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“Steves stopped ’em. He got here afore she were hurt,” he rushes to tell me.
I relax a bit. Steves is Bentwood’s man.
“Before she was hurt?”
“Afore the storm. She were feeling betta, ready ta go above for air. Sent me for water. I come back, two gents were tryin’ to get into her cabin. Steves heard me shout, ’cause I can’t take on two men. Not alone.”
“Dear God!”
“Nah, I coulda, if I’d known. They don’ know how ta fight, and they run when Steves arrived. I tripped one but couldn’t keep him down. T’other got clean away. The one I downed gets me privates, ‘n I couldn’ ’elp afta’ tha’.”
My mind races. Someone tried to assault Jenny.
“Where is the key?”
He shakes his head.
“How do I get in there?” I don’t want to send him to Lady E., leaving me alone, but I need help. “Go up the ladder,” I instruct. “There’s a lady waiting. Tell her what happened, and that we’re locked out of the cabin.”
He nods vigorously.
“Then come back down. I need you to keep me safe. Do you understand? Lord Bentwood will reward you.”
With a nod, he is off.
Open-palmed, I slam the door, calling, “Jenny, it’s Lady Bentwood. Can you let me in?”
I press my ear to the wood, listening.
Hard to tell between the creaks and groaning of the ship, but I think I hear a moan, then no more. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. There’s nothing to do but wait.
Bentwood arrives, scaring me senseless when he jumps through the hatch. The ladder wouldn’t have taken much longer, especially with the advantage of trousers, but I thrill at the sight of him in full hero form.
Perhaps I shouldn’t fight being rescued. He is rather dashing when he comes to a person’s aid.
“Is no one here with you?' he storms.
The boy has not returned.
“You are here.”
I hide my relief, taking his hand so he can help me rise.
Neither of us is wearing gloves. The intimacy of sailing removes one from such niceties. It shouldn’t. There’s something about flesh to flesh that shivers through me.
Refusing to be swallowed by useless emotions, I pull back and dust off my gown, only partially succeeding in brushing off his touch.
The narrow passageway forces us to stand close, his heat radiating. This is impossible.
Disconcerted, I say, “Unless you can break down the door, why don’t you wait by the hatch. Lady Eleanor won’t be long.”
“She’s after her box of tricks.” He steps back, taking his heat with him. “Have you heard anything?”
“No… Ah.”
I see Lady E.’s foot, and ankle, and… I tilt my head… a bit of her limb. She followed my example and tied up her skirt. Good for her.
Bentwood assists, gaze aimed higher than the forbidden horizon of her limbs. Such poppycock that the mere mention of limbs is scandalous, let alone looking at them. When no one is watching, I take good notice of Bentwood’s well-formed calves, nicely revealed in fashionably tight trousers. A waste not to be noticed.
