Chapter 3 #2
If Mrs. Davenport thought him ill-mannered, she displayed no outward signs of disapproval—either by deed or facial expression.
Although, there was something about her manner that suggested to Phinn that something wasn’t quite right in her world.
A wariness behind her eyes perhaps? A studied watchfulness? A tightness in her smile?
He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong precisely, but he sensed that Mrs. Davenport might be in trouble, despite her earlier denial.
Something didn’t feel right about her situation and her story.
And of course, he had no idea how to broach such a topic in a sensitive way.
He was not the most eloquent of men, even when he did manage to control his stammer. Which was rarely.
In any event, in a handful of hours they would reach Bristol and he would be farewelling the woman and her child. He’d never see them again.
For no fathomable reason, the idea made him feel disgruntled, like he had a pebble stuck in his shoe.
Once afternoon tea was over, they all returned to the poop deck and were greeted with the sight of rolling green hills on either side of the Kinsale Cloud.
It wouldn’t be long before they reached the mouth of the River Avon.
The sea had calmed a fraction and young Christopher Davenport seemed to have completely recovered from his bout of seasickness.
Indeed, he appeared to be in fine spirits; standing a few feet away, his purple rabbit clutched in his arms as he was laughing at Brutus’s antics.
A trio of seagulls had decided to swoop down and chase the pug, but Brutus didn’t seem to mind.
In fact, he was having the time of his life, racing about the deck, yapping and jumping and generally creating a rumpus.
Mrs. Davenport was laughing too, her expression alight with mirth.
In the afternoon sunlight, her hazel eyes glowed like amber-hued honey that was flecked with glints of green and gold.
Phinn could get lost in those eyes if he let himself.
Then and there, he decided that Mr. Davenport—whoever he was—had been one lucky bastard to have wed someone as lovely as this woman.
His attention wandered back to Mrs. Davenport’s son. “You’ve a f-f-fine lad there,” he observed. Then some devil took hold of his tongue and he added, “You and your hus-husband must be p-p-proud o’ him.”
Phinn would have liked to have claimed that he was only concerned about Mrs. Davenport’s situation—that he wasn’t actually fishing for information about her marital status—but that was a total lie.
He was wildly curious about this woman. And really, he shouldn’t have been at all surprised when Mrs. Davenport’s smile immediately faded and she turned her head in such a way that her bonnet shielded her countenance.
It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud and Phinn could have kicked himself for dimming her light.
“Yes, very proud,” she murmured, her gaze trained steadfastly on the horizon. “He’s a sweet boy.” Her gloved hands gripped the railing tightly. “I’m sorry if I seem rude, my lord, but the subject of Christopher’s father is one that I’d rather not discuss. If that’s all right with you.”
“O’ course,” said Phinn.
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes—Phinn wasn’t sure at all how to repair the damage he’d done—but at length, Mrs. Davenport ventured in a tone laced with regret, “I’ve gone and made things all awkward, haven’t I?
” Turning to face him, she continued, “The truth is, my lord, Christopher’s father passed away only a year ago and if Christopher overhears—”
“No, that’s-that’s quite all right, Mrs. Davenport,” said Phinn as guilt pinched inside his chest. He hated the idea that he’d inadvertently caused the young woman any sort of emotional distress because he’d been nosy.
He especially didn’t want to upset her son.
“I’m sorry for your loss. And it was my fault en-entirely for bringin’ up the subject.
It-it was tactless of m-m-me. And o’ course, it’s none o’ me b-business. ”
“Thank you for your understanding, my lord.” Mrs. Davenport offered him a shy smile. “And for your generosity of spirit. Given that Christopher and I are interlopers, I’m most grateful that you’ve been nothing but kindness itself. You are a true nobleman.”
Phinn inclined his head at the compliment.
He didn’t think anyone had ever said anything quite so nice to him before.
Truth to tell, his tongue had suddenly become hopelessly tied in knots and he couldn’t, for the moment, loosen it.
He had the horrid feeling that he might be blushing again—his face was unaccountably hot.
Say thank you, O’Connell, you great clodpole, his inner voice urged. You can at least do that.
But as his mouth at last began to cooperate, the Kinsale Cloud suddenly hit a patch of rough swell.
The ship lurched and Mrs. Davenport stumbled toward Phinn, straight into his arms. As they collided, she emitted a soft sound like “ooft” and her delicious floral scent immediately drifted around him.
He was acutely aware of the press of her soft, generous curves against his body …
It was the most exquisite of tortures. “I’ve got you, Mrs. Daven …
Mrs. Davenport,” he murmured gruffly as he strove to hold her steady, his hands about her waist. For one moment, he thought he might lose his balance too until he braced himself against the taffrail.
Glancing past Mrs. Davenport, he could see that young Christopher was safe enough—the boy had managed to catch hold of the railing by the stairs leading to the quarterdeck—and he told her so.
“Oh … Oh good,” Mrs. Davenport said. To Phinn’s ears, she sounded a trifle breathless. But then, he was feeling that way too. Looking over her shoulder, she checked on her son before turning back to meet his gaze. “Thank you for catching me, my lord.”
“’Twas not … ’twas not a b-b-bother,” he managed.
Although that was a lie. He was bothered all over, from the top of his head, down to his toes and everywhere else in between.
His throat felt tight, his pulse was racing, strange tingles of awareness were rushing across his skin.
What’s more, he couldn’t seem to relinquish his hold on the woman.
Or stop himself from studying her pretty face and the way a rose-hued blush had flooded her cheeks.
Or the way her perfect white teeth were pressing into the soft plump pillow of her lower lip.
Her sweet, sweet lips … Phinn swallowed and inwardly cursed himself for even thinking about kissing the woman.
Jaysus, she might be a widow, she might be gorgeous, but that didn’t give him the right to harbor lustful thoughts about her.
Why, only a minute ago she’d been praising him for being “noble.” Then he frowned as he noticed a small white smear at the corner of her mouth.
“You-you have a wee bit o’ somethin’ …” He gestured at the spot and Mrs. Davenport’s blush deepened. “I-icing perhaps?”
“Oh,” she murmured, and one of her hands disappeared into the pocket of her voluminous skirts. “How embarrassing. Thank you for mentioning it.” She withdrew a fine lawn handkerchief and dabbed at the mark. Then she smiled. “Better?”
“Aye,” said Phinn. “All b-b-better.” He made himself let go of Mrs. Davenport’s waist and took a step back.
At that moment, Brutus caught his eye. The dog was running about the poop deck, barking excitedly as he chased something that the wind had caught.
Something small and off-white and rectangular—a scrap of old paper perhaps.
Just as the paper fluttered toward them, Brutus leapt up and caught it in his teeth.
“I’d best check on Christopher,” said Mrs. Davenport, reclaiming Phinn’s attention. “It might be safer if we go below again.” She gave a little laugh. “I’d hate to think that one of us might go overboard just as we’re nearing Bristol.”
“Aye. O’ course,” said Phinn. “W-w-would you like me to escort you b-back to the gentlemen’s mess? You’re we-welcome to order another pot o’ tea from the g-galley.”
But Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m sure we’ll be fine, my lord. I know the way.”
She bobbed a curtsy then crossed to Christopher, who took her hand. And then they disappeared down the stairs to the quarterdeck where the entry to the gentlemen’s mess lay.
Phinn sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face.
He couldn’t blame Mrs. Davenport for wanting to distance herself from him.
Good God, he’d been flirting with the idea of kissing a woman he barely knew!
No doubt she would have detected the intent look in his eyes when his gaze had fallen to her mouth.
He was not very good at masking his emotions.
He tended to wear his heart on his sleeve.
Not that his heart was in danger by any means when it came to the fairer sex.
Surviving in the backstreets of Dublin, becoming “Cutthroat O’Connell,” a much-vaunted prizefighter, he’d learned that he couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
His capacity to care deeply for anyone, apart from his dearly departed family—his da, ma, and sister, who’d perished during the Great Famine—had been crushed to dust a long time ago.
No, I’m merely in the grip of a wave of brutish lust, Phinn told himself as he watched Brutus prancing about the deck with his prize “scrap” of paper in his mouth.
It had been a long time since Phinn had been with a woman, and it seemed the hint of a soft smile or the slightest trace of a floral scent could stir the base male in him.
He really needed to exercise more self-control.
Think and act like the gentleman he was now supposed to be, not a randy dog.