Nicole Jordan (19 page)

An abduction was
not
what she’d had in mind, but in any other circumstances, she would have thoroughly enjoyed herself here—although she would cut out her tongue before she admitted it to Deverill. Being the pragmatic sort, however, she was resigned to going to Cornwall.

She was also being craven, she knew—for avoiding the terrifying reason she was even on board the schooner.

Antonia bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She wanted desperately to deny that she’d been witless enough to be duped all this time by her betrothed. And more crucially, to deny that her father had been murdered for attempting to prevent her marriage. For if it was true, she would feel to blame for his death, and she couldn’t bear to face that possibility. Her union with Lord Heward had once been her father’s greatest desire, but even so, if she had never agreed to the marriage then her father might be alive today—

Oh, God, she couldn’t bear to think of it.

She
wouldn’t
think of it, Antonia promised herself furiously, or such tormenting thoughts would drive her mad.

Crushing her ruminations, she spun around and focused her gaze upward—and then promptly caught her breath. She recognized Deverill’s powerful form high overhead. Coatless, he was moving along the rigging of the foremast, hauling in and letting out sheets. With less than a full crew, he must be pitching in to help . . . and perhaps working off some of his restless masculine energy at the same time, she suspected.

Despite her vexation with him, Antonia couldn’t help but admire his efforts. In genteel British circles, no gentleman would deign to stoop to real physical labor. That was doubtless how Deverill had come by the hard muscles in his body. And his years of command had induced the innate authority in his stance—

Cutting off her deplorable thoughts about his commendable qualities, Antonia turned back to the railing to stare out at the sea.

It was perhaps a quarter hour later when she sensed Deverill’s nearness, even before he came to stand beside her at the rail.

“You might as well go away,” Antonia advised, still feeling uncharitable toward him. “I am not speaking to you.”

“Should I be glad for small favors?” he responded. “Muteness on your part might allow me time to recover from the wounds your tongue inflicted on me last night.”

Glancing sideways up at him, she gave Deverill a peeved look. She had been awkwardly tongue-tied around him as a girl, but if her retorts now sometimes stung him, she was only acting in self-defense, attempting to stand up to his forceful personality. She refused to be bullied by him, even if she
was
at his mercy for the moment.

Regrettably, he took the opportunity to inspect her injury. Laying his fingers alongside her jaw, he tipped her chin up, his gaze examining her bruised forehead.

Antonia tensed, her senses assailed by his potent male presence. He made her feel as if she couldn’t take a deep breath.

“You’ll live,” he pronounced, finally releasing her.

“No thanks to you.”

His smile was bland. “It is only reasonable that you don’t feel kindly toward me—”

“How clever of you to comprehend the source of my aggravation.”

“—but I consider your fortitude admirable. You are taking this better than I hoped.”

“What did you hope?” Antonia asked, arching an eyebrow. “That I would fall into strong hysterics? A tantrum would achieve little beyond my own exhaustion and your disdain. And I don’t intend to give you cause to think me a weakling.”

“I could not imagine ever thinking you a weakling, sweetheart.”

She swept a hand out, gesturing at the ship. “Well, my fortitude is quickly failing me. Just what am I supposed to do for the next two days until we reach Cornwall?”

“There are some books in my cabin that you can read. And you can have the freedom of the deck, as long as you don’t decide to jump overboard.”

“I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

At her dry quip, his green, reproachful gaze ensnared hers. Antonia had difficulty looking away. Pursing her lips, she glanced back over her shoulder. “I should like to meet Captain Lloyd.”

“Why?” His question held a touch of suspicion.

“Because it is only polite. Will you perform the introductions, or shall I do it myself?”

Deverill appeared reluctant, but he took her elbow and steered her across the deck to the ship’s wheel to meet his captain.

A robust, muscular man with a touch of gray at his temples, Captain Lloyd seemed genuinely pleased to meet her as he bowed over her hand. “I knew your father, Miss Maitland. He was a remarkable man.”

She felt a decided lump in her throat. “Thank you, sir.” She paused. “I was wondering, Captain, I have only been on one other voyage. Perhaps you might enlighten me about your ship. This is a schooner-rigged vessel, is it not?”

The captain glanced questioningly at Deverill, as if asking permission to reply.

Deverill took her arm again to lead her away. “I’ll tell you anything you wish to know about the ship. Captain Lloyd has his hands full just now.”

Normally she would have loved to hear what fascinating things Deverill had to say about his ship, but not daring to subject herself to any extended time in his company, Antonia tugged her arm from his grasp. “Never mind. I believe I prefer to remain in ignorance.”

She turned away, feeling the force of his gaze burning into her back as she paced over to the railing.

Deverill refrained from following her, knowing it was wiser to keep as much distance as possible between them.

He’d dreamed about Antonia last night, sweet erotic dreams that had left him feverish and aching. He’d woken at first light, his body alive with desire, keenly aware that she lay sleeping only a short space away.

For a time, he couldn’t prevent himself from watching her, couldn’t stop imagining how she would look if he had shared the berth with her all night long . . . her hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen, her body warm and sweetly flushed. Their lovemaking would be raw and hot and elemental, he knew—

Cursing, Deverill had risen and dressed quickly. Upon leaving the cabin, he’d thrown himself into physical activity, determined to work off his sexual frustration as much as to aid his overtaxed crew.

But he swore that tonight he would return Antonia to her own cabin. It was far too dangerous keeping her in his. If he had to spend one more night with her, he wouldn’t be able to keep from taking her. And then he would never want to stop.

The notion was incredibly appealing—spending weeks satiating himself with Antonia in his bed. Watching her now as she stood at the rail, her long, slender back held rigidly, sunlight glinting off her shining hair and turning it to flame, Deverill fully understood the lust that drove him. Her combination of defiance and vulnerability and vibrant beauty was impossibly arousing. And the hint of fiery, untamed sensuality that lay beneath her elegant demeanor was irresistibly tantalizing.

He wouldn’t take up the challenge of uncovering her sensuality, though, Deverill promised himself. She was under his protection now, and he couldn’t take advantage of her defenselessness.

The impropriety of her being the sole female on board his ship was bad enough. If their subterfuge about Antonia being chaperoned during her abrupt visit to the country didn’t work, her reputation would wind up in shreds, and he would have an entirely different dilemma on his hands.

Even so, he couldn’t stop fantasizing about transforming his erotic dreams into reality . . . Antonia arching beneath him in passionate surrender as he drowned himself in the sweetness of her taste, the silken heat of her body. Just thinking about it made him so hungry, a deep ache settled in his loins.

“Have a care, man,” Deverill muttered under his breath.

He blew out a long breath and turned back to work, knowing it was going to be a long, tormenting voyage.

When Fletcher informed her that lunch had been served in the captain’s stateroom, Antonia discovered Deverill already there before her. Not wanting to be alone with him, she turned to leave, but his curt command stopped her.

“Sit down, Antonia. Fletcher went to some trouble to prepare a meal for you, and you will eat it, even if you don’t fancy sharing my company.”

She sent Deverill an annoyed look, but reluctantly obeyed and joined him at the table, where a surprisingly appetizing repast had been laid out.

“You might remember,” Antonia said coolly, “that I am not obliged to do your bidding, Deverill. I am not one of your deckhands.”

“Be glad that you aren’t, my sweet termagant,” he replied, “for I might be tempted to keelhaul you for your childish display of temper.”

Antonia could think of no suitable retort. She
was
acting childishly. Her predicament, combined with the excess time on her hands all morning long, had left her feeling frustrated and restless. More to blame, however, was that she was trying desperately not to dwell on Deverill’s damning accusations about Heward. She needed something to occupy herself, or she would go mad.

“It would help,” she said finally, “if I had something to keep my mind off my captivity. Perhaps I could be of use to your crew.”

Deverill’s eyebrow rose. “You are volunteering to work alongside my crew?”

Antonia shrugged. “It is galling to be treated as a helpless female. I have no training in sailing a ship, but surely there is some task I could perform.”

Deverill eyed her thoughtfully. “There are always sails that need mending.”

She made a face. “You probably don’t remember that I told you I hate to sew.”

“I remember quite clearly.”

Which is precisely why he’d suggested that particular onerous task, she discerned. Antonia sent him an exasperated look. “You enjoy watching my hackles rise, don’t you?”

“It has its pleasures. But seriously, unskilled seamen start with the lowest form of menial labor. I doubt you would be interested in soiling your hands to that extent.”

“Everything about a ship interests me. And I am not afraid of a little hard work. I would even scrub decks. It would be preferable to being idle the entire voyage.”

“I suppose you could work under Fletcher’s supervision. He has trained enough green recruits to crew a dozen ships.”

Antonia brightened. “Would he teach me about sailing?”

“He doesn’t like having females on board a vessel—he thinks it brings back luck. But you’re already here. And considering that you are Samuel Maitland’s daughter, I expect he will make an allowance.”

“Then you will ask him for me?”

“Yes, princess. If you’re certain.”

“Thank you,” Antonia murmured. Smiling for the first time since her abduction, she picked up her fork and applied herself to the luncheon fare, wanting to eat quickly so she could get on with the exciting prospect of learning how a real sailor spent his days.

Fletcher balked at first, not only because of her gender but also because she was a member of the gentry.

Deverill had put the question to him when the old tar came to the stateroom to retrieve the dishes. Fletcher looked startled at first, then suspicious, as though wondering if he might be the butt of a jest.

Finally he shook his head mulishly. “ ’Tain’t fitting for a genteel lady. Nay, won’t do it.”

Holding up a hand to forestall Deverill’s reply, Antonia jumped to her feet and grabbed one of the trays to follow Fletcher from the stateroom into the narrow corridor, determined to convince him to reconsider.

“Please, Fletcher. Cannot you overlook my station just this once? My father’s family was not the least genteel. He came from the lower classes and was not ashamed to work for his living.”

The old man stopped in his tracks, his skeptical gaze sliding over Antonia’s elegant gown, which seemed to contradict her claim.

“Do you have any notion,” she pressed, “how vexing it is to always be proper and sedate and ladylike? How stifling it can be?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Fletcher acknowledged.

“Well, pretend you always had to wear a coat and cravat and take tea with the vicar’s wife three times a day.”

When Fletcher merely looked confused, she could tell that argument wasn’t working, so she took another tack. “Pretend you could never go to sea again. That you could never feel the wind on your face or the swell of the waves beneath your feet. It would be worse than prison for you, isn’t that so?”

He scowled at that, and Antonia knew she had struck a nerve. “Aye, I suppose it would.”

“Well, I have been in a sort of prison all my life. A very pleasant one, to be sure, but I’ve always longed to escape for a few moments of freedom. This is my one chance, Fletcher.”

His hesitation gave her hope, so she kept on. “I know a mariner’s life is a hard one, but I have something to prove to Deverill. I want to show him that I am not a worthless fribble. He calls me ‘princess,’ but I am not like that, truly.”

“Princess, eh?”

“Yes. Please, I only want to learn. I promise I will do whatever you tell me, exactly as you tell me. Won’t you just give me a chance?”

Hearing a soft chuckle behind her, she realized that Deverill had come to stand at the door of the stateroom and was listening to their conversation. In the dim companionway, she could see the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“You might as well give in gracefully, Fletcher,” he suggested. “She will eventually wear you down anyway.”

Antonia ignored Deverill’s vexing remark, since he was actually promoting her case, and held her breath, waiting.

Fletcher looked from her to Deverill and back again, before finally shrugging. “Very well then, come along. Ye can start by helping me clean the galley.”

It wasn’t precisely what she had hoped for, but resolving not to press her luck, Antonia followed Fletcher meekly, feeling Deverill’s amused gaze on her all the while.

It took all afternoon, but Antonia gained a measure of respect from Fletcher that day. After she helped him wash dishes without a word of complaint, he fashioned a makeshift apron to cover her gown and set her to another menial chore, but one crucial to the seaworthiness of a ship: She learned how to smear pitch on hempen rope and barrel staves and deck planks to make them waterproof. Then she graduated to more interesting lessons.