Lady Of Fire (21 page)

More happily, it played amongst Alessandra’s hair, tossing its unbound length across her face and into his own until she gathered it and tucked it into the neck of her gown.

“How different are the ladies of England?” she asked again.

He stared ahead, narrowing his eyes on the place where the ocean swallowed the sun. “Very,” he said. Though numerous examples came to mind, he said, “The donkey game you played—a proper lady would never attempt such foolishness.”

“And if she did?”

He glanced at her. “Likely, her papa would bundle her off to a convent.”

“For riding a donkey backward?”

“For riding a donkey at all.”

Her shoulders slumped. “How tedious.”

Lucien turned to her. “Not at all. There are many diversions.”

She also turned toward him. “Such as?”

“Hunting, hawking, dancing—”

“Dancing?”

“Aye, to dance well is an essential accomplishment of the nobility. You must learn—”

“But I know how to dance.”

He shook his head. “I speak of dances unlike those to which you are accustomed. Very different, indeed.”

Her face fell. “Tedious, then.”

Perhaps compared with the erotic dance he had watched her perform. However, European dance had something hers did not—the interaction of male and female, man and woman, lovers…

“Not so,” he said.

“Then?”

Lucien had the urge to show rather than tell. Would she flow, her body following his? Or would she be stiff and awkward, resistant to his lead?

He swept his gaze over her figure, remembered how it had moved that first day when she had given herself to the music. Nay, never stiff, never awkward. But perhaps resistant to another’s lead.

Returning his gaze to her face, he paused upon the hollow at the base of her throat where LeBrec’s gift nestled. He had forgotten about it. Jealousy that Alessandra had assured him he had no reason to feel threatening his hard-won serenity, he lifted the necklace.

Ignoring her start of surprise, he rotated it and unfastened the clasp. “Do with it what you will”—he pressed it into her hand—“but never again wear it in my presence.”

She closed her fingers around it. “I wanted to tear it off, but it was the only thing of value I possessed, and I thought it might aid in my escape.” She lifted her face, and the setting sun made fire of her hair. “I thank you that I no longer need it,” she said and flung it down into the white-crested waves. “Monsieur LeBrec is no more.”

Everything in Lucien tightened as he looked upon a face that hardly resembled the one she had worn at auction when men had vied to buy her for their pleasure and her pain. Though he knew it would be best not to feed the jumble of feelings he had for this beautiful, freckled waif, he could not.

“Give me your hand, Alessandra.”

Though a suspicious light entered her eyes, she slid her fingers over his. “Aye?”

“I will teach you the European style of dance.”

“Here?” She swept her gaze over the crew, most of whom made no attempt to hide their interest in the only two passengers aboard
Jezebel
. “Would that not be unwise?”

“There are private dances, and there are public ones. Naturally, I will not demonstrate that which is best learned behind closed doors.”

She blushed prettily. “Oh.”

Lightening his grip on her left hand, he led her forward. “This is known as the estampie, the noblest of all dances.”

“A rather dull dance,” she said a short time later as, side by side, they once more worked through the slow, grave steps. The instruction was not going well, and Lucien suspected the reason for her stuttering stops and starts was her yearn for lively movement.

“Relax,” he said. “You make it more difficult than it needs to be.”

“If only it were more difficult,” she bemoaned as he led her across the deck. “Can we not dance closer, with your arms around me?”

He laughed. “’Tis not the manner in which English nobles dance. Such things are not permissible, except, perhaps, among the peasants.”

“As we are not yet in England, what harm in affecting we are peasants?”

 
“You will like the farandole better,” he said. “Though it is a group dance, it has more movement.” To demonstrate, he whirled her around, turned her again, and swept her across the deck.

“Lucien!” she gasped as he passed her under his arm.

He coiled her into a spiral and unwound her. “Better?”

“Much!”

Within minutes, she had mastered the half-dozen steps that always came back around to the first.

“Can we not dance the peasants’ dance?” she asked when next he came near her.

Lucien looked to the crew, most of whom had turned their attention to their duties, then reeled her to him and slid an arm around her waist. “Never in England,” he said and settled a hand to the small of her back and urged her forward until they were nearly chest to chest.

He moved her across the deck, their bodies pressing, withdrawing, and pressing again. No more stuttering steps, no more muttering, no more scowls. And when he brought her to a halt, she said, “Again!”

“First, a break.” He released her waist and, holding her left hand, led her into deepening shadows where none could see and eased her back against the mast.

Wide-eyed, she whispered, “Do you mean to kiss me?”

He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

Alessandra sighed and pushed fingers through his hair.

Feeling as if he were falling into her, knowing it might be impossible to extricate himself if he let it go further, Lucien ended the kiss and pulled her into another dance.

She laughed and, uninhibited, floated in his arms.

As night descended, Lucien silently vowed he would no longer think of her as a spawn of James Breville. From this day forward, she would simply be Alessandra—not that there was anything simple about her. Indeed, the thought came unbidden to him, she could be the key to peaceably settling the dispute between the Brevilles and the De Gautiers.

Danced out, weary, belly full of strange foodstuffs that politeness had prevented her from refusing, Alessandra stepped into the dimly lit cabin and halted. “There are two cots now. Before, there was only one.”

Behind her, Lucien closed the door. “The second is mine.”

She looked around. “I did not know you intended to share the cabin with me.”

“Do you object?”

More than anything, she wished him near. “I do not, but is it proper? It would not be were I yet under Jabbar’s protection, and from what I know of England, I cannot imagine it is acceptable there.”

“You are right. However, space is limited, and there is no other whom I trust to keep you safe from the crew.”

“But what will they think?”

“Most improper thoughts, but you will less likely suffer their attentions if they believe you belong to me.”

The silence between them grew thick with longing. Hoping it was not hers alone, Alessandra wished she did belong to Lucien. And he to her.

“Worry not what crusty men of the sea think,” he finally said. “Once we reach England, you will not see them again. It is only the English nobles you must needs impress.”

Mouth gone dry, Alessandra crossed to the cot that would be hers. “I do not know that I will be able to sleep in such a contraption. It looks uncomfortable.”

“It is not. Shall I show you how to mount it?”

“Would you?”

“Aye, but first you should remove your gown.”

She looked over her shoulder.

He raised his eyebrows. “If you sleep in it, it will be a mass of wrinkles.” Then, rather than offer to assist her as he had done when she had donned it, he turned aside.

Meaning she was not the only one to feel the longing? That now, alone with her and with night upon them, he thought better of the intimacy inherent in undressing her?

Telling herself it was good he played the gentleman the same as he had done before Nicholas during their meal, she set about freeing button after button from its bothersome loop and dragged the gown off. Clad in under gown and chemise, she folded the gown and placed it atop the trunk.

“I am ready,” she said.

Lucien crossed to her cot. “One hand here.” He took it and placed it on the far rail, “the other here.” He closed her other hand over the side rail she stood alongside. “Then a knee up and roll your body into it. Simple.”

“Or humiliating,” she said as she lifted a leg over the side of the shifting cot.

Lucien placed one hand on the back of her knee, the other on her hip, and gave her a boost.

Landing facedown on the soft mattress, she held tight, certain the swinging cot would dump her on the cabin floor.

Blessedly, he steadied the cot. “Now turn over.”

She released her handholds and slowly made her way onto her back.

“As I said, simple.” Lucien grinned.

She grimaced. “Only because you make it so. I do not think I shall ever become accustomed to it.”

“You will.” He reached for the folded blanket at her feet. “The voyage will be long, and sleep is more easily had on a bed that adjusts to the ship’s movement, especially when it lists heavily.” He shook out the blanket and spread it over her. “I take your leave now.”

She sat up, caught her breath when the cot lurched. “You said you were sharing the cabin with me.”

“I am.” He steadied the cot. “But now I must speak with Nicholas.”

“You spoke with him this eve.”

His gaze turned serious. “There are some things which are not discussed in front of ladies. Remember that.”

“Cannot my being a lady wait until we reach England?”

“You cannot simply act the lady, Alessandra, you must feel the lady. And so we begin now.”

She sighed, gingerly settled back on the mattress.

“I will not be long,” he said. “Dream well.” Then he was gone.

Though this early in the voyage, Lucien knew it was likely safe to leave Alessandra alone in the cabin at night, he locked her inside. Until he took good measure of the crew—and they took good measure of him—it was best to exercise caution. And, of course, there was Alessandra’s penchant for getting herself into trouble. If she determined to explore the ship and a seaman caught her alone…

Lucien did not wish another death on his conscience.

He located Nicholas aft, where he was overseeing the setting of a sail.

“Marvelous, is she not?” Nicholas said as Lucien approached. “So calm, so placid.”

Lucien knew better than to think his cousin referred to a woman of flesh. It was the ocean he spoke of.

“She is pouting, you know,” Nicholas added.

Lucien halted before him, spread his legs to counter the ship’s sway. “Pouting?”

His cousin grinned. “She only puffs at my sails, and all because I dared place my hull upon another’s waters.”

“The Mediterranean.”

Nicholas nodded. “As if this ocean were true only to me.” He laughed, flashing white teeth in the dim. “Imagine that, a harlot with a jealous streak.”

“Perhaps you ought to find another mistress,” Lucien suggested.

Nicholas scowled. “Like your Alessandra? She who will bleed your heart from you until you are less than a woman, then flit into another’s arms? Vincent’s, perhaps?”

Lucien’s humor fell away so abruptly that only great restraint kept him from landing a blow to the other man.

It had never bothered him that his brother’s handsome looks and brilliant smile drew women like bees to flowers—at least, until those looks and Vincent’s shameless flirting twice ended Lucien’s betrothals. To wed a woman who openly yearned for another was a humiliation to which he would not subject himself, especially when the other man was his own brother.

Lucien breathed deep. “For all your obsession with this accursed ocean, you are more wise than I.”

Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder. “For a moment, I thought you meant to do me harm.”

“I did.”

“Then I am glad you rethought it.”

Deciding it was time for a change of subject, Lucien turned his thoughts to his reason for seeking out his cousin. Since meeting up with him in Tangier, he had not had time to address the concerns that now badgered him, his worry over Alessandra having consumed him entirely.

“I would hear what you know of Falstaff,” he said. “What changes have been wrought in my home since I left?”

Nicholas pushed a hand through his hair, kneaded his neck muscles. “I have been no farther than London for more than a year now, Lucien. As you know, I do not dare venture too far from my ship lest the Church clap me in irons for turning renegade.”

“A fool thing to do.”

Nicholas looked not the least remorseful. “At the time, it served its purpose.”

“I am not going to ask what that was.”

“Wise,” Nicholas said, then turned serious. “When last I was at Falstaff, all was as it should be—except you were thought dead. Your father was heartbroken that you had gone to France with his angry words ringing in your ears. Indeed, it was his greatest sorrow he could not make it right between you.”

Lucien nodded. For weeks, they had argued over Falstaff’s heir journeying to France to fight a war his sire regarded as futile and witless. Harsh words were exchanged, and Lucien had ridden away angry and resentful. In the end, his father had proven right, and Lucien intended to bend his knee to him and admit it once they were reunited.

“I will make amends when I return,” he murmured.

After a long silence, Nicholas continued, “As for the disagreement between the Brevilles and your family, it was yet being seeded and, on occasion, yielding bitter harvest. Vincent gambled away whatever he could lay hands upon, and Jervais…”

Lucien smiled at mention of his youngest brother.

“You would not recognize him, Lucien. He is a worthy knight. His shoulders are broad, his skill at arms exceptional, and when he speaks, one turns an ear to him.”

“What of my mother?”

“She is well.”

“Giselle?”

Nicholas grinned. “What can I say? Your little sister has a mouth on her that may rival Alessandra’s. Though your mother tries to contain her, she is, at times, out of control. Very strong of mind for a girl child.”