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His own surprise forced a soft laugh from him. His intruder wasn’t a thief but a lost passenger! “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, madam. You’ve found your way tomycabin.” As he spoke, the barest trace of night jasmine drifted to him, and he knew. Despite the improbability of it, he had Miss Helen Corbyn in his arms once more.
She flinched at his words, and he let her go. She held fast to her candlestick, although she did lower it a notch. He felt her scrutiny as they stood in the shadows. The similarity to that night in the museum’s back corridors was unmistakable. If he could recognize her from her scent alone, it was only a matter of time before she did the same, unless he could distract her. Set her back on her heels.
He affected a tone of wry amusement. “Miss Corbyn, I wouldn’t have thought you the sort to rely on such common tricks to trap a man. What would your Lord… Thorsby was it? What would he have to say?”
She gasped. “Tricks? I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
“Lying in wait in a man’s cabin,” he said. “I imagine one of the Tyndales will arrive to find us soon. Will it be the professor?” he asked as he litthe remaining branch of candles. The sooner he could dispel the museum-like shadows, the better. “Or perhaps the lovely Miss Lydia, although I can’t imagine her the sort to further another woman’s plot.”
“A man’s cabin… I would never…” Miss Corbyn’s words trailed off, and she lowered the candlestick another few inches to gaze about them. Her eyes landed on the coat he’d hung on the valet when he returned from his aborted supper. His shaving things atop the vanity and finally his boots beside the wardrobe.
“Oh! Mr. Evelyn,” she said breathlessly. “I must apologize—” The ship rolled then, pitching her toward him. She paled, her skin turning to chalk beneath a faint sheen of sweat before she muttered, “Oh, no.”
Recognizing the signs, he thrust her from him and scrambled for the basin. He held the porcelain beneath her, arms extended as far as they would go, as she retched. He waited, wincing as she emptied her stomach.
When she finished, they both stared at his carpet for a long beat. Finally, Rhys lowered the basin to reach for his handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, mortification lacing her words as she took the linen square. Despite her embarrassment, she looked up and met his eye. “For everything. For mistaking your room, for…” She waved a hand to indicate all that had passed between them. “Is this not the port side?” she asked, and his pity grew.
“This is the starboard side, Miss Corbyn.” He reached for her glove, which had fallen to the floor, and pressed it gently into her hand.
She studied it for an overlong moment before saying, “Of course it is. Again, I must apologize.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m certain I’ve been in worse situations.”
She eyed him skeptically then, to his surprise, she smiled. “You’ve my condolences then, for the wretched life you’ve led, Mr. Evelyn.” She turned her gaze to the candlestick, which she’d curiously held tight to while she retched. Setting it gingerly atop the desk, she made to go.
“Will you allow me to escort you back to your cabin?” he asked, silently cursing his tongue. The less time he spent in the lady’s company, the better, but he couldn’t leave her to wander the corridors endlessly. He thought she might refuse his offer, but then she nodded stiffly and waited at the door while he shrugged into his coat.
——
Helen’s face burnedwith the heat of her mortification as Mr. Evelyn led them along the corridor to her port-side cabin. She’d nearly been sick on the man’s shoes and would have if not for his quick actions in collecting the basin. But he’d been nothing but kind—offering his handkerchief and his escort and brushing aside her apology as if he were accustomed to ladies casting their accounts at his feet.
When they reached her cabin, she stopped and turned to take her leave of him.
“You’re certain this is the one?” he asked.
Her lips twisted wryly, but she checked the number again. 7P. P forPort. Why had she not looked more closely before she invaded his cabin?
Her wretched stomach, that was why. The cursed thing had caused her to flee headlong into the first number seven cabin she came to, no matter that it had been on the wrong side of the ship.
“I’m certain,” she said with a nod. “And I thank you for your escort.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“You are a bold liar, Mr. Evelyn, but I suppose politeness demands it.”
He smiled, the merest tilting of his lips, and her breath caught. The action deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes and sent a ripple along her spine that was at odds with the warm night.
“May I suggest lemonade?” he said softly.
“Lemonade?”
“My sister Fiona suffered—suffers—from travel sickness. Lemonade always settles her stomach.”
Helen’s father had pressed a sackful of ginger candies into her hands at Southampton. Shortly after that, her mother had tucked a tin of peppermints into her reticule. Sadly, neither of their offerings had done the trick.
“I shall have to try your sister’s remedy,” she said.
