by Carol Arens
Perhaps he ought to turn about and go to his cabin. He did owe his future bride a warning of what was to come.
But he also owed her, and everyone else, a safe ship to cross the Atlantic on.
Besides, he doubted that the poor girl was recovered enough to accept the situation anyway.
He also doubted she would regard their nuptials as the divine deliverance it seemed to him.
Tonight would be soon enough to confront her with her future.
Chapter Three
Rees entered his modest cabin after an exhausting day of shovelling coal into the furnaces in the boiler room. Could it really be after six in the evening already?
It appeared that the woman had not stirred on the bed since he’d checked on her a few hours ago. Nearly sixteen hours had gone by since he’d found her. Surely she ought to be waking up.
Not this very moment, though. If she awoke and saw him looking like a tortured soul escaped from Hades she would likely scream.
If his eyes looked the way they felt they would be the colour of a beet. He didn’t need to look in the oval mirror hanging on the wall to know his skin was black with ash and streaked with sweat.
As much as he looked as though he had just burst from perdition, he smelled like it, too.
Ah, but the lady looked peaceful, her hair spread across the pillow, aglow with the brushing he had given it before dawn this morning.
It had been an incredibly improper thing to do—pleasant, yes, but not the act of a proper gentleman.
Still, her hair needed care more than propriety needed to be observed. What was one more act of scandalous behaviour after what he’d already done?
He could not help but stare down at her for a moment. It was the oddest sensation to feel that she was his—and yet he had not introduced himself to her.
Her cheeks had gained a bit of colour, so had her lips, yet her brow was puckered in delicate lines, as if she were troubled by something in her sleep.
Whatever it was, it could not be as disturbing as the news she would get when she did wake up.
As Glenbrook he had been issuing orders for all of his adult life. He said what was to be done and people did it.
This situation was vastly different. This lovely woman’s future had been decided while she was unaware. Surely, though, she was sensible enough to understand that she had no choice but to accept his proposal of marriage.
For a moment his heart felt as though it had stopped. He could not actually be sure she was not already married.
But of course she could not be. She did not wear a wedding band. There was no indentation on her finger to indicate that she had done so in the past.
Quietly, he crossed the short distance between the bed and the wall where a mirror hung over the water basin placed on a crude stand. He slid the box of Cuban cigars he had purchased for Wilson further away from the water basin.
He bent, splashed water on his face, then winced at the cool temperature. Had he been at home, his valet would have made sure the water was hot, the towels fresh and clean. Glancing about, he noticed there were no towels.
Here aboard ship he was simply Mr Dalton. If he needed anything, he saw to it himself. Of course, that was before he found the woman. Recently he had spent the better portion of his time dealing with her needs and not his own.
He would like to say the closeness they had shared was pleasant, but the truth was, they had not shared it. She had been completely oblivious to the fact that he had watched each breath she took, holding his own until he saw her take another one.
No, he could not describe the experience as being pleasant.
Cold water tingled his scalp when he washed his hair. Black rivulets streaked the basin. He ought to shave, but the fellows he laboured with did not. Since he needed to appear to be one of them, he would make do with keeping the hair on his chin clean.
Behind him, he heard bed springs squeak when the lady turned over. Hopefully that meant she would soon awake.
In spite of the fact that she had come to him unexpectedly, she was an answer to prayer. The fact that she looked like an angel tumbled to earth was no coincidence to his way of thinking.
He drew his sweaty shirt off over his head, tossing it into a corner.
Perhaps, with this turn of good fortune, the image of shock on his brother’s face when he had learned over breakfast that his beloved was slated to wed Rees would be put to rest. It was unfortunate that the discovery had been made the day before the Edwina sailed. There had been no time to attempt to put things to rights, or even inform Wilson he would find a way to do it. Hearts had been left broken.
Even had there been time, it would be a difficult thing to accomplish. There really was no gentle way of setting aside a wedding in the works.
Especially this one. Lord Langerby had been more eager than most of the doting guardians courting his favour for his niece to become Lady Glenbrook.
Although to call the man doting would be wrong. In Rees’s opinion, he did not care much for Bethany. Perhaps he meant to use her new social position to advance himself in some way.
Whatever his reason, it was now dashed.
Even as confident as he was that, in the end, this would come out right for his brother, Wilson’s stricken expression haunted him.
Sometimes if he hummed a jaunty tune it helped in some odd way to blur the vision.
‘Drunken Sailor’ it was, then. He hummed the tune while he scrubbed his beard.
While he circled soap on his chin, he relived what had happened that same morning he’d announced his betrothal to the family.
It would be accurate to say that his own shock at discovering his brother’s feelings had been as great as Wilson’s had been at discovering the engagement.
Rees had been walking in the garden, seeking a moment of respite from his many obligations and puzzling over why Wilson had looked so distraught at breakfast. Suddenly he realised he was not alone.
His brother and his fiancée were hidden in an alcove, but he was able to hear their conversation clearly.
Wilson wanted to make a run for Gretna Green. But Bethany, for all her professions of devotion, was not willing to defy her uncle.
Apparently, the poor girl would rather live in wedded misery with Rees than go against the man’s wishes. He had thought Milton Langerby to be a disagreeable sort, but he must be even more unpleasant than appearances suggested.
Any man who would force a woman—All of a sudden, he had to look away from the mirror because, in a sense, he was that man even though the situations were vastly different.
Weren’t they?
At the time of his betrothal arrangement to Miss Mosemore, he had not considered that she had accepted him against her will.
Most women wanted to be his Viscountess. There was no reason to believe she was any different.
For his part, he was willing to marry because he knew he must produce an heir and his small daughters needed a mother. Bethany seemed as well-suited as any other well-bred lady. Indeed, she appeared to have a sweet and biddable nature.
Of course, knowing what he now did made it completely impossible to wed and bed the woman his brother loved.
Until the moment he crawled into bed with a cold, lovely stranger, he’d had no idea how he would manage to extricate himself from the arrangement with Milton Langerby.
What a gratifying thing it was going to be to take Miss—well, he did not know her name—home and present her as his wife.
To see the look of relief on his brother’s face when he discovered his life was not ruined would be a great joy.
‘Hello,’ he heard the voice of salvation whisper softly from the bed.
* * *
Madeline’s bones did not ache. She heard singing. Both of those things might mean that she had passed to the great beyond.
&nb
sp; Except that she doubted a heavenly being would be singing about what was to be done with a drunken sailor. A cherubic voice would not sound earthy and masculine like this one did.
Add to that the fact that the queasiness in her stomach was returning.
It all indicated that she still inhabited her mortal body, as unlikely as that seemed.
The last she remembered clearly, it had been the middle of the night. She had thought about getting out of the lifeboat and seeking help, but she hadn’t had the strength to do it.
That was right! She’d feared if she tried she would fall overboard and decided she would rather die where her body could be found.
As to how she got from there to here? It was a complete mystery, a blank in her memory. And exactly where was here? She could not imagine.
She’d had dreams of women’s voices and men’s, of bone-deep cold and sudden heat. The recollections of them were foggy. That was how it went with dreams—true as anything while in process, but afterwards they made no sense at all.
There were only three things she did know for verified fact. First, she was warm. Second, she would soon need to vomit. And third, she was intensely curious to discover who was singing.
She turned over on—on a bed? She now knew four things. Someone had put her into bed.
With a great deal of effort she opened one eye, then the other. Looking through a narrow slit, she saw—Oh—oh, my! All of a sudden, her eyes had no trouble popping wide open.
Her vision sharpened on a man’s naked back. His finely toned muscles flexed and pulled while he lathered soap in his beard.
This was not heaven, she knew that, but then again, how did one explain the image? She’d never seen anything like it on earth.
What was going on here?
Why was she in a room with a half-clothed man?
There was but one way to find out.
‘Hello.’ Her voice cracked on the word. She sat up, but found it to be a great mistake.
The man pivoted at the waist, gazing down at her.
She recognised him! For as brief as their meeting on deck had been, she would never forget his eyes or the way he looked at her as if he knew her—which was absurd.
For half a second his amazing eyes widened, looking surprised. ‘You are an American!’
‘Yes—and I’m going to be sick.’
He snagged up a pot from the floor, then held it in front of her. Rather than thanking him, she nodded briskly because—oh—this was horrible.
While she gave in to what her stomach dictated, he gathered her hair in his fist and drew it back from her face. He patted her back, whispering comforting words.
She could only imagine how furiously she would be blushing if it were not for the fact that she was clammy and no doubt pale as paste.
Only two people had ever seen her in this condition: Grandfather and Clementine—her intimate family.
She was no more intimate with this man than she was the Man in the Moon.
After her insides settled, the fellow handed her a towel.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped.
Interesting how social niceties prevailed even in moments of severe humiliation.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked, squatting down beside the bed and taking the bowl from her hands.
‘Much.’ Her trembling hands would reveal she was lying, but the answer did sound more pleasant than if she had admitted to feeling wretched.
‘I’ll take care of this and be right back.’ He stood up, strode the half-dozen steps required to reach the door.
‘Oh, thank you again,’ she said, as would be expected in any situation. Grandfather would be glad to know she hadn’t forgotten the manners he’d taught her even though she had misplaced good judgement.
For pity’s sake! Politeness was one thing, curiosity quite another.
‘Who are you? What are you doing in—in my room?’ Even as she claimed the territory, she was not certain it was hers.
‘I’ll explain it all.’ He waved the pot. ‘As soon as I get back. It will only be a moment.’
She watched him sling a coat over his bare back, then go out the door. The vision of his flexing muscles lingered in her mind even after the door had been closed for a full minute.
Staring, whether in memory or in the moment, was rude, but was not shaving in another person’s quarters even more inconsiderate?
Then again, would it be considered inconsiderate when the person whose privacy was invaded did not particularly mind?
And what was wrong with her that she did not?
With great care she eased back on to the pillow. Just because she had somehow survived the elements was no reason to believe she would survive being seasick. If only the blamed boat would stop heaving—oh, she ought not to even think that word!
In slipping back under the sheets she felt soft fabric slide over her ribs. Lifting the blanket, she peered under.
A man’s red flannel shirt covered her. Or nearly. It was gathered about her hips. When she stood up it would not even decently cover her knees.
It was a lucky thing she would not be standing. Just thinking of it made her pull the blanket over her head.
What she ought to be thinking of was the man. Why he was in her room—or why she was in his?
Probably the latter, since having sneaked on board, she’d have no quarters of her own.
She heard the door open, then close. Footsteps crossed the floor.
‘I’ve brought a pot of tea. The steward says it will help with seasickness.’
It could not possibly, but it had been kind of him to go to the trouble.
Who was this man? Why was he being so attentive to a complete stranger?
‘You must not let yourself become dehydrated.’
He was right. If she intended to survive this, she was going to have to emerge from the covers and give the tea a try.
A part of her wished not to. The effort would be too great.
But she also knew she had been given a second chance to live and for Grandfather’s sake she must try.
She slid the blanket down, eased up on her elbows.
‘Here, let me help.’ He braced his arm behind her shoulders to steady her, then placed the cup in her hands.
Her fingers trembled. His big rough hand slid under hers to steady the mug.
Surely he was behaving in too forward a way. Funny—no, not funny as much as downright odd—that he seemed so at ease about touching her. And with such familiarity.
‘Good,’ he coaxed. ‘Just a little more.’
‘Where am I?’ No matter how sick she was, this was important to know.
‘On board the SS Edwina. You are in my cabin.’
He eased her back on to the pillow, took the mug from her fingers and placed it on the stovetop to keep warm.
‘We’ll try again in a few minutes.’
‘Who are you?’ Besides someone with compelling eyes.
Someone who gazed at her as if he knew her every little secret. Which no doubt included the fact that she wore no undergarments under this red shirt. Even with the top button done up to her chin, she felt exposed.
‘Rees Dalton. I work aboard ship in the boiler room.’
Which would explain his finely developed muscles. The ones she could not help but peek at, since his coat was sagging open. Even being on the brink of death again, there were some things a woman noticed.
Even in her still-befuddled condition she wondered why he did not put on a shirt.
Could she be wearing his only spare? A labouring man would not be expected to have a vast wardrobe.
‘You’ll have questions.’ He sat back on his heels and looked at her. The pair of deep auburn curls looping across his forehead did not quite hide the lines of a subtle frown. ‘I have a few, as well. I’ll b
egin by asking your name.’
‘Madeline Claire Macooish.’
‘Pretty,’ he said with a nod and a smile that came from his eyes as much as his mouth. ‘Madeline.’
It was true, she’d always been grateful to her parents for it. Although, Macooish wasn’t beautiful as much as humorous, which in her opinion gave the name balance.
Not right this moment, though. Nothing was balanced. Especially the ship. It swayed back and forth, dived up and down.
She nodded at the compliment to her name because she did not dare to speak for fear of what might come out.
‘Are you unwell, Madeline?’
‘Quite unwell. I fear I will never recover from this.’ And yet she did manage to notice how nice his voice sounded when he said her name and to note how improper it was for him to do so even if he did think it was pretty.
The Queen’s name was lovely, but one would not address her as Victoria.
A firm rap on the door prevented her from pointing it out.
‘You will recover,’ he announced, then patted the top of her head in a rather doting manner.
It was beyond odd that his attitude towards her seemed familiar, as though they had been friends for a very long time, yet she could recall only the briefest encounter with him.
She had the strangest feeling that her infirmity had stolen a part of her memory.
Crossing to the door, he drew it open.
Glancing that way, she saw the ship’s Captain. It was dark outside. His silhouette looked surrounded by stars.
It was a magical sight, really. One her cousin, Clementine, would write poetic words about had she been the one to witness it. She missed her best friend desperately and only hoped she would have the chance to beg her forgiveness.
‘I’ve come to perform the wedding ceremony, my lor—’ The Captain tugged on his coat buttons, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Dalton.’
‘Wait outside a moment.’
So many things made no sense. Who was getting married? And also puzzling was the tone of Mr Dalton’s voice. It sounded as though he was issuing an order—to the Captain of the Edwina!
