Page 25 of Go, Rogue

“Don’t be ridiculous. A sea captain does not bring his wife aboard his ship.”

“Some do. American whaling captains take their wives with them often enough.”

McGann raises his eyebrow. “Do they?”

“Yes, sir. Although, whalers are well-known gluttons for punishment.”

“They must be.” McGann sighs. “But you might be right about our guest. I’ll speak to her. Better they think she’s my wife than some other fool notion.”

“Indeed, Captain. And if I may ask, who is she really?”

He feels that flare of… something… again. “She’s my wife. Did you not just say so yourself?”

Catherine sees the hip bath, a bit of steam rising from the still-warm water, as soon as she wakes. She vaguely remembers McGann bringing it in and stroking her shoulder. At the time, she thought it was a dream, but now she sees it isn’t.

He’s brought her a bath. A bath! The man is a godsend. She gives a little squeal and launches herself out of bed. She should probably be annoyed that he crept into her room while she was sleeping, but she isn’t. A bath is heaven.

She shrugs out of the linen shirt she slept in and undoes her golden, glittery hair from its braid. She is certain she will never glitter her hair again. Empress Eugénie can keep all her bright ideas about fashion to herself next time. The glitter clings to everything and makes her scalp itch.

She faces the tub and dips one toe in. Still warm. And then the other. Glorious. She sinks down, immersing as much of herself as possible into the water. And then she takes her time, wiping away the sweat and dirt and grime of travel from her body with the felt cloth that McGann left for her.

He’s left a small sliver of soap, too, which she saves for her hair. It’s greasy and knotted and, heaven help her, so itchy, from the dirt and glitter and rain. She wets down her scalp and then uses the soap to scrub every bit, from her roots to her tips.

Once rinsed clean, Catherine rises and dresses herself, feeling better than she has in, well, certainly better than she has since her first season. Back when her father was alive and she danced through balls and chatted through salons, a diamond of the first water with the world at her feet.

But even then, when proposals were thick on the ground and she never dreamed she might one day worry about money or safety or freedom, even then, she turned every one of those proposals down.

She told her mother she wasn’t ready. She told her father, on the rare occasions he deigned to remember she existed, that she was waiting for the kind of wealthy, powerful match that a diamond of the first water deserves. And later, after he died, she told Violet she was having too much fun.

But the reality is that even then, she harbored a notion that the world of the ton was not enough. Or that she was more.

And that the world she’d lived in her entire life didn’t quite fit her the way it should. That it was limiting, although she couldn’t quite articulate how. Or she couldn’t until her engagement, which taught her more about the limitations of the ton than she ever cared to know.

But now, here, aboard this ship, she has something akin to freedom, and she isn’t going to waste it.

Nine more days to sort her future. Nine more days to—her stomach rumbles, interrupting her thoughts.

She ought to find breakfast before she goes about designing her future. She strides to the door in her still bare feet and grasps the handle, only to find—Oh.

No.

Not possible. She jiggles the door handle.

But it’s definitely, beyond a doubt, locked.

No! Drat that dratted man!

He’s locked her in. How could he?

Never let a man lock you in anywhere, lass.

That’s what he said to her six months ago when he taught her how to fight. She remembers his words exactly. And his mellifluous accent that washes over her senses, even in recollection.

Drat him twice over.

She yanks on the handle once more, just to make sure, calmly at first and then harder and harder until she knows for a certainty it’s not going to open.

“Hello!” she calls out then. “I seem to be stuck.”