Chapter 7 #2
“My father was a friend to Charles II when he roamed in exile. Sons are often sent from their homes to be tutored in other households. I spent a great deal of time with Charles in the English court.”
“And yet you turn from his brother,” she said softly.
“I’ve reasons.”
Brianna touched his hand where it lay idly upon the table. “There is a passion in what you say that goes beyond politics,” she murmured to him earnestly. “Did James wrong you?”
“Nay.…” Sloan replied slowly. His eyes were upon her fingers as they rested lightly upon the back of his hand.
They were very long, and they appeared very delicate and feminine.
He twisted his hand so that their palms met, his engulfing hers, and he idly rubbed his thumb along her fingers—and to the center of her palm.
“James did no great wrong to me. But he did to Charles after his death. He had Jemmy beheaded.”
Brianna frowned, more curious than ever, and yet greatly distracted by the simple touch that made her blood grow warm and race through her. “You knew him well?”
“Very well.”
“Oh,” Brianna murmured, absurdly longing to smooth the frown from his brow. “Sloan,” she reminded him quietly, “Monmouth was a bastard—a pretender to the throne. He fought against James, declaring himself the King. It was treason.”
His touch upon her ceased; the hand was withdrawn. He stood abruptly. “I have no time for your prattle. I’ll return you to the cabin.”
“But I haven’t finished.”
“Then you should have eaten rather than spent time voicing opinions over matters of which you are ignorant.”
She was hurt and furious, but she controlled her temper.
Obviously he had cared deeply for Jemmy Scott—but he did not care to talk about it with her.
Because she meant nothing to him! He was quite talented at hurting her, but she was learning she had her own weapons to wield.
Treveryan, she fumed silently, you will learn what it is to hurt.
She would be so very sweet and he would be entirely off guard when she did escape him come the morning!
She stood, keeping her eyes downcast, and when he came around the table, she meekly took his arm.
She thanked the cook, and when they crossed the deck, she was careful not to speak to the men, but equally careful to give them all brilliant smiles.
Holding lightly to his arm, she felt each ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, and the leashed power within him—and she felt his tension.
In the hall she swayed close to him, gaining satisfaction and a sense of power with the knowledge that she did indeed have an effect upon him.
The sea-jade eyes that lit upon her were hard and brilliant, and his mouth was sternly compressed.
He could not possibly understand her sweetness and humble obedience, but neither could he condemn it.
And neither could he force his touch upon her, for he had stated he would not.
She almost laughed when he at last led her into the cabin. But she did not. She turned to him and said simply, “Thank you, Captain Treveryan, for your time and the outing. Both are greatly appreciated.”
He barely replied to her. The cabin door slammed in his wake, and she did laugh. She had discovered she could play the game—and her desire to win was strong.
But as the day passed, her excitement waned with bitterness. The afternoon came and went, and Sloan did not reappear. She had run out of shirts to mend, the cabin was spotless, and she could not clear her mind to enjoy the volume by Chaucer she had found in the hidden bookcase.
Evening came and daylight faded from the cabin. Paddy brought her water for a bath. He tried to speak with her cheerfully, but could not ease her mood.
“Paddy,” she demanded of him, “whose clothing do I wear?”
He hesitated uncomfortably. “I told you, lass, a lady who was a friend to the cap’n.”
“His ex-mistress, you mean. Or perhaps she is still his mistress.”
“Nay, lass,” Paddy muttered, “he’ll not be seem’ her again.”
“Did she hurt him, Paddy? Is that why her things were not within his cabin?”
His startled eyes met hers. He chuckled. “Nay, lass. The captain broke the relationship. Her things were not within the cabin because he’s never shared his quarters before. Now, lass, I’ll be getting back to me work and ye can enjoy your privacy.”
Brianna mulled over his words once he had gone, wondering at the pleasure they gave her.
Then she reminded herself that it did not matter in the least. Tomorrow she would be free.
She would find her family—and once again she prayed she would know what it was like to love and be loved in return.
The Powells, she knew with a warming certainty, would want her and welcome her lovingly.
Brianna stayed in the tub until the water grew cold and she feared Paddy would return. She had barely dried herself and redonned the mauve gown when he did, and she thanked him sweetly. When Paddy had left she combed her hair to a glossy shine and waited for Sloan once again.
But still he did not come, and as her agitation and hunger grew, her temper soared once again.
He had barely allowed her to consume half of one meal, and now it appeared that he was too busy to offer her dinner.
For another half hour she paced the cabin, cursing him profoundly under her breath. Then she decided that meekness be damned. She knew the location of the galley, and she had befriended the cook. If Sloan was angry that she had left the cabin, all the better.
The Cornish cook frowned his disapproval when he saw her, but he prepared her plate with special favor once again. She was standing before him, waiting for her meal, when a young seaman with whom she had spoken briefly a number of times approached her.
“Mistress Brianna, you should not be here. The captain would be furious, and you place yourself in grave jeopardy.”
Brianna smiled. “It seems that Captain Treveryan is very busy tonight. And I was very hungry.”
“You shouldn’t move about unescorted.”
“Then perhaps, sir, you would escort me.”
He flushed deeply with pleasure, but then took her plate from the cook with a nod and led her toward the back of the galley, as far as possible from the crew members who were taking their meals.
“Tell me”—she thought furiously to remember the youth’s name—“George, where is your home?”
“The north country,” he told her pleasantly. “I’m the third son of Lord Percy, and therefore, not in line for much of an inheritance!”
“Ahh,” Brianna murmured, chewing a morsel of food before speaking again. Dinner was fish once more, but she was truly ravenous, and so it mattered little. Also, it was nice to be in the company of this youth so near her own age, who was so cordial and obviously pleased to be with her.
“I shouldn’t worry, George,” she told him. “You seem a bright and able young man and I’m sure you’ll make your own way in the world.”
He beamed at her words. “Oh, I do think so, Mistress Brianna. Being a younger son has its advantages. It gives me a certain freedom. I can work where I will, and love where I will. My brother must make a marriage advantageous to the family, while I …”
His blush became very dark. He stuttered for a moment, and then began to speak once more. “Should you ever find yourself … alone, Brianna, I would be honored to marry you.”
She was both stunned and touched—and ashamed at the implication. If the captain tired of her and abandoned her, he would be there.…
“Thank you,” she managed to choke out, but before the startling conversation could go farther, they were interrupted.
“Seaman—what goes on here?”
The purser, Gyles Brill, a dark-eyed Welshman, stood behind George’s shoulder. He was close to forty, Brianna imagined, but a man still in his prime and confident with himself. He smelled faintly of rum, and the gaze that he gave Brianna made her distinctly uncomfortable.
“I am escorting the captain’s lady while she has her dinner,” George mumbled swiftly.
“That’s not your job. Get on deck, seaman, the winds are shifting.”
“I’ll take Brianna back to her cabin.”
“You needn’t. I’ll do so.”
“You haven’t the rank.”
“I outrank you.”
“Eh, look, mate, will you!” someone suddenly rang out. “The dandies are fighting over the captain’s whore!”
Brianna blanched, but the horror had just begun. Young George was suddenly on his feet, hurling himself across the room to find the speaker. Shouts rang out all over, until the galley was in bedlam. The dining area had turned into a brawl, a cacophony of grunts and curses and flying fists.
Brianna leapt to her feet in horror as a man came flying across the room, crashing into her table.
He gazed at her with a crooked smile upon his face, and then shot like a cannon back into the melee.
“I’d brave the plank for a touch of her silk!
For but a minute with the captain’s whore,” someone yelled, and Brianna wondered briefly who would uphold what was left of her honor, and who would be ready to take it.
Chairs, plates, and tankards flew. “Ye’ll not call her a whore!
” George raged, and others joined his bellow.
“Let me to her!” The words came wrapped in a licentious chuckle, which ended in a loud wallop and a groan.
Her effort to flaunt Sloan had created the disaster, and she realized that her wisest course of action would be to disappear—lest the winners of the brawl include the man who would walk the plank for his chance with the captain’s “whore.”
She turned to flee, but as she did so, she crashed into something that felt more impregnable than the ship’s panels. Something, however, that radiated heat and steel, strength. A man’s chest, clad in light-blue silk.
She looked up to his face just as a pistol was fired into the ceiling—silencing the melee into instant sobriety and stillness.