Page 22 of Barbarous

“Why do I feel like Two Canoes is not the only man on this ship to hold such antiquated beliefs when it comes to the sexes?” She turned her back on his laughter.

Hugh showed the boys his luxurious cabin, a well-conceived space that held many fascinating objects—foremost of those being a very large bed covered with a rich dark green velvet counterpane and a multitude of cushions. Daphne tried not to imagine what the handsome pirate did in such a bed.

The boys were particularly curious about a shadowbox containing a variety of shark teeth.

“Those are large, but this one is in a class by itself.” Hugh showed them the single fob on his watch. The tooth was set in gold with a large ruby at the top.

“This is the tooth of a great white shark we encountered on a journey around the Cape of Good Hope. We’d hooked a rather large rockfish and its ascent attracted the great white. We finally brought the monster on board, and, believing it to be subdued, we approached too closely. I am lucky only to have lost this.” He pulled the glove from his left hand and held it up for their inspection. His nails were clean and impeccably manicured, but it was a hand that had seen its share of work. His third finger was missing and deep cuts extended into the fingers on either side. “When we opened the beast’s stomach we found a rather impressive ruby necklace. We took our trophies, had several excellent meals, and nursed our battle scars from the encounter.” He grinned down at the marveling twins. “So there, Cousins, is the story of the missing finger.”

“Did it hurt?” Lucien asked.

“Like the dickens.”

Richard shot Daphne a glance. “Is that how you lost your eye, too?”

Hugh chuckled. “No, the shark had to be satisfied with a finger. Now, shall we inspect the rest of the ship while your mother and Rowena rest here for a few moments? Two Canoes and Martín told me they would show you how to load a cannon.”

The prospect of roaming the ship without female oversight drove thoughts of Hugh’s missing eye from her sons’ minds and they began to pull him from the room.

“Please excuse us, ladies,” Hugh begged as the door closed behind them.

Rowena sniffed, her expression pinched. “What an unsavory-looking lot that was.”

“I believe sailors are often colorful men.” Daphne studied the small collection of books in the built-in bookshelf.

“Sailors?” Rowena snorted. “Pirates is more like.”

“Mmmm.” Daphne was not in the mood to argue. Hugh had books by Swift, Pope, Defoe, Smollett, and Paine. There were also a few Daphne had heard of, but not read. And there was one title, Fanny Hill, by John Cleland which was new to her. She took the volume from the shelf, opened it at random and read a few sentences. And then she reread the passage and slammed the book shut. Good Lord! Blood thudded in her ears and she swallowed, staring down at the book as if it were a dangerous animal. She foolishly glanced around; there was only Rowena, and she was busy with her eternal mending. Daphne opened the book again, this time to a different page. She didn’t have to read very many words before she closed it again, clasping it tightly to her chest, as if it might somehow get away. Thomas’s library contained thousands of books; it was one of the most respected libraries in the south of England. But it contained nothing like this. Nothing.

Daphne stared down at the book’s innocuous calfskin binding, her mind churning. She wanted it. Badly. She could not recall a time she’d experienced such gut-wrenching covetousness. Her hands seemed to assume minds of their own and, before she knew it, she’d opened her reticule and tucked the slim volume inside. There! Yet another thing she had stolen from Hugh Redvers.

She ignored the hot guilt rolling through her body and looked at the shelf; the gap between books was conspicuous, so she grabbed another volume to make the single gap less glaring and dropped into a chair.

Rowena looked up from her needlework and squinted. “Is aught amiss, my lady?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your cheeks have become quite red.”

“A trifle warm.” Daphne fanned herself with the book, her mind on the volume in her reticule. She had just stolen something, a book—a thing she valued above all other possessions. She stared at the door to the cabin, her heart still pounding. There was time to put it back. She reached for her reticule, but then stopped. Even from her brief look she could see the book contained valuable information. When had she ever rejected an opportunity to learn? And just a quick glimpse had been most enlightening. Not to mention . . . disturbing. Perhaps this book could help her understand some things. Things she could ask no one else—things a woman her age would know if she’d had a real marriage. Besides, she wasn’t stealing it so much as borrowing it without Hugh’s permission.

She imagined his expression if she were to ask to borrow it and shuddered; he would tease her to madness.

A searing flare of anger blazed in her chest; she was a widow—a mother of two and a woman of twenty-eight, and yet she was utterly ignorant and inexperienced when it came to sexual relations. It was ridiculous. She opened the book still in her hands—something of Pope’s, she noted absently—too agitated to read it.

Really, it was insupportable! How was she supposed to live with these tumultuous feelings he caused inside her on an hourly basis? How was she supposed to tend to her children, manage a vast estate, and pursue her philosophical work if she could think of nothing but . . . him?

Daphne didn’t fool herself that reading this stolen book would solve any problems. Likely it would just cause more. No, the only solution to Hugh Redvers was to get away from him, or for him to leave. But she could not eject him from his own house. She would have to be the one to leave.

She was staring blindly at the book in her hands when the thought popped into her head: Why not go to London? She had planned to go after her mourning ended. The boys required a full-time tutor and she needed . . . well, she couldn’t think of what she needed just now, but she was sure she must need something.

Yes, London. She would get away from Hugh’s distracting presence just long enough to decide how to go about confessing the truth to him—to get her ducks in a row for the day when she must take her sons and leave.

Daphne sagged with relief at having made a decision—any decision. She was about to reshelf the Pope book when the door opened. Hugh stopped near the bookshelf and bent to pick up yet another book, one she must have knocked to the floor in her frenzy.

He held it up. “Did you want this, my lady?”

“It must have fallen when I pulled out this one.” Daphne shoved the Pope volume at him and he re-shelved both books. The vacancy on the shelf seemed to glow more brightly than a beacon, but Hugh did not appear to notice.