Page 88 of Dangerous

When they finished Bouchard leaned back in his chair, his expression far less disgruntled than it had been an hour earlier.

“That was close, eh, my lord?” He cut Adam an arrogant smirk as the latter put the pieces back in their box.

Adam cocked an eyebrow but made no comment.

“Ramsay tell me you like to play card,” he said, his broken English drawing a faint smile from her husband.

“I do,” he admitted, replacing the box and board on their stand. “Unfortunately, I did not bring any with me.”

Bouchard dismissed his words with a lazy wave. “I ’ave lots. What do you play?”

Adam took a seat beside Mia. “What do you play, Captain?”

“Piquet, vingt et un, lots of udders. Shall we ’ave a game?”

Mia gave her husband a look much like the one he’d given her earlier, but he ignored it.

“I’d welcome a game, Captain.”

Bouchard smiled and switched to his native tongue, as if the conversation were too important to have in English. “Let us play in the boardroom. Perhaps my mate Beauville will join us.”

“Are you coming, my dear?” It was the first time he’d used an endearment with her since she’d left Brighton.

“I think I will take a nap. You go and enjoy yourself, but not too much?”

Amusement flashed in his pale, predatory eyes.

* * *

The wild tossing of the ship woke her and Mia peered at the small clock: it was nearly midnight. Her stomach roiled and her neck was kinked from the odd angle at which she’d been sleeping. She needed fresh air, and quickly.

She sat up too fast and her head spun and throbbed. She forced herself to move more slowly, her stomach creeping inexorably toward her mouth as she fastened her cloak around her and inched toward the door, holding on to walls and furniture as she went. She paused outside the door, glancing toward the end of the corridor, where the wardroom door stood open. The low rumble of male voices told her they were still playing cards. She would not disturb Adam.

Mia wrestled opened the door to the deck and encountered the opening scene from The Tempest. She considered returning to her cabin but the fresh air—as violent as it might be—was already beginning to scour away the nausea that had threatened to overcome her below.

She pulled the door shut and wrapped her cloak tighter before creeping toward one of the crates they frequently sat on whenever they came on deck. Wind and rain and salty sea spray whipped her face and the ship tipped wildly to one side just as she reached the first wooden crate. She scrambled for the crate and barely grasped the rough, splintered edge before her feet began to slide out from under her.

Her fingers burned as she struggled to hold on and drag herself upright. The boat crested another swell and then hit the trough, slamming her to her knees. Sharp pain shot from her knees to her hips.

This had been a dreadful idea.

She’d just pulled herself close enough to get a better grasp when the ship listed almost on its side and a sheet of cold water slapped her like a huge, frigid hand. She flinched away and lost her grip on the crate. Time slowed to a crawl as she slid toward the railing, her feet and hands scrabbling to find purchase on the wet, slippery wood of the deck.

A hand closed around her upper arm, the grip hard enough to make her cry out.

“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Her husband’s voice cut through the wind and rain as he jerked her toward the yellow glow of the stairwell. His arm slid around her and pulled her tight to his side as they staggered to safety. Bouchard appeared in the opening and took her other arm while Adam pushed her toward him and grabbed the doors, which were flapping like wings, trying to break free. He slammed the doors shut and turned to face her. The silence that followed seemed louder than the raging storm.

Bouchard released her as soon as the door closed.

“Are you mad at me, Adam?” she asked, stupidly.

Mia had thought Adam had been angry that day he’d caught her flirting with Gamble. And then she’d thought he was even angrier when he’d tracked her down to Ramsay’s house that morning.

She’d been wrong. His eyes burned like fire opals in his red face and his black brows were drawn into a flat line. Mia flinched back and would have fallen had Bouchard not been right behind her and steadied her with his hands.

Adam froze and the color drained from his face like sand from an hourglass. His eyes flickered from Bouchard to Mia and back and his features settled into their normal, unreadable lines.

He politely offered Mia his arm. “Thank you for your help, Captain.”