Читать книгу A Wedding By Dawn - Alison DeLaine - Страница 13
ОглавлениеMAL DE MER. They expected her to spend her life tied to a man who suffered from mal de mer? For the next two days, India watched Nicholas Warre emerge from the cabin for short reprieves on the upper deck, where he would stand with his hands curled around the railing and his elbows locked, staring at the horizon, braced against the ship’s motion—the glorious, magnificent roll and sway that made the wood and ropes creak and splashed sea spray into the air to mist her face.
From the lower deck India watched him emerge again, making his way up the stairs wearing no wig, no hat, no turban. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and glistened in the sunshine. Without a waistcoat, his shirt stood out white like the sails against the sparkling sea. He was remarkably steady despite his affliction. She watched him brace himself at the railing, followed the line of his arm to his shoulder. She already knew he was as strong as any sailor on board.
She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”
If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had not done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.
“Got no business on a ship, that one.”
It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.
Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.
In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.
Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.
And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.
A map?
Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.
Betrothed. The word sliced hotly through her mind.
Husband. The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.
She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.
As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts. I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.
He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.
He looked miserable.
He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?
He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.
He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.
Her breath hitched. And then she forced herself into the cabin, because the alternative was running away.
“We’re in the Mediterranean Sea,” she informed him breezily. “South of Sardinia. We’ll be passing along—” It wasn’t a map. It was a giant drawing of some kind of mechanical device—a mill, it looked like.
“What do you want.” He said it as a statement, not a question, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked at her as though he wanted to murder her—or possibly vomit on her, considering the greenish pallor of his skin.
“Ideally, I would like to be returned to Malta,” she said even though it was obvious he was short on patience and feeling very poorly. “If Malta isn’t possible, then I suppose Italy would do.”
“If you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, then I suggest you return to your duties.”
“Oh, I have many intelligent things to say, Mr. Warre. A great many intelligent things. And not to worry—a lifetime together will allow you to hear every last one.” She hopped onto the table and perched there, crinkling the corner of his drawing.
“Get down.”
Instead, she rested her toes on the edge of his chair and studied the drawing. “Surely, if you plan to make your fortune constructing a mill, you don’t need my father’s money.”
He ignored her and took a measurement, jotting the figure on a chart.
She leaned closer. “Three and an eighth.”
His eyes shifted to her, and he stared, expressionless.
“It was three and an eighth,” she said. “You wrote three.”
“It was an estimate.” Oh, yes—there was definitely a spark of irritation just now.
“An estimate. Oh, I see. Do forgive me. One doesn’t estimate aboard a ship, or one could end up in Alexandria instead of Athens.” She dove her brows and cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t been merely estimating the size of your debt, have you? Because I would hate to live beneath my standards even after you’ve pocketed my father’s money.”
“Get down,” he repeated. “Now.”
“Such a tremendous effort you’re making to win my hand. Very commendable.”
He waited for her to obey his command.
“I must say it is flattering beyond all description,” she went on, “being pined after with such heartfelt devotion and such puppy-dog eyes. It’s only too obvious that you love me to distraction.”
“Lady India.” He leaned forward. “As much as I burn endlessly for you body and soul, as I suffer in lovesick torment, as I can scarcely keep my wayward mind from composing spontaneous sonnets in your honor—” he pushed to his feet and braced his hands on the table, looming over her “—I must request that you remove yourself from this table else I shall do the removing for you.”
“Will you.”
His face was inches from hers. “One.”
One?
His gaze touched on her lips, raked across her breasts, returned to her eyes. “Two.”
“Are you counting, Mr. Warre?” Her pulse leaped a little. Those eyes were nothing like a puppy dog’s. They were predatory and on fire with thoughts that would make Frannie sound like someone reading from a ladies’ companion.
“Control yourself, Mr. Warre.” She slid off the table and onto unsteady legs, but refused to break his gaze. “Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve is dreadful unseemly.”
“Were I not overcome by love and adoration,” he said, still much too close to her face, “I would certainly be capable of greater discretion.” The ship banked and lolled with a wave, and he gripped the table, clenching his jaw.
“Overcome by seasickness, rather,” she scoffed. Trapped in the space between his body and the table, the subtle scent of his cologne teased every breath. “If you’re feeling that ill, I can’t imagine why you aren’t in bed instead of sitting in here.”
“For the same reason you study every empty barrel and piece of potential flotsam aboard this ship.” He returned to his chair and seated himself.
“Why, Mr. Warre, if this mill can help me escape an unwanted suitor, you must explain it to me at once.”
He picked up his ruler, silently took another measurement. Wrote it down.
One and three-eighths.
She went to the door. Turned. “Do not insult me by suggesting that we have even a single motive in common,” she said with her hand on the jamb to steady herself. “I merely want my freedom, while you are motivated purely by—”
The desire to escape? Escape what?
“—greed.”
She left him, frowning to herself, and returned to the quarterdeck.
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Nick stood on deck, staring at the horizon as Miss Germain suggested, telling himself it helped when it didn’t, wondering how in God’s name he was going to survive a life wed to Lady India, hating that he had no choice.
This was what it had come to: an arranged marriage—no, forced. Definitely forced. She was right about that much. A forced marriage to a young woman who had strayed so far from the usual expectations that she was hardly recognizable as a lady.
A wave of nausea gripped him and he let his head fall. He needed to accept that his life was not going to turn out the way he’d hoped, and that he would be doing well if he managed to save Taggart.
His shipping operation was defunct—destroyed by storms and pirates in the space of two months. All that remained was his debt, and the deadline he’d agreed to with Holliswell was fast closing in on him. Holliswell had “graciously” given Nick enough time to pursue Lady India and collect the dowry—Nick much preferred to think of it that way—from her father. But if Nick didn’t manage it in...God, a few more weeks, Holliswell would take Taggart. That was the agreement: more time to pay off the debt, with Taggart itself as collateral.
There would be little left after that, and he would need to make the most of it. He would not risk another investment on the seas. He needed to have the plans for the new mill works ready by the time they reached London, which meant he needed to prepare drawings for each mill site and lay out projections for how quickly the new corporation—if the other men agreed to form it—might turn a profit.
It wouldn’t be much of a profit. Barely enough to make all the repairs Taggart Hall desperately needed and pay the cost of maintaining Lady India in the standard that the wife of a peer should maintain. He’d already been forced to sell his house in London, which meant he had nowhere to keep Lady India while they were in town, except with James or Honoria.
What kind of man had to lodge his wife with his siblings?
Wife.
The thought made his lungs constrict, a bit like the thought of being locked in prison for the rest of his life. This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...
God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.
Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.
You love me to distraction.
He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine making love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.
Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.
He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...
He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?
A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled. Deep breaths, deep breaths...a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.
Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”
“Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.
Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”
* * *
IF THE MOON hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.
His sleeping form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.
There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.
A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—
“Whatever you’re searching for, Lady India,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, “you won’t find it.”
Damn, damn, damn! She inhaled sharply, and her head whipped around, even as her fingers touched cold metal. He hadn’t moved, and it was too dark to see that his eyes were open, but clearly they were. She felt the length of the metal—a pistol! She closed her fingers around it and smiled.
“Perhaps not, but you will find it for me.” She stood quickly, taking the pistol with her and pointing it at the bed.
“I don’t think I will.”
“I suppose you’ll tell me no ball has been loaded, but I am convinced I could find your powder and load one before you could lurch over here to stop me.”
He groaned and rolled to his back. “You threaten nothing but blessed relief.”
She crouched down, still facing him, and groped for the powder and shot. “That’s twice in our brief acquaintance that you’ve expressed a desire to see your life end. Hardly a noble sentiment.”
He inched toward the edge of the bed. “I’ve long since dispensed...with being noble.”
First one of his legs swung out of the bed, then the other. She still hadn’t found the shot and powder. “Stay where you are,” she warned.
“Hardly an effective threat under the circumstances.”
“I shall hit you if I have to.”
“Will you.”
“Yes.”
“With the pistol, I suppose.”
That hadn’t occurred to her, but, “Yes.”
He was standing now. Blast it all, where was the shot and—powder horn! Her hand closed around it and she whipped it from the trunk, plunging her hand back in for the shot. This time she found it immediately.
“Aha!” she said, scooting farther away from him to the dressing table, while he steadied himself against the edge of the bed. “I have them now. If you would prefer to save us time and trouble, you may simply tell me where the contract is and I will retrieve it.”
“Ah. The contract.”
Loading a pistol was one thing she could do in her sleep. He took a step forward. She loaded a ball. “Yes. The contract.”
“You do realize, of course, that destroying it would change nothing.”
She tipped the powder horn and jammed the ramrod hard. He was halfway across the cabin. “That remains to be seen.” She hoped. At the very least, if he had no copy of the contract, he could not prove he had her father’s consent for the marriage. She leveled the loaded pistol at him. “Find the contract and give it to me.”
He reached the dressing table. “Very well. But you’ll have to move so I can open the drawer.”
She stepped back. In the faint moonlight she watched him reach inside, careful not to get close enough for him to grab the pistol from her hand. He held a document up—but not out.
“Here,” he said. “You may have it.”
“Hand it to me.”
“Come and take it.”
“Ha.” He thought she was stupid. “I’ll not fall for your trap.”
“Nor I for your threats. Which leaves us...where? You’ll shoot me, I suppose, then tear up the contract and mop up my blood with the pieces.”
“If I shot you, there would be no need to tear up the contract.”
He gripped the dressing table and pressed his other hand to his stomach. “Devil take these waves.”
Was he going to be sick right here? Now? “Give me the contract and return to your bed.”
“I don’t think I can—”
Oh, God. He was. “Quickly!”
He doubled over. “Christ—”
“No!”
He lurched forward, but all that projected toward her was his arm, snatching the pistol from her hand. He grabbed her with his other hand and held fast, standing upright now, and plunked the pistol on the dressing table.
“Pillock!”
“I believe that has already been established.”
“Release me.”
“I’m not a complete fool.”
He did not smell sick. He smelled of the candied ginger Millie had been giving him to settle his stomach. His grip was warm and tight around her arms. “I do hope you don’t intend to continue burgling into people’s rooms after our marriage,” he growled. “It would be a pity to have to keep you locked away for the rest of your life.”
It was no less than she would have faced if she’d stayed with Father. “You would need a fortified tower to keep me imprisoned,” she warned. “Or a dungeon.” She would not be locked away again—not by him, or Father, or William or anyone else.
He eased his grip, smoothing his palms down her arms an inch or two. “Perhaps I shall build a tower just for you.” In the dim light she saw his lips curve, and the hair prickled on the back of her neck.
“With the fifty thousand pounds you get from Father? I should think most of that will go to Mr. Holliswell.”
“Indeed it will.” His thumbs moved lightly, caressing the place where her arms pressed against her breasts, and—
Oh. The sensation of his touch against the sides of her breasts shot through her like fire, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
“I—” Suddenly it was a struggle to form words. “I shouldn’t think, in the long run, it would be worth it. You’ve endured weeks at sea when you obviously can’t stand even five minutes on the waves. Now you’re set to endure weeks more. You’re willing to commit an illegal act—and forcing someone into wedlock does not create a legal marriage, Mr. Warre—and even more than that, once your debt is paid you will still have me to contend with.” His thumbs ventured lower, whispering around her fullest curves. She swallowed. Hard. “You will have me for the rest of your life, which promises to be a considerable amount of time despite your advanced age. You will regret it bitterly, I assure you.”
“No doubt I will.”
“A sensible man would change his mind about wishing to marry me.” The ship lolled, creaked. Outside, the nighttime sea splashed against the hull. Her breasts grew heavy with an odd kind of ache.
“Let us have one thing perfectly clear between us, Lady India. I do not wish to marry you. I need to marry you.” His caress circled up, around. A nerve pulsed in a place much lower, much more secret. “No amount of your hoydenish tricks will change that fact.”
“Oh, yes—I’m fully aware that I’m to be a casualty of your embarrassed circumstances,” she breathed. His touch lulled her, made her want more, tempted her toward him in ways she couldn’t quite resist.
“If you choose to see it that way,” he said.
“That is the only way to see it.” She needed to pull away from him. Now. But the sensations he was creating held her transfixed, rooted to the floor, too willing to debate him. “At least do me the honor of explaining what, exactly, I am to be sacrificed to save.”
“I have a vision of you trussed like a pig and stretched across an ancient pagan altar.” And oh—his thumbs brushed the tips of her breasts, shooting pure sensation straight to a point between her legs. He leaned close, lowered his voice. “We are talking of marriage, Lady India—a simple contract. In exchange for my protection, you agree not to bring me shame.”
His words cut through her pleasure-fogged mind even as her breasts screamed with need. She broke from his grasp. “That is your idea of marriage?” Her voice felt thick, clogged with the pleasure he’d stoked.
“I rather think it’s most people’s idea.”
It wasn’t hers. Not that she had any idea of marriage—quite the opposite. Dread coursed in, lapping icily at the desire burning across her skin. “I need protection from you,” she managed. “And as for my bringing you shame...perhaps you should have considered that before you agreed to marry a young lady as well acquainted with the ways of the world as I am. I’ll not return easily to a life of drawing rooms and embroidering cushions.”
She’d told Father as much in London, but he hadn’t cared. A daughter married was a daughter tamed...or so he thought. And so Nicholas Warre thought, as well.
“It’s all too clear you need protection from yourself,” Mr. Warre said calmly. “Little wonder your father was reduced to such desperate measures. But know this...” His voice turned flinty. “You will not shame Taggart, Lady India. I’ll not allow it.”
You’ll not bring shame on this family, India.... The echo of her childhood pooled coldly in her belly. She would not endure that again—she couldn’t. “From the sound of things, it’s too late for that,” she scoffed. Anger flashed dangerously in his eyes. “If you insist on forcing our marriage, I daresay I shall only be adding to Taggart’s shame. What will happen if you cannot pay your debt to Mr. Holliswell?” she taunted.
“Oh, it will be paid,” he said flatly. “It’s merely a question of whether he’ll be paid with the dowry I receive from our marriage or with Taggart itself—and Holliswell will never seat his greasy, self-satisfied arse at the head of Taggart’s table.” He pointed at her. “No matter if I’ve got to drag your pretty behind in front of a priest and have an altar boy move your jaw up and down while reciting the vows in falsetto. This wedding will take place.”
“And you accuse me of shameful behavior.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “For God’s sake—you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“Gain?”
“For the price of a few meaningless vows, you’ll have Taggart’s name and you’ll live as any other young woman would be content to live, and in ten years at least some of Society will have forgotten your transgressions. It’s more of a chance at redemption than most ever receive.”
“I don’t need redemption.” She made herself laugh. “But you will, sir, if you do not quickly repent the grave mistake you’re making.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I would call it a mistake,” he said. His shadowed eyes dropped to her breasts, lingering. Her breath hitched, and her sensitive peaks came alive with fresh, unwanted desire. “Especially if I am to find such pleasure at my fingertips,” he added huskily.
A heady yearning curled inside her. She never should have allowed him to touch her. But it was too late to take it back now, and it was too clear that he may not have wished to marry her—but he did want something else.
She forced her feet to move and went to the door. “Good night, Mr. Warre.” The ship banked with a large wave, and she turned, smiling back at him. “Do sleep well.”
