Nobody's Angel

by Karen Robards

  It was a humbling experience to realize that he had the ability to cause her so much pain. He had thought that he would get his affairs in order and then return to take up where they had left off. He'd pictured their reunion as characterized by delightful surprise on her part. He had never in his wildest dreams anticipated spitting fury or that she would grieve herself sick in the meanwhile.

  "How are you feeling?" Stupid question, he knew, but there were precious few topics that she wouldn't seize on as a pretext for giving him a tongue-lashing. He slid out of his coat and draped it over the back of a chair as he waited for her to answer.

  "Sick." That one-word response emboldened him to approach. He rested an arm against the upper bunk that was his by default and gazed down at her.

  "You're looking better." That was not precisely true. She was clad in her long-sleeved lawn chemise because, as he'd carried her aboard in her Sunday-best black and nothing else, she had no nightdress, and the low, scooped neck showed off her creamy neck and shoulders. A coverlet tucked beneath her armpits hid the rest of her from his view, but he had no trouble remembering what he could not see. Her hair hung in a loose braid down her back. Tiny tendrils, loosened by the tossing and turning she did in bed, framed her face in a tawny halo. Illness had thinned her face. The hollows under her cheekbones and the new, finer-drawn line of her jaw gave her an unexpectedly fragile air. Her hazel eyes, with their long, thick sweep of lashes, appeared larger and lovelier than ever with blue smudges beneath them.

  To some she might appear far more attractive now than before, but to him she looked ill. He would rather by far have the determinedly plain woman he had left behind than this much more fragile version, as long as she was restored to health.

  "No thanks to you. Have you thought how anxious my family must be about me? As soon as we reach land, I must turn around and go back to them. As far as they know, I have disappeared off the face of the earth!"

  He had not the money to send her straight back to the Colonies, not without visiting his bankers, but there was no need to tell her that yet. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, he found himself thinking. The biblical quotation narrowed his eyes. Obviously he'd spent entirely too much time around a certain Bible-thumping Baptist if he was starting to fall prey to such thoughts!

  "Shall I help you with that gruel?" He was convinced that, rather than permit him to feed her in the earliest days of the journey, she would have starved. Indeed, she had refused to allow him to help her at all, even batting him away when he had tried to hold her head as she emptied her stomach with such violence that she could barely move afterward. She had not allowed him to help her undress, to wipe her face with a cool cloth, or to loosen her hair. In short, she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. Truly alarmed about her state and the lack of care she was getting, he'd confided in the captain, not everything, but merely that his wife was badly stricken with mal de mer. The captain, pleased to be of assistance to a member of the nobility, had recommended Mistress Hawkins. Mistress Hawkins was not all that Ian might have hoped for, but she was better than no one.

  "I can feed myself, thank you."

  Susannah's temper had mellowed somewhat, but not enough to where he had expected a positive answer. He turned away, loosening his neckcloth. As the ship heeled, Susannah cried out. Ian turned back so shaiply that he hit his head on the top bunk.

  "What's the matter?" He rubbed his forehead. It was just a slight bump, but still it hurt.

  "The gruel. It spilled when the ship rolled. Now it's everywhere."

  A glance told Ian that she had not exaggerated. The watery stuff had sloshed all over Susannah and the bunk. Her hands dripped with it; the bedclothes were saturated.

  "Here, give me that." He took the now empty bowl and set it in a little rack in a case bolted to the wall. Fitted with glass doors, the case was designed to hold such gear as dishes so that they would not be flung about during rough seas.

  "Now what am I to do?" Susannah looked down at herself with dismay.

  Obviously she could not stay in her bunk the way it was. The answer was obvious, yet it stuck in Ian's throat. He knew how the suggestion would be received even before he made it.

  "For tonight you'll have to sleep in the top bunk with me."

  For a moment she just looked at him, incredulous. Then, "Hah!" she said.

  Ian's lips compressed. "I have no intention of forcing myself on you, if that's what's worrying you. But your bunk is wet."

  "I would rather sleep in a wet bunk than sleep with you!" she said, folding her arms over her chest and eyeing him militantly.

  Ian's patience snapped at last. "You're being bloody ridiculous, Susannah," he said through his teeth. Bending, he scooped her up in his arms, straightened, and deposited her on the top bunk so fast that she had time to do no more than squeak. Her eyes flashed as she snapped her bare legs beneath her and rolled into a semi-kneeling position. Ian stepped back fast.

  She didn't even take a swing at him.

  "Very well, then," she said, as if making a great concession. "I will sleep up here. You may sleep on the floor."

  Ian had no intention of sleeping on the floor, but he also had no intention of saying so until he had to.

  "Take off your chemise, then get under the covers. It's cold in here, and you don't want to take a chill." He was already bending to strip her bunk.

  "Yes, you would like it if I did that, wouldn't you? I hope I'm not so big a fool!"

  Ian found that, having lost his patience once, it was harder not to lose it a second time. He threw the bedclothes on the floor, then straightened to look at her.

  "Susannah," he said in a carefully even tone. "If you don't take off that chemise, I'll do it for you."

  "You will not! You wouldn't dare!"

  "Why wouldn't I?" His patience was thoroughly lost now, and for the first time since he had discovered how he had wronged her he felt his temper begin to heat. "There's nothing to prevent me. I'm bigger than you, and stronger than you, and I've had quite enough of your foolishness. Now take off that damned wet chemise!"

  He stood with fists on hips, scowling up at her. She glared back just as fiercely. A steep dip on the part of the ship made her face change. She paled, swallowing. Watching her, compunction smote him, and his brief flare of anger died.

  "Susannah," he said quietly, "please take off the chemise. You may sleep in one of my shirts."

  For a moment the issue hung in the balance. Then Susannah nodded almost imperceptibly. "Very well. Though you must turn your back."

  Ian said nothing, careful not to jeopardize this small victory. Crossing to the battered valise that held the few necessities that he had been forced to purchase before committing himself to a lengthy ocean voyage, he extracted one of his three shirts. Tossing it to her, he turned his back.

  Which was patently ridiculous, of course. Even without seeing it, he could have sketched her body down to the tiniest detail. He knew it intimately, from the full swell of her breasts to the tender curve of her toes. He had committed to memory the litheness of her waist, the slight convexity of her belly, the roundness of her behind. His recollection of her was so precise that he could have named the exact shade of the triangle of curls between her legs.

  Indulging in such detailed reminiscences was a mistake. Ian realized that even as he began to harden. If Susannah should see . . .

  "All right. You can turn around."

  He did, to find her sitting with knees tucked beneath her in his bunk, rolling up the too-long sleeves of his shirt. Her glance at him was absurdly defensive, and he could see why. Clad in such outlandishly large, very masculine garb, she looked adorable. Although, of course, she couldn't know that.

  She threw his pillow at him. It hurtled straight for his stomach. He caught it, surprised. Had she now added mind reading to her bag of disconcerting tricks?

  "You'll need it for the floor," she said, and, lifting the coverlets, wriggled down i
nto his bunk.

  Ian smiled grimly but said nothing. He set the pillow aside, then gathered up the wet bedclothes. Working methodically, he spread them out over the chairs so that they might dry before morning. He blew out the lantern and shed his own clothes.

  From the sound of Susannah's soft breathing, it was just barely possible that she might be asleep. Tucking his pillow beneath his arm, he set one foot on the bottom bunk and quietly levered himself up beside her.

  "You are such a liar that you have to lie about everything, don't you?" Her furious hiss made the hair on the back of his neck stand up in warning. Miss Susannah Redmon, as he had discovered to his cost, was a termagant to be reckoned with when she was angry. "You said you would sleep on the floor."

  And then she shoved him backward with all her might.

  36

  Ian grabbed the end of the bunk as her hands shoved at his shoulders and just narrowly missed tumbling to the floor. The fright quite did away with the last vestiges of his stretched-to-the-limit patience. Being called a liar in the scathing tone that was her principal means of addressing him lately was the icing on the cake.

  "Damn it, Susannah, I am not a liar!" he roared, and heaved himself up and into his bunk before she could take another stab at murdering him. "Every word I have told you is the truth! You just refuse to believe me!"

  "Liar, liar!" she chanted even as she threw herself toward the foot of the bunk. Thinking her just bull-headed enough to throw herself off to punish him, he grabbed one bare ankle as it flashed past and held it fast.

  "How dare you touch me! Take your hand off me! Do you hear? Right now!" She had turned so that she was sitting, leaning back with her hands extended behind her propping her up, kicking for all she was worth. To keep the foot he had, Ian had to dodge and duck from the other one.

  "Unfortunately for you, I don't take orders from you anymore, Miss Susannah," he said through his teeth, his temper going the way of his patience. "And I am bloody well tired of this tantrum you've been throwing for three damned weeks!"

  "Tantrum . . . !" But whatever she had been going to add to that was superseded by a squawk as he jerked her leg out straight and at the same time hurtled atop her, his arms successfully pinning hers to her sides as he fell back with her into the bunk.

  "Knave! Oaf! Cur! Get off me! Oh!"

  She squirmed and ranted as he quelled her struggles by wrapping his legs around her as well as his arms, but fortunately his size made the difference, and soon he had her fast. Had she been as large as he, Ian did not like to consider what the outcome of their battle might have been; she was a hellcat when she was roused, and if he had time and leisure to think about it he knew he would be vastly amused comparing the spitting cat in his arms to the prim and righteous Miss Susannah Redmon he had first encountered.

  "Ow!" He'd forgotten about the vixen's teeth. She sank them into his upper arm, and for a moment, just one moment, Ian had to battle an urge to strangle her and be done with the pesky wench.

  He compromised by pinning both her wrists behind her back with one hand and catching her jaw with the other. Menacingly he leaned over her, hoping to frighten her into giving up the battle before one or the other of them got hurt.

  "If you bite me, or kick me, or scratch me, or do anything else to cause me bodily injury, one more time, I'm going to . . ." His voice trailed off, because in truth he would do nothing that would harm one hair on her virago's head, and he knew it. He only hoped that she did not and would consider his lack of specifics ominous. He should have known better.

  "Pooh!" she said inelegantly, and then spat full in his face.

  Sometimes, in the course of human relations, one partner to an exchange makes an error of such a magnitude that it forever after changes the course of their association. Having Susannah spit in his face marked such a turning point for Ian.

  "That's torn it," he said, releasing her jaw to wipe his face. An almost glacial calm came over him, although he could feel fury battling to get out. "You've run your course, my darling, and if you give me one more iota of trouble I am going to take my hand to your backside and paddle you until you can't sit!"

  "Don't you dare threaten me!" Clearly the woman didn't know how thin was the ice on which she skated.

  "Susannah," he said, very low, thrusting his face almost into hers so that she could get a sense, in spite of the darkness, as to just how very close he was to carrying out his threat. "I am not threatening you. I have apologized a hundred times for leaving you without a word and explained a hundred times why it was absolutely imperative that I do so. I have been patience itself while you have treated me to the full range of your hellion's temper. I have told you nothing but the absolute truth, and you accuse me of lying. I have had enough. I am going to let you go, and we are going to lie together in the one dry bed we have between us and go to sleep. Is that clear?"

  Silence.

  Ian waited, but got no reply other than the faster than normal cadence of her breathing. After a moment, deciding to chance it, he let go of her hands and waited. Nothing. Not the smallest movement or sound, other than her breathing. He untwined his legs from around hers. Still nothing. She lay unmoving, unspeaking, the wind taken from her sails as she recognized a will stronger than hers and an anger more powerful. Ian dared to take a deep breath. He had only needed to put his foot down, obviously. Susannah was a termagant, but like all termagants she could be brought, when push came to shove, to recognize her master.

  "That's better," he said, and sat up, preparatory to moving to the correct end of the bed for sleeping.

  Sitting up proved to be a mistake.

  "Oh, is it?" she hissed, coming up off that mattress like a she-wolf and shoving him for all she was worth. Ian felt the rush of her movement, felt the soft little hands thrusting against his shoulders with an unexpectedness that compensated for her lack of physical strength, felt himself losing his balance and toppling backward, felt the cold hardness of the plank floor as he slammed into it shoulder first. Then for a moment, just a moment, all he felt was pain.

  He lay there, stunned. Despite his threats, and warnings, and apologies, the beldam had actually dared push him off the bunk! The knowledge shocked him almost as much as his fall.

  In the bunk, Susannah listened intently. She was still furiously angry—that he had actually threatened to spank her was the last straw—but, as the thud of his landing died away and not so much as a curse replaced it, she began to get anxious as well.

  Her intention had not been to really hurt him, just to teach him that she would not be tamed, to use his infamous word, so easily. The bunk was only about five feet off the ground. Surely he could not have been rendered unconscious by so short a fall? Lying down, she peered over the edge of the mattress. It was too dark to permit her to see more of him than a shadow lying on the floor below.

  The rasp of his breathing told her that she had not killed him, but other than that there was nothing. No sounds of movement, not even a groan. Hideous thought: had he perhaps struck his head?

  "Ian?" Just to call him by his name gave him a victory of sorts. She had resisted even that during the time he had had her a prisoner aboard this ship. For that was what she considered herself—a prisoner. He had stolen her away from her family, from her life, for his own selfish ends, just as he did everything. Though she had to admit he had been amazingly conciliating in the face of her constant hostility. He had held her head and bathed her face most competently the first few times she had been sick, though she had made it clear that she wanted none of him. He had brought her broth, and weak tea, and tried to coax her to eat and drink. When she had flung both at him, he had silently cleaned up the mess. And brought her more, though he watched her warily as she ate. Finally, when she absolutely refused to let him tend to any of her personal needs, he had found Mistress Hawkins to tend her in his place. After that, he had absented himself from the cabin as much as possible, and when he had to enter he had crept around like a mouse. Had she b
een the least in charity with him, she would have had to smile to see such a tall, powerfully built man trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in the tiny space afforded by their cabin. It had been impossible, of course, and she had been as aware of him as if he had stomped and shouted whenever he came in. But she was not in charity with him. She was on guard against him, her heart sternly armored in case he should try to wheedle his way into it again. From the first she'd known that letting herself love him meant setting herself up for heartbreak. Well, he'd already broken her heart once, and she'd be hung by her heels in a smokehouse before she'd give him the chance again.

  But she hadn't meant to hurt him. Just to demonstrate that she wouldn't be bullied.

  "Ian?" she said again in a small voice. The ship pitched, but she had grown so accustomed to that that she scarcely noticed. Timbers creaked, the lantern must have swayed because it squeaked as the swivel hook that attached it to the ceiling turned—but there was no other sound.

  None. Not even the rasp of his breathing.

  "Ian!" She knew he wasn't dead, of course, knew it as well as she knew her own name. But still—black-hearted rogue that he was—she could not just leave him lying on the floor in the dark, possibly injured, without at least checking on him.

  "Ian!" She tried one last time. Nothing.

  Cautiously Susannah swung her legs over the bunk and dropped to the floor. She landed almost atop him, one foot between his sprawled legs, but still he didn't move. Growing increasingly concerned, she stepped over him and crouched beside his chest.

  "Ian?" Putting a hand to his face, she encountered warm, sleek skin and the roughness of a day's growth of beard.

  "That's going to cost you, vixen." The rough growl came out of the darkness even as he caught her wrist and pulled her down against his chest.