“I’m sorry.”
Olivia did indeed look sorry. And as near to tears as Elizabeth had ever seen her. She gentled her attack. Olivia would be left alone and Elizabeth would have so much. She could not be unkind.
“What is it you find objectionable about Nathan?”
“He’s American.”
“If that is all, then your reaction seems unnatural.”
“He lives in America. Is he prepared to move to be near you?” Olivia demanded.
“That is not necessary, as I’m prepared to go to the ends of the earth to be near him. But, as a matter of fact, he would do the same.”
“That sounds like a foolish fairy tale.”
“It is called love. Is that so horrible?” Elizabeth asked.
Olivia slammed her book shut. “No. It’s not horrible. If it were really genuine. If love even exists, which I’m not so sure it does. And the more I read, the more I’m convinced it’s a false emotion created to make women willing to marry men who are entirely unworthy of them.”
“Dearest …” Elizabeth humored her. “All men are unworthy of women. However, for the race to survive, we must procreate.”
Olivia did not smile. “You have seen firsthand the horrors of humanity this week? I’m not so sure we deserve to survive. And you know nothing of this man. You have been under stress. And perhaps his saving you has made you feel false romantic feelings that in everyday circumstances would make him much less appealing.”
“I would welcome dull after this week. Though nothing could be dull if I am with Nathan. I love him.”
“You don’t love him!” Olivia shouted, frustrated. She hurriedly searched for the right book in the stack and pulled it out for proof. “You are merely suffering from a form of battle stress. Andersen showed me the studies. It is right here. And it says you should not make any important or life-changing decisions while suffering from recent trauma.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’m going to marry him.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”
“This afternoon. Captain Stafford agreed to perform the ceremony, and then we are going ashore for the night. Nathan has arranged a hotel for us while repairs are made on the ship.”
Olivia sank back in her chair. Mouth open. “You cannot.”
“I had hoped you’d stand with me as my witness.” Elizabeth felt her throat tighten. “And as my friend.”
Olivia shook her head, appearing stupefied. “My conscience will allow me to do neither. And I’m afraid I must dismiss you from my employ. Of course, you will be compensated for your years of service. I see now”—Olivia swallowed before adding bitterly—“they have been a trial for you.”
Elizabeth could not speak for a long moment. Her chest constricted and her heart filled with anger, hurt, and sadness. “I never thought I would say this …” Elizabeth struggled for control. “Olivia, you have disappointed me. Most seriously.” Unable to speak further, she got up and left.
“The feeling is mutual,” Olivia shouted after her.
Elizabeth hurried to her cabin, knowing she had to get there before she burst into tears. Angry tears, hurt tears, frustrated tears. They were all there waiting to spill forth. To her vast annoyance, two men stood in her way.
“Elizabeth?” Nathan worried. “What happened? She did not refuse?”
Elizabeth nodded briefly, and simply repeated, “Her conscience won’t allow it.” She pushed his hands away, not wanting comfort, only to be alone, and hurried into her cabin, slamming the door shut.
Samuel swore. Damn Olivia. What was wrong with her?
Nathan looked up from Elizabeth’s door. “I could kill her for this.”
“I’ll do it for you,” Samuel promised. His friend nodded, and Samuel turned to enter the chart room and confront Olivia. Her head was in both her hands bent over a book. He closed the door behind him.
“Do you have a minute, Lady Olivia?” There was no hiding the irritation in his voice. What kind of woman injured her friends in such a way?
She spun, on him, taking him aback, eyes red with unshed tears. “Are you going to yell at me too?”
A tear spilled over. Then another. Oh, hell.
“Well, not now.” He shook his head over her weeping figure. He’d be a monster to yell at someone so pathetic.
“She wants to marry him!” she explained.
“Yes.” Samuel struggled for something else to say. “That generally is what men and women do when they love each other. At least if it’s at all possible.”
Her body sunk, hunched over in the chair, her face in her hands. Then the convulsive hiccups began. “But we were”—hiccup—“supposed to be spinsters to-ge-ther!” Hiccup. “Now I won’t have any-body.”
“You have your father.”
“But he’s old. And what if he dies? I’ll be alone again. And I’m not good around people.” She started crying in earnest again, her body heaving up and down on her chair, as upset by her failings, it seemed, as the actual impending marriage.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve improved tremendously in just the time I’ve known you.”
“Not everybody likes me at first,” she explained. “And Mrs. Tisdale knows me already.”
“Granted those are both issues,” he agreed. Agreeing was generally a good tactic with women. Especially sharp-witted, weeping ones. He waited while she took a deep breath to explain further.
“Now she hates me. I was mean and supercilious and selfish and cruel.”
He sighed again and patted her on the back. “You are English.”
“I know!” she wailed.
He crouched on the balls of his feet in front of her and took her hands. Her long, slender fingers were raw from several days of fighting, sewing, and cleaning. The middle finger of her right hand had a callus from her writing instruments. He ran his thumb over it, nearly getting distracted from the more important issue. Squeezing her hands briefly for attention, he spoke. “First. I think you are too intelligent and interesting and amusing to ever be alone, unless that is what you want. Second …” Samuel turned over her hand and caressed the soft skin inside her wrist. “Well, I don’t really have a second. What do you want to do about Elizabeth?”
“Do you think she would forgive me?”
“Of course,” Samuel said.
“What if she accuses me of misogamy?”
Samuel thought that over. What the hell was misogamy? “Would it be true?”
“I don’t know.” She thought. “No. I don’t hate marriage. I just thought neither of us would ever bother with it. There were so many other things to do.”
“I see. Then I’m guessing she will at the very least think you are a complete mome, but will forgive you anyway. In my experience, love makes people forgiving, as well as irrational.”
Olivia nodded, wiping her tears as if he made complete sense.
“I don’t like fighting with my friends.”
“I know.” He leaned forward and pecked her on the lips sympathetically. It had been a natural instinct. She blinked at him in surprise. He’d surprised himself. She didn’t move away or slap him. Though he knew now was not the time to take advantage of her. She was vulnerable. Feeling abandoned. Likely she would turn to the first friendly face. She continued to look at him. When he didn’t move, she inched forward on her seat. A mere two inches forward, but enough to indicate her interest.
He swallowed, suddenly hot. Her lips were the palest pink, salty from tears, as he had already discovered. Her pupils widened, making her eyes partially black, surrounded by cloudy gray. His thumbs brushed the moisture from her high cheekbones. Then he tapped her nose, rolled back on his feet, and shook his head.
“Not a good time for this.” Samuel cleared his throat.
“I know. I have to go apologize.”
They stared at each other, neither moving.
“It would be taking advantage of you when you are not yourself.”
“I feel better,” she
said. “Now that I have a plan.” He grinned.
“We could make it short,” she suggested. “Just to see if I even like your kisses. You always surprise me, and I don’t have a chance to figure things out. I need to be able to think it through.”
“Think through kissing?” He leaned closer, skeptical.
“Yes,” she said. “One must plan for things. Know what to do. Be prepared. Then follow through.”
He cupped her cheek in his palm and pulled her in, whispering against her lips. “What if something unexpected happens and the plan needs to change?” A tender smile curled his mouth, making him rakishly attractive.
She met his eyes, inches away. “Then it wasn’t a very good plan. That’s why it’s important to think before you act.”
“Like now?”
“Yes. This will be a test upon which I can draw further information to plan.”
“What kind of information?”
“How you kiss,” she said.
He brushed his mouth softly across hers.
“If I like your kisses,” she said.
He sucked gently, just once on her lower lip.
Her voice grew husky. Her eyelids fell. Her body reached out. “And if I want—”
He covered her mouth and Olivia forgot her explanation. The tip of his tongue stroked lightly against her upper lip, and she moaned, shocked by the ticklish sensation that made her smile and lean in for more. She heard his chuckle and opened her eyes, watching as the pad of his thumb traced the edge of her mouth hypnotically. When he pressed the thumb against the opening, she tasted him, watching as his golden eyes changed from humor to something more primitive and carnal. His skin was salty and warm, and it felt erotically delicious to use her mouth to explore the feel of his hand.
He didn’t allow that for long. His moist thumb folded her lip for him to savor. It felt like he was taking possession of her, claiming her, demanding her to accept him and only him. She hated that he made her need him. For she did. And he knew it.
He leaned back and she leaned forward. He exerted his power over her, his lips exploring hers with a rhythm both soft and sinfully good. Every nerve ending sensitized to his touch as his fingertips glided up her arms. She inhaled sharply and exhaled into him, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around his neck, allowing him possession of her body to touch, feel, and capture whatever pleasure he desired.
He rolled onto his knees as well, arching her against him, his hands making themselves known to her body, one around her back, the other stroking slowly up her stomach, preparing to move even higher, allowing her to stop him.
She didn’t.
His hand brushed over her breast. She moaned in unfulfilled longing. He brushed again, teasing where she wanted him to take. Creating a yearning and addiction for contact. Desperate, she took his hand and showed him.
Now he moaned.
Her head fell back, reckless of exposing herself further to his view. It had been curiosity at first. And yes, a desire to be held. But now she wanted to know more. Suddenly there was need and hunger to connect—but only with him. His gentle exploration of her breast made her ache for more. She arched her body, offering herself, her stomach clenching when he looked her in the eyes while slowly lowering his mouth to one taut peak. She jolted with the shock of his hot mouth through her linen blouse, the friction of the material causing a pleasurable torment.
She tightened her hold to pull him closer, and his fingers raked the hair from her temples to the back of her head, possessive, sending tingles of awareness down her spine. He held her in place, then took her lips again, controlling and consuming her.
When he stopped, it was as though a blanket of warmth had been torn from her body. “That should give you enough to plan with.”
“What?” She looked up at him, dazed.
“Exactly.”
He pulled her to her feet, a roguish grin curving his lips and a satisfied twinkle in his golden eyes.
Olivia stood unsteadily, fragmented thoughts slowly returning but making little sense. When he let go of her hand she felt stripped bare. Where heat had been a moment before, a chill shook her body. He, on the other hand, appeared entirely self-possessed.
“That was informative,” she said. She must recover.
“Indeed.”
“Hmm.” What did that mean? She would need to think about it more later. She would need to think about it a lot more later. When she was in control again. When she could put her thoughts together. When her body didn’t tingle with life and this new confusing energy. She looked at the large volumes on the desk.
Perhaps there is something in there about this.
“I have to go to Mrs. Tisdale and make things right.” She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud or was standing motionless in front of the cabin door until Samuel helped her out with a gentle shove. She quickly rubbed her face dry and stepped forward.
He was there. Riedell. In front of her cabin. His forehead against the door, his voice coaxing and comforting. He turned when he saw her coming, and her spine straightened, making her two inches taller.
They faced each other like two gladiators. He stepped forward, purposefully.
“I know.” She stopped him before he could start, her voice haughty. “You love her. But I care for her too! And if you ever do anything to cause her pain I will rip your heart out, roast it, and feed it to the sharks … or albatross … or whatever vile creature is willing to eat it.” She poked his injured arm. “And this pain”—she poked the wound again—“that you feel”—poke—“in your arm? It will be nothing compared to what I do to the rest of you.”
He lifted a finger and poked her once, hard in the chest, forcing her back a step. Anger and determination were in every line on his face. “Agreed.”
Olivia grunted, then pushed him aside and went into the cabin after Elizabeth.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia was convinced Mrs. Tisdale, now Mrs. Riedell, would not have noticed whether Olivia was actually present at her wedding. But her friend definitely looked lovely. Beautiful, in fact. Glowing from some mysterious inner happiness that wrapped her and her new husband in a bubble of unawareness. And with her dark, long, wavy hair loose over her shoulders, Elizabeth seemed not much older than Olivia. Strange how she had always thought of her as more motherly.
Kelley and some men rowed the newlyweds ashore in Algiers and escorted them into the city. They would have two days alone before the Avenger set sail again.
A number of Nuh’s former slaves left them in Algiers. The Americans stayed. The English found plenty of ships willing to bring them back home—ships protected by the British navy. Another mark against the Americans. They had very little government to speak of, and no military to safeguard their ships. Elizabeth had no guarantees against attack on the return voyage.
Olivia changed out of her good gown and back into her professor gear to help Andersen make rounds with his patients. He had acquired fresh supplies, so they changed all the bandages. Olivia gazed out over the ship’s rail, envious of Elizabeth and Nathan. She would love a bath in fresh water. It would have to wait another day. Stafford didn’t want her going ashore without him. He reminded her that she had a price on her head, and they didn’t know how far word of it had reached.
The time alone afforded Olivia the privacy to open her father’s letter. She had studied it for a while now, contemplating how to open it without breaking the seal. And then there would be the task of getting it closed again. She thought she had it all worked out. In the worst of cases, she would just explain her concern to her father.
Olivia sat at the small table, waving the letter in the air thoughtfully. Her father was not the problem. It was Stafford. She still felt guilty for breaching his trust in taking the letter in the first place. Of course, if Stafford had only told her about the letter, her snooping would not be an issue. And had she known about the letter, she would have had him open it, and none of this sneaking around would be necessary.
It took patience, but slowly she pulled a piece of thread under the dry wax until she succeeded in freeing the wax from the paper without breaking the pressed circle. Excited, she pulled out the letter.
There was a knock at the door. “Ollie? You in there?”
She jumped. Blast it. Stafford!
“Yes. I’m resting.”
“Are you hungry? Cook made a nice meal for us. You haven’t eaten all day.”
She was hungry. “Maybe later. I’ll help myself in the galley.”
He was silent. She knew he hadn’t left and stared at the door waiting.
“I’d enjoy your company,” he said, finally, his voice warm.
Olivia debated. Normally she found his company stimulating—on several newly discovered levels. But she had to use the opportunity. And part of her believed he just felt sorry for her with Elizabeth gone.
She moved to the door, torn. “I would enjoy your company as well. I’m just”—she searched for a good excuse—“awfully tired.”
“Do you want to open the door so we can at least talk face-to-face?”
“No!” She put her hand against to the latch, to prevent entry. “That is, I’m not decent. I was hot.” She stopped herself. “It’s really not appropriate to discuss my state of undress, Stafford.”
“You’re undressed?” He sounded interested.
“No! I mean partially.”
“What part?” He teased.
“None of your business. Go away.”
“I’ll bring you a tray.”
“No! Really. I’m just not quite hungry yet. I want to nap.”
“Nonsense. If you nap now, you won’t get any sleep later, and we have a long day in town tomorrow. Why don’t you come on deck and get some fresh air? It will wake you up and give you an appetite.”
“Thank you, but I think I really need a break from all the men.” At the silence, it occurred to her he might be offended, and hurried to explain. “I like them all. I just need time to contemplate.”
“Of course. If you change your mind, Andersen and I will be dining above deck. It’s too nice out to waste the evening.”
“Very well. Enjoy your meal.” She relaxed again as his footsteps went away. “Finally. Very persistent tonight, Mr. Stafford,” she spoke to herself.
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