Page 30 of A Siren for the Duke

“Oh,” she said, lying back down again. When her shoes were off, Lionel drew the quilt over her.

Finally, Jemima mustered the courage to look up at Lionel, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"I thought we had lost each other forever," she confessed, her voice trembling.

“Well, I’m here,” he said evenly, “and unfortunately or not, we’re stuck with each other until we reach Jamaica.”

She wanted to say more to that—to shout and confess that she’d missed him, that she wanted him, that part of her had hoped to find him again one day—but she was very tired. Lionel was barely out the door before she fell asleep, heavy and dreamless.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jemima's eyes fluttered open, and she groaned as the early morning sunlight pierced through her cabin window, stabbing her throbbing head. Her body felt as heavy as a sack of potatoes, and she struggled to lift herself into an upright position. The room spun around her, and she closed her eyes, hoping to steady herself.

Memories of the previous night rushed back to her in a haze: the lively mess hall, the raucous laughter, and the tankard of ale she had eagerly embraced. It had all seemed so exhilarating, so daring until the world had dissolved into a dizzying whirlwind. Jemima had succumbed to the merriment of the evening, surrendering herself to the tempting allure of liberation.

But now, with the pounding in her temples, she regretted her indiscretion. She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing the throbbing pain to subside. Her mouth felt as dry as sand, and she desperately longed for a sip of water to soothe her parched throat.

Summoning every ounce of her determination, Jemima swung her legs over the edge of the bed and forced herself to stand. The room swayed perilously, and she clung to the bedpost for support, her knuckles turning white with the effort. Slowly, she shuffled towards the basin of water by the window, her footsteps clumsy and unsteady.

As she splashed cool water on her face, Jemima caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her usually bright eyes were bloodshot and dull, surrounded by dark circles that betrayed her restless night. Her disheveled hair stuck out in every direction, a tangled mess that mirrored the confusion in her mind.

The sound of a knock on her bedroom door startled her. Jemima hastily wrapped a shawl around her and called out in a hoarse voice, "Who is it?"

"It's Ellis," came the muffled reply from the other side.

“Go away,” she groaned, unwilling to answer the door. But the banging on the door persisted.

“Lionel sent me to tell you that Mr. Coade needs help in the kitchen. He also beseeched me to inquire about your health.”

Jemima’s heart dropped to her already uneasy stomach. Did Lionel remember last night? Would he mention it?

“I’ll be out soon,” she said grumpily.

Ellis shuffled behind the door. The sound annoyed her this morning, and she rolled her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I shall prepare myself and come!”

“Very well, madam,” Ellis said, and she heard his footsteps hurry away.

She sighed and brushed her hair, yelping when she hit tangles but not stopping. If this was how mornings were after drinking ale, she resolved never to do it again.

Thankfully the ship was already bustling with activity as she walked across the deck and down to the galley. No one said anything to her, but she almost wished they would so she could acknowledge and absolve some of her shame.

She got her wish with Mr. Coade, who always said what he was thinking. As she entered the galley, he gave her a once over and returned to his chopping.

“You’re late and you look awful.”

“You’re no handsome prince yourself,” she retorted.

There was the barest hint of a smile on his face as he pointed to a slice of dry toast and a bowl of porridge.

“Take that to the captain. I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

Jemima felt her stomach lurch unpleasantly. She had rather hoped to avoid Lionel for the rest of the voyage after last night’s debacle.

“Surely I can stay and help here,” she protested.