To Catch a Bride (29 page)

“It would have made no difference, sir.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“She was hell-bent on saving your life, sir, not thinking about being compromised.”

“I know that, Higgins,” Rafe said impatiently. “Headstrong little fool throws herself into danger all the time. Doesn’t think about the consequences. That’s why it will work, this marriage. She needs to be steered by a cooler, more rational head.” He finished the soup and ate a mouthful of egg and toast.

“Yes, sir.”

“Admittedly, the captain was a little premature, but how could it possibly be the shock she seems to think it is? She’s acting as if it’s an insult.” He glanced at Higgins. “I mean, I’m a reasonable catch, aren’t I?”

“An excellent catch, sir.”

“No, not excellent,” Rafe said seriously. “My birth is good, but the fortune is only average.” He took another bite.

“I don’t think Miss Ayisha cares two pins about your fortune, sir.”

“Well, I didn’t think so, either, but she’s clearly got her sights on something—or someone—better.”

Higgins hesitated. “How—exactly—did you propose, sir?”

“Propose? I didn’t. No need to. Captain broached the subject first, and I went on from there.” He pushed the plate aside. Halfway through a piece of toast and an egg, and he was full.

“Women like to be proposed to, sir,” Higgins suggested diffidently. “Like to know they can say yea or nay.”

“Well, you heard her, she said nay. Loud and clear. I imagine the whole ship heard her.”

“Everyone’s at dinner, sir,” Higgins assured him. “They wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

“Well, you get off and have your dinner.” Rafe waved him away. “And if you value your skin, don’t tell me if it’s roast beef.”

Rafe lay down on the bed. Why did women have to complicate everything? It had been the perfect resolution, what he’d intended all along, almost from the moment he’d set eyes on her.

She seemed so alone. He was alone, too. She had one close relative, her grandmother, but she could very easily die, soon. Grandmothers did in his experience. And Rafe only had one brother and he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in anything other than Rafe’s ability to produce an heir.

It seemed like a natural partnership. She would be alone in a strange country, needing protection, needing to be cared for and looked after. And he was good at that. It was one of his few skills.

They’d started out their acquaintance at daggers drawn, but he thought things had settled down nicely between them since. The trip to Alexandria had been quite pleasant; they’d admired the sights and chatted about all sorts of things.

He’d left her friends in a secure position. She’d liked his little gift—he hoped it made up for his insisting she left the old cat behind. And that little chat up on the deck that first night, when she’d stood beside him and talked about things he hadn’t thought about in years . . . with her hand tucked into his arm.

As for saving his life. He could not get over that. Pulling his pistols out to stop them from sending him ashore.

And what followed after that. Fever was damned unpleasant to deal with, he knew. But she’d done it, taken care of him like a little Trojan. He still hadn’t quite come to terms with how he felt about that. Grateful certainly, but also . . .

He couldn’t explain it, even to himself.

So offering her marriage was the right thing to do on all levels.

Her vehement rejection had shocked him.

But he wasn’t going to give in. He’d lay siege to her, wear her down, talk her around to his way of thinking. It worked in war, it would work in . . . life.

He’d take her to her grandmother’s, explain the situation, and ask for her grandmother’s permission to wed her. The old lady would back him up, he knew. Allow her precious newfound granddaughter to be disgraced? Not in a million years.

So he’d sort things out at Cleeveden, and then head off to straighten things with George and Lady Lavinia. Not that he’d ever made any promises to her, thank God. But she’d known of the intention, and he didn’t want to embarrass her.

He’d explain the situation. She’d understand. She wasn’t a bad sort. Just not his sort.

George would come around in the end. Breeding was what counted most with George. The Cleeves might not be nobility, but it was an old and venerable line, and on her mother’s side she was related to half the noble families in the land. George cared about an heir more than anything; he’d end up grateful that Rafe was even getting married.

And though she had no fortune, she would inherit something from her grandmother, he imagined, and in any case he was perfectly content with what he had.

But was she? Her reaction had shocked him, shown him he didn’t understand her at all.

Since his grandmother died, he hadn’t been close to many women. Apart from Gabe and Harry’s aunts and Luke’s mother and sisters, the transactions with women he’d had up till now were either distant, polite, and formal—he was very good at balls and dinner parties, for instance—or convenient, lusty, and with no strings attached. Those connections began and ended at the bedroom door.

The kind of connection Gabe and Harry had with their wives—even his brother George seemed to have it with his wife Lucy—that was foreign territory to Rafe. He was the outsider looking in.

But they’d all made marriages of convenience—even George—especially George. Their father had selected George’s bride with the same attention to detail and bloodlines that George had chosen Lady Lavinia.

So Rafe was sure he was on the right track. All he had to do was get her to the altar, and then into his bed. In time, she would come to care for him. She had to.

She found love easy. She loved half of Cairo, it seemed: ragged little street thieves, pie makers, ancient, beaten-up cats, sleek little kittens. She would learn to love him eventually, he was sure of it.

How did you make someone love you?

The only person in the world who’d cared about Rafe was his grandmother, but that’s what grandmothers did, it seemed. Look at Lady Cleeve. She hadn’t even met Ayisha, but she loved her already.

But that was Ayisha, he thought sleepily. Everyone loved her. Look at the way those young officers followed her around. A honeymooning vicar and his wife, the captain of the ship, two out of three harpies—even sailors made harnesses for her cat. She was like that. He was just one of many.

But he could protect her.

And dammit, she needed protection the way she rushed into things, an angel rushing in where fools didn’t dare . . .

Yes, he thought sleepily, that’s what he’d do; marry her, be kind to her, and protect her. And once he got her into his bed, he’d make love to her until she was boneless with pleasure. It was the other thing he could do well.

She’d have to care for him then, he thought. He closed his eyes, partly to sleep, partly to shut out the thought of the other women he’d pleasured and parted from, without a pang on either side.

Ayisha was different. He’d make her want him . . . and want to stay. Somehow.

A
yisha marched to the rail and thumped it hard. Stupid, thickheaded, idiot man—why couldn’t he understand? She glared around the empty deck. She wanted to kick something—somebody, only he was still in the cabin.

The damage is done
—indeed!

You meant well.
Meant well? It made her sound like an interfering busybody. Didn’t he know, the great cloth-head, that for the last three days she’d fought day and night to keep him alive?

The last thing on her mind had been propriety. And he should thank her for it instead of telling her she
meant well
.

All those hours hovering over him, making him breathe, breathe, breathe. The sleepless nights, the fear, worrying, fretting over him, feeding him Peruvian bark and willow bark and sponging him down, keeping him cool, keeping him warm, keeping him
alive
.

She stared out to sea with eyes that were awash.

What sort of person did he think she was? Could he not see why she’d done what she did? Why did he think she’d fought so desperately to save him—threatening to shoot two perfectly innocent men, so they wouldn’t set him ashore. Men with wives, probably, who they loved, and children. Why did he think she would do such a thing? To trap herself a husband?

How could he not see how desperately she loved him? The blockhead.

She couldn’t even begin to explain how his words wounded her. The words every girl dreams of, having her marriage described by the prospective groom;
the damage is done
but it’s
not so very bad
.

She should have let them dump him overboard, she thought furiously. It would have saved her—everyone—a great deal of trouble.

She paced along the rail, back and forth. She should have shoved him out the porthole. She could go down and do it now, see how he liked that.

She would
not
be married to prevent gossip.

She would not
rub along
.

She had come to suck the sweet orange of life, not the dry bean of compromise and convention. For Ayisha, it was all or nothing, and if he was too stupid and thickheaded and blind to know what she was offering, she would choose nothing.

No, that was wrong; she wasn’t choosing nothing.

He had offered her nothing, and she had refused to accept it. And that was that.

Now, how to survive another ten days in a cabin with a man she wanted to strangle? Or shove out a porthole.

 

 

 

 

A
n hour later Higgins came to let her know it was time to return to the cabin.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his kind face worried.

“Yes, Higgins,” she said quietly. She’d made her decision and she was calm and resolved. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. Did you find me a hammock?”

His gaze shifted. “No, miss,” he said.

“A spare mattress, then?”

“I’m sorry, miss.”

She shrugged. “No matter, I’ll just sleep on the floor. Could you ask Reverend and Mrs. Payne if I could have my kitten back in the morning, please?”

“Of course, miss, I’ll speak to them.” He bowed and hurried off. Ayisha returned to the cabin and quietly let herself in.

To her great relief Rafe was sound asleep in bed. Of course he must be tired. He would do a lot of sleeping over the next few days, she knew. That would help.

She slipped off her shoes and stockings and tiptoed over to the bed. He looked peaceful and handsome, but she felt his forehead, just to make sure.

Cool, dry, normal. His breathing was deep and even, too.

There was a tray with a cloth on the sea chest. Investigating, she found cold soup and a poached egg. She was very hungry, so she ate them anyway. It was no longer in her to waste food.

He slept on, the rhythm of his breathing unchanged.

She poured some clean, cold water into a bowl and washed her face, then looked around for spare blankets. None. She sighed. The floor was going to be very hard. It was amazing how quickly you got used to sleeping in a bed with a soft woolen mattress. But if you were tired enough, you could sleep anywhere, and she was very tired.

She took off her dress and hung it on a hook, then spread out her shawl on the floor and lay down.

“Get into bed, Ayisha,” a deep voice growled, making her jump.

“I am in bed,” she responded. “Good night.”

“I said, get into bed. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“I will sleep where I please.” She closed her eyes.

“This bed is big enough for both of us.”

“This cabin isn’t big enough for both of us.” She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on deep and even breathing. Impossible man. Just when she’d achieved calm, he must argue and stir things up.

He sighed. “Very well, if you’re going to be stubborn . . .” There was a swishing of bedclothes and she heard bare feet padding across toward her.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t let a woman sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m used to it, you’re not.”

“I’m a soldier. I’ve slept on the ground hundreds of times.”

“You’re not a soldier anymore, the ground is a great deal softer than any wooden floor, and you’ve been sick. Go back to bed.”

He knelt down beside her.

“Go away, I’m not moving,” she hissed.

He lay down beside her on the floor. “Good night, little cat.”

She lay there fuming. “This is ridiculous. I’m not sleeping beside you.”

“Then use the bed,” he said and snuggled up close to her.

She wriggled away. He wriggled close again.

“Stop doing that.”