'Little boys tease their sisters by stealing their toys,' she said primly. 'It's not the conduct I'd expect of a distinguished naval officer.'
'I don't have any sisters,' said Raven immediately. 'So I must have missed that period of my boyhood. I'm compensating for it now.'
Abigail's breath caught. His rakish grin was devas-tatingly attractive. No man should have such a powerful weapon at his disposal. It inspired a woman to indulge him when, if she was wise, she ought to be keeping him at a safe distance.
'Are you claiming you've entered your second childhood?' she enquired lightly. 'If that's the case, I must tell Mrs Chesney to withhold all the adult pleasures you no doubt enjoy. Port after your dinner, perhaps? A game of cards? Or a wager on your ability to survive a month without having an adventure?' she added daringly.
She reached once more for her book, but Raven caught her hand in his and compelled it gently downwards. He didn't need to use force. Abigail was so startled to feel his hand on hers she let him do as he pleased. In fact, she enjoyed the sensation.
'I hate port,' he said, 'and I seldom gamble. It was Anthony's wager that brought us to Bath. When I gamble...' he hesitated for a moment '...it's not on the turn of a card.'
Something in the tone of his voice chilled Abigail, undermining her self-preserving attempt to seem flip-
pant. His voice reminded her of the nightmares that harried his sleep. She almost didn't notice that he kept his hand on hers as he scanned the page of her book. Almost.
She liked the feel of his strong fingers wrapped around hers. It was a remarkably stimulating experience. She felt it throughout her whole body. She liked sitting so close to him and she liked him touching her. Her heart beat faster with excitement and nervousness.
But she had no desire to be the target of gossip. Nor did she wish to give Raven the wrong impression of her. She blushed, and withdrew her hand from his. She glanced surreptitiously around the lending library, hoping no one had noticed that unprecedented intimacy.
'I think I have it.' Raven sounded pleased with himself. She wondered if he'd even noticed that she'd removed her hand. Touching her obviously held no particular significance for him. 'Your indignation is either on behalf of a gentleman of your acquaintance who is thirty-five,' he declared, 'or of a lady who is twenty-seven. "A woman of seven-and-twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again,'" he quoted from the volume he was holding. 'I dare say it would be indelicate to ask you how old you are?' He raised his eyebrow at her.
Abigail glared at him. 'You have absolutely no reason to suppose I was frowning because of s-something I'd read!' she pointed out. 'I might have been thinking of something else entirely.'
'If it will ease your anxieties, I'll freely confess to being thirty-five in December,' Raven said helpfully. 'At which point it appears—at least according to Miss
Marianne—that I will be condemned to wear flannel waistcoats and suffer from rheumatism and...' he lifted the book and checked the offending passage again "...and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble,"' he quoted. 'Perhaps you're right, I am about to topple over into my second childhood.'
'You are not!' Abigail exclaimed. There was nothing either childlike or decrepit about Raven's muscular form. But when he cocked her an amused glance, Abigail wished she hadn't been quite so emphatic in her denial. 'Senility may afflict the mind while the body remains hale,' she observed, trying to retrieve her position.
'What a cheering thought for a fine August morning!' Raven returned the book to her. 'The admiral did not see you in the Pump Room this morning,' he remarked casually.
'Oh, no. Was he looking for me particularly?' Abigail asked worriedly. 'I know I often speak to him there. But since you're in Bath—' She broke off, afraid she'd made it obvious she'd been avoiding him. 'Miss Wyndham's nephew is visiting her,' she hurried on. 'And no other new arrival is half as interesting to her. I didn't think I needed to look at the Pump Room book this morning.'
'I see,' said Raven. 'You were free to indulge your own interests.'
'Exactly.' Abigail was relieved by his quick understanding. 'Though I should be getting back. Miss Wyndham might miss me if I'm absent too long.'
'Allow me to escort you,' Raven offered, standing at the same time.
'There's really no need,' she protested, a little flustered at the idea. 'I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.'
'No inconvenience,' he assured her, his lips curving into that heart-stoppingly attractive smile. 'On the contrary. It would be far more inconvenient if I were obliged to dodge about behind you in an effort to avoid your notice. We are heading in the same direction, after all. Does Miss Wyndham's nephew plan to make a long stay in Bath?' he asked, as they left the lending library.
'I don't know.' Abigail twirled her furled parasol indecisively. Despite her better judgement she was pleased Raven would escort her home. But now she was distracted by an unfamiliar dilemma. She wasn't used to walking with someone else. She had the dreadful suspicion she might poke Captain Raven's one good eye out if she put up her parasol now.
'An interesting implement,' Raven commented, watching her action. 'We have an awning over the quarterdeck to protect us from the sun. Is it broken?' he added, when she didn't open it. 'Let me see. I have a very useful ability to mend broken things.'
'It's not broken,' said Abigail, frowning worriedly. 'I was just afraid of unwarily prodding you with it. You are so much taller than I am.'
'True. I'll hold it for you.' He took it from her before she could protest.
'Don't you feel any sense of unease walking through Bath carrying a pink parasol?' she asked interestedly, after they'd covered several yards in silence.
'No. Do you think I should?'
'Well...'
There was something very incongruous about the sight of the piratical and very masculine Raven carrying such a feminine article. She wondered how he'd lost his eye. She'd had so much else to think about at their first meeting that she'd barely thought about his eye-patch. Now she felt curious, and a little sick, as she tried to imagine the injury which had left him so scarred.
'What are you thinking of now?' he asked suddenly.
'Nothing. Nothing.' She shook her head.
'It distressed you,' he said, a little harshly. 'Does it distress you to walk with me?'
'Of course not!' She looked at him in amazement. 'Why should it?'
Raven didn't answer. It was a couple of minutes before he spoke again. 'Have you been Miss Wyndham's companion for long?' he asked.
'Nine years,' she replied.
'It is...a rather restricted life,' he said carefully.
Abigail laughed. 'Most people's lives are,' she pointed out. 'When you're on board ship—and perhaps even when you aren't—are you not bound by the Articles of War? Admiral Pullen has told me all about them. I live by different conventions but, unlike you, I won't be court-martialled and perhaps hanged if I make a mistake.'
'What happens if you make a mistake?' Raven asked.
'I stammer and go very red,' said Abigail lightly. She sensed a deeper layer of meaning beneath his ques-
tion, but she wasn't sure if he was thinking of his own life or hers.
'You didn't make a mistake,' he said, understanding her reference to her embarrassment of the previous day and bluntly responding to it. 'You are not culpable in any way because you were hot and decided to sit at your open window in the dark.'
They stopped walking in a moment of unspoken, mutual agreement. Abigail looked up at him. He was holding the parasol entirely over her, as he had done from the moment he'd taken it from her. The sun was shining full on his face. She could clearly see the scar on his cheek and forehead, the streak of white hair among the black, and his forbidding eye-patch. The first time she'd seen him she'd been afraid he was about to commit murder. The second time she'd seen him she'd sensed he was dangerous. She was still aware of the stormy wildness only just concealed by a thin layer of civilisa
tion. But she also saw scars which went much deeper than the obvious physical injury he had suffered.
'It was a splinter,' he said, answering at least one of her unvoiced questions.
'A splinter?' Abigail confusedly imagined the small splinters she occasionally ran into her fingers.
He smiled slightly, understanding her bewilderment. 'When a round shot hits a ship it throws up huge splinters of wood or metal,' he explained. 'The splinter which blinded me was nearly six feet long—so I'm told. I never saw it coming. It was only a glancing blow. If it hadn't been...'
'Oh, my God,' she whispered, appalled at the image he'd just conjured for her. 'Is that why...? Is that what you were dreaming about?'
'No.' He pressed his lips together, as if he regretted having said so much. She could feel the coiled tension in his lean body, as if it was only by an extreme effort of will that he didn't stride away from her.
Abigail wished she'd been more tactful. She cast around for a way to change the subject. 'Are you hungry?' she asked, noticing they were standing outside a pastry shop. 'I have a sudden f-fancy for gooseberry pie,' she rattled on, hardly aware of what she was saying. 'If they have one, I'll take it home for Miss Wyndham and her nephew.'
'If they have gooseberry pies we will buy two,' said Raven, holding open the door for her. 'One for you to give to Miss Wyndham and her nephew, and one for you to keep for yourself.'
By the time they reached their respective front doors, Gifford had established that Charles Johnson had arrived the previous morning. So there seemed little doubt that Abigail's furniture-moving activities of last night had been prompted by his arrival. Gifford asked her several casual questions about the man, but all her responses were conventionally bland. Whatever her own doubts, she wouldn't criticise her employer's great-nephew to a relative stranger.
Gifford respected her loyalty, but he was frustrated by the situation.
'Does Mr Johnson intend to make a long stay in Bath?' he enquired.
'He didn't say,' Abigail replied. 'I imagine a few days. Mr Johnson has many friends all over the country. I'm sure they will be eager to enjoy his company again soon.'
'We must hope he doesn't keep them waiting long,' said Gifford drily, detecting the slightly acid note in Abigail's voice.
Her eyes flew to his face. He saw surprise and then a hint of guilty self-consciousness in her gaze.
'Thank you for escorting me home,' she said, after a few moments' silence. 'I hope you don't find your visit to Bath too boring.'
Gifford smiled. 'Contrary to popular belief, the life of the captain of one of His Majesty's ships is largely composed of boredom,' he said.
'Oh, but surely...'
'I may give the orders, Miss Summers, but, having done so, I've usually nothing else to do but maintain an air of untroubled serenity,' he explained. 'It would be bad for my lieutenants' confidence—not to mention their morale—if I interfered unnecessarily in the way they carry out their orders.'
'Oh, dear,' said Abigail. 'How exhausting. But excellent training for a month in Bath,' she added brightly.
Gifford grinned. Despite himself he enjoyed talking to the dowdily practical Miss Summers. She had an unexpectedly lively sense of humour—and a rare sensitivity to his changeable moods.
'Well, goodbye, Captain.' Abigail turned to face him, holding out her hands as she did so. 'Thank you for carrying my parcels.'
'It was my pleasure,' Gifford said gallantly. He returned Abigail's parasol and her purchases from the pastry shop. It was only when she'd entered the house and the door had closed behind her that he realised he was still holding the three volumes of her book along with the pie she'd prompted him to buy.
He took a couple of steps after her, then stopped. If he kept the books he'd have an excuse to seek her company in future. He could even act the part of a true lover and return the novel one volume at a time. Admiral Pullen would expect no less of him. He laughed at the notion, then frowned at the direction of his thoughts. He had no intention of becoming Abigail's lover. It would be unfair of him to raise expectations within her he could not fulfil.
Chapter Three
'Anyone interesting?' Gifford asked, leaning over Abigail's shoulder as she leant over the Pump Room book.
She spun round to face him, one hand instinctively pressed against the base of her throat.
'Heavens! You s-startled me!' she gasped.
Gifford was acutely conscious of the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, visible proof that he really had taken her by surprise. She was wearing a dress of pale primrose yellow. The gown was suitably demure—except for an unexpectedly provocative bow tied beneath her bosom. The long ribbon streamers struck Gifford as positively flirtatious.
With an effort he lifted his gaze to focus his attention more appropriately on her face. Her cheeks were flushed. He wondered uncomfortably if she'd guessed what he'd been thinking. He didn't want her to think of him as a leering scoundrel.
Despite his absolute determination to avoid any kind of romantic entanglement with Abigail, he hadn't been able to resist seeking her out in the Pump Room. Bath was a lamentably predictable place for a man used to
the unpredictable routine of a naval officer in wartime. At sea, weeks of routine boredom could suddenly be interrupted by incidents of explosive violence. In Bath, Abigail was the only source of interesting unpredictability Gifford had so far encountered.
'My apologies.' He stepped back and bowed gracefully. 'Indulge me with a calming stroll around the room.' He offered her his arm.
She looked at him warily. 'You don't need to be indulged,' she said. 'I'm the one who nearly jumped out of my skin.'
'Then a gentle promenade will help settle you back into it,' Gifford suggested.
Abigail raised her eyebrows at him. He could see the amused scepticism in her expressive green eyes. He waited. After a few seconds she fell into step beside him, though she didn't take his arm.
'You've returned to your daily duty, I see,' he observed. 'Has Mr Johnson left already?'
'No. But Miss Wyndham would hate it if I missed a new arrival of consequence,' Abigail said, then bit her lip.
'What did she say about me?' Gifford asked curiously.
Abigail blushed, and looked embarrassed.
'You haven't told her!' Gifford said in amazement. 'Anthony and I are in the book. Mrs Chesney even told me this morning we're mentioned in the Bath Chronicle. Miss Wyndham's idea of consequence must be very exacting,' he continued, unable to resist teasing Abigail.
'I'm saving you for a rainy day.' She'd regained her composure. Now it was her turn to cast a teasing glance at Gifford.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I mean, Miss Wyndham will be disappointed when Charles leaves,' Abigail explained. 'That will be the perfect moment to divert her with the story of—'
'What?' he interrupted, more harshly than he'd intended. He had visions of Abigail entertaining the old beldame with a description of his nightmare.
'Of your presentation to me in this very room by Admiral Pullen,' said Abigail steadily. 'He is very proud of you, Captain. And once Miss Wyndham hears of your arrival she will insist the admiral brings you to call upon her.'
Gifford glanced away, cursing himself for his over-reaction. They circled the Pump Room in awkward silence, then both started speaking at the same time.
'Have you—?'
'I read—'
And both deferred to the other.
'I was only going to ask if you've visited Sydney Gardens yet,' Abigail said, when Gifford insisted she speak first.
'Yesterday afternoon.'
It was two days since he'd met Abigail in the lending library. She hadn't visited the Pump Room the previous morning. He was careful not to mention he'd noticed her absence. He didn't want to give the impression he'd deliberately sought her company. He liked talking to Abigail, and he thoroughly enjoyed picturing the shapely body he suspected her modest gowns con-
cealed—but he was
absolutely certain that he wasn't in the market for a wife.
It was a common saying amongst his fellow officers that when a man married he was lost to the navy. Gifford was slowly coming to terms with the realisation that, as head of his family, he had certain domestic responsibilities—but he still wasn't ready to accept he might never go to sea again.
'They're very pretty, aren't they? The gardens?' Abigail prompted, when he stared at her blankly.
'Yes. I read your book,' he said abruptly.
'My book?' She looked bewildered.
'The one you were reading in the lending library. Sense and Sensibility. I forgot to give it back to you the other day.'
'Really?' She looked up at him in surprise. 'Whatever for? I mean, why did you read it? I'm sorry.' She lowered her eyes briefly. 'I j-just wouldn't have thought you'd enjoy such a story.'
'It was...educational,' Gifford replied.
He wondered why she was embarrassed at asking such a natural question. He would have asked the same thing in her position. The honest answer was that it had been a way to avoid his nightmares—but he didn't intend to tell her that.
He looked down at the brim of her straw bonnet. He still hadn't seen her hair. When he'd watched her move the chest of drawers she'd been wearing a cap. Today when she lifted her face all he could see was the ruffles of her cap peeking out beneath the edge of her bonnet.
She was covered up and buttoned up. He preferred the yellow dress to her green one, but she was still a
picture of conventional propriety. He hated her bonnet. His fingers twitched with the urge to take if off—and then encourage her to shake out her hair in the breeze.
But there was no breeze in the Pump Room. Instead he could see motes of dust floating lazily in the beams of light from the huge windows. The room was a monument to desiccated respectability. Suddenly he was desperate to feel a brisk ocean wind against his face.
'Educational?' Abigail reminded him. 'The book, sir?'
Gifford dragged his attention back to his companion. She was watching him patiently—and perhaps a little quizzically.
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