He slanted a glance at her. Her eyes were closed now, and he wasn’t even completely sure she was still awake. Her face was pale, very pale, as if all color had been leeched from it. She looked young and lovely and vulnerable and trusting—the very opposite of a cast-iron-hearted harpy who could diddle one lover, rob him, set out to betray her country, and seduce the man charged with capturing her along the way.
She opened her eyes and scowled at him.
That scowl caught him by surprise. He blinked at her.
“I need to get up,” she said in a small, grim voice that was like nothing he had heard from her before.
He frowned. “What . . . ? Why?”
“Let me up.”
Pushing impatiently at his arm, she managed to wriggle out from beneath it and lever herself into a sitting position. Hugh, looking up at her, saw with some interest that she was even paler than she had appeared just seconds before—black hair and brows and lashes notwithstanding, she was now as white as her shirt.
“Move. Please.”
His brows lifted. “Certainly. But—”
“I’m going to be ill.”
As that sank in, Hugh’s eyes widened in alarm. Her complete absence of color was suddenly, hideously explained.
“Good gad, are you telling me you’re seasick?”
“I’m telling you I’m going to be ill. At once.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Galvanized, Hugh rolled off the bunk, his protesting ribs ignored as the true nature of the emergency became clear. On his hands and knees, he groped desperately beneath the bunk for the chamber pot, which, fortunately, he’d had reason to locate during the previous crossing to England. Fishing it out, still on his knees, he turned and presented it to her.
Just in time.
15
“All right, angel eyes, up you get.”
The hatefully amused voice had grown so familiar that Claire didn’t even have to open her eyes to identify whom it belonged to: Hugh. He’d held the chamber pot for her while she had so ingloriously succumbed at last to the motion of the sea. Then, by dint of shouting for James, he had seen her provided with soap and water and a towel for washing her face and hands afterward, tooth powder for cleaning her teeth, and a glass of brandy to send her to sleep. Finally she had collapsed onto the bunk again, curled up into a little ball with the blanket wrapped around her, and gone to sleep. Since then, two hours could have passed, or twenty. From time to time she’d surfaced enough to be peripherally aware of what was going on around her: Hugh’s deep breathing as he had slept beside her for a time, and herself, finally warm as toast, snuggled close against his side, her head on his shoulder, her arm nestled around his neck; Hugh and James conducting low-voiced conversations in the cabin, some of which had turned fairly heated; the smell of food, as Hugh had devoured a meal of bread and meat.
That last had almost been enough to send her stomach turning inside out again.
In fact, it still lingered. Sniffing the air, Claire shuddered without opening her eyes. She could smell, of all things most calculated to outrage her stomach, food.
She confidently expected never to eat again.
So when Hugh tugged at a strand of her hair and bade her get up for a second time, she groaned by way of reply, but didn’t even so much as open her eyes. Her head swam, her stomach gave every indication of still taking its rebellion seriously, and she was absolutely sure that remaining prone was her best course of action.
Hugh shook her shoulder. “Up. We’ll be landing soon.”
Landing? As in land? That perked her up. Not a lot, but enough to make her open one eye and look at him.
“Land?” she croaked.
If possible, he looked even more maddeningly amused than he had been sounding, she discovered with some annoyance.
“That’s right. Come on, sit up. Unless you wish to be left behind when James and I go ashore, of course.”
At the moment, Claire was more dazzled by the prospect of going ashore than she was fearful of being left behind, but both weighed with her. She opened both eyes, closed them again as the cabin seemed to do a slow revolution around the bunk, then found her upper arms seized. Just like that, she was hauled unceremoniously into a sitting position.
“No, please,” she moaned, pulling her arms free and leaning back against the wall. Resolutely she refused to open her eyes.
“You’ll be better as soon as you’re off the ship.” He still sounded amused. “Come on, open your eyes. You can’t possibly be worried about getting sick again. There’s nothing left inside you.”
If there was any justice in the world, Claire thought bitterly, his tall form would be racked with nauseous spasms before he was very much older.
“James brought you some tea and bread. Get dressed, and you may have time to eat it.”
Hugh said this as if he were offering her a bribe. Far from being tempted, Claire shuddered.
“Food’s what you need, I promise you.” He sounded amused again.
Only a monster—or an insensitive lout—would speak to her of food after having witnessed her earlier sufferings. Conclusively proving that he was, at least, the latter, Hugh chuckled, moved away, and came back bearing a tin mug full of a steaming substance that one cringing look told her was tea.
“Here,” he said, and held the mug out to her.
Claire, still leaning back against the wall and feeling as limp as a soggy rag, took one look and shook her head in revulsion.
“Drink it.” Hugh’s eyes glinted at her purposefully, and his jaw was set in an obstinate fashion that she was beginning to recognize. His mouth—his mouth . . . Oh, dear Lord, he was watching her as she stared at his mouth. Was he remembering, as she was now because she simply couldn’t help it, how he had kissed her—and how she had kissed him back?
She tore her eyes from his mouth—and found the tea mug thrust into her hand.
“Don’t spill it,” Hugh growled, and turned away. Claire stared at the back of his head, which nearly brushed the ceiling, at his broad shoulders and powerful back and lean hips and long legs. Had she really lain in his arms? Had she slept snuggled against the whole well-muscled length of him? Had she wrapped her arms around those wide shoulders? Had she kissed that supremely masculine mouth?
God forgive her, she had.
“The tea will be getting cold.” James’s voice, clearly directed at her, was something less than friendly. “You’d best drink it, miss, and have done. I have, in addition, done my best to dry your garments, though they’re still a trifle damp in spots.”
Until James spoke, Claire had not even realized that he was in the cabin. As her surprised gaze flew to him—he was standing in the shadows near the table, his back partially turned as he carefully placed her frock and, presumably, her other garments over the back of a chair—she became acutely aware of her state of undress. Her legs, curled beside her on the bunk, were at least covered by the blanket. But the blanket ended at her waist, and the fine lawn of the shirt provided precious little in the way of modesty. Her breasts were clearly outlined beneath it, and the gaping neckline had slipped off one shoulder, baring it and a considerable swath of creamy skin to the view of anyone who cared to look. Shamefully enough, the idea of Hugh seeing her in such a state of deshabille was not particularly bothersome. The degree of intimacy she had shared with him in the course of their brief but eventful acquaintance had already rendered such considerations as ordinary modesty almost moot. The man had, after all, seen her naked. He had kissed her till her toes curled and taught her to kiss him back in a way she would never have believed a lady would do—or would want to do. He had run his hands over her body, caressed her breasts, held a basin for her to be sick in, and spent the last few hours sleeping at her side. The conventions, as far as he and she were concerned, had long since been well and truly breached. If anyone were to discover that she had spent the night with him in this tiny cabin, just the two of them alone, she would be ruined. Even if nothing beyon
d that had happened.
But something beyond that had happened. Something momentous. Something life changing. The secret wantonness inside herself that she had been struggling against ever since she had discovered its existence had been most thoroughly awakened. She had loved his kisses, had loved learning to kiss him back. The feel of his body on hers had made her tremble. His hand on her breast had made her melt. She had wanted him to lie with her, to perform the most intimate of acts. . . .
“Drink your tea,” Hugh said brusquely, bringing her back to the present with a start. Standing next to the bunk now, with one arm resting against the upper berth, he fixed her with a look that warned her that he meant what he said. She didn’t want the tea, but she didn’t feel like arguing either. Taking a sip, she made a face at the heavily sugared brew and thrust the mug back at him. Apparently taken by surprise, Hugh took it from her. With an eye on James, Claire straightened her shirt, then pulled the blanket around her shoulders again until she was decent. Hugh watched her broodingly all the while.
“I think you’ll find the clothes dry enough to wear, however,” James said, glancing over his shoulder at her as he arranged the last of the garments over the chair. Hugh, mug in hand, moved away from the bunk.
“She doesn’t have much choice, unless she wishes to appear abroad in your clothes—or mine,” Hugh put in dryly. Having taken the cup away, he set it down on the table and seated himself on the opposite side. From the supplies laid out for him, it seemed obvious that he meant to write a letter. He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and set the point to paper. Watching him, Claire noticed for the first time that he was clean-shaven, and that his black hair was tied neatly at his nape in the French fashion. He was wearing, in addition to his shirt and breeches, a somewhat crumpled cravat, a well-fitting black frock coat, and a pair of tall black boots. The severeness of the color, the cut of the coat, and even the slightly old-fashioned hairstyle became him admirably.
Had she ever not thought him a handsome man? She must have been mad. Tall and well-built, with that black hair and bronze skin, those cool gray eyes and lean cheeks and that long, thin, intoxicating mouth, he was breathtakingly attractive.
At least, he took her breath.
Just looking at him brought her to a state of shivery excitement that would have shamed her to the core twenty-four hours before. In the days leading up to her wedding, she had secretly fantasized about what it would be like to have David come to her bed. Her daydreams had both warmed and embarrassed her, but the upshot was that she had looked forward to her wedding night with no small degree of anticipation. Her budding interest in what went on between a husband and wife when they were private had been all but killed by the disappointing reality of the marriage act. Now, most unexpectedly, that interest had been brought to full, throbbing life again—by Hugh.
Whatever was she going to do about it? About him? To lie with a man who was not one’s husband was wrong. . . .
Hugh glanced at her. Had she been staring? It seemed she had. Caught unaware, she hastily redirected her energy into clambering off the bunk and making sure the blanket was wrapped around her well enough to render her decent. Even as she recovered her composure—the man was not a mind-reader, after all, so she had no reason to feel embarrassed by her thoughts—she hoped, fervently, that he would not see and correctly interpret the color she felt creeping up her cheeks.
“James has outdone himself on our behalf. Behold my boots, and he has, it seems, even managed to acquire slippers for you.”
“Thank you,” Claire said politely to James, glad to find that her voice sounded almost normal. Holding on to the upper berth with one hand, clutching the blanket closed with the other, she waited to make sure her rubbery knees would support her before she took a step. In the meantime, she looked around. With a glance at the chair where a pair of black satin slippers now took pride of place on the seat, she saw that James had indeed achieved the near impossible: come up with ladies’ shoes on a ship filled exclusively, saving, as far as she knew, her own presence, with men.
“ ’Tis a smugglers’ vessel. Most things may be had for a price.”
From his tone, James was clearly less than happy, and Claire recalled that he and Hugh had engaged in some pretty sharp exchanges while she had been drifting in and out of sleep. What had been the subject of their arguments? She hadn’t been awake enough to tell. But it was easy to guess that at least one topic under discussion had been herself. Whatever had been decided, James was obviously disgruntled by it.
Having laid out her garments, James moved away toward the cupboards. The stiffness of his back, to say nothing of the looks he shot at an oblivious Hugh, conveyed disapproval as clearly as if he’d shouted the sentiment aloud. Claire frowned. Only the meanest intelligence could fail to guess that his disapproval was connected with, if not completely directed at, herself.
Of course, she realized, James believed her to be Sophy Towbridge, lightskirt/spy. With her senses still so disordered, she’d almost forgotten about that. Almost forgotten most of the unpleasant circumstances that had brought her to this point, as a matter of fact.
Almost forgotten everything but what it felt like to be kissed by Hugh.
Now, suddenly, she remembered.
“When you said land, did you mean France?” she gasped, her gaze flying to Hugh.
He nodded absently without looking up.
Claire despaired. Any hopes of fetching up in England had been fragile at best, as she had known all along. Once she had realized that the pistol she held on Hugh was unloaded, she had felt quite certain that Hugh’s orders that the ship be turned around had not gone any further than James. But still, to be faced with the reality of having been carried off to France—it was unbelievable. No, it was horrifying.
At home, they must all be frightened to death for her, she realized. She’d been missing now for—what? A glance at the clock made her eyes widen: it was half-past six.
“Is it morning or evening?” Her voice was little more than a croak. In truth, she couldn’t tell. No outside light reached the cabin, and she could have been asleep for any length of time, short or long.
“Evening.” Hugh glanced up then. The merest hint of a smile touched his mouth. “You’ve slept the day away.”
She’d been missing, then, for well over twenty-four hours.
Gabby would have been informed by now, and Beth. They would be frantic with worry—and Gabby was already ill from her pregnancy. Claire could not bear that she should be the cause of more anxiety for Gabby. And poor Alice and the coachman—what had become of them?
“I must go home,” she said. “My family will be frantic with worry by now.”
Having apparently finished his missive, Hugh was now engaged in sprinkling sand over it. He nodded without looking at her.
“You shall go home. When I’m certain you are who you claim to be. Until then, you will remain my prisoner.”
“We weren’t sent to bring back no prisoners.” James shot Hugh a speaking look, which Hugh, now folding and sealing his letter, either didn’t see or ignored.
“I tell you I must and will go home.” Claire’s fists clenched, and she glared at Hugh. During the previous night’s lengthy and increasingly sleepy conversation, he had denied any knowledge of the attack on her coach, and had even had the gall to question whether it had, in fact, really happened. The knowledge that, after all that had passed between them, he still doubted her story and questioned her identity was maddening. The notion that he considered her his prisoner was infuriating. The idea that, for whatever reason, he might be lying to her about his involvement in the attack was frightening. “You are surely intelligent enough to have figured out by now that I am not the woman you seek.”
“Possibly, puss, possibly.” To her annoyance, Hugh grinned indulgently at her and stood up, pocketing his letter. “I will say that of all things, your communion with the chamber pot was—um, perhaps the most convincing.”
“Even
traitors may get travel sick,” James said sourly with another of those pointed glances at Hugh.
“I, however, am no traitor.” Claire’s indignant gaze swung around to James, who, turning his shoulder and busying himself with pulling saddlebags from the cupboard, seemed to close himself off from her like a turtle retreating inside its shell. Thwarted, she fixed Hugh with a fulminating look instead. “I am Claire, Lady Claire Lynes, just as I have told you and told you.”
James made a sound that was part grunt, part snort, and all skepticism. “Aye, but what I would like to know is just how you told him, missy. Mighty convincing you were, apparently.”
Claire misliked the tone of that, which, even though it was muttered under James’s breath, reached her ears with perfect clarity. Her eyes shot sparks at him. The implication was insulting, and so she meant to tell him in no uncertain terms—at least until she remembered that, to some degree at least, the implication was correct. She had kissed Hugh, and more than kissed him. Had that influenced him to change his mind? Flustered, she felt her words of indignant protest withering in her throat.
James gave her a look that said as plainly as words, I thought so.
Claire stiffened with indignation, and opened her mouth to give voice to a pretty pithy reply.
“Enough, the both of you.”
Hugh held up a silencing hand before Claire could get the words out. She and James exchanged mutually withering glances, but in the face of Hugh’s prohibition, neither of them cared to engage in the open warfare that had been clearly imminent.
Hugh was looking at her. “If you are indeed Sophy Towbridge and are playing me for a fool—yes, James, you’ve made your views on that quite clear, so you have no need to repeat them—then I make you my compliments on a job masterfully done. On the whole, though, I am inclined to believe you are . . . Claire.”
James shook his head in despair. “Master Hugh, I never thought to see you so gulled.”
Irresistible Page 14