To Catch a Bride (30 page)

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Authors: Anne Gracie

BOOK: To Catch a Bride
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“It’s cold.”
“Then get in the bed.” He didn’t move, so she pushed him. “Go on. You’ve been sick. You need to take care of yourself.”
“Can’t leave a lady on the floor.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She rose and grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it over him. She stood looking down at him and caught the faint glint of white teeth in the moonlight. Ridiculous, impossible man. If she stayed on the floor, he’d just keep annoying her and neither of them would get any sleep.
“Very well, since you’re determined to be completely impossible, I’ll sleep in the bed.”
“Well, do it then, and stop keeping me awake.”
She gritted her teeth and got into the bed. It was very soft and warm and comfortable. She waited, but he didn’t say anything and after a few minutes she relaxed. It was really very comfortable and she was so tired . . .
A big, warm body slid in beside her.
She stiffened and her eyes flew open. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting into bed. You told me to, remember? At least twice. Hate to disoblige a lady.”
“Then let me out.”
“No. We’ll both sleep better here.”
“I can’t sleep in the same bed with you.”
“Why not? You did it the last three nights.”
“That was different. You were unconscious then.”
“So, it’ll be more fun now. Ooof!” There was a short silence. “I’d forgotten about your elbows.”
She examined the remark suspiciously. “What about my elbows?”
“Just that you have them. Lots of them.”
“That’s ridiculous, I only have two. Now let me out.”
She felt slightly desperate. She didn’t want to sleep here, so close to him. She was angry with him. She wanted nothing to do with him.
But he’d trapped her between the wall and himself. The only way she could get out was to climb over him, and she was fairly certain he’d enjoy stopping her.
“Now stop arguing; there’s a good girl. We’re both tired, so let’s just declare a truce and agree you’re sleeping here, with me.”
She considered it. The bed was very comfortable. She would sleep better here. And it wasn’t as if he’d left her any choice. “Very well,” she said. “There are two mattresses sewn together, so you stay on yours and I’ll stay on mine, agreed?”
“Whatever you say, my dear.”
She tried to relax and was succeeding quite well until from out of the darkness he added, “Not that it matters. We’re going to get married anyway. Ooof!”
 
 
 
 
S
omething woke Rafe in the middle of the night. He’d always been a light sleeper. He tried to work out what it was. And then he realized.
Her body was curled along his side, shaping herself to the contours of his body, on his half of the bed, holding him, one hand cupping the side of his face, the other with the palm pressed, skin against skin, inside his shirt, directly over his heart.
He turned his head cautiously to look at her. She was sound asleep, but was whispering something, the same word, over and over, her breath warming his skin. He leaned closer to hear what it was.
“Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.”
For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as slowly it dawned on him what she was doing. Protecting him, caring for him, keeping him alive, even as she slept.
“Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.”
A tight ball formed in his chest. His hand came up and covered hers, where it lay over his heart.
He didn’t care how much she argued and denied it; she was his.
T
he next morning, Higgins woke them with a knock on the door. Ayisha sat up, yawning. She glanced at the porthole. The day was bright.
“We slept in,” she said, sounding surprised.
Rafe pulled on his breeches. “We were both very tired.” He padded to the door in shirt and breeches.
“Morning, sir, Miss Ayisha. How do you feel, sir?”
“Better, thank you, Higgins,” Rafe told him. “Much more the thing. What’s this?”
Higgins handed a can and a neat bundle over. “Can of hot water for your ablutions, sir. And a bit of old sailcloth and some rope. Figured you could rig up a private corner.”
Higgins went off, promising to return with breakfast in about half an hour. Rafe rigged up the sail to make a private corner, then sat down and pulled on his boots.
He turned to Ayisha, who was still in bed, her bedclothes clutched up around her neck as if he was about to pounce on her. He smiled to himself. If she only knew how she’d held him in her sleep. He’d woken first and moved away from her reluctantly, knowing she’d be upset if she woke to find them practically intertwined.
He’d woken with renewed hope. She’d embraced him in her sleep; that had to mean something.
He gestured to the hot water and the private alcove. “Ladies first. I’ll go up on deck for a quick stroll. Fifteen minutes?” And pulling on his coat, he left.
On his return, she headed above deck while he shaved carefully. It was disconcerting how much the short stroll on deck had tired him out, he thought, stripping to wash the rest of his body. He had to get his strength back.
When she came back, Higgins was waiting with their breakfast. At his feet was a basket containing one slightly aggrieved kitten. Ayisha pounced on the kitten with delight and released her, crooning and cuddling the tiny thing.
As they broke their fast on hot tea, porridge, new-baked bread, and honey—no ham or bacon, much to Rafe’s disgust—Cleo prowled around the cabin, sniffing everything, learning her new territory.
Rafe only managed a few spoonsful of porridge and a little bread and honey, but Ayisha was busily working her way through everything there was. She was obviously ravenous. He felt a pang as he recalled she’d missed her dinner because of him.
He put his porridge bowl down for the kitten, who examined the bowl from all angles before lapping contentedly. Rafe sprawled sideways across the bed, his head propped in his hand, and watched Ayisha.
She gave him a look as if to say, what are you doing, but went on with her breakfast in silence.
“I like to watch you eat,” he told her.
“Why?” She frowned and lowered the piece of crusty bread and honey. “Do I do it wrong? For England, that is? Should I cut this into small pieces or something?”
“No, no, don’t worry. It’s just that you really enjoy your food.”
She shrugged. “Why not? I was hungry and this bread and honey is delicious. I had forgotten how delicious fresh Frankish bread was.” She finished the last piece and licked her fingers. “And I love this Greek honey, mmm.”
“You’ll get no objection from me,” Rafe said, watching her tongue curl around her sticky fingers. His manhood stirred at the sight. He gently rolled over and lay on his stomach.
“You can have honey every day once we’re married.”
“Don’t start that again,” she ordered. “I refuse to spend the next ten days locked in with you arguing about such a piece of nonsense. You’ve said your piece. I’ve given you my answer, and that’s my last word on it.”
“Very well, I won’t browbeat you about it,” he said, “but I’m still going to marry you.” He held up his hand to stop her speaking. “And that’s
my
last word on it. For today.”
She snorted and picked up the damp washcloth to wipe her hands.
He moved into a more comfortable position on the bed and his eye caught the pistol case, still open near the door. He knew why she’d wanted the pistols—though it still dazed him—but he recalled that his razor had been out and open, too. Why?
“I noticed you had my razor out when I was sick.”
“Mmm.” She was cross-legged on the floor now, playing with the kitten.
“How did you plan to use it? I presume you weren’t planning to shave me. Or cut my throat.”
She gave a wry smile. “Not then I wasn’t. You weren’t talking such nonsense then. Just a bit of delirious rambling.”
She said it as if it was nothing, but dealing with a delirious man was no joke. “The razor?”
She shrugged and glanced at the medical text next to the bed. “If it was the plague, I might have had to lance the buboes.”
He closed his eyes, imagining it. He could never make it up to her, never. And now, as a reward for her heroism, she was trapped with him. In more ways than one. “You’re not sorry you did it, are you—looked after me, I mean?”
“Of course not. How could I be?” She sighed. “I just wish people’s reactions to it weren’t so stupidly complicated.” She meant marriage.
“Because the world is complicated.”
“It’s not. It’s quite simple. I was simply taking care of a sick man. And you’re simply giving in to the gossips.”
“No, I’m protecting you.”
She snorted. “I don’t need protecting from the likes of Mrs. Ferris. I told you about people like her—if they don’t have anything real to talk about, they’ll make something up.”
“But this is real.”
“No, that’s just it—it’s not! You were sick. Nothing happened. Any compromising happened only in their minds—it wasn’t real at all. And I refuse to give in to it, so please, let us not argue.”
“I have no intention of arguing,” he assured her. No argument at all; he was simply going to marry her.
She played with the kitten for a while, then said, “Tell me about this Lavinia person.”
He smiled. “She’s simply a young woman who my brother was negotiating for me to marry.”
She frowned as she twirled a stray tuft of mattress wool into a kitten plaything. “He’s your older brother, yes? Is it normal for older brothers to arrange marriages for their younger brothers?”
“Not really, but in this case he needs an heir.”
“Then why does he not marry and beget one?”
“He’s been married for ten years. His wife is barren.”
“Oh. Poor thing. I’m sorry.” She picked up the kitten and cuddled it.
“So it’s up to me to beget the next Ramsey son, and since he’s very concerned with breeding and bloodlines—his wife was selected by my father for her excellent family connections and her fortune, so he’s doing the same for me—he did a great deal of research and came up with Lad—Lavinia.”
“Don’t you have any say in it?”
“Yes, but I was dragging my feet in finding a wife, and so he stepped in.”
“Is she nice, this Lavinia?”
“I only met her once, but yes, she seemed nice enough.”
The kitten pounced and skittered after the wool. “Pretty?”
“Very.”
She nodded. “And rich?”
“Apparently. And she’d already agreed to let my brother and his wife raise the firstborn son.”
She looked up, shocked. “What? But why?”
He shrugged. “He would be heir to the—the family business, eventually. George wanted to train him up to do a proper job of it.”
Her brow furrowed. “You sound as if you don’t care.”
He said tightly, “It was nothing to do with me. They’d planned it all out. I was just the . . . instrument.” It sounded better than stallion. And he was still unable to voice the rage he’d felt on learning of the plan. As if he wouldn’t care what would happen to his child.
George had told him of Lavinia’s agreement, presenting it as if Rafe should be delighted not to have a son cluttering up his life. He’d sounded just like their father.
Rafe might resent the action, but he couldn’t quarrel with the end result—his wild-goose chase into Egypt. He smiled as Ayisha tussled playfully with the kitten. His little wild goose.
She said slowly, looking for ways to excuse him, “I suppose you knew you could trust your brother’s choice. He must know you very well.”
He snorted. “He hardly knows me at all. We were brought up separately.”
“Why was that?”
“My mother died when I was small—it’s all right,” he said quickly, seeing her expression of sympathy. “My memories of her are very vague. But after that my father didn’t want me underfoot; George was the heir and Father spent all his time training him for his future position.”
“But that’s terrible.”
He shook his head. “If you want to know the truth, George got the worst part of the deal. My father was a frightful bore—always droning on about the family and its importance. So George grew up under the old man’s thumb—and turned out just like him—while I got to live with Granny, my mother’s mother.”
She picked up the kitten and, stroking it, said softly, “You liked it at Granny’s, didn’t you? I can tell. Was she my grandmother’s friend?”
“She was. And yes, the happiest times of my life were at Granny’s.” He lay back on the bed, remembering . . . and drifted off to sleep.
It was good that he slept, Ayisha reflected. Sleep, good food, exercise, and fresh air would soon restore him to normal.
She thought about the story he’d told. So . . . cold-blooded. People said the English were a cold-blooded race, but she’d never seen any evidence of it before now.

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