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She gave a quick nod and walked away, staying away from the outer rails.
He sniffed the air. He was not a seasoned sailor and he knew a storm was on the way. The seas had roughened. He called out for someone to take his place at the helm.
And while he waited, he told himself to remember that Melina was little more to him than an imagination. When they docked, she would disappear—just like the dream he created of her.
* * *
Melina sat on the floor, head back against the wood, eyes closed, propped against a bundle of bedding. He clicked the door shut behind him just as lightning flashed at the window. She jumped, blinked twice and struggled to find words. ‘The sea is rough,’ she said, voice unsteady.
‘We’ll take your mind from it.’ He leaned towards her, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Just the touch of her made every bucket worth it. He slipped his arms around her and buried his face against the soft skin of her neck. He smiled when a hint of sweet spice reached his nose. She smelled like something of a holiday. Of gaiety. Mulled wine. Exotic treats.
Her clothing bunched under his hands and he covered her back with his touch. He needed nothing more than her in his arms. She soothed him—something he’d not expected. Feeling the softness of her earlobe with his face, he savoured her. But she remained still, letting him caress and giving no response.
Warrington stood back from her and took off his coat, putting it on the peg. After wishing the ship’s movement hadn’t hit her so hard, he remembered the rough days when he’d first set out. No one should feel so unsettled.
Warrington took her chin, lifted it and brushed a kiss across her lips. His body flamed from just the merest touch of her. He whispered against her skin, ‘You’ll have to imagine all the fine things that should surround someone as lovely as you.’
He understood her reluctance. She didn’t know how they’d find the room, probably expecting nothing more than the sort of encounter a rushed man gave a woman who had to be on to her next business. The two of them simply could not fit on the bed. Not only could they not lie side by side, but the cabinets overhead prevented other arrangements. He’d spent some time thinking of the best way to accomplish a blissful encounter. Even as he released her, the ship kept rocking in such a way they could hardly keep from stumbling into each other.
Warrington reached for the bedding bundle, which rolled about, knocking into his legs, and with a few tugs and a quick flick spread the bedding on the floor. The chair and table were gone. She stepped back, flattening herself against the wall.
Pulling the mattress and coverings from his berth, he put it against the ones on the floor, adding softness. He fell to his knees to finish making the pallet. He’d never, ever knelt in front of a woman—but no matter. Running a hand over the bedding, he smoothed edges together.
He stood, examining her in the lantern light.
Brown eyes—lovely, enticing—stared back at him. She didn’t look pleased to see the covers on the floor, but he couldn’t fault her.
‘I assure you, if we were in London, I’d find a bed for us so soft you’d think of clouds.’ He wanted her to understand—he took this seriously.
The pallor in her face slowed his movements. She had to know the bed wasn’t his choice.
‘There’s no bigger cabin, except Ben’s,’ he told her, ‘and he is captain, so it’s rather hard to shove him out through the door.’
‘I’m... This is fine.’ She dropped to her knees, pulling the top covers in place and brushing her hand across them. She lowered her chin. ‘You know I’m not... The ship is moving more and...’ She touched her stomach.
He knelt, reaching out for her shoulder, feeling the roughness of the sleeve. ‘Melina—if you’ve any compassion at all, try to keep from being ill for a bit longer. I can... But with the storm coming and...’
She pulled back. ‘This is not the storm?’
He’d said the wrong thing. ‘A few raindrops. Ben thinks we’ll sail through without a bobble.’
The ship heaved and she moved backwards, sliding with the makeshift bed. He shifted with the momentum, putting his arm around her and arranging so his back was to the wall and he held her at his side. He felt stronger than any wave—but she didn’t.
A blast of anger hit him. The fates—he knew them well, they were his bedfellows—they were conspiring again. They thrust another wave against the ship and he held her tight, seeing the press of her lips.
