by Louise Allen
‘Take one if you want to read.’ Someone might as well enjoy them.
‘May I?’ She was lifting them out before he could reply. ‘Gulliver’s Travels—I have always wanted to read that. Would you like one?’
‘No.’ Reading military tactics would be rubbing salt in the wound, the thought of classical texts made his head ache and poetry and fiction held not the slightest charm. He had carted those books with care the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula, had read them with passion whenever he could, and now he found he had not the slightest desire to see them ever again. The urge to discover all the literature he had spurned as a youth had suddenly left him. ‘Thank you,’ he added, aware that he was probably sounding like a lout and not really caring much about that either.
‘I’ll read to you.’ Meg opened the book carefully on her knees.
‘I want to sleep.’
‘You cannot possibly be tired and if you sleep now you will not rest well tonight.’ She sounded remarkably like his old nanny when he was five. Ross rolled his eyes and settled back, resigned to his fate.
‘Travels into several remote nations of the world in four parts by Lemuel Gulliver, first a surgeon, then a captain of several ships. Part the first, a voyage to Lilliput,’ Meg read. ‘My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the third of five sons….’ Her tone deepened as she realised she was reading a first-person account by a man, and Ross closed his eyes, caught immediately by the fluency of her clear voice. Perhaps, after all, he would not sleep.
‘…and lie at my full length in the temple.’ Meg closed the book and sighed, revelling in the luxury of a book and the time to read it in. ‘Oh! Have I put you to sleep after all?’
‘No.’ Ross opened his eyes. ‘No, I was quite lost in the story you were recounting—you have the knack of reading aloud very vividly.’
‘Thank you.’ He almost smiled. Meg closed the book and set it aside, careful not to stare at Ross directly, as though the fleeting look of pleasure on his face was a wild animal she might scare away by confronting it. ‘I am agog to know what happens next, but that is the end of the chapter and time, I think, for dinner. I’ll send Johnny down with yours.’
It was more difficult to move about now the ship was well out into the bay and receiving the full strength of the swell. Meg found herself putting out both hands to fend off from each side of the passageway in turn and smiled to find herself staggering about like a drunk.
When she reached the stairs—companion way, she remembered to call it—she took a firm grip of the rail and then slipped as her foot skidded on the worn wood. Immediately a hand cupped her elbow and steadied her.
‘Ma’am. Have a care.’ There were two gentlemen standing behind her; one had reached to steady her.
‘Thank you, sir. I have not yet got my sea legs, I fear.’ He kept hold of her arm as they climbed and Meg glanced up at him, recognising his face. He and his companion were merchants, she had decided when she had seen them at breakfast. They certainly did not appear to have wives or families with them. Both men were well dressed, in their thirties, perhaps.
‘Thank you,’ she repeated when they reached the next deck where the food was being served, but it took a pointed glance at his hand before he released her.
‘Gerald Whittier, ma’am. And this is Henry Bates.’
‘Mrs Brandon.’ Meg began to feel uncomfortable at the way they stood so very close. She scanned the long tables between the hanging lanterns for Signora Rivera or some other lady. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must organise dinner for my husband.’
‘Oh, yes, he is a cripple, is he not?’ Whittier observed. ‘We saw him being carried on board. Difficult for you, ma’am, being all alone with him in that state. Perhaps you would care to join us for dinner?’ His smile made her uneasily aware of the warmth in his eyes. ‘We would be delighted to entertain you.’
I am sure you would. ‘My husband, Major Brandon,’ Meg said with all the frost she could inject into her voice, ‘is not crippled, but wounded.’ She glanced up and down their immaculate civilian clothing. ‘My husband is an officer and a hero.’ Whittier flushed at the scorn in her voice, but stepped back as she swept past him.
There, the colonel’s lady could not have been so haughty. She found a seat between a clerk who had a book propped up on the table before him and a fat woman and her husband whose occupation she was quite unable to guess.
As she ate she kept a wary eye out for the two men, but, when they made no move to join her and took a table on the far side, she gradually recovered her equilibrium. Perhaps she had been over-sensitive and had read more than a somewhat unconventional invitation into Mr Whittier’s words. But she was still angry at the way he had described Ross.
‘Anyfink wot you want, mum?’ It was Johnny, standing at her elbow.
‘Yes, you may carry some food down to the major, if you will. I am not very steady on my feet in this sea.’
‘Wot would the major like, mum?’
‘Everything, and lots of it, he has a good appetite,’ she said, smiling at the boy. ‘And ale.’
‘He’s a big ’un, he is,’ Johnny said. ‘My ma would say she’d rather feed him for a day than a sen’night.’ He scurried off in the direction of the serving table.
Meg was so amused by that she decided to save it up to tell Ross. Perhaps she might tempt that elusive half-smile out again.
She lingered a little, then went up and out on to the deck to give Ross some more time alone. He was probably thoroughly tired of her company, although if he was up and about tomorrow he would probably find some congenial male passengers and would not need her efforts to entertain him. If he did, then perhaps it would prove her wrong about his dark, fatalistic mood. Perhaps, after all, he had merely been exhausted, in pain and bored.
She wandered up towards the bows and leaned her elbows on the rail. It was quiet on deck, most of the passengers apparently preferring the stuffy, poorly lit communal stateroom to the stiff breeze and salty air. The sea was liberating after years of heat and dust and danger. Somewhere out there beyond the darkening sea, where the vanished sun still made a glow on the horizon, were Bella and Lina. Would they be happy and well? Would they have found—?
‘Still alone, ma’am?’ It was Whittier, his friend Bates smirking behind him. ‘That won’t do, a young lady like yourself. You need some lively company; no wonder you don’t want to go back below to your wounded hero.’
‘I am alone, Mr Whittier, because I choose to be. Thank you, but I do not wish for company.’
‘Come now, there’s no need to be standoffish.’ They moved in close, far too close for comfort. The rail pressed into her back, no escape that way. Panic began to catch at her breath as she glanced around the deserted deck. Not even a deckhand was in sight. ‘We are much more fun for a lady like you than that cripple of yours below decks.’ Bates put his hand on her arm, his fingers hot through the cotton of the sleeve.
Where was their cabin? Could they bundle her down there without anyone realising? She looked around for a weapon and saw none. It was up to her; no one was going to save her this time.
‘Mr Bates, if you do not remove your arm, I am going to scream—very loudly.’ Someone, surely, would hear? The threat did not appear to alarm them. Still, she must try. Meg dragged down a deep breath, opened her mouth and—
‘But not as loudly as you will scream, Mr Bates, when I rip your testicles off and throw them to the sharks,’ said a cold voice from the shadows of the rigging. Ross. And sounding like Death. An hysterical giggle rose in her throat at the sight of the men’s faces as they swung round to confront the threat in the shadows.
Ross was wearing his stained, filthy uniform, his sword at his side and a pistol pushed into the sash. He looked as if he had just walked out of the swirling smoke and bloody carnage of the battlefield—or straight from hell. He looked, Meg thought, as she sagged back against the rail, big, dangerous and utterly wonderful—provided he w
as on your side. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Whittier demanded. ‘This woman is with us.’
‘This lady is my wife.’ For the first time, Meg saw Ross smile. And then wished she hadn’t. ‘I believe she expressed the desire to be left alone. Are you hard of hearing, perhaps?’ His sword ripped out of its scabbard as the men backed away. ‘Are you as attached to your ears as your friend is to his balls?’ He had them trapped now, pressed back against the rail with nowhere to go. It was time to intervene.
‘Major Brandon.’
‘My dear?’ It was hard not to be distracted by the warmth in those two drawled words.
‘The captain would dislike blood on his deck.’
‘So he would.’ There was a thoughtful silence while the sword point remained unwavering. ‘And the men work so hard holystoning it. Did these scum touch you?’
She knew what he meant and shook her head. ‘No, they were merely offensive.’
Ross kept the sword up while Meg and the two men eyed it like rabbits in front of a stoat. ‘Very well. You two—undress.’
‘What?’ Bates’s voice wavered between fear and incredulity.
‘You heard me. Every stitch. Avert your eyes, my dear. This will not be a pretty sight.’
Meg hastily turned her back. Amid sounds of spluttering indignation it was apparent that Bates and Whittier were obeying Ross. She could hardly blame them for giving in, not once they had seen his smile and looked into his eyes.
‘Now throw it all over the side. Good. And now, walk back to the companionway and down the stairs.’
‘But that’s the public saloon! And we’re stark naked!’
‘Yes, indeed. And hardly a vision to inspire an artist, I fear. Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.’
As he passed her, Ross murmured, ‘I thought I told you to avert your eyes, wife.’
Meg dragged her gaze from two pairs of pale, goose-pimpled buttocks retreating towards the companionway and laughed. ‘And, as always, husband, your judgement is entirely correct. I have never seen a more revolting sight.’
Chapter Five
Meg stayed where she was, listening as the outraged shrieks from below died down. Her knees felt wobbly now as her amusement ebbed away. That had been a nasty little incident and it had left her more shaken than she expected. Uneven, limping footsteps on the deck made her look up. ‘What happened?’
‘They snatched up platters from the serving table to cover their modesty so most people were spared the worst of it. But they won’t dare show their faces for the rest of the voyage.’ Ross stood close, looking down at her. ‘Johnny saw them follow you and came to me. Are you all right, Meg?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Meg began, then found her voice cracking. ‘No…not really. It is very foolish, I just feel rather…’
And then he stepped forwards, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. It was rather like being hugged by the bear she had compared him to, one smelling of river-soaked, badly dried cloth with a lingering whiff of gunpowder and smoke, but it was marvellously comforting. And utterly improper. Meg wrapped her arms around Ross’s waist and clung, her cheek pressed against the dark green broadcloth of his jacket, her toes bumping his boots. How long had it been since she had been hugged?
He was big and strong and beautifully male. Appropriate female parts of her tingled disconcertingly at the realisation of just how good he felt.
His chin was resting on the top of her head. He was certainly a very thorough hugger, but that was all this seemed to be, thank goodness. Thank goodness, she repeated rather desperately to herself as her body soaked up his warmth and the strength of his arms stirred the feelings that were nothing at all to do with relief and entirely to do with the effect of being held close by a very masculine man.
She really should step away, now, before his thoughts began to run along the same path. Meg wriggled and said, muffled, into his chest, ‘I’m all right now, thank you.’
‘Mmm?’ Ross opened his arms a little, enough for her to lean back against his embrace and look up. It was hard to see in the light of the swaying lantern and she frowned, trying to make out his expression. It did not occur to her that this position, or the length of time she held it, was an invitation—not until he lowered his head and kissed her.
It was not a subtle kiss, but it was a satisfying one, tingling right down to her toes. And it was a surprising kiss, not least because she was hazily aware that Ross was as taken aback as she was by what was happening. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in return and he seemed to emerge from his shock and put his mind to what he was doing.
And at that point the movement of his mouth over hers became subtle, intimate and far more assured and arousing than Meg could deal with. She much preferred him confused. And besides, she was not used to kissing like this. James had not been much given to preliminaries. ‘No.’ She pulled back. ‘Ross, we should not be doing this.’
He did not release her abruptly as he might have done, finding himself rejected, but opened his hands and his arms so they still supported her. ‘No?’
Meg found she could not reply. It was difficult, just at this moment, to remember why falling into bed with a troubled near-stranger she did not understand was not a perfectly rational thing to be doing. Then the ship rolled and she was back in his embrace, her hands reaching up to slide into the thick hair at the sides of his head. Oh, but this was good, this closeness, this heat.
This time it was Ross who stopped. ‘Downstairs.’ He strode towards the companionway, one hand clasped firmly around her wrist. She allowed herself to be pulled along, half-excited, half-afraid, wholly incapable of resisting him.
The buzz of conversation that rose to greet them as they emerged into the public stateroom showed that the scandalous entertainment Ross had provided earlier was still exercising the passengers.
‘Mrs Brandon!’ Meg turned, with the flustered realisation that she was beginning to answer rather too readily to that name, and found the large woman from dinner at her side. ‘Did you see that outrageous sight just now! Two men, stark—I mean, in a state of nature!’
‘My goodness! How utterly shocking. They must have been drunk, don’t you think?’
‘Or insane,’ the other woman said darkly. ‘Oh, and here is dear Major Brandon, young José’s brave rescuer. The signora told us all about it. How are you now, Major?’
‘Quite recovered, ma’am.’ Ross sounded as though he was facing a court-martial. ‘But if you will excuse us—’ He guided Meg through the stateroom and away towards their cabin, his hand firm on her arm.
When the door closed behind them they stood looking at each other. The cold realisation that they had acted very imprudently was beginning to creep over Meg. Ross looked as though the court-martial had resulted in a death sentence.
‘Bed,’ he snapped.
‘I don’t think—’ she began, aware as never before of the size and the strength of the man. She had provoked him—inflamed him—and now she had no idea how to stop him from taking what she had so rashly offered. Did she even want to stop him? No, was the honest truth, but what happened afterwards?
‘Neither of us thought. Go to bed.’ Ross reached for the blankets she had folded on the trunk. ‘I will sleep on the floor.’
Meg sat down on the edge of the bunk, her knees giving way. He did not intend to finish what they had begun on deck—either by force or persuasion. She supposed it was relief that was making her feel so light-headed. Now she did not have to make a decision.
‘You will not sleep on the floor.’ Guilt overcame the relief. ‘We will both sleep in the bunk. If you lie on the deck, it will hurt your leg and I will not sleep for worrying. If I take the deck, then you will not sleep fretting about that.’
The sound Ross made in response could only be described as a snort. ‘You expect me to sleep easily next to a woman I have just kissed? Held in my arms? You have been married, have you not, Meg? You know what happens.’ He found the pillow and
tossed that down too.
Well, that was certainly frank, Meg thought, knowing she was blushing. Of course she knew the effect that kissing a woman had on a man and if that was followed by both of them getting into bed together and doing nothing about it she was sure it would be downright uncomfortable for him.
She could trust the promise that he had given her the other night; she would be safe with him even if he did spend the night in discomfort both from his wound and his body’s own reactions. Now she felt guilty. And embarrassed. And more than a little frustrated herself.
‘And if we both get into that bunk we will be lying like planks, one on each side,’ Ross added. He stood, hands on hips, regarding the mattress with disfavour.
‘I don’t believe either of us would be any less uncomfortable with you on the floor. I apologise; I hugged and kissed you out of sheer relief. It was too much like that time before Peter rescued me.’
‘I kissed you first,’ Ross said with the air of a man who was going to be fair if it killed him.
‘And it was not just relief,’ Meg admitted. ‘Let that be a lesson to us not to give way to our, er, animal passions, as you called them,’ she added briskly, with more resolution than she felt. ‘We are adults, with the willpower God gave us, I trust, not undisciplined adolescents.’ That sounded very fine, but it did not stop her feeling seventeen again, before experience taught her that romantic daydreams dissolved in real life.
Look at him. He isn’t handsome in the slightest, he’s dour, dark and mysterious and thoroughly out of temper, so what is the matter with you? But it was no good—the fact remained that Ross Brandon was overwhelmingly masculine, he excited her unbearably and she wanted him. She, Margaret Shelley, who had sworn never to allow her emotions to lead her into trouble again.
‘Animal passions,’ he repeated, looking even more saturnine than before. ‘Willpower. Right. You undress behind that curtain and I will get into bed. If you extinguish the lantern before you emerge you may pretend I am that large dame we have just met and I will pretend that you are.’