More Than You Know (18 page)

"They're called right whales,” Cutch said. He stood just behind Claire at the side rail, protecting her from pitching about on the slippery deck.
Cerberus
rolled under them, and it was Cutch's sure footing that kept them both upright. They were well south of the equator now, away from the warm trade winds. Here the beginning of July meant the dead of winter. The sun shone brightly, but it was a cold light. Still ahead of them were the treacherous waters around Cape Horn at the tip of South America, where gales would strain every inch of sodden canvas, and masts could topple before the winds.

Water dampened the hem of Claire's hunter-green gown. Even weighted down, it whipped against her legs and the side of the ship. Layers of petticoats were turned upward by the wind. She turned her head to make herself heard above the crashing waves and creaking masts. “Why right whales, Mr. Cutch? Why do they call them that?"

"A whaler once told me it's because they're right for hunting. They're the only ones that float after they're killed."

"How many in the pod?"

"I make six. The largest is fifty-five feet from spout to tail."

Claire had seen whales before and the sight of them clustered together had never failed to thrill her. She leaned forward, bracing herself at the rail, straining to see through the veil of her blindness. “Are there calves, Mr. Cutch?"

"Two. Snortin’ and blowin’ just like their mamas. One of them's diving!” Cutch described the scene to Claire: the whale's beautiful arc in the water as the powerful tail drove the animal out, then down; the spray that surrounded her and captured a fleeting rainbow in the sunlight; and the mournful cry of her sibling, who immediately followed in her wake. “They're chasing each other. Mama's going to take them both in hand."

From his place near the wheel, Rand watched Claire lift her face into the salt spray. The waves were cresting sharply, and the clipper was pushing twelve knots. The sea would sting like nettles, yet he noticed that Claire did not turn away and seek shelter in the crook of Cutch's shoulder. The hood of her cape had fallen backward and her hair was no longer confined by its anchoring pins. Every lock distinguished the current of air that caressed it.

She was wrong, he thought. She was beautiful. Not in any standard way; not in any way that he found easy to define but nonetheless knew to be true. He couldn't imagine that a man looking at her now would not be moved to want her.

Rand turned to Diggs at the wheel. “See
Cerberus
rides the waves, Mr. Diggs. Don't wrestle her under like she was a plow and you had the lower forty to clear."

"Aye, Cap'n,” Diggs said. But he didn't think he was heard. His captain was already walking away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cutch saw Rand approaching. Claire did not have the same advantage. When Rand spoke, Cutch had to steady her.

"She needs to be below,” Rand said. His glance speared Cutch's large hands at Claire's waist. “Before she goes over."

Claire leaned away from the rail. “Mr. Cutch was telling me about whales."

"That's fine,” he said shortly. “And now it's ended."

Cutch nodded. He watched Claire struggle for composure in the face of Rand's coldness. “Very well, Captain. Claire. This way."

It was not until she and Cutch reached her cabin that Claire spoke. “He's come to hate me,” she said quietly.

"No."

"He doesn't speak to me except to ensure that I'm removed from his sight."

"What would you have him do?” asked Cutch, watching her closely. Her hurt was almost palpable. “Follow you around like a lovestruck stripling? He has pride, Claire. And sense. He's keeping you at arm's length for a reason. You should thank him, not tempt him."

Claire's head jerked up. “Tempt him? But I—”
Seeing you with them is very nearly painful.
Rand's words came back to her. Had she been asking him to prove he'd meant what he said? Not consciously, she hadn't. Not deliberately. She was not so cruel, Claire thought. She was
not.

Cutch said nothing as Claire let herself into her cabin and shut the door. She seemed unaware that she had left him standing alone in the companionway, or even that she had left the remainder of her last thought unsaid. Whistling softly to himself, Cutch returned topside.

Claire sat on the edge of her bed and unfastened the frog closure of her cape. She let it fall back on the quilt. Bending, she began to untie the laces of one shoe. The lace was nearly as cold and stiff as her fingers. She swore softly when it confounded her efforts.

The faint sound of breathing that was not her own caused Claire's head to lift suddenly. She cocked her ear, listening hard. Outside her cabin waves beat steadily against the ship. She forced herself to block out that roar and wait for a different pitch. “Is someone here?” she asked. “Cutch?"

But it wouldn't be Cutch. He would never have followed her inside without making his presence known. The sound was not repeated. Had she imagined it or had she surprised an intruder into holding his breath?

Claire stood slowly. She always left her cane on the right side of the door so she could pick it up on her way out. Six paces from the bed to the door. Claire was only a step away when she heard the sound again. Groping for her cane, she found it and swung around. She poked the air, jabbing right and left, high and low. The cane banged the trunk and rattled the desk chair. Books thudded to the floor; papers scattered. Her frantic, sweeping search brought her up against the bed and she hit the armoire with enough force that the cane vibrated in her hands. Claire thrust her cane deep inside the wardrobe while she yanked her carefully arranged dresses out. Nothing she swung at swung back. Nothing groaned.

Claire stumbled on the discarded pile of clothes as she turned away. Her cane slipped out from under her and Claire went to her knees. She patted the floor with her palms, searching for the cane. She found it partially hidden under the bed and realized that was one place her search hadn't taken her. Instead of retrieving her cane, she shoved it deeper and made a strong arc that covered the length of the bed. Nothing obstructed the movement.

Claire stopped. Her heart pounded and her own breathing was loud in the quiet room. She laughed a little uneasily as she sat up, wondering at the damage she had inflicted on the room. There were clothes and bed linens under her, and she remembered toppling books from the desk. She would not be able to put it right again without assistance. Claire stood, vaguely surprised her legs held her so surely when she was still shaking inside. If she had been sighted, she asked herself, would she have been so frightened? Would her mind have even played this trick on her? Angrily, Claire shoved the scattered clothes out of her way and left the cabin in search of Macauley Stuart.

She rapped her cane loudly on the doctor's door. When there was no response, she called for him. Hoping to rouse him if he was napping, Claire pushed his door open and said his name again. There was still no answer. Claire considered the possibility that he could be attending to one of the crew somewhere else on the ship. The doctor also liked to frequent the galley. Occasionally he had been invited to use Rand's workroom for his own study, though Claire had not known him to take advantage of it often. The most likely place Macauley Stuart had gone was topside. Ever since
Cerberus
had been riding the choppy, colder waters of the South Atlantic, the doctor's difficulties with his sea legs had returned.

Claire did not stop in her own cabin to retrieve her cape. She had no plan to be on deck above the minute or so it took to find Macauley. As it happened, she was topside even less than that.

The only warning that she was about to be taken in hand was Rand's sharp order, “Seize her, Mr. Cutch! Now!” Claire was not given the option to retreat into the companionway on her own. Cutch's large hand circled Claire's arm and pressed hard enough to leave bruises. Her fingers opened on the knob of her cane and she dropped it as she was thrust down the stairs she had just come up. Her skirts tangled in her legs and she stumbled backward, saved from a hard fall only by Cutch's grip on her.

Claire's cry went unheard above the resounding crash on deck. The entire ship seemed to shudder in the aftermath. Pressed against the companionway wall as she was, Claire felt the vibration run through her. She was finally glad for Cutch's hand on her arm. It felt less restraining now than it did steadying.

There were shouts topside and more scrambling as Rand's orders were carried out.
Cerberus
rolled suddenly, and Claire felt a sickening sensation as the floor seemed to fall away from beneath her. “Mr. Cutch?” His hand was still tight around her, but Claire had a need to know his presence in some other way.

"I'm here,” he said deeply. He could see out the companionway that the opening was partially blocked by the splintered mast and sodden canvas. Water dripped on the stairs as steadily as if it were raining. He eased his grip on Claire's arm but did not release her. “It was the main topgallant mast,” he explained. “The wet sail and wind proved too strong for her. She's lying across the companionway hatch now."

Claire nodded slowly, finally understanding the urgency of Rand's order and Cutch's response. “You saved my life,” she whispered.

"No. Captain did. I only grabbed you. He's the one who saw you needed grabbing."

Before Claire could respond, there was more shouting overhead and a call for the doctor. Cutch yelled back that he would fetch Stuart.

"He's not in his cabin,” Claire said. “I was going to look for him on deck. He was the only reason I went there."

"I don't remember seeing him topside."

"Rand's workroom, then,” Claire suggested.

Cutch let go of Claire's arm so she could place her hand on his elbow. “Where's your cane?” he asked.

"I don't know. I had it."

Cutch looked around and didn't see it. “I'll find it later. Come on. I'll return you to your cabin and get the doctor."

Claire lost her footing again as the ship lurched forward. She squeezed Cutch's elbow. “Are we going to sink, Mr. Cutch?"

"No. We're not even going to slow down much. These repairs can be made at sea.” When they reached Claire's cabin, it was Cutch who opened the door. He hesitated on the threshold, his eyes narrowing as he took in the ransacked condition of her cabin.

Claire responded to the sudden stillness of her companion. “It's all right, Mr. Cutch. I know how it looks. I'll explain later, after the important things are taken care of. You should find Dr. Stuart now."

Cutch was not as certain as Claire that the disorder of her cabin was unimportant. He helped her negotiate her way to the bed. “I won't be long,” he assured her. “You'll be safest if you just lie here."

Claire didn't argue. It seemed to her that she had lost her bearings back in the companionway and had yet to regain them. She lay back and closed her eyes. It wasn't until Cutch was out of the room that the first of Claire's tears pressed her lids.

She was sleeping when he entered her cabin. It was late and the room was dark, but her breathing gave her away. Cutch had warned him about the disarray. He stepped over the scattered clothes and books. The toe of his boot caught one corner of a blanket that had partially slipped off the bed. He started to drag it with him, shaking it off just before it uncovered Claire's legs.

He removed a lantern attached to the wall near the desk and lighted it. He held it up, surveying the damage with a keener eye before he replaced it on the wall. Tipping the desk chair on one back leg, he spun it around and straddled it. He sat down, folding his arms across the top rail, and waited.

Claire lay very still, caught in the groggy, undefined state that exists between sleep and full waking. She knew something was different—not necessarily wrong, only different. She told herself that she would not be so quick to panic this time, that she would not allow her mind to play her the same trick as before.

Strain as she did, she could not hear any breathing save her own. What she felt was a presence. She remembered that she no longer had her cane. As little help as it had been the last time, she recognized her vulnerability without it.

"I'm here, Claire,” Rand said.

There was no conscious brake that Claire could apply to her startled response. At the first sound of his voice, she stiffened. The rush of adrenaline set her heart to flight-or-fight speed, and she leaped out of bed. At her sides her hands were clenched in bloodless fists.

Rand's stomach lurched sickeningly as he realized how badly he had frightened her. He should have left as soon as he became aware that she was sleeping, not waited her out, remaining for his own selfish pleasure. “Claire, it's Rand.” Afraid to approach her, he did not rise from his chair. “I'm at your desk."

She backed away, raising one hand to ward him off.

"I'm sitting,” he told her. “I'm not coming after you."

Claire hesitated, testing the truth of his words. Wary, she cocked her head to one side and listened.

"I'm not moving, Claire,” he said to give her the direction and distance she needed. “I won't go anywhere until you tell me I can."

Claire shifted her extended hand and pointed toward the door. “Then leave now."

Rand shook his head. “I came here to talk. It wasn't my intention to frighten you and I apologize for it, but I'm not leaving just yet."

Without warning, Claire dropped to her knees. She groped around her for a misplaced book. Finding one, she pitched it hard in Rand's direction and knew a measure of satisfaction when he grunted as it thudded against his chest. She swept her hands across the floor looking for another missile. What she came up against was Rand's foot. He had moved after all.

Rand hunkered down and captured Claire's wrists. “You didn't think I would sit there and take that, did you?"

Claire tried to jerk away but he held her fast. Anger gave her strength she had never used and didn't know how to control. This time when she yanked, she fell backwards. Her momentum was not enough to free her, but it did pitch Rand forward and bring him down on top of her. Claire squirmed, pushing at him in earnest, arching her slender frame with enough ferocity to lift him momentarily. He swore softly when her knee jammed his thigh but he was still careful not to hurt her. With little additional effort he was able to force her back and press her wrists to the floor.

Claire sucked in her breath and tried to slither out from under him. One of his legs trapped both of hers. She pushed upward again. This time Rand wouldn't be budged. “Let me up,” she said, her voice strained.

"In a moment."

She turned her face away from his. “Now ... please."

Rand was not proof against the tears that Claire tried not to let him see. He watched her blink them back. Her teeth had caught her lower lip, and now she was biting down on it, accepting pain in place of what she thought was weakness. Rand eased his hold, then rolled off her. He lay on his back, some of the earlier wreckage under him. His fingers curled in a soft cotton petticoat. His head rested on a dark wool day dress. He watched Claire sit up and draw her knees toward her chest. Her arms circled them. She bent her head. She looked very alone, hugging herself in that manner, offering herself this small measure of comfort. Rand had no illusions that she would accept his.

"What happened?” he asked, looking at the clothes, books, and papers strewn across the cabin. From his new vantage point on the floor the scene appeared even more cluttered.

"You frightened me."

"No, before that. What happened before I got here?"

"You mean the mess.” She raised her head. “I did that."

"I guessed as much. I thought you only threw things at me."

A glimmer of a smile touched Claire's mouth. “As far as I know that's still true.” Her earlier fear seemed so misplaced that she was reluctant to explain what she had done. If she had thought for one moment that Rand would let it rest, she would have avoided the explanation. Instead she told him what he wanted to know.

Rand listened without interruption. The small vertical crease that appeared between his brow was the only evidence of his mounting concern. He was silent for a long time after Claire finished. Without once accusing him, she had made him understand why she had been so extraordinarily frightened to discover him in her cabin.

"Do you think someone was really here?” he asked finally. “Or did you imagine the sounds?"

"I didn't imagine the sounds,” Claire said. “I may have put the wrong cause to them, but I don't believe I imagined them."

"Could someone have slipped out while you were in the middle of your search?"

"I thought of that later.” And she didn't like thinking it might have happened that way. “I made a lot of noise crashing about. I could have missed the door opening and closing."

"Why didn't you leave?"

"I suppose because I didn't want to appear foolish, running away from nothing."

Foolish was not a word he had ever associated with Claire. “I'll speak to Cutch about it,” he said. There would be a duty roster that would explain the whereabouts of most of the crew. It would not be difficult to maintain a more thorough watch. “Someone will rig a lock for your door."

"Will it keep you out?” she asked wryly.

"Probably not."

"Then don't go to the bother."

Rand let the comment pass. He pushed himself upright. Scooting backward, he leaned against the bed frame. Claire, he noticed, stayed exactly as she was.

"Who was injured when the mast fell?"

"Matt Barcus."

"Badly?"

"A dislocated shoulder and a broken leg. Stuart couldn't mistake them for what they were this time."

Claire didn't point out that the doctor had not been completely wrong about Elizabeth's leg. Rand didn't want to hear it. “Then Mr. Cutch found Macauley,” she said, relieved. “I had been looking for him myself. Was he on deck after all?"

"In his cabin, I think."

"No, that's not possible.” She waved her hand, dismissing the contradiction from her mind. “It's not important.” Claire rocked back slightly, hugging herself a little tighter. “Thank you for what you did today,” she said.

"What I did?” Rand was genuinely puzzled.

"Saving me from the falling mast."

"Cutch's reflexes did that."

"I thanked Mr. Cutch. Now I'm thanking you."

"Then you're welcome,” he said quietly.

A rare comfortable silence settled between them. Claire turned her head again, resting her other cheek on her knees. “Is it late?” she asked after a while.

The watch had changed while he was waiting for Claire to wake. “After eight."

She had slept far longer than she would have thought possible. “I missed dinner."

"Most of us did. Are you hungry?"

"Not really.” Her stomach protested the outrageous lie.

Rand chuckled. He leaned forward. “Will you accompany me to my cabin? I have fruit and cheese there."

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. The answer that came out, though, was yes.

Rand's quarters were only marginally larger than Claire's. He did have a padded bench along the stern wall and a table big enough to seat eight. Claire had never been invited to explore the cabin and the little familiarity she had with it was because of the dinners she often had there.

Claire waited by the door while Rand lighted two lamps. She smiled to herself, thinking she could have found her way to the table or the bench without his assistance and without any light.

"Where's your cane?” he asked.

"I lost it when the mast fell. Mr. Cutch said he would find it and bring it to me. I don't suppose he's had much time to look for it.” Claire sat on the bench and smoothed her gown over her lap. While Rand cut thin slices of gouda and apples, Claire fiddled with the collar and cuffs of her dress, straightening them both. At her feet the hem was finally dry, but she knew it was stained with saltwater from her earlier foray on deck. Her shoes would be similarly watermarked. Self-conscious of her wrinkled gown and tangled hair, Claire ran a hand over both.

Rand's fingers closed over Claire's wrist, stopping her. He lifted her hand and placed the stem of a wineglass in it. “Burgundy,” he said.

"Thank you."

He hesitated. “You look fine, Claire."

Embarrassed, she ducked her head. “I slept in these clothes. My hair is—"

"Tousled.” Just the way he imagined it would be if she woke up beside him. “Don't touch it again."

"I don't think even a captain can properly order that,” she said.

"Humor me.” He nudged the bottom of her wineglass upward with his fingertips. “Drink."

She did. The burgundy was cool and dry. It eased down her throat and erased the metallic taste that had been on her tongue since her first confrontation with fear that afternoon. She murmured her pleasure against the rim of the glass. The vibration tickled her lips. Claire smiled and lowered her glass. Her mouth was damp.

"Here,” Rand said, his voice husky. “Open."

Claire's lips parted. A bit of cheese was pressed between them. She chewed on it, washed it down with a sip of wine.

"Again,” Rand said. This time he gave her a small wedge of apple. His fingers touched her lips. Claire did not flinch. “More?” he asked.

"Yes, please."

Rand smiled. She had spoken so softly that it could not properly be called a whisper. He had read her lips more than heard her. “Cheese,” he said, alternating the bites.

Claire took it, then another bite of apple. She drank deeply from her wineglass. She pressed her lips together and ran her tongue along the inside, tasting the burgundy again.

Watching her, Rand's eyes darkened. “Open,” he repeated.

This time it was his lips he placed across her mouth. The taste of the wine was on her tongue. He drank from her mouth. She never once pulled away.

Rand pushed the plate of cheese and fruit out of the way. Without raising his mouth from hers, he removed the empty wineglass from her hand and put it aside. He lifted her hands to his face and pressed her palms against his cheeks. He raised his head a fraction and spoke against her mouth. “Look at me, Claire. You don't have to be afraid."

She had never been afraid of what he might do to her, only what she might do to herself. This tightening in her chest, the unfamiliar sensation of never being quite able to catch her breath around him, of always being off balance—Claire wondered if it was already too late for her. A more experienced woman would have known if she were in love. “I'm not afraid,” was all she said.

"Liar.” On his lips, then against hers, it was an endearment.

Claire's fingertips traced the line of his cheekbones; her thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth. His skin was taut. There was no smile. A muscle worked faintly in his scarred cheek. She laid her palm there and leaned into him. This time she initiated the kiss.

Her tongue swept the underside of his upper lip and darted along the ridge of his teeth. She opened her mouth wide to accept the sound that rose at the back of his throat. When he pressed for more, she pressed back.

It was a slow, deep kiss, lingering and exploring. There was pleasure intrinsic to the waiting, to keeping urgency at bay. Rand's fingers sifted through her dark hair, touched the sensitive nape of her neck. He lifted her hair away, drank in the fragrance that was unique to her as it spilled over his hand. Claire hummed her pleasure against his mouth. When he broke the kiss, it was to place his lips at her throat.

Her hands drifted to Rand's shoulders and lay there lightly while he made small forays across her skin. She tugged on the collar of his jacket, hanging on as much as wanting him closer. More by accident than design, her fingers brushed the first button of his shirt. She twisted it. The material parted under her hands.

Claire paused, uncertain. For a moment Rand did not move. Then he said her name, his voice a mere whisper, and the words, “Go on."

She touched his skin so carefully that except for the warmth, it might have been crystal under her fingertips. Her thumb found the next button, and she opened it in turn. Hands splaying wider, Claire helped Rand shrug out of his jacket. Her palms ran along the length of his arms. She heard the jacket slide off the bed and land on the floor. Her attention returned to his shirt, and this time there was a hint of a siren's smile on her lips.