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Chapter Five
Terribly Misguided
Marlow stared across the vast sea each day, wondering where they were and when they would get there. It took so long to get to India. So very long.
They’d finally left the Straits of Gibraltar two days ago after a harrowing entrance in the teeth of a late spring storm. The ship had tossed violently, giving Marlow his first real bout of seasickness.
The skies had since calmed, but his emotions still roiled like a storm-tossed ship. For the thousandth time, he wondered why he’d fled England. Why wasn’t he at home, retiring to his country manor to continue his dissipated bachelor life? Another storm, a worse storm, could take the ship down to the bottom of this picturesque sea and then where would he be? Without Rosalind forever, unable to see her, hear her, think of her…
There was not only seasickness. There was sea madness. He ached for a woman, any woman, to help him forget Rosalind and his foolishness. He’d caught a glimpse of the mysterious Widow Lintel just before the storm, barricading herself in her room. He had only seen her from behind, but it was enough to prick his undisciplined imagination. How long had she been widowed? Had it been a love marriage or a thing of convenience, a union with a man twice her age? For she was very young, he could see that in the quick, shy way she hid when he glimpsed her. Might such a young, skittish widow be open to a shipside romance?
Shy. Young. Skittish.
Naughty?
There was only one small, locked door between them.
He decided he must befriend the young Widow Lintel, if only to chase constant thoughts of Rosalind from his mind. For three days in a row he shaved carefully, dressed in his best coat, tied his cravat with close attention, and smoothed his hair into some semblance of organization, although the warm sea air had a way of making it wild. That couldn’t be helped. He left his hallway door ajar, waiting to hear her emerge. She was a sneaky thing, but he was a man on a mission and when he heard her step in the hall, he went quickly to greet her.
“Mrs. Lintel.”
The petite, black-garbed woman froze with her back to him. Her spine straightened. She did not turn.
“I know we have not been introduced, but in such odd conditions, we needn’t cleave to proprieties. I’m George Spencer Bernard, Viscount Marlow. Mrs. Lintel?”
She seemed on the brink of flight, poised to run away from him. She answered in a low, unsteady voice.
“I am going above for some air, Lord Marlow. Please excuse me.”
“I could use some air myself. I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need.”
Was she afraid of him? He approached her, meaning to reassure. She turned her face away sharply, but within the movement he saw elements he recognized: the curve of a cheek, a particularly delicate, pointed chin. He recognized enough to suck in a breath, to question his sanity. She could not be Rosalind but looked eerily like her.
He took the widow’s arm, carried away by the depth of his confusion, then dropped it when she turned to face him. He stared at her lower lip, noted how it trembled. His mind could not process what his eyes saw. She was so like Rosalind as to be her, but Rosalind was in England. She was not a widow. Rosalind’s surname was Lionel, not Lintel.
Lionel.
Lintel.
It slowly dawned on him. Widow Lintel was Rosalind, his faraway love. His nightmare and grace. His thoughts snapped to clarity if not acceptance. It was truly Rosalind standing beside him dressed in mourning, lips trembling, her gaze both rueful and frightened.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Marlow,” she said in her normal voice, not the low one she’d used to hide her identity. “I suppose you are surprised.”
“I am speechless.” He opened his mouth and closed it. “I don’t… I can’t… How are you here?”
“That is a long and complicated story. I suppose the shortest way to explain is that I couldn’t bear to let you go away, and so I conspired to come too.”
“To come to India?” Realization gave way to horror. “You ‘conspired?’ Tell me you have not stolen away from England without your parents’ permission?”
She gazed at him, tears building. “I did what I believed I must. But it was probably a scandalous thing to do.”
“Rosalind, my dear.” He could not breathe. He was aghast. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You have run away from home.”
“To be with you,” she said, her voice an injured warble. She began to cry in earnest. “Are you angry? I thought you would be pleased and excited to see me.”
He took her arm, looking up and down the hall to be sure they were unobserved. “Come with me.” He led her into the nearest room, her own, and shut the door. He could not stop feeling astonished, but he must get past the shock and plan what to do now. His mind spun through their terribly limited possibilities, finding no answers. He could not convince the captain to turn the ship around and return to England. They were past Gibraltar, so he could not carry her off the Providence and put her on some other ship to get her home.
