Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (10 page)

Tristan Harcourt stared at Harriet, wondering what her true story was.

With her big green eyes and honey-blond hair, she looked young and vulnerable and defenseless. He wanted to be furious with her, but she was the prettiest thing he’d seen in ages, and he couldn’t muster the necessary outrage.

From her speech and mannerisms, it was apparent that she was highly educated, yet she was attired as if she was a servant in a fancy house. Her dress was dirty and torn though, so she’d been on the run. Why had she been traipsing around the docks on her own? In the dark, no less!

She had to have been scared of something or someone. Who and why? And what was he supposed to do with her?

They were on a ship packed with rough, lusty men, so her arrival spelled disaster. He wasn’t about to take her back to London—which she obviously didn’t want anyway—and he couldn’t imagine putting her ashore in some foreign coastal town where she wouldn’t have any friends or family to assist her.

Riley knocked on the door and poked his nose in.

“Supper, Captain.”

“Set it on the table, then you’re excused.”

Tristan kept his gaze locked on Harriet, absurdly nervous about what she might do. He’d been serious when he told her she was trouble. With that shapely body and sassy mouth, there would be no end to the problems she’d cause.

Riley deposited the tray, then scurried out, and Tristan sat down. He’d worked all night, so he was starving, and he was thrilled to see that his cook had provided some of his favorites: a loaf of warm bread, a hearty bowl of stew, red wine and cheese.

He ignored Harriet and began to gobble his food.

“Is it supper time?” she asked. “How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough to land yourself in a hell of a jam.”

He continued, pausing when he heard her stomach growl.

He glared over at her. “When did you last eat?”

“I don’t remember. Two or three days ago?”

“Tell me your surname, and why you’re really hiding on my ship, and I’ll order a second tray. You can have all you want.”

She was mutinously silent, and he sighed. He loathed contrary women, and his cabin was too damned small to tolerate such mulish behavior. But he wasn’t about to fret over her. When she got hungry enough, she’d confide in him.

He finished his meal, as exhaustion struck with a vengeance, and he needed to lie down. He went over to the cupboard and poured water in the bowl, then he grabbed the hem of his shirt and stripped it off.

“What are you doing?” she gasped from behind him, an anxious quiver in her voice.

“What does it look like? I’m washing.”

Ignoring her again, he took a cloth and swabbed his skin. When he spun around, she was still standing exactly where she’d been, not having moved an inch.

He knew he should say something to relieve her distress, but he had no idea what it should be. Women simply didn’t show up on sailing vessels. They were bad luck, and he was as superstitious as any other sailor who’d ever lived, certain she’d bring devastation down upon them.

Then too, there was the problem of how they should fraternize. With her being a female, he was out of his element and perplexed over how to proceed. His life was a life of men and the sea, so he’d never previously encountered a situation such as the one he was facing with Harriet.

When he’d been naught but a tiny boy, a family acquaintance had taken him out on the water, and he’d fallen in love with sailing. At age twenty-eight, he’d been at it for over two decades.

After their father had died and James had learned the pathetic condition of their inheritance, they’d decided Tristan should start a shipping business. James’s initial act as earl had been to cheat at a game of cards, to win Tristan a ship so Tristan could help put the estates back in the black.

Harriet wouldn’t be safe on the deck, so she had to stay below, but having her in his cabin was like having an elephant wander in. A very pretty, very alluring elephant. He couldn’t breathe without bumping into her, and there seemed to be no solution other than to carry on as usual—as if she wasn’t present.

Without a word, he walked by her and flopped down on his bunk. One of his few on-board luxuries was a feather mattress, and as his tired body sank into it, he groaned with pleasure and shut his eyes. Instantly, he drifted off.

“What are you doing now?” she inquired.

He jerked to full consciousness and frowned at her.

“I was trying to sleep. I’ve been up all night, and there’s rough weather coming. I need to rest for a bit, then get up on deck.”

“But what about me? What should I do?”

“Whatever you want. Just don’t leave the cabin.”

“Am I to be your prisoner?”

“Yes. Until I can figure out a plan for you, you’ll remain here so I can be sure you’re not up to any mischief.”

He closed his eyes and drifted off again. He was already dreaming about a tropical beach and a turquoise ocean when she said, “What will happen to me?”

“Harriet! You’re talking.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to know.”

“And I have to take a nap. I can’t have you pestering me.”

Silence ensued, and he tried to get comfortable, but slumber was growing elusive. She’d interrupted him too many times, and the quiet was more unnerving than her chatter had been.

He heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle, and he peeked over to see that she was in the corner, huddled on the floor and leaned against the bulkhead. She swiped a hand across her cheek, and the most annoying ripple of affection swept through him.

Immediately, he tamped it down. He absolutely would not pity her!

“Are you crying?” he demanded to know.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sad. Why would you suppose?”

“Why would you be sad?”

“Because you stole my money. You’re cruel and you’re a bully, and I don’t like you.”

“Well, I can’t abide a weepy woman. Pipe down.”

She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in the folds of her skirt, but from how her shoulders were shaking, it was obvious she was sobbing.

He tried to ignore her, which was impossible. How was he to act in such a circumstance? He didn’t even know her, yet without warning, she’d been dumped in his lap to become a responsibility he didn’t choose to assume.

He wasn’t callous by nature, but he never entangled himself in female troubles. It was the most marvelous thing about being at sea: no women to aggravate him.

Why couldn’t Harriet be sweet and merry—like Miranda? That was the sort of feminine temperament he enjoyed. He detested agony and anguish for he hadn’t a clue how to deal with melodrama.

Grumbling, he sat up, wondering what to do, and that peculiar wave of affection was back. For some reason, he couldn’t bear to see her unhappy.

“Come here, Harriet.”

Her trembling ceased, and she was very tense. “What did you say?”

“Come here.”

“Will you...you...ravish me now?”

She glanced up, and she looked so lovely that his heart did an odd flip-flop.

“No, I’m not going to ravish you, and I’m insulted that you’d presume so.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You’re too skinny. I like my women to have some meat on their bones.”

She chuckled miserably. “You’re a brute.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s probably very wise.” He held out his hand. “Come here anyway.”

“No.”

“Why must everything be a battle with you? Why can’t you merely say
yes, Captain
, and do as I’ve asked?”

“I’ve never been able to behave that way.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He stood and went over to her, and in a quick move, he bent down, scooped her up, and carried her to the bunk. She kicked and hissed, but she was light as a feather, and no match for his greater strength.

He dropped her onto the mattress, then came down after her, so she was wedged into the narrow space between him and the wall. He pulled her near and draped her across his torso, her cheek pressed to his bare chest.

She raised up on an elbow and glowered at him. “I won’t lie in this bed with you.”

“You have to. As I already explained, you’re my prisoner. I’m simply guaranteeing you stay put. Now be still.”

“No.”

She started fussing again, but she couldn’t escape.

“You’re as wiggly as a belly dancer in a harem,” he said.

She snorted. “A situation with which I’m sure you’re intimately familiar.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“I can be just as captive over there”—she pointed to the corner—“as I can be over here.”

“But I have to get some rest, and I can’t have you roaming about the cabin while I do it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid you might find a weapon and kill me in my sleep.”

“I wish I’d thought of that.”

She slumped down and tried to scoot away from him so their bodies weren’t touching, but there was nowhere for her to go. She squirmed and struggled, but his arms were like an iron vice, and eventually, she gave up.

“I’m hungry,” she complained.

“It’s easy to be fed. Tell me your last name. Tell me why you climbed onto my ship.”

She stared, dogged and recalcitrant, as she changed the subject.

“I need to wash, too.”

“You certainly do. I can smell you at ten paces.”

She jabbed him in the ribs. “We’re not all as lucky as you. We can’t all bathe whenever we choose.”

“No,
we
can’t. Why is that? You seem to me to be a girl who’d wash regular. What’s happened to throw you into such a decrepit state?”

“I’m fine,” she asserted.

“Suit yourself, but with that attitude of yours, you’ll starve.”

“Beast.”

“Witch.”

He shut his eyes, reveling in the unusual circumstance her arrival had created.

He told her she was too skinny, but on further reflection, he decided she was just about perfect, and it occurred to him that her appearance wasn’t the disaster he’d originally deemed it to be.

For a long while, he’d been discontented, and he’d blamed it on his approaching marriage. He didn’t really want to wed Miranda. She was like a perky little sister who bored him with her prattling, and he worried about their age difference. In the coming years, what would they talk about?

The answer to that question terrified him.

When they were together—which wasn’t often—it was clear they had nothing in common save for the fact that she had a lot of money and he needed it.

The wedding was in four months. Four short, fleet months that were passing like the wind.

Why not spend them in a pleasurable fashion? Why not have a fling and purge himself of his disgruntlement?

Harriet was feisty and entertaining, and she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She could be the cure for what ailed him.

He dozed off, with Harriet beside him and a satisfied smile on his face.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Where—exactly—did you get that dress?”

“I bought it. Where would you suppose?”

Helen told the lie with a straight face. Of course Miranda was dubious. The gown was not an item of clothing that a lady’s companion could ever afford to purchase, not if she saved her entire life.

It had been sown by London’s most popular seamstress, and it was constructed of a shimmery, greenish-silver fabric that changed hue whenever Helen moved. Although it was modest in design, with a high bodice and long sleeves, it was very beautiful and the finest thing she had ever owned.

Currently, Westwood was hosting a supper, and he’d coaxed her into attending, as well as wearing the dress that had been delivered. She’d understood that it would cause a stir, so she had waited until the last second to come down to the party.

The garment was very fetching, enhancing her skin tone and figure and setting off the color of her hair and eyes. As a result, male guests were glancing at her with more than a passing interest, which she hated.

She didn’t want Westwood’s guests noticing her, didn’t want to be singled out or to become the center of attention. But by attiring herself beyond her station, it was impossible to remain anonymous.

“You
bought
it?” Miranda oozed skepticism. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“In that case, it’s obvious James is paying you too much money. I’ll have to speak with him.”

Helen shrugged, refusing to be drawn into a public quarrel. Miranda was incensed by Helen’s presence at the soiree, but Westwood had invited her, so Miranda couldn’t overrule his decision.

The meal was finished, and Westwood was across the room, chatting with a group of men. Helen tried not to watch him, but it was difficult to feign indifference. She was growing dangerously enamored, and she didn’t know how to quell her burgeoning fascination.

After their kiss on the ride home in the carriage, she’d been panicked about how they’d interact in the future, but she hadn’t needed to worry. After the fleet, emotional encounter, he’d vanished, and days had sped by without her laying eyes on him.

She’d been relieved and hurt in equal measure, but she’d pretended his absence didn’t matter, and it truly didn’t. She had no claims on his schedule or affection, and she’d been managing quite well, but then earlier that morning, she’d bumped into him in an upstairs hall.

He’d given her a red rose and asked her to the fête, and Helen had sighed and said she would come.

Pitiful as it sounded, she was enjoying their heightened relations, and when her existence had been so awful for so many years, she couldn’t resist his discreet seduction. She wanted the things he gave her—both the chattels and the personal gestures—and she couldn’t muster the fortitude to decline what was offered.

Her sudden lack of will was terrifying. She had no idea where it would lead, but she was certain that it would be to disaster.

Miranda leaned nearer and furiously whispered, “James has arranged for dancing.”

“How nice.”

“Don’t you dare embarrass me by joining in.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Miranda flounced off, headed straight for James. She wedged herself into the crowd surrounding him, and she slipped her hand into his arm as if she belonged with him, as if they were a couple. The sight made Helen unaccountably jealous, which was ridiculous, and she glanced away.