“I imagine that’s the tone you used when conveying … what was it you taught again?”
She flushed. “Geography and deportment.”
Nick leaned close enough to catch one of the strings tying her masculine shirt closed, and caressed the length of the string between his thumb and forefinger. “Mm, yes, a teacher of the correct behavior and mode of dress for proper young ladies.” He let the string fall to her chest, which had stopped its normal rise and fall movement. He felt the puff of air when she released the breath she’d been holding. “You have one tone for normal speech, another when it sounds like you’re standing before a roomful of disinterested students.”
“You keep asking me questions. It is not my fault the answers bore you.” She pointedly returned to her reading.
He startled as though she’d just poked him with a spar. Bored? In turns she was annoying, amazing, amusing … but never boring.
They’d been together for five days now and not once had she bored him. When was the last time that had happened? Even Lady Slavin, with her lush, agile body, erotic mind, and total lack of inhibition, bored him after only hours in her company.
Was Miss Chase as agile as Lady Slavin? Was there a drop of eroticism in her schoolmistress body?
A schoolmistress who no longer had a school. Would she be a mistress?
She was willing to toss her reputation in order to reach her goal. Would she be willing to toss her skirts?
Even though she was no longer, technically, wearing skirts.
Nick concentrated on breathing very slowly, evenly, so as not to disturb her with his thought process.
She’d only allowed him to button and unbutton her gown two times before making the drastic decision to wear men’s clothing. As proven by her reaction just moments ago, she hadn’t been unaffected by his nearness, by his fingers brushing her soft, naked skin as they stood so close together while he helped her in and out of her gown. Her breathing had become soft gasps, her body perfectly still so as not to miss a single sensation. Had he seen her face, no doubt her cheeks would have been flushed, her eyes dilated with desire.
She said she was betrothed. To a farmer. A man surrounded by fertile fields and procreating animals. Surely he had already sampled her wares? Surely she had switched to attire that precluded Nick’s assistance solely to avoid giving in to the temptation of his touch?
She turned the page, oblivious to the new course his thoughts had set. Her shirt shifted with her movement, allowing lamplight to glint on her delicate silver chain as it dipped into the hollow of her collarbone. He propped his chin on his crossed forearms to prevent himself from tracing the chain as it disappeared inside her shirt. He needed to gather more intelligence before he acted.
“Since your father has passed away, from whom did Sir Percival ask for your hand?”
She stilled for the space of a heartbeat before glancing up, though she did not speak.
“Have you an uncle or other male relative? Someone who came to take care of things after news was received of your father’s passing?”
She shook her head. “There is just Gabriel, Mama and me. But we have many friends, and we all look out for each other.” She held eye contact just a little too long before bending her head to her book again.
What was she hiding?
No male relatives. No one but a cub of a younger brother to call Nick to task should things turn out badly.
But what could go wrong? Miss Chase was already betrothed, had likely already sampled pleasures of the flesh. While at sea on long voyages, many people sought sexual pleasure in ways, and with whom, they never would on land.
They were both here. Alone in his cabin. His crew already thought he was tossing her skirts. Because of her trying to help with the loose gun, and her heroic recovery from the sea and subsequent lack of hysterics, the men thought well of her or were at least neutral. Her change to dressing like a sailor had barely merited a second glance—they’d seen too much while in his employ, done too many odd things, to be fazed by a woman’s unusual attire. They would treat her no differently if she was warming his bed. Nick glanced from the bunk to his rope hammock, hung by the door. Was warming him in his bed.
How to get her there?
He made a deal of stretching and yawning. “Are you going to read for a while?” At her nod, he stood and leisurely stretched again. “Then I’m going to take a nap before I go topside again.” He toed off his shoes, stretched out on the bunk, and covered up with the blanket, all without looking at her.
But he heard her. A muffled squeak. He kept his expression perfectly neutral. It was nothing for him to climb into the bed in which she’d been sleeping.
The plan was to get her thinking about him in bed. Instead he inhaled her scent, a barely-there blend of rosewater and soap on his pillow. What would her hair look like, unbound and splayed across the pillow?
“Shall I douse a lantern?”
To anyone else her tone might seem nonchalant, but Nick heard the slight strain. She was more affected than she wanted to admit. A good start. When she retired tonight, would she think about his hair unbound and splayed on the pillow? His face above hers?
He shook his head, still not opening his eyes. “A sailor can sleep anywhere, anytime, any condition. Please, by all means, keep reading.”
To his consternation, she proceeded to do just that. She even got out one of the charts from his desk and spread it across the table, comparing the examples in the navigation book to the chart. She muttered under her breath as she struggled to understand the lessons, completely oblivious to him.
