Prisoner of Desire (22 page)

began to shake just from raising it to her lips. She ducked her chin to reduce the distance. The water tasted sweet. Almost like sugar. But her hands trembled with the effort of holding the mug and humiliation flooded her when Ronan took the weight in his hand. He eased her back onto the pillows in the same motion, once again his expression calmly accepting of her condition.

She detested it. An ungracious scoff surfaced over the rim of the mug. The surgeon shrugged.

"You'll be back to giving Warren fits soon enough. A few of the men will enjoy having him off their backs."

"It is not my intention to seem less than thankful for your attention."

"But you'd rather not be cared for like an infant?"

He took the mug away before she wanted him to, setting it on the table far beyond her reach.

"I do not cause your captain to have fits."

Ronan returned to the table and shut the book he'd been reading. His bicorn hat sat there as well and he took it up with a small flourish.

"Now that is a matter of opinion, Miss St. John." He tucked the book beneath his arm, looking impossibly formal while she sat wearing a man's shirt. Frustration ate at her, but her body was limp and almost useless.

Ronan eyed her one more time. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes as he nodded. "I need to let the captain know you're up. He's been pestering me constantly."

Warren...

Just the idea of the man swept every other thought from her mind. Her memory lit up with vivid images of them tangled around one another. It seemed a long time ago. It was rather odd because she'd lost track of time, she only sensed a fair amount of it had passed.

But she wanted to see Warren.

That desire bubbled up from deep inside her. She was suddenly lonely, longing for a glimpse of his roguish grin. Her eyelids drifted shut while she waited, she saw him in her dreams. She let her mind wander toward his image, grateful to be finished with the nightmares. Her body relaxed as a sigh of contentment left her lips. But a soft step was enough to get her to put forth the effort to open her eyes.

Warren hesitated near the table. His gaze settled on her, studying her face before he dispensed with his scowling.

"You shouldn't worry about me."

His lips curved into a grin. "I do believe I will have to do exactly the opposite of what you tell me to do or risk losing my reputation of being an uncivilized American."

He moved closer and stroked her cheek.

"I see," she muttered.

One eyebrow rose. "Do you, Lorena?"

"I believe you are telling me you enjoy knowing I consider you a rogue."

Reaching out, he captured her hand and held it securely while she smiled at the relief shining in his eyes. It was an unspoken thing, but she felt it so deeply there was nothing words might have added to the moment. Contentment wrapped around her and she slid back into sleep without a

protest.

Warren eased her back down into his bunk. Her neck felt fragile in his hand. Relief tore through him so hard it sent his knees knocking against one another. He settled for sitting next to the bunk, one hand gently roaming over her face and neck. He needed the reassurance. Needed to touch her and feel for himself that her skin had returned to normal.

As much as her restful pose soothed him, it also frustrated him. There was too much left

unsettled between them. With a shake of his head, he stood up and left the cabin. Sunset was descending on the Huntress, bathing her in scarlet. It washed over the dim outline of shore in the distance. Gaining the command deck, he looked at Boston but didn't feel the rush of relief he'd envisioned he would.

Lorena was the root of that.

A safe return meant he had to keep his word. Doing the honorable thing had never felt so wrong.

His principles wrestled against his desire and neither side was giving in. The only thing that stuck in his throat was the last night he'd held her. Choice. It made all the difference, but now he doubted if she'd truly given herself to him or simply been too muddled by fever to resist his advances.

That idea soured his homecoming. It twisted his gut until his hands tightened on the wheel.

Ronan climbed up from the main deck.

"She's sleeping again."

The surgeon nodded. "She'll be up and about tomorrow but not to her standards. That will take a few more days of rest." Ronan stared at the coastline, relief flickering in his eyes. "We'll all be happy to make port tomorrow."

Everyone except himself...

Warren gritted his teeth, cutting Ronan a harsh glance when the surgeon lifted an eyebrow. He didn't need anyone noticing how he felt. It was his duty to settle things with Lorena, even if the biggest obstacle in his path was himself.

Lorena awoke early. There was something different, something so different it had drawn her

from sleep. She stretched her muscles, sore and tight. Testing her arms, she lifted them high into the air. No tremor appeared.

The ship was still.

The difference that had woken her suddenly revealed its cause. The bunk wasn't rolling gently anymore. Bits of conversation made it through the open windows. Happy tones and shouts along with what sounded like horses and wagons. She rolled out of the bunk, but her knees wobbled when she stood. Grabbing the edge of the table, she dragged in a deep breath to steady herself.

The weakness passed, but she walked slowly when she released the sturdy wood.

A peek out the back windows revealed a dock teaming with people. She stared at the mass of

activity, struggling to absorb it all. It seemed like she'd forgotten what a city looked like, the endless sea having erased it from her thoughts. She could feel the excitement in the air too.

Her blood felt like it was moving faster. A torrent of emotions began hitting her too quickly to decipher them. Her dress caught her eye and she reached for it. The air was no longer balmy and warm. Her stockings actually felt good when she slipped them on. But dressing took far more effort than she'd imagined it could. She sat in a chair to work on her hair, needing the support.

That didn't vex her. She felt stronger. The girl who had left Northfleet seemed younger than the woman she was now. Was that due to Warren or her own resolve? She didn't know, but she let

the idea remain in her thoughts because it kept her from dwelling on the one thing which might reduce her to a weeping heap.

Warren's promise to set her free.

Did she want that? A passage booked home to Northfleet or back to Bermuda? She shuddered at the last idea. Come what may, she would not marry Adam Mordaunt.

And she refused to think about the man any further. Pushing the last hairpin into her braids, she stood up and checked her appearance in the small mirror on the wall. Somehow, she looked

different. Older maybe but not in the way most woman worried about. Perhaps it was in her eyes, there was less naivety there now.

"And a good thing too."

Her voice echoed around the cabin. It was slightly difficult to leave it, but she buttoned her gloves and forced herself to don her bonnet. Pain nipped at her when she opened the door. It raced through her chest and settled in her heart.

Such was foolishness.

As well as unwise.

And very... She sighed, lingering in the doorway. And she would be talking herself to death before she ever managed the task of pushing her feelings for Warren Rawlins aside.

They were firmly rooted in her now. The best she might hope for was to present a composed

picture up on deck.

Because all things came to an end. That was life. Never once had she received anything less from fate and today would be no exception.

Perhaps we should marry...

Her mind offered up the memory like a shining golden hope. Lorena rejected it. She stiffened her spine and moved forward. She would have no man who pitied her. Better to knock on her

stepfather's door again than suffer a lifetime of knowing Warren wed her out of remorse and his sense of honor.

He did have honor. The man was quite handsome, but it was his honor which truly turned her

head. She had never met his like before. That sort of integrity deserved better than a woman who took his name because she was too weak to find her own way in the world.

The deck was unusually empty. Only a few hands still aboard and most of them were hanging

over the rail looking toward the dock. A gangway connected the Huntress to the dock. At the base of it, sailors stood shoulder to shoulder with families. There were wives and children all reaching for one another. More carriages rolled down the wide streets with bonnet-crowned girls leaning out the windows. Their faces were bright with joy as they looked at the mass of newly arrived seamen, searching for their loved ones.

It was something Mordaunt would have denied them all.

That thought stiffened her resolve. There was a purpose to her presence and she would enjoy it.

Stepping out into the sun, she watched the scene below. It was so beautiful tears glistened in her eyes.

Boston was as densely populated as Northfleet. Buildings lined the shorefront. The road was crowded with wagons and carriages all attempting to wind their way some place important.

Sailors wove through it with their dingy bags slung over a shoulder on their way to ships that were making ready to sail. At least fifty vessels were crammed onto the waterfront, and the noise of conversations rose from the scores of people bidding farewell.

"Welcome to America, Miss St. John." Garrick Rawlins offered her a hand to help her down from the command deck and onto the main deck of the Huntress. His voice was far too grave for the look in his eyes. Relief shone there as brightly as the morning sun. He didn't release her hand but held it in a firm grip that brought her to a stop.

"It is very pleasant to have made port."

He tilted his head, displaying a dark beard. "Aye, it is." He watched her for a moment, a pensive look on his face. But she also witnessed the pity there. Her pride flared white hot.

"Indeed, sir. You need to have better communications with your brother for I have made it very plain I find pity quite repulsive."

Heat flickered in his eyes for a moment before he carried her hand to his mouth for a soft kiss which would have met with any matron's approval. That was providing they didn't see the look in his eyes.

"You assume pity is the only thing motivating me to attempt to outwit my brother and meet you before he notices you have gained the deck."

Pulling on her hand, she had to bite back a smile of relief when the man finally relinquished it.

"You are very much like your brother, he is forever forgetting the boundaries of polite topics."

He chuckled, his huge shoulders vibrating. He had donned an overcoat that was tailored quite well over his form. The fine wool spoke of a man of means and position.

"You English are set on your proper conversations."

"Do you mean to tell me you expect anything less of a wife, sir? That American girls are not taught the same manners?"

He lifted one finger. "Ah, a point well taken. However, I must admit your English strictness is growing on me."

"I believe Lady Holly is jealous of me."

The parrot was perched on his shoulder and quite content. He reached up to scratch her. One dark eyebrow rose and she noticed how similar the action was to his brother's.

It was annoying how often she found her mind comparing the man in front of her with Warren.

Garrick captured her hand once again in a motion that was lightening quick.

"May I have the pleasure of escorting you ashore?"

"Thank you."

She'd had no choice on how she'd boarded the Huntress but she did have a choice on how she

departed. Warren could just keep himself wherever the man had gotten to. Much better that way, far less messy. If the man wasn't in sight, then she wouldn't have to worry about getting yet another proposal forged in pity.

But you would enjoy being married to him...

Oh! That little voice needed to be strangled immediately.

Even if her temper was unjustified, it helped her take those first few steps down the gangway.

She would have thought it simpler to leave the ship that had been her prison, but her emotions rolled dangerously, trying to undermine her composure.

She froze two steps from the dock. She found Warren in the crowd without even trying, her eyes drawn to his frame. He'd also shrugged into an overcoat. The twin tails neatly buttoned at the ends. The proper garment did little to disguise the powerful man hidden inside it. Warren just didn't look like the men surrounding him.

He turned, as though sensing her gaze on his back. Those blue eyes surveyed her in a swift

motion that didn't miss a single detail. She suddenly felt dank and shabby. The long days at sea showing on her dress. The heavy scent of fresh fish likely saving her from noticing how rank she smelled.

Several people turned to look at her and more joined them as Warren extended a hand toward her.

To ignore his outstretched palm would have been quite the slight, one that wouldn't be a very wise move considering she was in his country. The moment her gloved hand touched his,

whispers began. Even with the noise of traffic, she could hear the women nearby chattering to one another. Most of them didn't even bother to open a fan to hide their conversations.

Not that she was surprised. Society was obsessed with image. It looked like American women

were no less condemning than her British kin. Any woman who sailed without an escort instantly found herself under the harsh scrutiny of the conservatives. Eyes raked her from head to toe, trying to determine if she was a tarnished woman.

That almost made her laugh. It was the truth she found it amusing. Godford had shipped her off to become a wife and every man aboard Captain Connell's ship had known Mordaunt expected

her to share his bed. Marriage was the magical thing which maintained a woman's virtue. So

what then did you do when the man turned out to be such a villain?