Page 43 of A Siren for the Duke

“Oh…” well, this was going to be awkward to explain, “I... I do not have a trunk with me.”

“No?” Mrs. Sherwood asked, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. “No. Unfortunately, I there was a mishap at the docks upon departure. All I have is this sack,” Jemima explained.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she’d been a stowaway, and looking at Elena Sherwood, Jemima could see the pieces clicking together in her mind like a puzzle. But much to her relief, Mrs. Sherwood said nothing, and her face relaxed quite easily.

“I understand. Sometimes traveling with so many possessions can be cumbersome.”

“Oh indeed!” Jemima said, relief flooding her body.

“No need to worry—I have plenty of gowns. You shall wear some of mine.”

If Mrs. Sherwood’s entire wardrobe was as stunning as her current gown, Jemima was in for a treat.

“Thank you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay your kindness.”

Mrs. Sherwood waved a hand dismissively.

“This is not a transactional relationship. Here in the Caribbean, we all look out for each other. I’ll send up a maid with new clothes and get that bath set up straightaway.”

* * *

The bath stood before her, a gleaming porcelain oasis in the middle of the room, filled to the brim with warm water, sparkling and inviting. She shed her worn, travel-stained garments one by one, her body revealing the traces of her journey—a sun-kissed complexion, weathered hands and tangled hair that cascaded down her back like a chestnut waterfall. Jemima lowered herself into the tub, feeling the water envelop her, soothing her . The sensation of warmth against her skin was a balm to her weary soul. She closed her eyes and let the world outside fade away, immersing herself in this moment of pure indulgence.

The scent of something sweet that she did not quite recognize filled the air as Jemima reached for a small bottle of scented oils on the nearby table.

“Hibiscus oil,” she said quietly to herself. A pretty picture of a pink flower was on it—the same she’d seen in the garden and outside the front of the house. She uncorked it, releasing a heavenly fragrance that danced with the steam rising from the water. Droplets of oil fell from the bottle and mingled with the liquid, transforming it into a shimmering pool of luxury.

With delicate fingers, she trailed her hand through the water, stirring the oils and creating tiny whirlpools that carried the scent throughout the room. The oil clung to her skin, leaving a soft, fragrant residue that rejuvenated her senses and lifted her spirits. Jemima leaned back, her head resting against the tub’s edge, as the warm water cradled her body like a mother's embrace.

In the moment of tranquility, Jemima allowed herself to drift away, letting her mind wander to distant lands and untold adventures. She envisioned emerald-green hills and ancient cities bathed in golden sunlight. She saw herself atop a ship's mast, wind whipping through her hair, as the salty spray of the sea kissed her face. Her imagination carried her away, unburdened by the weight of reality.

Unfortunately, she was rather rudely interrupted when a knock sounded at the door. Thinking it must be one of the maids with a fresh set of clothes, Jemima bade the person enter.

To her astonishment, the door opened revealing Lionel, a dashing figure with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Jemima gasped, her hands instinctively clutching the edges of her copper tub, her wet form exposed in vulnerable surprise.

“Lionel!” she hissed. “What are you doing here?! Get out!”

“Why? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said with a wink. His eyes drifted over her form for the briefest of seconds.

Her cheeks burned pink with the memory of their lovemaking, some two and a half years ago now. They’d only done so once, and she was still mortified at being intruded upon.

“What if a maid should find you in here?!”

“Presumably, they will knock, and you will tell them you wish to be left alone a while longer.”

“I cannot do that. Mrs. Sherwood has been so kind to me; I cannot be a demanding little brat whilst I am a guest in someone else’s home.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” he said with a wicked grin, taking a seat on the rattan bench at the foot of the bed.

“Why are you here?” she asked again, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“I missed you,” he said simply.

“Why do I not believe you?”

Lionel approached the edge of the tub and dropped to his knees so their faces were level.

“What would it take for you to believe me?” he asked in a low voice, dipping his fingers into the water and letting the droplets fall onto her skin.