Page 62 of Only Scandal Will Do

Growling with impatience, Duncan paced back and forth, the echo of Katarina saying his name reverberating in his mind.

The first mate continued to man the wheel, but cast suspicious looks at him. A touch to the pistol stuck in his breeches reassured him he had the situation under control.

The man was a fool if he believed that pistol would stop Duncan from taking the wheel. A thought that had indeed passed through his mind. A short time later, a rumpled, bleary-eyed Stratton arrived on the bridge. “You must stop the ship, Captain,” Duncan demanded.

The captain fixed him with a stony look. “Has someone fallen overboard?” Stratton had apparently been apprised of the reason for the request, hence his testiness.

Duncan drew himself up to his full height. “My wife has had no rest or respite from her ordeal for more than a day. She is exhausted and I begin to fear for her life.” Unblinking, he stared into the captain’s impassive face, and clenched his hand in a fist. “If I have to throw the anchor overboard myself, sir, I will have this ship stopped!”

Stratton eyed him for a long moment, as if considering the demand.

Captain be damned. Duncan plucked the flintlock from belt of the astonished first mate, smoothly cocked the piece and shoved it into the captain’s brawny chest. “I assume your first mate is capable of stopping the ship himself, Captain. With or without your assistance?”

The captain’s eyes widened and he pursed his lips, but Duncan didn’t waver. Stratton let out a slow breath then nodded crisply to the helmsman. “Turn her into the wind, Mr. Cooper. This is Lord Dalbury’s ship, and what he wants, or what his wife wants, he gets.” Stratton met his gaze. “Regardless of the danger to anyone else aboard. Make ready to drop anchor,” he called to the remaining men on watch.

With precision born of long practice, the stunned crew banked the sails and the ship began to slow. Within twenty minutes the ship stilled, rocking only with the soft lap of the waves.

Assured the ship had indeed halted, Duncan removed the pistol from the captain’s chest and left the bridge. He raced down the corridor, shoving the weapon into his waistband when he stopped at Katarina’s cabin then eased the door open.

She had turned on her side, facing the door, her face still deathly white. A new look of peace shone there as well, a relaxation far different from the tense, pain-filled expression she’d worn when he’d left her. His heart ached to see her lips curved upward in a hint of a smile, and he thanked God her ordeal seemed over.

He entered the cabin quietly, so as not to disturb her, although he suspected he could have shot off a cannon and she would not have awakened. Placing the pistol on the table, he quickly doffed boots, stockings and breeches. This left him in only in a loose shirt, but with a shrug he crawled into bed behind his sleeping wife.

Settled in next to her, he molded his body to hers, cradling it with his warmth and laying his arm across her for protection. Head on the pillow, he relaxed for the first time that day. He kissed the top of her head and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Goodnight, my lady,” he whispered in her ear.

To his surprise, she turned until she faced him and draped her arm over his body. All sense of relaxation fled. Pray God this was not a dream. He placed another kiss on her forehead and she roused long enough to smile and say, “Duncan? You may call me Katarina now.” Then she was fast asleep, leaving him speechless, filled with the wonder and relief of a captain whose ship had, against all odds, made it into the harbor after a long, hard voyage.

CHAPTER 27

Kat surfaced from sleep, stretched and winced. Every muscle was sore, like someone had beaten her. She didn’t want to move, just lay here and enjoy the closeness of her husband. Snuggled against his deliciously warm body beside her, she reveled in the protective arm that encircled her. She had indeed gone through Hell to get to Heaven with this man, but now she was certain. He cared for her. Close to her ear, his breath was regular and even. Still asleep. As she shifted to turn onto her back, his grip tightened. She opened her eyes and met his concerned brown gaze.

“Thirsty.” The word emerged from her dry mouth as a croak.

“Here, sweetheart.” He maneuvered himself to the side of the bed then positioned her with her back to the headboard. When she was settled, he grasped a big pottery mug from the bedside table filled to the brim with some peculiar yellow liquid. Carefully, he held it to her mouth and she wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell. But she was too thirsty to care much and put her lips to the thick rim.

“Don’t take too much at once, my lady. We want to make sure this stays down.”

The pungent taste matched the smell. She made a face as she took a cautious sip. The liquid was laced with honey, though that did little to disguise the unusual flavor. “What is this?” She stared at the mug as she waited to see the effects of the strange brew.

“Ginger tea. Larraby assures me it is the sovereign remedy for nausea from well-nigh every sailor on board.” He peered at her expectantly. “How do you feel?”

“Still thirsty.” She sipped again, ignoring the odd taste and enjoying the moisture gliding down her throat like silk. And it seemed to be staying down. “But better,” she reassured him.

Dark circles beneath his eyes attested to his vigil over her last night. His handsome face was haggard, and the thin purple scars on his cheek stood out in harsh contrast to his pale skin. Stubble she had never seen before lay in a thick blond haze on his cheeks. Rumpled, creased beyond repair, his fine linen shirt sported stains upon it as though... Kat flicked her gaze downward, embarrassed to think what they must be--to find herself even more chagrined at the sight of his bare legs. Thank God his shirt covered the rest of him.

Her cheeks flamed, and Duncan laughed. “I thought comfort a virtue prudent to indulge

in last night, my dear. Hence my attire. I assure you I was the perfect gentleman.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Even I never thought you so depraved, as to take advantage of a woman as ill as I.” His sharp intake of breath when she mentioned his name made her smile wider. She bent her head to the mug and savored the tea for a moment. “I meant what I said last night, Duncan. You may call me Katarina now. Or Kat, if you prefer.”

He stared, looking perplexed. “I beg your pardon, madam, but what have you done with my wife? You cannot be the same woman who swore she would never be called anything other than Lady Dalbury.”

One more sip, then she lay on the pillows. She drew in a slow breath and touched his scarred cheek. No recoil. Releasing her breath, she caressed the raised streaks with her thumb.

“No, I am not that same woman. But you are not the man you were either.”

He covered her hand with his, pressed it to his cheek, then placed a kiss on her palm.