“I am not a man known for his patience,” he told her quietly. “Don’t keep testing it.”
She lowered her head. “Let me go,” she told him dully.
He released her, stepping back. None of the tension left his strong and resolute features, but when he spoke, it was with a measure of patience once more.
“Brianna, what has happened cannot be erased. I cannot give back what I have taken. I haven’t forced anything from you, nor will I. You must stay in this cabin, for you are not safe abovedecks without me—and I am far too busy to worry about your effect upon the men. You must sleep in that bed, for there is nowhere else where you may safely sleep. Whether it is a palatable situation to both of us or neither of us, you have become my responsibility—and must remain so, for the time being.”
“You are a liar, Treveryan!” she charged hotly. “What of the woman whose clothing I wear? She had her own quarters—and, I would assume, the run of the ship!”
There was a furious tick of a pulse against his throat, yet he remained in a deathly calm control. “I had a smaller crew when she was aboard. Sleeping arrangements have changed.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And I don’t give a damn what you do and do not believe! This is my ship, I am the captain, and so help me God, you will follow my orders. Do you understand?”
“Oh, I think I understand too well,” she replied bitterly.
“Just so that you do,” he warned in a chilling whisper.
She lifted her chin and spoke softly. “How long will we be at sea, Lord Treveryan?”
He shrugged. “Three to four weeks, depending upon the weather.”
“And you suggest that I not leave this cabin all that time?”
He sighed. “I’ll take you out for a stroll on deck each afternoon. But you will have to find a way to entertain yourself for the greater part of the day. The panel behind the bed slips open, and you’ll find a number of books. Do you read?” At Brianna’s nod he continued. “Should you happen to do anything so useful as sewing, and not find the task too distasteful, I’ve shirts within the wardrobe which could use the tender touch of a needle.”
She didn’t reply. Sloan noted that she stood very straight, but that the sweep of her lashes hid the blue flames of her eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he told her cordially, sweeping her a very proper bow—and allowing a wicked grin to filter across his lips in the midst of it.
As he closed the door behind him, Brianna was very much tempted to throw something after him.
The days they sailed south upon the Irish Sea were long ones.
Sloan did not come to his cabin until late at night, and when he did arrive, Brianna feigned sleep. She had found a nightgown among the clothing given her by Paddy, and she wore it each evening, grateful that it was modest.
He unfailingly stripped without a shade of self-consciousness before stretching beside her. But he did not touch her. Not once. And it seemed that she heard his even breathing almost instantly when his head touched his pillow.
He was always gone when she awoke in the morning, but he returned to the cabin in the midmorning to breakfast with her. He spoke to her very courteously at those times, as if the nights did not exist, and as if they had never been lovers.
Often, in the late afternoon, he would escort her about the ship. Within days she had learned a great deal about theSea Hawk. He brought her to the cargo holds and showed her where the guns were placed. She learned the names of the numerous sails, and she met the fifty-man crew one by one. They ranged in age from youths to graybeards, and just as widely in social standing. Younger sons from noble families sought their fortunes at sea, just as did the strapping sons of commoners.
Some were rough and quarrelsome, some quiet and genteel; but they all seemed to share one common trait—an intense loyalty to Lord Sloan Treveryan. She knew that their respect for their captain kept them all cordial to her. Yet she often winced when they passed a group of the sailors, for she felt the gazes they raked over her form. They knew that she slept in the captain’s cabin—assumed her to be “his”—and perhaps envied him.
Brianna had seen Sloan roar out orders with the severity of a fire-breathing dragon; she had also learned that service and valor were rewarded, that double portions of rum were doled out each time the crew brought theSea Hawkthrough a storm or treacherous shoal.
Although she came to know the ship and the men, it was all for show. The promise of escape was the hope that she clung to. Every day she plotted her escape; how to slip the lock should it be turned, which passages to take, where to dive from the ship to the sea, should that prove necessary.
She awoke slowly one morning to realize that she was becoming accustomed to the sounds of the sea—the wind as it whistled through the rigging, the waves as they lapped and crashed against hull and bow. And as she closed her eyes once more to savor the gentle sounds of morning and close out the brilliance of the sunlight streaming into the cabin, she realized unhappily that she was also becoming accustomed to Sloan Treveryan.
Although he was distant, as if his mind were far from her, their life aboard ship had assumed a certain domesticity. Boredom had taken its toll upon her, and bit by bit she had come to keep the cabin impeccably neat; she even mended his shirts. More often than not they shared their meals. And every night she waited for him. Waited to feel his heat as he slid his long form beside hers. He always smelled so cleanly of salt air and the sea, he exuded a masculine strength, and despite herself, she longed to curl against him, to be held, to touch him. It was agony to know that she must despise him and escape him—when she could not, inside herself, deny his allure. When she could not pretend that his arms were not those of a strong and fascinating man, that he was not arresting, that his eyes did not touch her all the way to her soul. And so she lay awake wretchedly, sometimes barely breathing, sometimes praying that he would shift and slip his arm around her, stroke her hair, edge closer to her—and then praying fervently that he would not.
She could not deny to herself that she was falling beneath his spell. Perhaps, falling a little bit in love. Sometimes, she allowed herself to dream. To envision that he might marry her, love her, and cherish her.
It was a sweet dream, a bitter dream. Yet it went on. She wondered if he could love her; and in that wondering, she could not help but think that he was a man to do what he chose to do, rather than follow convention.
If he loved her, he would marry her.
