdy oak table. He could do that.
“Certainly,” he heard himself say. “I’ll make a point of it.”
She beamed at him. “Thank you.”
“The pleasure will be mine, I’m sure.” So would the torture. “If there’s nothing else—”
“There is actually.”
Oh, bloody hell.
He leaned on his cane, hard. “And what might that be?”
She shifted her weight and placed her hands behind her back as if to keep from fidgeting. “I realize this isn’t the best time for me to mention this, not after you’ve been so gracious, but I’ve been meaning to speak to you of it for days, and I’ve not been able. You’re so often gone or wishing to be left undisturbed.” She grimaced at her own words. “I don’t mean that to sound so much like a complaint, or a reprimand. It’s only—”
“I understand.” He had made it difficult, nearly impossible for her to speak with him. There was no denying it. “What is it you wish to say?”
“It’s . . . I should like to start by saying that I’ve become rather fond of you.”
Oh, bloody, bloody hell.
He nodded, slowly. “I’m fond of you as well. Winnefred—”
“I want you to understand that what I am about to say doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for what you’ve done, or that I don’t like you. It’s only that I like Lilly more. She is, for all that we are not related by blood, my sister.”
His nerves quickly turned to bafflement. He nodded again, unsure of where she was taking the conversation. “Of course she is.”
“She is very excited about this trip.”
“I’ve no doubt that’s true.”
“She has built enormous expectations around it.”
“Only natural.”
“She has . . . This trip has . . .” She pressed her lips together in frustration. “She is now in a position of . . . a position to be . . .”
“Spit it out, Winnefred.”
“Right.” She nodded once, tipped her chin up, and stared him straight in the eye. “If anyone hurts or disappoints her in London, anyone at all, for any reason at all, I shall cut out your heart and eat it raw.”
“Ah.” He didn’t doubt for a second she would try. He felt the nearly irrepressible, and assuredly ill-advised, urge to laugh. Not at her, but at his delight with her. She threatened him almost begrudgingly. Not for herself, but for Lilly . . . And not before she had asked her favors.
Lovely, clever woman.
“What makes you think I’d allow harm to come to either of you?” Except for the obvious reason that he had no intention of being responsible for either of them once they reached London, he silently added. But she couldn’t know that.
“Nothing’s made me think it. I just wanted you to be aware that I am holding you personally accountable for Lilly’s happiness.”
“That’s a bit much to pin on a man, don’t you think?”
She thought it over. “No.”
“I see.” He felt his lips twitch despite the effort to keep them still. “Well, I’ll do my best to ensure that Lilly has her happiness and that my internal organs remain . . . internal.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Thank you. And I do apologize for the necessity of the discussion.”
“You are welcome, and forgiven.” He turned and began walking away but made it no more than three feet before he gave in to his amusement and turned back again.
“Why raw?”
“Why . . . I’m sorry?”
“Why eat my heart raw?” he repeated. “It’s such an odd qualifier, as if it were assumed I’d prefer it first be roasted and smothered in a fine plum sauce.”
“Plum sauce?” Her mouth fell open, and a bubble of laughter escaped from her throat. “I think you are mad.”
“I’m curious. Would the act of cooking really render the deed less barbaric? And what of the rest of dining etiquette ? Is anything permissible? Silverware, for example, or napkins? A seat at the table and a glass of port?”
Her amber eyes began to dance with humor, and her lips trembled with suppressed laughter. “I’m going to take my leave now. Good day, Lord Gideon.”
“Could there be side dishes and lively conversation?” He lifted his voice as she spun on her heel and walked away from him, Claire shuffling along at her side. “ ‘Pass the rolls, Mrs. Butley, and another helping of Lord Gideon’s raw heart. No, no, just use your fingers, dear, he’s being punished.’”
He heard her laughter echoing back to him. Unable to look away, he continued to watch her move away from him toward the house. Yes, it was going to be torture to see Winnefred Blythe sitting across the table from him every day, worse if he had to listen to that wonderfully low and free laugh of hers.
He made himself look away and begin a slow walk in the opposite direction. He’d attend breakfast, he decided. From what he could tell, breakfast was the shortest meal at Murdoch House. More important, performing his duty in the morning would give him the rest of the day to be alone.
He would not, under any circumstances, attend dinner. He would not end his day lying in his bed with the picture of Winnefred Blythe so fresh in his mind.
Nights, he thought grimly, were difficult enough.
Chapter 7
Gideon studied the wavering chart. He needed a plan. He needed to find a way to get them all out of this damnable mess.
But the chart kept shimmering in and out of focus. He couldn’t read it. He couldn’t think.
If the fighting would only stop for a minute, if the ship would be quiet for just one buggering minute, he’d be able to think.
“I can fight, Cap’n. Let me fight.”
He looked up from the table. When had the boy come in?
“Get to the hold, Jimmy.”
“But I can fight, Cap’n. Just give me a gun.”
“You can’t fight.” He gestured impatiently at the boy’s chest. “You haven’t any arms for pity’s sake.”
The boy looked down at his bleeding injuries.
“Bugger me. So I ’ave’nt. Me mum’s going to be right peeved.”
Gideon blinked at the blood. That wasn’t right, was it?
No, that wasn’t right at all.
He needed to get the boy to safety. It was his responsibility to get the boy to safety.
“Get to the hold.” Hadn’t he told the boys to go to the hold? “Now.”
“Nah.” Jimmy shrugged. “Don’t need me arms, really. But Bill’s ’ead is gone. Could be a problem.”
The cabin door swung open and young Colin Newberry came in with a hole the size of a dinner platter through his belly, and Bill’s head clutched in his hand like a lantern.
“Found it! Where’s the rest of him?”
“I’m losing you,” Gideon heard himself whisper. “I’m losing you.”
Lord Marson came in behind Colin. The left half of his upper body was gone, utterly gone, and blood flowed from the remaining half to pool on the floor. “What’s the captain lost? Is that Bill’s head? He’ll be looking for it.”
“Get to the hold! For pity’s sake, I told you to get to the hold!”
Bill’s head blinked at him.
“But, Cap’n, we just come from the hold.”
As the figures before him blurred, a scream echoed in Gideon’s head and strangled in his throat. He wanted to force it out. If, just for once, he could force it out, the agony of it would lessen. But nothing came from his lips but a long moan he heard as if from a great distance.
“Gideon. Gideon, wake up. Please, wake up.”
Winnefred’s voice floated to him over the waves of pain and frustration. Finally, finally, the scream began to die, slowly fading away like the final note of a violent symphony.
He saw her eyes first. It was so different to see something other than the ceiling or the bottom of a canopy when he woke from the dream, and for a moment he did nothing but stare while the last o
f the dream shrank away. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, really, to wake to beautiful eyes filled with concern . . . and fear.
“Gideon?”
“Bloody hell.” He pushed her away with shaking hands. “A moment. Give me a moment.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He sat up and reached for the shirt he’d tossed on the floor when he’d grown over-warm reading in bed. Pushing his arms through the sleeves, he rose, grateful that he’d fallen asleep with his trousers still on. Then he planted his hands on his hips and concentrated on settling his heart into a normal rhythm.
Only when he was certain he had regained a modicum of control did he turn to face Winnefred once more.
She was sitting on his bed, and he noticed for the first time that she was dressed in the rich cream night rail and wrap he’d purchased himself. The color had made him think of her skin. That skin was pale now, in sharp contrast with the spray of freckles across her cheekbones and nose. Her eyes were wide with worry and alarm, he realized with a sinking heart. He’d frightened her.
“I . . .” Disgusted that his voice came out rough and cracked, he cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve frightened you. I apologize.”
She shook her head and spoke softly. “I’m not afraid of you, Gideon. Only frightened for you when I heard you call out. You’re not . . . You’re not unwell, are you?”
“No, I’m not ill. I . . .” He trailed off, uncertain of what to say to her or do with himself. He settled for the blessedly mundane task of buttoning up his shirt. “What are you doing out of bed?”
She rose to stand, still watching him carefully. “I wished for a glass of milk. I was walking past your door and I heard—”
“You should have called for a maid.”
“Oh. If you’d rather a maid come, I could wake Bess for you and—”
“No, for the milk . . .” He shook his head, irritated with himself and the situation. “Never mind. I’d like to be alone, Winnefred.”
“Oh, yes. Right.” She hesitated, turned around as if to leave, then turned back again, her hands working nervously at the waist of her wrap. “I find it helpful, on occasion, to speak with Lilly of the things that trouble me. If you’d like to tell me of your dream—”
Nearly a Lady Page 7