Lois Greiman (4 page)

M
egan sat very still upon the berth, her knees pressed together, her back straight. The cabin was no bigger than her tiny alcove at the inn and rocked rhythmically to the sway of the sea.

“I’ll not be sharin’ a room with y’.”

The gentleman turned from the door, his face expressionless. “We’ll be sailing within hours,” he said. “You’d best get some sleep while you can. Unless you’re accustomed to rough seas.”

“Did you ’ear me?” She rose to her feet, but he pressed her back down with a hand to her shoulder.

“Listen!” he snapped, then drew a deep breath and straightened slightly. “I’m tired. Don’t test my patience.”

She felt her heart rate pick up a beat. Who was this lunatic? And just how dangerous was he? It had taken them more than an hour to reach the docks by carriage, nearly half that to convince the captain to allow them to board at such an unorthodox hour. Megan had prayed the old seaman would
refuse to let them board, had, in fact, toyed with the idea of begging him for help, but the viscount had kept a tight grip on her arm the entire time, threatening her with his mood as much as with a steely hand on her biceps.

But now he looked haggard by the light of the smoky candle. In fact, if she had to guess, she would say he’d be asleep within minutes. The idea made her fidgety, but she dare not appear too eager.

Instead, she lifted her chin. “Y’ said y’ wouldn’t compromise me. Y’ said y’ was just—”

“God’s bones,” he murmured, and rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes “You think I want to share a room with you?”

She stiffened as if insulted, though nothing could be further from the truth. If she wanted to attract him, she could sure as hell attract him. Just now she’d rather kill him, but that would be unwise. So escape would have to do. “You think you’re too good for the likes o’ me?” she asked, careful to sound affronted.

“I think I’m tired, and you stink,” he murmured.

“What’s that?” she asked, though she had heard him clear enough. She had excellent hearing. And her sense of smell wasn’t bad either, which informed her she reeked of onion and stale beer and sweat. She almost grinned.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

“Just like that?” she snorted. “And only minutes since you vowed not to take me virtue.”

“Virtue,” he scoffed.

“I got me virtue,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m sure you do,” he agreed wearily. “You’re probably a pillar of the damn stuff.”

“Just cuz I don’t ’ave me no fancy title like you don’t mean I don’t ’ave me morals.”

He glanced at her and laughed. Fatigue seemed to lighten for a moment. “Go to sleep, girl.”

She shook her head. “I won’t be sharin’ no bed with y’.”

“No. You won’t.”

Relief flooded her along with surprise. Escape would be as easy as lifting lemons from a blind man if he took another room. But she kept her eyes narrow, careful to play her part.

“Where’ll you be sleepin’ then?”

“I don’t sleep.”

She was momentarily caught off guard. “Ever?”

Sighing, he turned and opened the leather-bound trunk that stood near the door. Reaching inside, he pulled out a white garment and tossed it into her lap.

“Put that on. You’ll be more comfortable.” He glowered at her, his eyes nearly black in the wavering candlelight. “As will I.”

The gown felt deliciously soft against her fingers. It was purest white but for the delicate embroidery that graced the ends of the sleeves and the pristine neckline. Sky-blue ribbons curled at the throat. She all but itched to pull it on, but she dare not act eager. “What do you mean you’ll be more comfortable?”

“You stink,” he reminded her. “I’m hoping it’s the clothes. The sooner we’re rid of them the better.”

“Rid of ’em?”

He shrugged and glanced out the porthole. “Burn them,” he suggested. “Toss them into the sea.”

She made a sound she hoped affronted his sensibilities. “You ain’t burnin’ me clothes. They cost me dear.”

“I told you I’d buy you new garments.”

And of course she was naive enough to believe him. “Well,” she said, playing along. “Till y’ do, I’ll be ’angin’ on to me own stuff, thank you just the same.”

Turning again, he reached into the trunk and drew out another garment. Holding it up in the wavering candlelight, he
let it unfold. It dropped dramatically downward, sweeping in a graceful sigh to the floor.

Her jaw dropped with it. It was a gown of daffodil yellow. Gathered prettily at the neck and sleeves, it was sprigged with tiny lavender posies and adorned with small neat bows at the hem.

“Who’s that for?” she asked.

“When you get cleaned up it’s yours.”

Her mind was spinning. She hated to believe she was jaded, but when men broke into her room and forced her onto a ship, she had a tendency to believe they had less than her best interests at heart. But obviously he had some sort of plan which extended past rape. Apparently, he had left this trunk here for her use, meaning he had not only been terribly sure of his ability to bring her here, but also very aware of her build, if the cut of the daffodil gown was any indication. It was generous in the bodice, narrow at the hip, and not overly long, even by her standards.

She raised her gaze to his. “Who are y’?” she asked.

“Who are you?”

“I told y’. They call me—”

“Sparrow. I remember. Because of your size. What was your given name?”

She shrugged.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“I don’t remember me mum.” She lied, but she did it well. If a job was worth doing…

“Surely you knew her name.”

She squinted, as if thinking, but she would be damned if she would share her mother’s memory with this man. Lowenna O’Shay had been a saint. A fiery-haired angel. But he wouldn’t understand that. Wouldn’t see the beauty of a common washerwoman who worked like a slave to put bread on the table. “Like I says, she died when I was but a wee thing.”

“And what of your surname?”

She shrugged. “Don’t ’ave much use of one.”

He stared at her. “So you don’t know where you were born. You don’t know your family name, and you don’t remember either of your parents.”

“Aye,” she said. “I suspect that seems strange to a bloke like you what was coddled all ’is life.”

It seemed impossible for his eyes to darken any more. But they did. She watched the effects and carefully kept from wincing.

“Yes,” he said finally and smiled, but the expression did little more than tilt up the corners of his devilish mouth. “It does.”

“So what’s your name then?”

“Nicol,” he said, and, closing the trunk, took a seat atop it. Resting one ankle across the opposite knee, he leaned back and sighed almost inaudibly. The lid was flat and hard. She hoped it wasn’t too uncomfortable for him to fall asleep. “Nicol Argyle.” He bowed his head slightly as if they’d met over tea and crumpets at Westheath Castle. “Fifth viscount of Newburn.”

She whistled low. “There’s a fancy ’andle and no mistake.”

He shrugged. Damn, his eyes were as inscrutable as a bull’s and still didn’t show the slightest signs of drooping closed. Maybe if she gave him a blanket. But she could hardly just hand it over.
“’Ere ye go then, Govner. ’Ave yerself a couple winks. I’ll be gone when ye wakes up, but it’s been nice knowin’ you.”
On the other hand, perhaps if she pretended to be sleepy herself, he would relax his guard and nod off.

Stifling a make-believe yawn, she pulled the blankets from beneath her and covered her lap as if hoping to get more comfortable. “Your da must a been a fancy one, too, then.”

He watched her in silence for a moment, then, “Change your clothes,” he said.

Her heart picked up its pace again, but she merely smiled primly. “I suspect you’d like that, Govner, but it wouldn’t be seemly.”

“I told you, I have no intention of molesting you.”

“Intentions come and goes, don’t they now?”

“Put on the gown.”

There was something in his tone now that urged caution. She glanced toward the door. “Do I ’ave your word as a gentleman that you’ll not watch?” she asked.

His low note of laughter surprised her. “You don’t know much about gentlemen, do you, lass?”

She felt her hackles rise. She didn’t mind a little hard labor, and she had nothing against being underestimated. In fact, she counted on it, but she didn’t like to be mocked. “No,” she said, and made sure the sarcasm was thick in her tone. “I ain’t ’ad the pleasure of being round your sort much.”

For a moment she was sure he’d caught her meaning and was less than thrilled by the sarcasm, but he made no comment.

They stared at each other for a full twenty seconds, but she shook her head finally, foolishly nervous under his perusal.

“You’ll ’ave to go out in the ’allway.”

“If you’re afraid I can’t resist the sight of you, you needn’t worry.”

“If y’ find me so unappealing, then why am I ’ere?”

“That’s an excellent question,” he murmured, and dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “God’s balls, I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t have me beheaded.”

“What’s that?” she asked. She put a good deal of offended pride into her tone, though if the truth be told, she wouldn’t care less if he found her inferior to a box of toads.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, as if weary beyond words, and she wondered hopefully if one could die of fatigue. “Change your damned clothes, girl.”

“They ’ers?”

“What?” He lowered his chin just enough to watch her. His dark hair was freshly trimmed, and his cheeks showed only a slight bristle. She should have noticed his careful grooming when first she’d seen him at the inn. Blacksmiths were not generally known for their fastidious cleanliness after all.

“The great lady what you talked about. They ’er clothes?”

He made a sound of disbelief. “No. They’re not hers.”

Irritation rippled through her again, and she decided there was no reason not to let it show. “She too good for the likes o’ me then?”

He stared at her for several hard seconds, then, “Yes,” he said. “She is that.”

Rising to her feet, she snapped the sleeping gown into his face. “’Ere you go then,” she snarled. “You can take them to your haughty slut. Cuz I—”

But in an instant he was on his feet. His hand felt hard and ungiving against her wrist.

Megan gasped in earnest and leaned away. The room fell silent but for the soft hiss of the candle.

“I’ve tolerated much from you already,” he said finally. “Theft. Attacks on my person. Lies.”

She could hear her own breath in the deadly quiet, could feel her heart beating in her chest.

“But you will not insult her.”

Megs swallowed hard, barely daring a nod.

“Good. Then change your clothes.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he tightened his grip. “Do it. Or I shall do it for you,” he said, and handed her the gown.

She took it in silence and turned around. She heard him back away, heard the trunk creak under his weight, and swallowed once as she stared at the wall.

She refused to believe her hands were unsteady as she put them to her buttons. After all, she’d been in tighter spots. As far as she knew, he wasn’t even armed. He wasn’t a henchman. Didn’t have a noose or anything. And there was only one of him. Magical Megs could eat him for lunch.

Undoing the buttons that marched down her back, she closed her eyes and pulled her arms out of the sleeves. They scratched over her wrists and flopped to the floor. But in an instant she snatched the nightgown over her head. It sighed across her shoulders, but she barely noticed its softness as she thrust her arms through and tied the ribbons to her chin. Tugging down the kindly cotton then, she eased off the woolen and stepped from the fetid circle before turning around.

“There ye are then. ’Appy?” she asked, but it was apparent in an instant that he was asleep.

So! Removing her clothes put men to sleep. Who would have guessed that? Nearly shrugging, she bent, retrieved her gown from the floor, and silently turned toward the door. If he hadn’t been sitting on the trunk, she might have been tempted to take a few items in exchange for the trouble he’d caused her, but as it was, she would have to be content with slipping silently into the night.

But at the first step, he spoke. “Where are you going?”

She stopped in her tracks, gritted her teeth, then turned easily and refrained from cursing out loud. A fact that should surely have won her some sort of spot in heaven.

“I was going to be rid of the gown—as ordered.”

A corner of his mouth twitched up, then, smooth as a cat, he rose to his feet. He reached for the gown, and she reluctantly handed it over.

Opening the door, he tossed it into the narrow hallway and turned back to her.

“So you weren’t planning to leave?”

She let her eyes widen slightly. She’d practiced it a few times in a chip of looking glass she’d found and kept in her room at the inn, but she’d learned to act early on, and the skill had not abandoned her. So she remained as she was, watching him before thoughtfully scowling. “You lyin’ to me, Govner?”

“Lying to you?” He was standing uncomfortably close, but it wasn’t surprising, considering the size of the room. She had little reason to believe she made him randy, especially considering he’d fallen asleep while she was disrobing.

“You said you was going to feed me,” she said.

He nodded once. His hair was as dark as ebon and glistened in the candlelight. His eyes were brown and fringed with thick lashes. Dark stubble shone like a shadow forest on his hollowed cheeks. But it didn’t look out of place. Even his clothes, all worn wool and scuffed leather, looked strangely elegant on him. Who was this man who spoke like a lord and dressed like a laborer?

“I’d ’ave t’ be a fool to leave now,” she said.

His mouth quirked again, but he said nothing. Instead, he set his hands to the leather strips that held his apron in place.

She cleared her throat. “Whatcha doin’ there, Govner?”

“Getting comfortable,” he said, and slipped the apron to the floor before pulling the rough tunic from beneath his waistband. For a moment she caught a glimpse of his dark skin. A narrow band of black hair did nothing to hide the hard muscle that lay in rows across his abdomen.