Читать книгу Return to the House of Sin - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 11

Chapter Four

‘What are you doing here?’ Ferris answered the door, his shirt untucked and open. ‘I was sleeping.’

‘So I heard.’ Crispin stepped over the threshold and into the room, identical to his own and about to become more cramped. ‘I may sleep here tonight. If you don’t mind.’ He tried for a casual tone, but knew better than to expect his friend would not question this turn of events, most especially after Crispin had made a point of insistence about their equivalent accommodations.

‘What’s wrong with your room?’ Ferris pulled out the only chair and pushed it forward before he dropped to the bed and reclined, his hands folded behind his head, eyes closed.

‘I found a mouse.’

‘Not a rat?’

‘Not a rat.’ Crispin allowed a half-smile to twist his lips. Amanda Beasley. Amanda was an occurrence he hadn’t planned upon. He could only blame himself for what transpired afterwards. Some long-lost resurrected sense of duty had made him suggest she have his quarters, his sister, Sophie, the cause. Despite his better judgement, he knew discovering the lady and agreeing to harbour her couldn’t end well. Worse, he’d volunteered to withstand the punishing sound of Ferrisimo’s snoring.

‘Is this how you plan to spend the afternoon? Lazing about?’ Restlessness spurred the questions. He already had much on his mind with his decision to return to England, and the sudden displacement from his room did more to evoke a beat of tension.

‘Lazy is such a strong word. I prefer selective participation.’ Ferris peeled an eye open and stared at him in profile. ‘You’ll not regret this decision.’

Ferris was glad for the company. One could hear it in his voice.

‘I already do.’ Crispin might have elaborated but the buzzing drone of his friend halfway to slumber eradicated any further conversation. Left to his own devices, he scanned the interior and forced himself to accept the consequences of his rash inconvenience on Amanda’s behalf.

As all the paid private rooms were identical, there was a single bed. The crew slept in hammocks and there were hooks from the ceiling here if one needed to accommodate more travellers, although three weeks’ travel suspended by rope didn’t appeal unless one intended to fashion a noose.

The witty premise prompted him to smirk.

He stood, spared another survey of the empty walls, and then left, intent on finding the saloon. He would fill his stomach first and return to his original quarters with something for Amanda to eat. She was slight of figure, slim through the waist and hips, and while he had no reason to notice, he remembered. Supplying food would become a chore. She’d mentioned a bath as well. How quickly things were becoming complicated. It had seemed a logical solution to offer Amanda the safety of his room. But now, caught between decks, hungry, tired and saddled with Ferrisimo’s constant company, he wondered if he’d created a bigger mess than the one he sought to resolve in London.

These regrets carried him across the waist deck and towards the firebox and working galley, his mood dampened by the undertaking and misty drizzle produced by the waves. The crew no longer scurried across the boards. A few passengers roamed the main deck, but for the most part the ship had settled into the knowledge all would be a-sea for a lengthy duration. Just as Ferris napped below deck, most travellers unpacked their trunks, rested or simply organized what would be their home for almost a month.

He found the stairs to the saloon adjacent to the whip staff where a wiry young man manned the rigging and eyed him with speculative curiosity. He met the lad’s stare before he dropped below, taking a moment to unroll his sleeves and straighten his clothing, though nothing would help the wrinkled mess that was his shirt. Of course, ship travel hardly required formal attire. Crew members worked on most decks in nothing more than a flowing tunic and pair of short pantaloons. With this to assuage his pride and dishevelled appearance, he ducked into the dining room and discovered it near empty. A late meal would not be provided for several hours.

Amanda’s appearance complicated most every part of this trip. What would force a young woman to undertake the dangerous travel without escort? He’d forgotten to question her, lost somewhere between her fetching blush and brilliant green eyes. And her hair… he wondered if it was as thick and silky as it appeared.

The ship pitched forward and he braced a palm against the wallboards. The sky appeared mostly clear when he was above deck, but storms at sea could blow in quickly. Hopefully, strong winds and smooth sailing would grace their journey. He battled enough inner turbulence without adding the treachery of dangerous weather.

Collecting a few biscuits from a basket near the kitchen, he wrapped them in a linen napkin, climbed the stairs to the main deck, and discovered the weather had undergone a change. Thick, gloomy clouds, grey and plentiful, hovered over the water to obliterate the sun. The sea, angry to be interrupted, splashed and sulked, its depth black-blue and fathomless. Whatever loomed on the horizon threatened to be disruptive to their travel. With any hope, the winds would carry the storm away faster than the ship sought passage through it.

Taking a turn towards the private quarters, he stalled in front of the door to confront yet another issue he’d invited. What if Amanda was asleep inside? He could leave the biscuits on the table and return to Ferrisimo’s room. But what if she were in a state of undress? That suggestion caused his brows to climb high and he rapped on the door as if to clear the image before it gained clarity.

Nothing happened.

Of course. How would Amanda know it was he who wished to enter and not a stranger meant to cause harm or discover she’d stowed away? He blew out a breath and turned the lever, cracking the door slowly, so as to not cause a startle. He noted she should have secured the latch. Anyone could walk in. They would need to discuss safety and agree upon some sort of signal that differentiated him from others. Additionally, a stern reprimand was in order to ensure she remembered to fasten the lock.

An unescorted female was perfect plucking for a randy sailor. A surge of protectiveness swept through him and he credited it to his close relationship with Sophie. He mourned how he’d left his sister without a word of his welfare. She must be beside herself with worry, yet he hadn’t so much as sent her a letter. It was poorly done of him, most especially how he’d complicated matters with Sophie’s dearest friend, Vivienne, and made a mess of things at the Underworld. These latter thoughts stirred up too many uncomfortable feelings and he stepped inside the room prepared to confront whatever lay inside.

‘Amanda?’ He hoped to allay her fears as quickly as possible. With any hope, she hadn’t sought refuge in the closet again. To that end they would have to negotiate their arrangement. Otherwise he’d go mad before the ship reached England.

But all his forethought and apprehension proved for naught. She slept on his bed, the bed now her bed, positioned on her side, palms folding under her cheek the way a child might fall asleep while listening to a favourite bedtime story. The sight evoked a thread of tenderness he didn’t believe existed in him any longer. Not wishing to disturb the scene, he placed the biscuit-filled napkin on the tabletop and eased out of the room. Caution told him not to stare at her longer than necessary. He didn’t wish to notice things he was better off forgetting.

Amanda woke with a start. Had someone spoken? The ship answered with a creak and a groan in what could only be described as complaint. Her eyes adjusted to the dank interior, drawn to something white atop the table. She rose with a slight stagger. The rolling motion of the ship after lying abed caused her steps to be unsteady, but when she reached her goal she discovered a crumpled white napkin with two biscuits. At first taste, they were dry and crumbly. She had nothing to drink but welcomed the food regardless. Life aboard a ship was compromise and she’d made the choice to stow away instead of confronting the captain. She couldn’t expect to visit the passenger dining room, now could she? What if someone drew her into conversation and discovered the truth of the situation?

She’d fallen asleep recounting her good fortune. The tiny window which allowed light from the open hall showed only blackness now. With Crispin’s assistance, she could navigate this journey and be returned to London in time to keep her social agenda. Thus attending the soiree at the height of the season. She smiled softly. The event was her one chance to alter everyone’s perception and change their opinion of her.

Nibbling the edge of the second biscuit, she shot her eyes to the trunks piled in the corner. What composed a man like Lord Hastings? He seemed a gentleman in every respect, no matter he boasted his poor reputation. Nothing untoward had happened to cause her to believe otherwise. Did he share a romantic relationship? Someone to love and with whom to plan a future?

Howsoever would she pass time within the confines of the quarters without company? Would Crispin spare her time for conversation? Perhaps she could convince him to visit for no other reason than to help the hours pass. She sat at the scarred table and traced the curved lines ingrained in the wood. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. She would go mad.

She stood from the table with resolute determination, only to grapple for the corner as the ship lurched right. Whatever weather preceded their path, it promised to be violent. A tremor of thunder and subsequent flash of lightning confirmed her suspicion as her pulse leapt into a fast rhythm. Storms at sea were things of gothic novels and old tales shared before the hearth, not something to be experienced firsthand. The placid waters during her trip to Italy seemed a distant memory now. Father had shared his wealth of knowledge pertaining to ships and answered her myriad questions, the experience interesting and pleasurable, but this trip seemed in adverse at the moment.

The vessel swayed, rocking her with vertiginous force as an unexpected wave of nausea gripped her stomach. She’d hardly eaten. It couldn’t be the food. Perhaps the combination of her nerves, the unpredictability of her circumstances and the ocean’s upset conspired to wreak havoc with her disposition. Best she located the chamber pot in case the need arose.

Torn with indecision, it was several hours later when Crispin returned to check on Amanda. Lunch had come and gone, followed by supper and, with a lack of finesse he would never claim as his own, he’d left a basket of food on the hook beside the door and knocked before leaving the passenger quarters swiftly. Soon after, the weather had shifted. Intelligent passengers locked themselves away to avoid the onslaught of rain and lashing relentlessness of waves across the deck. Daredevils, scoundrels and those who tempted fate held fast to the railing and watched the angry sea wage war. Crispin was of the latter, but with a recent case of conscience he worried over Amanda locked tight in his former chambers.

All around him crewmen worked to secure the ship and prepare for a night filled with tumultuous weather. That same wiry sailor who’d eyed him earlier scurried by, surefooted on the slippery deck, despite he carried a coil of rope twice his size. In truth, Crispin needed to return to Ferris and take to his own sleeping quarters, but first he’d check on the fetching stowaway. Besides, he needed to collect the basket and discuss the terms of their agreement. He couldn’t imagine delivering food to her door for over a fortnight. Not only would other passengers become wary, but he wasn’t up to the task. Most of his life had been spent in the usual way afforded gentleman with a title. He visited his club, whiled away time riding, shooting and playing billiards, as well as socializing with the best set in London. His home was fully staffed with impeccable servants who provided for his every need.

When he’d settled in Venice, he’d accommodated himself in much the same manner. Ferris was anxious to welcome him into a lifestyle of merriment that obscured the ghosts Crispin evaded, chasing them away and replacing unrest with beautiful women, liquor and senseless abandon.

In regard to Amanda, earlier in the day he’d delivered one basket of food, packed solidly with ample portions of oatmeal, molasses, bread, butter and rice, as well as a bottle of wine and flask of water. He’d remembered the necessary glassware and implements, and wished to avoid frequent visits to the saloon. The awkward image of him carrying a laden bundle through the decks would draw unwanted attention. The direct, unabashed circumspection with which the young crew member had eyed him earlier lingered as a disturbing curiosity. Whether the lad thought of him as an easy mark or watched for some other reason, the observation didn’t sit well.

Of further concern was the increasingly poor weather. What had begun as a light rain had quickly transformed into a nightmarish fury. Shards of violent lightning crackled through the skies in the north and the ocean waters reverberated with turbulence, making for a difficult walk across the boards and even more disagreeable evening if one didn’t have a temperament for sea travel. Luckily, his stomach was reliable. Still, he belonged below deck. Not a passenger could be seen along the narrow corridor and an occasional complaint from the ship’s timber coalesced with foul oaths of fright heard through latched chamber doors.

At last, managing not to stagger though the ship tilted and pitched unexpectedly, he neared the room meant to be his quarters, surprised to see the basket hung in the same position as earlier. Hadn’t Amanda mentioned her hunger? Had she heard his knock? Perhaps she’d confused his signal with the crewmen who fastened the hatches and secured every rope and strap above deck.

Troubled and disappointed in his failure to manage the situation more adeptly, he lifted the basket from the hook and, after a bracing knock, turned the lever and stepped into the dim interior. He noted with a degree of annoyance, the door should be locked. He’d wished to speak to her about the careless gesture, but she’d slept through his earlier visit.

Outside in the passage, the wind yowled, bouncing from wall to wall as the ocean lashed. Here within the chamber, not a sound could be heard. He set the basket to the floorboards and moved to the oil lamp where he turned the key and illuminated the small space in the light of a shallow flame. It was then he heard a pitiful moan.

What the devil?

Amanda sat on the floor in the far corner as if she hid from the world, steeped in darkness, her eyes downcast, arms folded across her knees. She’d removed her boots and her stockinged toes, as white and opalescent as her complexion, peeped out from the billowed hems of her day gown. Her hair had been plaited, pulled back to reveal her pasty complexion, paler than moonlight. Beside her, with a shivery tremble, rested the chamber pot.

He groaned, out of depth and drowning fast.

Bloody hell, was she seasick?

In answer to his mental question the ship pitched upward, suspended as if on marionette strings for what seemed a terrifying instance of weightlessness until it dropped at a sharp angle and returned to the waves, the slide of the basket across the floor tapping against his right boot as it displaced from its resting spot near the wall.

He stepped backwards a few strides to regain his balance, his constitution intact though Amanda’s moan sounded pained. Her eyes lit on him, distant and panicked, as she pushed upward in an attempt to stand.

‘May I help you in any way?’ He took a wary step forward. He wasn’t exactly sure how ill she was feeling and he neither wished to embarrass nor upset her, while common decency demanded he offer assistance.

‘Talk to me. Please. I’ve been locked away for hours.’

Her voice rasped in the near darkness and, despite the ship continued to rock and sway, the words prickled over his skin with alluring awareness. He reacted, his tone defensive. ‘By your own doing.’

With a hollow, metallic clink, the chamber pot slid out of grasp to the far corner.

‘The truth doesn’t make the time pass faster. Please stay, if only a short while.’

She sounded frightened and he told himself as he grabbed the wooden bowl on the desk and emptied its contents, he acted out of kindness and necessary obligation as an older brother would when a family member became sick.

She took an awkward step and he reached her just in time as the tides pummelled the sides of the ship and tossed it across the waves. Amanda landed against his chest with a warm thump before he steadied her, bracing one hand to the wall as together they sank to the floorboards, acutely aware of her nearness and how incredibly soft and pliant she’d felt for the less-than-a-heartbeat moment she’d buffeted his chest with a subtle, unintentional nudge. For want of something to do with his hands, he placed the wooden bowl between them, the lantern on his other side. With great relief, he saw no evidence of her having expelled anything and, with peculiar contrast, noted the faint smell of gardenia. Perhaps she used scented soap or expensive perfume, some unmistakable light musky fragrance that was evident now with her proximity. It stirred him with an unexpected carnal bid for attention. His body throbbed with sudden heat, his chest all at once tight, each breath worse as her scent stole into his lungs and settled.

In the dim light of the candle, he searched her face. Perspiration dotted her brow and a few strands of hair pressed to her forehead like damp ribbons. Her eyes were glassy. Had she cried while he was gone? Her gown was a rumpled mess no iron would ever repair.

‘What shall I talk about?’

‘Anything.’

Her husky voice trickled over him and, for no apparent reason, he too began to perspire. The chamber was cool. There was no way to explain his unexpected reaction. He couldn’t be nervous. ‘With any luck, this weather will pass in a few hours. It poured buckets earlier but now the wind’s pitching—’

‘Not that.’ She gulped a mouthful of air and blew it out through puckered lips.

He watched her profile, mesmerized in the fractured shadows cast by the lamp. ‘Right.’ He exhaled and restarted. ‘Did you eat the biscuits I left? It wasn’t much but the barley stew—’

‘Not food either.’ Her voice squeaked high and she pressed her lips together.

A healthy portion of guilt settled in his stomach at how poorly he’d taken care of the situation through the day. For some unknown reason, he’d wanted to stay away, concerned she might pull him further into her convoluted appearance aboard ship. On another level, an internal and emotional one, he’d warned himself not to get close. He wanted nothing to do with affection of any kind.

‘I brought the bowl.’ Bloody hell, he sounded like an ass. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t touched her and, despite the ship’s acrobatics, he’d managed to keep at least eight inches between their shoulders. He’d placed the bowl on the floor in that space. It seemed the logical thing to do though he didn’t reckon why exactly. ‘Did you enjoy your visit to Italy?’ It was an innocuous subject. One that would serve his purpose.

‘Yes.’ Her voice brightened a smidgeon and a rush of satisfaction filled his chest. ‘But I’m immensely relieved to travel home. I have an important event to attend. Something I hope will change my life’s status for ever.’

The walls shuddered as the ship took a sudden plummet and, in an ironic trick of the ocean’s majestic force, her answer registered and his heart fell to his stomach right along with the tides.