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“Miss Haviland is a bitch in sheep’s clothing!”
“Miss Russell! You’re being corrupted by the company you’ve been keeping!” he said in horror.
She grinned up at him. His stiff-rumped reaction was one of the few cheery things that had happened during this long day. “I’d recognize Miss Haviland as a bitch if I were Queen Victoria herself. Now go away and let me finish my work.”
“You’re impossible,” he said, his frustration clear.
“True enough. And you’re endangering me. Go away.”
He turned on his heel and stalked, actually stalked, toward the stairs. She watched him go with real affection. If she could do anything in the area of matchmaking she’d make certain the captain ended up with that malignant harpy who was so intent on changing everything about him and making his life miserable. If Fulton nourished a tendre for that young lady then he could deal with a broken heart—such things were temporary. A marriage with the diabolically wicked Miss Haviland would last the rest of his life.
She paused with one hand in the bucket of hot water, not even noticing its scal
ding heat. Broken hearts were temporary, she’d been told, and for the first time she realized that was true. Her longing, her pain and sorrow at Tarkington’s betrayal were gone, leaving her with nothing but a coolly murderous rage that she’d never be able to indulge. At least, not on him. But let one other specimen of the male gender attempt to cozen her, trick her, treat her with deceptive tenderness, and what she’d done with the sailor would be mild in comparison.
She rose, staggering slightly, and wondering what she would do with the bucket of water. She should take it down and dump it, but any unnecessary trip up and down those damned stairs was out of the question. Despite Mrs. Crozier’s orders she wasn’t about to throw it out of the window on some poor passerby. Not unless she could time it for Gwendolyn’s departure.
Assuming she planned to depart. Gwendolyn had had a determined look on her face, and it wouldn’t surprise Maddy if she didn’t intend to cement the captain’s commitment to her by having him ruin her.
It hadn’t worked in Maddy’s case—it probably wouldn’t work with Morgan either. Shame washed through her again, the shame that was a constant companion, and she shook it away, concentrating on the captain and his betrothed. Truly, there was no need for the woman to trap him further—once an engagement was announced there was no way a gentleman could back down.
But pirates weren’t gentlemen, no matter how much they tried to be. And if the captain didn’t want to marry someone, she could scarcely imagine him doing so. He wouldn’t think twice about leaving someone at the altar—the man seemed to have absolutely no concern for social mores. Mixed numbers at dinner, not the right cutlery, kissing strange women on the street. What next?
She moved back to the three other bedrooms on the floor, lugging the bucket with her, resetting the unused fire that was laid in each grate, carefully folding back the bed coverings for whatever fantasy guest Mrs. Crozier might think would appear. She’d left the captain’s room for last.
Which was foolish—it was always the first one she finished in the mornings, eager to get it out of the way. It smelled like him. Like the sea, and sun-bleached cloth, and herb-scented soap. She’d first smelled that enticing scent when he’d kissed her, and every time she went into his room she was forcibly reminded of those shattering moments on a public street.
The gaslight had been turned low. He didn’t bother with a valet, and why should he, when he seldom wore cravats and cared not one whit about what a proper gentleman should wear. Gwendolyn would change that, Maddy thought, moving toward the bed. Sooner rather than later—she wouldn’t want her wedding ceremony tainted by the slightest lapse in proper etiquette.
Not that it mattered—Maddy would be gone well before then. Soon, please God, she thought, staring at the high, wide bed in a dazed stupor. She could still hear the laughing voices downstairs, and she wanted to crawl onto that bed, for just a few minutes, and sleep. Wanted it so badly she could have wept.
She folded down the covers, her hands lingering for a moment on the tight weave of the starched linen sheets. She loved linen sheets—the feel of them on her skin. There were times, when no one was around, when she would sleep naked beneath them, simply to enjoy the sensation.
She couldn’t reach the far side of the big bed, and instead of going around she climbed up, pulling the rest of the coverlet up. She was so tired. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly, then gave in to just a flash of temptation, stretching out on the soft, lovely bed. Just for a moment, and then she’d get up. Just for a moment.
Luca was in an odd, discontented mood tonight, and he couldn’t shake it.
It might have been the company. He liked Fulton well enough, but Rufus Brown was exactly the sort he usually wanted to throttle. Sly and shallow and full of gossip, a little bit of the man would last a long while. Gwendolyn seemed to have adopted him as her new pet, which meant he’d be seeing far too much of him before he figured out how to drive his fiancée away.
If he were still a street rat he’d have Billy knock Mr. Brown into the bay, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with his snide comments and mincing ways. Fifteen years ago he would have happily done it himself.
But the years at sea had changed him. Death came too swiftly and capriciously on board ship, and it had given him a new respect for life. He might not care for Mr. Brown, but he was hardly going to arrange his murder.
A small accident that might leave him housebound was another matter, however. Though considering the extent of the injuries the man had recently suffered in a carriage accident, there didn’t appear to be much that could slow him down.
But Brown was the least of his problems. He knew exactly what was bothering him, and both Billy and Wart would have laughed at being right. It was women. One particular woman.
He’d seen the fury in her dark blue eyes when Gwendolyn had called her “girl,” and it had been one of the few entertaining moments of an endless evening. That “girl” would cut Gwendolyn’s throat as soon as look at her. If she’d been born on the streets as he had been.
But she hadn’t been. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth—that accent of hers that kept slipping, that was the upper-class one, when she forgot she was supposed to be a maid.
His eyes had gone to hers unerringly as she tried to hide behind the red-headed girl, who was a half a foot shorter than she was. Seeing her again, he was astonished that he hadn’t recognized her right off. Back when the Maddy Rose had been christened, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, and while he had the good sense not to consider interfering with his employer’s daughter, the thought of her had provided him with many a pleasant fantasy.
And now she was here, under his roof, and fair game. He wasn’t the kind of man to trifle with gently bred virgins, but this girl, virgin or not, was a liar and a cheat. He didn’t give a damn if she was doing this for her father—he allowed for no excuses. She’d declared herself his enemy by coming into his household under false pretenses, and when it came to his enemies he was ruthless. If they were on board ship he would have had her flogged.
No he wouldn’t, he reminded himself. He didn’t have anyone flogged—there were better ways to get cooperation and mete out punishment. Locking her in the brig for a week would have put the fear of God in her.
But there was no brig in his house on Water Street, and much as he liked the idea of having her locked up and totally at his mercy, it would be very unwise on his part. No, his anger was fading, but his determination was growing. He was going to get what he wanted from the interloper. He was going to get the truth, and anything else he wanted. And he wanted a great deal.
