The Last Honest Seamstress (11 page)

"It's no use, Miss Sheridan—

"Fayth."

"Fayth." He rested his hand at the base of her neck where it burned her skin nearly as much as the embers had. He whispered into her ear, "As I feared, I'm going to have to cut it away. The fabric's scorched and stuck to your skin. The dress is a loss."

She glanced down at her shoulder and winced at the sight of her blistered skin. He was right—it would have to be cut off. "What isn't?" She looked straight ahead again and braced herself. "Cut away, Captain."

"Let me get the scissors from my desk."
 

He removed his hand and walked across the room to the desk. She felt the absence of his touch immediately, and the lack of his body heat behind her. After the brutal temperature of the fire, she should have relished any form of coolness. So why did she will him to come back and rest his hand where it had been? Imagine him unpinning her hair and nibbling her neck?

What had gotten into her? Those were dangerous thoughts. The same treacherous feelings had led to her dropping her guard and letting Drew go too far with her. Far too far.
 

The Captain returned with a washcloth, scissors, and a basin of water. She didn't look at him. She couldn't for fear of giving herself away and encouraging him. Or making a fool of herself again. He tugged at the shoulder of her dress. She winced.
 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm going to have to soak it loose."

She turned her head to the side and watched as he dipped the cloth in the basin. "Captain, your hands!" Was there no end to her selfishness? Where were her womanly instincts? Why hadn't she noticed he was hurt, too?

The fading sunlight glinted off minute shards of glass buried in the skin of his square, masculine, but scraped and bruised hands. Even the hair on the back of them was scorched. She turned sideways in her chair and grabbed his wet fingers in hers. "You must take care of these."

Their eyes met and her breath caught. He was looking at her exactly as a man in love looks at a woman. But that made no sense. None at all.

He gently pulled his hand free and looked away. "Your shoulder first."

"Certainly not. I must insist that I take care of
you
first."

He shook his head and laughed. "Fayth, you don't want to be dangling half undressed before a sailor a minute longer than you must. We only have so much willpower."
 

Her eyes went wide. She stared at him. He was joking, teasing her. Surely he must be.
 

She couldn't help herself; she smiled back at him and laughed at her own foolishness. "Good point. Think of the scandal if word of my wanton behavior should get out. My cousin might make you marry me. And we wouldn't want that."
 

Her tone was light and airy. She was teasing him; of course she was. Jibing at him just a little. Or was she flirting with him? She couldn't be certain. All she knew for sure was that the air in the cabin suddenly felt quite close.

He cleared his throat. "No, certainly not." He didn't sound completely convincing.
 

Bewildered, she turned around and faced straight ahead again just as a loud thump announced that Billy had dropped off her bags. The Captain applied the cloth to her blistered skin with a startlingly gentle pressure. His touch was soothing and tender as he soaked the fabric free from her blistered shoulder, then carefully covered the burn with ointment and bandaged it. His mere attentions healed. Fayth's worries and fears slipped away. When he was finished, he got up and retrieved her bags from where Billy had unceremoniously dumped them.
 

"You must have a blouse in one of these?" he said.

"That one." She pointed to the bag she wanted.

He brought it to her. She opened it and got out a clean shirtwaist.
 

He took it from her and slid it gently around her shoulders. "There. Now you're decent."

"Good. Now I can take care of you." She turned her chair around to face his and held her hand out, indicating he should sit.

He smiled and took his seat. They sat disturbingly close, skirt to pant leg, knee to knee.

She took his hand, placed it between hers, and grabbed a pair of tweezers from his medical kit. His hand was rough and calloused. He obviously was a captain who pitched in and did the dirty work of physical labor when necessary. But it was also well groomed, or had been before the fire had gotten hold of it. And it was so nice and reassuring to hold.

She smiled up at him and got to work, head bent over his hand, deftly pulling out every shard she could find, squinting to make sure she didn't miss any. She worked in silence, as he had, marveling at the strong character of his hands. She felt him watching her as she bent over his hand.

"You're very serious when you work," he said.

"This is serious business. A man needs his hands in working order." She looked up into his eyes. "I'm just glad I haven't had to use a needle to dig one out yet. Although, I am exceptionally good with one." She stopped short.

He was staring at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Yes, she recognized a look of admiration when she saw one. And this one confused her. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"Definitely not. Not at all." He sounded almost as if he were enjoying her attentions.

She nodded and dropped her gaze, getting back to work though her pulse raced. Finally, she didn't see any more glass. She ran her hand lightly over his, feeling for remaining shards of glass. Satisfied, she stared at his baby finger. It was bent, the knuckle permanently swollen. "This?"

"Dislocated it years ago rigging a ship. Fixed it myself."

"And I trusted my shoulder to you, with this amazing medical skill?"
 

He smiled and winked.

She shook her head, dipped a cloth into the basin and wrung it out, intending to bathe his hand. But when she looked up, it was his face that caught her attention.
 

It was streaked with soot and perspiration, his beard singed in places. She was overwhelmed with the gentlest emotion she'd felt in over a year. Without thinking she reached up to wipe it with the cool cloth. "Look at you."

"Look at us," he said and reached for her wrist. Their eyes met and held. She pressed the cloth to his cheek. He encircled her wrist with his grip.

Her face must have been streaked, her hair disheveled. How did she look to him? Did he see by the rapid heaving of her chest that his touch aroused? Her world was reflected in his eyes. She was more frightened than she'd ever been.

He cupped her cheek and leaned toward her. She tilted her face toward his. He smelled of smoke and heat and maleness. She parted her lips.

"Captain." The male voice startled them both.

She sat back, feeling herself blush, and probably looking completely guilty even though absolutely nothing had happened.

The Captain swung around. "Sweeney?"

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. We've got trouble below. With the engine."

The Captain glanced at Fayth with a look of apology, and back at Sweeney. "I'll be right there."

Sweeney departed. The Captain pushed his chair back. The moment was lost.

"You'll be wanting to get cleaned up. Billy dropped your bags by the door. The sleeping quarters are back down that hall. The head's on the way." He pointed. "Shall I move your bags back there for you?"

"No, thank you. The what?"

He laughed. "The head, the bathroom. It has a big tub. Just keep your shoulder dry."

"A bath sounds heavenly."

"I'll have Cook bring you something to eat and leave it on the table for you. Then you should get some rest. Make yourself at home in my quarters. Sleep as long as you like."

She wasn't sure how he meant for the arrangements to work, but she couldn't stay alone with him. "I can't stay here. These are your quarters. Where will you stay?"

He smiled as if he took her meaning. "Across the deck with the crew. They'll be happy to have me." She recognized the tease in his voice. "And if they're not, they'll fake it."

"But you can't. You must stay here." Her words came out wrong. "I mean—"

"I'm sorry, Fayth, but I can't let
you
sleep with the crew. They don't always restrain themselves around the ladies." He winked and turned toward the door.

She took a long, cool soak in the claw-foot tub. Had she really almost kissed the Captain? Electric lights illuminated the small bathroom with a warm yellow glow as the sunlight faded. Sitting naked in the Captain's tub, she felt an odd, titillating intimacy with him. Worse yet, she let herself enjoy it. What did she have to lose now?

She stepped out of the tub onto a soft mat and turned to the sink to examine herself critically in the mirror. She looked better cleaned up, but for the first time in ages she wished she were prettier. She wound her damp hair up, pinned it back, and studied her reflection. Too severe. She hooked a finger through the hair on either side of her head, pulling a few tendrils loose to soften the look. The loss of austerity made an astounding difference. She looked more like the Fayth she remembered. A year was up. Maybe she should come out of mourning now, both for her parents and Drew.

Her gaze was caught by a shaving mug perched at sink's edge and the leather strapped razor that hung on a peg above it. It never occurred to her that bearded men still shaved parts of their face and neck. There was so much she didn't know about men. What she did, she had learned from Drew, and she was beginning to feel her information was desperately inadequate.

She ran her finger around the rim of the mug, picking up stray beard hairs. They were coarse and wiry and as thick as three or four of her hairs put together, entirely masculine. Mysterious. Enticing. She shuddered and washed the hairs down the sink. She must suppress such thoughts.

Later, relaxed from her bath, Fayth studied the shipmaster's quarters as she ate. The cabin was paneled with rich mahogany. Bookcases lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes of classic works and books on sailing, shipping, and navigation. A heavily gilded gold mirror hung above the fireplace. The ceiling was inlaid with panels lined with three different moldings. But the most beautiful feature of the room was the rounded wall corners, each hand carved, all similar but unique.

The cabin was appointed with finely made wood furniture. The main room held an upholstered chair, the table and chairs where she sat, and a roll-top desk, now closed. The Captain was meticulously neat. Not one item was out of place. The same with his life, she presumed, shaking her head in irony. She could not have picked a person less in need of a business marriage to clutter his life. She finished her meal and walked back to the bedroom.

The Captain's bed nearly filled the small room at the rear of his quarters. It was surrounded by built-in cupboards of the same rich mahogany as the main room. The Captain's sense of elegance and quality evidently wasn't only for show. His private room was every bit as beautiful as the main one. She undressed and climbed into his bed.

Fayth snuggled down into the deep featherbed and inhaled deeply. The Captain's sheets smelled of him, tinged with a hint of cologne. She liked it. She liked him. Lulled by the pleasant sensation of security and the gentle rocking of the ship in the waters of the Sound, she fell asleep.

She was surrounded by black water, barely afloat. Her scorched skirt bobbed up around her waist. As she watched, it became saturated. Slowly, its folds sank before her eyes. The heavy weight of the water-laden cloth pulled her down. She screamed, but the darkness swallowed all sound. Her arms windmilled the air furiously, searching for a stronghold, anything solid to hang on to. She couldn't see. There was no light, only all-engulfing dark water. She was being sucked under—

Fayth woke with a start, her heart hammering in her ears. She sat up, trying to calm herself by rocking gently like a child. The ship was still. The wind had ceased and the waters calmed. Through the open window, she heard only the gentle lapping of water against the
Aurnia's
hull.

Another dream, another nightmare. They had been common this past year, but never as terrifying as this one. She shuddered as she fought to release her terror and return to reality. The nightmare left her feeling impotent, powerless. She had to take control, get rid of that dress.

She slipped out of bed and pulled a plain shift from her bag. She dressed quickly, burst out of the bedroom, and scooped up the ragged remains of the dress still slumped in the hall by the bathroom door. She stared at the drab mourning garment for a moment. Blast! Her parents' death had nearly defeated her, and now this. She'd survived one tragedy. She would survive this one. No weakness. This time she would take control of her destiny.
 

An idea formed as she held the dress out in front of her. She couldn't hide behind grief. The only way to succeed was to meet this challenge directly, to be the opposite of the drab woman she had hidden behind this past year. She smiled. To be as colorful as Lou Gramm, only on the right side of virtue. She balled the dress up and headed for the deck.