Irresistible (19 page)

"Have you nothing better to do than stand there blathering at me, old man?"

"Oh, aye, I can always busy myself with making our funeral arrangements. Because that is how this lunacy is likely to end up."

Hugh's eyes narrowed at him. "Much more of your back talk and you're liable to find yourself turned off without a character."

James snorted, clearly unimpressed. "You'll do what you like, o' course, just as you always do. If ever there was such a stubborn, reckless, care-for-nobody…" His voice trailed off into a truly unintelligible murmur. Moving to the table, he picked up the tea mug and a saucer containing what looked like a piece of bread, and stalked toward the door.

"You might leave the lady's supper," Hugh protested, surprisingly mild as, with his arms crossed over his chest, he observed James's progress.

"I don't want it," Claire assured him with a shudder.

Hugh's glance signified acknowledgment.

"Some are the type that has to learn their lessons the hard way, no matter how much a body tries to warn them," James said as he reached the door, shooting Hugh a pointed look. Then, with another scathing glance at Claire, he let himself out of the cabin.

Instead of being angry, as Claire would have expected, Hugh looked at her, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile.

"I apologize for James. He tends to be a little overzealous in his care of me at times."

Having had considerable experience herself with fiercely devoted servants in the person of her own dear Twindle, Claire found that she was in complete sympathy with Hugh's dilemma, and was, as well, suddenly much less annoyed at James than such slanders as he had heaped on her deserved.

"My old nursemaid is exactly the same. She forever acts as if I am no more than six years old." The thought of Twindle brought thoughts of Gabby and Beth with it. She could not let them worry about her. Not for one second longer than she could help. She looked at Hugh appealingly. "I must somehow get word to them at home that I am alive and unharmed."

For a moment he looked at her inscrutably. Then he gave a curt nod.

"If you wish. Before you can get word to anyone, however, you must first get off the ship, and to do that you must get dressed."

That was eminently reasonable, although Hugh suddenly sounded almost remote, as though he was withdrawing from her in some subtle way. But Claire had no time to try to puzzle out his sudden change of mood. The ship rolled, and her stomach rolled with it. Battling a nearly overwhelming urge to sink back down on the bunk, Claire clung to the upper berth and watched in horror as the lantern started to trace a lazy arc to the end of its tether and back. Above all else, she realized, she had to get off that ship. If she didn't, if the pitching and yawing should begin again in earnest— well, she couldn't even bring herself to think about that.

"Get dressed," Hugh said, and this time it was an order. Glancing at him even as she battled a fast-rising queasiness, Claire saw that he had suddenly changed from a man she'd thought had a care for her into a hard-eyed stranger. She was reminded that she knew almost nothing about him— except that she was totally under his control. Whatever he told her to do, if he cared to enforce it, she had no choice but to obey.

The seeming bond that had developed between them was in truth no more than an illusion wrought by an unprecedented combination of physical attraction and enforced proximity, and so she would do well to remember. It would never do to depend too much on it— or him.

"If you want me to get dressed," she said in a voice grown suddenly cool, "you must go away and leave me to it."

Hugh looked at her. For the briefest of moments he seemed to hesitate. Then he shrugged and headed for the door.

"Be as quick as you can," he said over his shoulder as he reached it. "I'll be back for you shortly. Bar the door after me."

Claire nodded. As he left she crossed to the door, feeling that there was much merit in his recommendation. Even if no threat materialized, barring the door would at least ensure her privacy.

As she dropped the bar into place, Claire could quite clearly hear James's voice on the other side of the portal. He must have been returning to the cabin just as Hugh left it.

"Yon petticoat's playin' ye for a fool, Master Hugh, can't ye see that?" James sounded both angry and anguished. "She's a looker, I grant ye, but we're talking about your life. Aye, and my life, too, if it comes to that."

"It won't come to that. I tell you, James, that chit is no more Sophy Towbridge than I am." Hugh's voice was flat.

"Aye, so she's managed to convince ye, but…"

They were clearly moving away from the door as they spoke, and after that Claire could no longer make sense of individual words. It didn't matter: She had gotten a very clear picture of the situation. Hugh, to a large degree, believed her; James didn't at all, and was determined to argue Hugh around.

Would he succeed?

But she had no time to worry about it now. She had no time to do anything other than get dressed. She still felt ill, light-headed, queasy, with rubbery knees. Over and above anything else, she had to get off that ship.

Just as he had when Hugh had summoned him to her aid the night before, James had set up a pitcher of water and a basin on a washstand below the cupboards, and it was to this that she went. This time a brush had been laid out beside the basin along with several of her hair pins, apparently recovered from her clothes or the floor, as Claire discovered with a spurt of pleasure as she looked down at the items provided for her toilette. There were also soap, a towel, tooth powder, and a small hand mirror. Liberal use of the soap— plain unscented lye that could have been the finest of perfumed bars for the joy she took in it— and tooth powder made her feel considerably better. Nothing she could do to her hair in the brief period of time she had available to her could render it stylish, but tangle-free she could do. Brushing it until it crackled, she twisted her hair up into a slightly precarious knot on the back of her head (she had not near enough pins to make it secure), and that made her feel better still. By the time she was struggling into her clothes— the seams of her corset were decidedly damp, as were the hem of her petticoat and the neckline and puffed sleeves of her gown, but still they fit and they were hers— she almost felt like herself again.

She was still struggling to get the blasted gown buttoned up the back when a knock sounded on the door.

"Let me in," Hugh said, and it was an order.

Padding barefoot to the door, Claire realized that she was not all that sorry to leave off struggling with her buttons. She was beginning to feel quite ill again, and was ready to leave the ship with her dress half undone if it would get firm land beneath her feet any sooner.

It was an effort to unbolt the door, and as she lifted the bar, which was heavier than she remembered, Claire felt almost ready to sink to the floor. Nervously she realized that she was growing queasier by the second. Then, as she stepped back away from the portal and Hugh entered, she saw why.

The lantern was swinging crazily on its chain again.

"I have to get off this ship," she said by way of greeting, hanging on to the door for support. Treacherous thing, it swayed just like everything else within her view.

"You do look a tad green." Hugh's gaze slid over her with immediate comprehension. He had, at least, the grace— or the sense— not to smile. "What, not finished dressing yet? The ship's docking— that's the cause of the motion you feel— and we have to be ready to move as soon as she ties up. Here, let me help you."

Wrapping a strong arm around her waist— she leaned against him gratefully, her head resting against his hard shoulder— he walked her across the cabin to where the shoes James had procured for her still waited on the chair. Picking them up, he practically pushed her down on the seat. Then he dropped to one knee in front of her, pulled one cold bare foot onto his upraised thigh— the black cloth of his breeches was smooth and snug over the hard muscles of his leg, she noted— and proceeded to fit it into a slipper. James's prowess, or knowledge of a lady's needs, had apparently not extended to the procurement of proper stockings, so her foot went into the slipper bare, and Hugh had to slip his fingers between the flimsy back of the shoe and her heel to get it on. All too aware of the lantern still moving like a pendulum overhead, Claire was content to let him do with her as he would. Feeling limp and increasingly nauseated, she sat with her hands resting on her lap and watched as he wrapped the black satin ribbons around her slender ankle as efficiently as any lady's maid. He did not, however, look like a lady's maid: far from it. The sight of his long fingers, dark and very masculine against the creamy skin of her foot, and the feel of their warm strength moving against her sensitive flesh provided a welcome distraction from the increasingly perilous state of her stomach.

If she had not stopped him, last night, she would now know for certain whether all men were the same between the sheets.

The thought popped into her head seemingly out of nowhere, and it shocked her. What shocked her more was the realization that, now that time and the cooling of passion should have brought wiser counsel, she still almost regretted calling a halt.

Looking down at his head, bent now as he tied the ribbons in a jaunty bow, all the reasons why she had stopped him— she was a lady, a married woman, and besides considerations of morals and honor she had been, quite simply, afraid— seemed suddenly far less important than the way his slightest touch made her feel. Her mouth went dry as she admitted it. She had wanted him to take her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life— and, despite everything, she still did.

"You're pale." Hugh glanced up then, caught her gaze on him, and frowned.

Claire almost fell off the chair as those gray eyes probed hers. He could not know what she was thinking, she reminded herself frantically— could he? Even as heat began to suffuse her cheeks, even as she began to suspect from his expression that perhaps, just perhaps, he could read her mind after all, her attention was captured by the lantern. For once, she blessed the thing for the distraction it provided. It was swinging more vigorously than ever. Watching it, her stomach began to churn in sympathetic rhythm. Suddenly all thoughts of lying with Hugh were banished by other, more immediate concerns.

"I need to get off this ship," she said, meeting his gaze with real desperation. Watching the lantern's peregrinations had brought her to the verge of being once again horribly ill.

"Just a little bit longer, and we'll have you firmly on dry land," he promised, his gaze dropping to his task. She watched in growing misery as he eased her second foot into its slipper. He was quick, and gentle, and if he felt anything but sympathy for her plight as he wound the ribbons around her ankle and tied them into a bow she could not tell it. All her life she had been afflicted by motion sickness, and, she had discovered, most people were impatient at best with what they considered a weakness. David, for one, was quite sure that all that was required to remain perfectly well on long journeys was strength of will, which he never hesitated to inform her she lacked. On their last journey together— from Hayleigh Castle to London four months after their wedding— he had told the coachman to spring the horses, not caring that the resulting violent rocking of the carriage, as he well knew by that time, was almost guaranteed to make her ill. When she indeed was sick, he said,
"You disgust me,"
in a tone of total loathing, and hired a horse at the first opportunity to ride the rest of the way to town. That had been the last substantive amount of time they had spent together. From that day on, it was as if he had all but forgotten her existence.

Sometimes she caught herself wondering if things would have been different between them if she had not become ill that day. Logically, she knew the answer was no, but still she had wondered. Off and on until now, actually, it occurred to her that she no longer cared.

"There."

His task finished, Hugh returned her foot to the floor and glanced up at her with a quick smile.

She tried to smile back, but it must have been a wan effort because his brow furrowed. He stood up, and before Claire realized what he meant to do he scooped her out of the chair and into his arms, holding her, legs dangling and hands frantically clutching his shoulders, high against his chest.

"What…?" she questioned faintly, clinging for dear life and looking at him wide-eyed. A faint, pleasant aroma of soap clung to him. His face was very close, and as she absorbed the lean, clean-shaven cheeks, the straight nose and gray eyes and now wryly curving mouth, she felt attraction rear its troublesome head again. Despite the state of her stomach, being held in his arms made her heart beat faster. His shoulders were so broad, his arms so hard with muscle, and he seemed to carry her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Her breathing quickened as she realized how very much she liked being held in his arms.

"You look like you need to lie down." If he was aware of how his easy strength was affecting her, he gave no sign of it. He took the two quick strides necessary to reach the bunk and put her down on it. Feeling dizzier by the second, Claire sank back onto the thin mattress thankfully. As her head touched the pillow he straightened, looking down at her with a rueful half-smile and rather gingerly pressing a hand to his side.

"Aren't your ribs hurting?" she asked, feeling a little self-conscious as she remembered how she had punched him the night before.

"Nothing to signify."

His hand dropped away from his side and he turned away from the bunk. Claire closed her eyes. She had needed to lie down, she realized. Flat on her back, she had at least some slight chance of avoiding disgracing herself again.

"Here." It couldn't have been more than a minute before he was back.

A cool wet cloth was placed on her forehead. Claire opened her eyes to discover Hugh leaning over her, pressing the towel, for that's what it was, thoroughly dampened now and folded into a neat rectangle, against her skin. It felt good, soothing. She opened her eyes and managed a faint smile as he removed his hand, leaving the cloth in place.