His lordship raised one dark brow. ‘As I keep trying to tell you, Helena, I can do precisely what I want on this ship.’
Before she knew it he stooped and took her in his arms, pushing her back onto the narrow bed, trapping her with his weight before claiming her lips in a kiss that was deep, insidious and a complete demonstration of his mastery.
Shockingly, through her fury, Helena realised she was enjoying it very much indeed. Her hands beat an angry tattoo on his back—such a very broad back—but it was like a moth beating against a window for all the effect it had. She tried to push against his chest, but her hands became trapped by the weight of him, and still the kiss, that sweet invasion, went on.
How could she be so angry with him—with herself—and yet thrill to the discovery of his strength, the alien quality of a man’s body entwined with hers?
Adam’s lips left her mouth and he began to nibble gently at her ear while his hand stroked down the column of her neck. It was a wonderful sensation, unlike anything she had ever experienced before—and it was quite outrageous that they were both behaving in this manner! Before she even thought about it she fastened her teeth on his earlobe, so conveniently close to her lips, and bit down.
‘Ow!’ He rolled off her and sat up rubbing his ear. ‘You minx! What did you do that for?’
Helena scrambled up to kneel beside him, eye to eye. ‘You know perfectly well why! Of all the outrageous, immoral things…’
He pushed the dark blond hair off his forehead and grinned at her ruefully. ‘But you must admit it was fun.’
‘Fun!’ Then she caught the glint in his eye and found herself twinkling back. Yes, it had been fun. This was doubtless a terrible reflection on her moral character, but she very much feared she had enjoyed it as much as he. And she was far too honest to pretend otherwise. ‘Well, that is as may be,’ she conceded as stiffly as she could. ‘But it must not happen again.’
‘As you wish.’ He sketched a bow, then spoiled it by adding, ‘Providing you promise to do exactly as I say in future.’
‘I will do no such thing!’
Adam climbed off the bed and began tucking his shirt back into his trousers. ‘Then, Helena, I can give no guarantees as to my future conduct.’
He looked down at her kneeling on the bed, violet eyes sparking, rich brown hair a tousled mass about her shoulders. Part of his irritation had been due to the knowledge that he had no choice but to marry this girl, as thoroughly compromised as she was. But he was becoming hourly more reconciled to the idea of Miss Wyatt as a bride. Not only was she lovely, but she was spirited, intelligent and very much her own woman at a time when young women schooled in social mores seemed to him to be cast from the same vapid, shallow mould. And she had a sense of humour which he now appealed to.
‘If you solemnly promise not to steal one of my boats and row ashore, then I promise not to make love to you until at least after dinner.’
She opened her mouth indignantly, then saw the wicked gleam of mischief in his eyes. ‘That seems a reasonable compromise my lord,’ she replied with dignity. ‘As I have secured my object in going ashore, I will have no trouble in obeying you.’
Adam put out a hand and helped her to her feet. ‘Your object? Ah, yes, your bath. How did you know you could safely leave it for me to pay?’ Suddenly his eyes were intent on her face.
‘But you told me where we would be eating tonight,’ Helena replied innocently, ducking under his arm to get through the door. ‘Mrs Trewather seemed well used to accommodating your er…guests, in that way.’ She whisked up on deck before he could retaliate.
It seemed politic to Helena to keep out of his lordship’s path until evening. She was finding him altogether too attractive and difficult to resist. Leaning on the rail, she gazed unseeing at the bustling quayside peopled with fishermen, tradesmen and a few uniformed soldiers from the barracks on the hill. The standard was fluttering from the star-shaped castle in the onshore breeze and Helena shivered, but not from the warm wind.
Rather, it was the remembrance of how it had felt to be with Adam on the bunk, his mouth hot on hers. Helena shook her head in perplexity. What sea change had swept over her when she had been pulled from the waves by this man? Was it the proximity of death which had washed away all her upbringing, her own sense of right and wrong? Never before had she felt the slightest temptation to encourage even a mild flirtation to go further than a chaste salute on her gloved fingertips, however eligible or attractive the young man concerned might be. But this man…
Helena shook herself out of her reverie and turned her back to the sea, leaning on the rail to watch the work of the ship. A small group of men were sitting aft, a torn sail spread between them as they stitched. The bosun was standing with Adam, a chart spread out on a hatch cover. They appeared to be discussing a course and the bosun, an expression of doubt on his weatherbeaten features, was jabbing his forefinger at the chart and shaking his head.
Adam clapped him on the shoulder and his voice carried back to Helena on the breeze. ‘I know what we agreed, my friend, but now my plans have changed. I must return as soon as possible.’
‘Now, my lord?’ The man still sounded inclined to argue.
‘No, later this evening. I dine ashore. We will sail at half past ten.’
‘It will be on a falling tide, my lord…’
‘I have every confidence in your ability not to run us aground, Jenkins,’ Adam assured him as he rolled up the chart and went below.
The bosun glanced at Helena with such an absence of expression on his face that she was convinced he had a very good idea of why Adam was dining ashore and with whom, and that he heartily disapproved.
The thought of food reminded her that she had had very little to eat since breakfast and that her stomach felt quite hollow. She would go in search of Billy, the cabin boy, and send him to find her some bread and cheese. In the event she found both Billy and the cook at work in the cramped galley below decks. The lad was sitting cross-legged in the corner, a bucket between his knees into which he was peeling potatoes. The cook, a hard-looking man, was stirring a large pan on the range on its brick hearth.
From tales her father and uncle had told her of shipboard life in His Majesty’s navy, Helen had expected the galley to be a gloomy hole producing uneatable concoctions. She should have realised that his lordship, even if he had had to leave his French chef ashore, would not tolerate poor food.
The galley was certainly cramped and dark, but the smell emanating from the stew was appetising and copper pans glinted from the walls. ‘How delicious that smells!’ Helena exclaimed, giving the dour man a friendly smile. ‘It must be well-nigh impossible to cook well in such cramped conditions.’
The man’s face relaxed somewhat. ‘Well, ma’am, you’d be right at that. It’s what I tell ’em, but they do complain so. Let ’em eat navy rations, that’s what I tell ’em! Knocking weevils out of hard biscuit, having to eat your meat in the dark so you can’t see it moving about with the livestock in it. Sorry, ma’am—’ he broke off. ‘Shouldn’t talk about things like that to a lady.’
‘That is quite all right,’ Helena assured him. ‘I have heard much of this before from my father.’
‘Is he a naval man, ma’am?’
‘He was. He was killed at Trafalgar, along with many a good man—Admiral Wyatt.’
‘Why, ma’am!’ The cook’s face lit up. ‘I served under him at Copenhagen. He was a commodore then, of course. That’s where I got this leg, ma’am.’ He moved across the galley as he spoke, dragging his right leg as he went. ‘I ended up ashore then, kept an inn for a bit, but that was a dull old life after the navy.’ He shuffled back with a cleaver and began chopping onions. ‘Then his lordship took me on, been with him two years.’
‘But surely the inn must have been more interesting than just sailing about on a gentleman’s yacht?’ Helena smiled.
The man shot her an unreadable look. ‘Wouldn’t exactly say that, ma’am. It has
its moments. Now, was it something to eat you was wanting?’
Given that she had none of the usual accoutrements of a lady’s toilette, dressing for dinner should have been a straightforward matter of washing her face and pulling a comb through her hair. But half an hour after she had gone to her cabin, Helena was still in her petticoats, surrounded by every garment she had pulled out of the trunk and drawers in the room.
What she found certainly threw a lurid light on his lordship’s social life. French silks and laces—doubtless smuggled—abounded. The quality of the sewing was exquisite—even the scandalous Indian muslin lingerie, diaphanous though it was, was adorned with minute pin-tucks and embroidery. Rubbing the fine fabric between her fingers, Helena mused that not only was his lordship unstinting in his generosity towards his lady friends, but that everything she had heard about his female companions was doubtless true.
Well, she had to have clean linen, so if this was all there was, she would just have to wear it, Helena thought defiantly. But at the back of her consciousness a little voice suggested that it would be very pleasant to be the recipient of such bounty…
By the time his lordship tapped on the door Helena had settled on a sea-green gown of silk and had managed to fashion a fichu from a gauze scarf which rendered the bodice, if not modest, at least not indecent. She pulled a dark cream ribbon off another gown and caught her hair up in knot on top of her head, allowing the curls to fall naturally, teasing ringlets to frame her face. In the absence of rice powder, scent or jewellery, there was little more she could do.
But it appeared that it was more than enough for Adam, judging by the look that crossed his face as she opened the door and stood haloed by candlelight on the threshold. He took her hand and kissed it decorously and when he looked up his expression showed only polite admiration. She might have been any debutante he was accompanying to Almack’s instead of his companion for an intimate dinner à deux.
They exchanged few words as he wrapped a boat cloak around her shoulders and assisted her down into the rowing boat. The two sailors at the oars said nothing as they bent to their task, but Helena felt flustered that they would assume her relationship with their master was improper. She felt even more unsure of herself when they landed: it was as though being on the Moonspinner was fantasy and normal rules of conduct did not apply, but once more on land those rules returned with a vengeance!
Helena pulled the hood of the cloak up further and shrank back into its folds, feeling very exposed, expecting at any moment that one of the respectable citizens strolling past them would turn and point an accusing finger at his lordship’s hussy.
Adam took her arm and she stiffened. ‘What is wrong? Are you unwell?’ Her hand was trembling on his arm and he realised that she was nervous. After all, despite the dramatic circumstances of her arrival and the enforced intimacy of life on board, now that they were ashore in the real world he, too, felt the weight of Society’s rules and conventions once more descending. Perhaps she was still unsure that he would do the honourable thing by her: well, he would reassure her over dinner.
It was not until the door of the private parlour closed behind them that Helena would take off the cloak, and even then she blushed as Mrs Trewather greeted them.
‘A pleasure to see you again, miss. A chilly evening, is it not? But you should be cosy enough in here with the fire.’ Helena thanked her, moving across to the blaze to warm her hands while Adam ordered wine. She noticed that the landlady made no reference to having seen Adam earlier that day and once more wondered at the secrecy and at his purpose in meeting the Frenchman.
She felt more comfortable when they sat at the table and Mrs Trewather was bustling around, laying out the dishes. Helena noticed that the woman attended to them personally, taking trays and dishes from the potboy at the door. His lordship’s desire for discretion was obviously well understood at the Godolphin Arms.
A tureen of soup was removed with a fricassee of chicken, a plate of salsify and a platter of tiny fish, floured and fried. Helena found herself surprisingly hungry, and food at least was a safe topic of conversation.
‘May I help you to some fish, my lord? It is quite delightfully fresh, as is only to be expected. And this caper sauce is delicious.’
Adam accepted the platter and maintained the bland discussion of the merits of the food, watching Helena’s face until he saw her expression relax. The rituals of formal dining, the necessity of maintaining a conversation, lulled her into a sense of familiarity. Adam filled her wine glass, waited and was rewarded by the time Mrs Trewather came in to remove the dishes, by seeing Helena smile.
He twisted his own glass between strong brown fingers, idly watching the ruby liquid catch fire in the candlelight as he tilted it. ‘I do hope you are no longer worrying about your mama: despite appearances, the man I entrusted the message to is very reliable.’
‘I am glad to hear it, my lord. I know it does no good to worry about it, but I cannot put from my mind the thought of how she must have felt when John reached home and told her how I was swept out to sea.’ She sipped the wine, and asked, perhaps rather too innocently, ‘Does that fisherman carry many messages for you?’
‘Enough to judge his trustworthiness,’ Adam responded levelly, only the quirk of one eyebrow revealing that he knew full well she was fishing. ‘From what you have told me before, I gather Lady Wyatt is a woman of great strength of mind and not someone apt to give way to apprehensions and fears.’
‘Indeed, she is,’ Helena agreed warmly. ‘She always used to say, when Papa was at sea, that she would not believe the worst had befallen him until a messenger came to the door with his sword. If she had believed Admiralty dispatches, she would have been widowed many times over!’
‘Buttered crab?’ Adam passed her the plate of local crabs and filled a clean glass with white wine. ‘Try this, it will suit the dish better.’
Helena sipped it cautiously, and was pleasantly surprised at how light it was compared to the red. ‘And, of course, Mama is a considerable scholar and always says that nothing takes one’s mind off one’s troubles like plunging into the wars of Sparta!’
Adam cracked open a crab claw and commented, ‘Yes, I can see that it might! Although my own experiences of the Greek wars are of receiving regular beatings for failing in my translation at Eton.’ He topped up the wine glasses.
‘I must confess, my lord, although Mama is too kind to say so, that I would never make a classical scholar, try though she might to interest me. And as for John, the only time he pays any attention is if the Roman navy is mentioned.’
‘Ah, yes, your brother. A keen interest in ships, as I recall.’
‘Oh, dear, he was very naughty. But I had not told him he must not go aboard your yacht and so…he did.’
The room was really very warm and Helena was conscious that her face was glowing, although whether that was in recollection of her first encounter with Adam Darvell or because she had perhaps had one glass of wine too many, she was unsure.
‘Natural enough in a boy of his age, I was just the same. Navy mad, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes! He thinks of nothing else, although he has still a year to go before my uncle will consider taking him. His main anxiety is that the war might end before then, little wretch!’
‘Small chance of that, I fear,’ Adam said sombrely, then shrugged off the darkness which seemed to enter the room with the thought. ‘And your uncle?’
‘Mama’s brother, Commodore Sir Robert Breakey. He is with the Mediterranean fleet at present.’
By now Helena was quite comfortable. The wind sighed outside against the shutters, the candlelight flickered, but the wine was warm in her veins.
Mrs Trewather brought in a dish of nuts and a decanter of port which she placed firmly in front of his lordship. She raised her eyebrows slightly as Helena showed no sign of rising to leave his lordship alone. ‘The private parlour’s just the other side of the passage, miss,’ she said with heavy emphasis.<
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‘Oh? Thank you, Mrs Trewather,’ Helena replied vaguely, giving the landlady a charming smile and staying precisely where she was. She suppressed a small hiccup and wondered if the buttered crab had been a little rich.
Thwarted, the landlady left, closing the door behind her with a click. In the darkness of the passageway she sniffed disapprovingly: it wasn’t like his lordship to be having girls of that age on board. She’d seen some high-flying game pullets on his arm before now, but this one was far from that mode. Ah, well, not her concern—no doubt his lordship would find himself leg-shackled before long!
‘May I have some, too?’ the cause of the landlady’s concern was asking. ‘I have never had port before.’
Adam hesitated, looking at her narrowly. He had wanted her to have enough to drink to make the difficult conversation they were about to have run smoothly but, seeing her heightened colour and sparkling eyes, he wondered if he had overdone it. Not that it had impaired her complexion or her charm, both of which were quite captivating.
‘There is a very good reason for that,’ he remarked drily, pouring himself a glass and leaving the decanter well out of her reach. ‘Now, there are things we must discuss…’
Helena wrinkled her nose in perplexity. ‘Are there?’
He appeared not to hear her. ‘Do I recall you saying you were intending to do the Season this year?’
‘Yes—finally. Mama forgot last year. By the time she and her publisher had agreed on her treatise on the Punic Wars it was halfway through June and I had no gowns ordered.’
‘Forgot! Forgive me, Helena, I do not seek to criticise Lady Wyatt, but I would have thought any mama with a marriageable daughter would have had that very much to the forefront of her mind.’
‘Yes, but you see, she’s not just any mama…’ Helena discovered she was waving one finger at him to emphasise her point and folded her hands hastily. ‘She was so shocked to discover the date that—with the exception of the poetry of Sappho, of course—she has devoted her energies to little else since. I do wish you could see my new gowns—and as for my riding habit…’
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