by Anne Gracie
The kind of connection Gabe and Harry had with their wives—even his brother George seemed to have it with his wife Lucy—that was foreign territory to Rafe. He was the outsider looking in.
But they’d all made marriages of convenience—even George—especially George. Their father had selected George’s bride with the same attention to detail and bloodlines that George had chosen Lady Lavinia.
So Rafe was sure he was on the right track. All he had to do was get her to the altar, and then into his bed. In time, she would come to care for him. She had to.
She found love easy. She loved half of Cairo, it seemed: ragged little street thieves, pie makers, ancient, beaten-up cats, sleek little kittens. She would learn to love him eventually, he was sure of it.
How did you make someone love you?
The only person in the world who’d cared about Rafe was his grandmother, but that’s what grandmothers did, it seemed. Look at Lady Cleeve. She hadn’t even met Ayisha, but she loved her already.
But that was Ayisha, he thought sleepily. Everyone loved her. Look at the way those young officers followed her around. A honeymooning vicar and his wife, the captain of the ship, two out of three harpies—even sailors made harnesses for her cat. She was like that. He was just one of many.
But he could protect her.
And dammit, she needed protection the way she rushed into things, an angel rushing in where fools didn’t dare . . .
Yes, he thought sleepily, that’s what he’d do; marry her, be kind to her, and protect her. And once he got her into his bed, he’d make love to her until she was boneless with pleasure. It was the other thing he could do well.
She’d have to care for him then, he thought. He closed his eyes, partly to sleep, partly to shut out the thought of the other women he’d pleasured and parted from, without a pang on either side.
Ayisha was different. He’d make her want him . . . and want to stay. Somehow.
Fourteen
Ayisha marched to the rail and thumped it hard. Stupid, thickheaded, idiot man—why couldn’t he understand? She glared around the empty deck. She wanted to kick something—somebody, only he was still in the cabin.
The damage is done—indeed!
You meant well. Meant well? It made her sound like an interfering busybody. Didn’t he know, the great cloth-head, that for the last three days she’d fought day and night to keep him alive?
The last thing on her mind had been propriety. And he should thank her for it instead of telling her she meant well.
All those hours hovering over him, making him breathe, breathe, breathe. The sleepless nights, the fear, worrying, fretting over him, feeding him Peruvian bark and willow bark and sponging him down, keeping him cool, keeping him warm, keeping him alive.
She stared out to sea with eyes that were awash.
What sort of person did he think she was? Could he not see why she’d done what she did? Why did he think she’d fought so desperately to save him—threatening to shoot two perfectly innocent men, so they wouldn’t set him ashore. Men with wives, probably, who they loved, and children. Why did he think she would do such a thing? To trap herself a husband?
You meant well.
How could he not see how desperately she loved him? The blockhead.
She couldn’t even begin to explain how his words wounded her. The words every girl dreams of, having her marriage described by the prospective groom; the damage is done but it’s not so very bad.
We’ll rub along together quite well, I suspect.
She should have let them dump him overboard, she thought furiously. It would have saved her—everyone—a great deal of trouble.
She paced along the rail, back and forth. She should have shoved him out the porthole. She could go down and do it now, see how he liked that.
She would not be married to prevent gossip.
She would not rub along.
She had come to suck the sweet orange of life, not the dry bean of compromise and convention. For Ayisha, it was all or nothing, and if he was too stupid and thickheaded and blind to know what she was offering, she would choose nothing.
No, that was wrong; she wasn’t choosing nothing.
He had offered her nothing, and she had refused to accept it. And that was that.
Now, how to survive another ten days in a cabin with a man she wanted to strangle? Or shove out a porthole.
An hour later Higgins came to let her know it was time to return to the cabin.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his kind face worried.
“Yes, Higgins,” she said quietly. She’d made her decision and she was calm and resolved. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. Did you find me a hammock?”
His gaze shifted. “No, miss,” he said.
“A spare mattress, then?”
“I’m sorry, miss.”
She shrugged. “No matter, I’ll just sleep on the floor. Could you ask Reverend and Mrs. Payne if I could have my kitten back in the morning, please?”
“Of course, miss, I’ll speak to them.” He bowed and hurried off. Ayisha returned to the cabin and quietly let herself in.
To her great relief Rafe was sound asleep in bed. Of course he must be tired. He would do a lot of sleeping over the next few days, she knew. That would help.
She slipped off her shoes and stockings and tiptoed over to the bed. He looked peaceful and handsome, but she felt his forehead, just to make sure.
Cool, dry, normal. His breathing was deep and even, too.
There was a tray with a cloth on the sea chest. Investigating, she found cold soup and a poached egg. She was very hungry, so she ate them anyway. It was no longer in her to waste food.
He slept on, the rhythm of his breathing unchanged.
She poured some clean, cold water into a bowl and washed her face, then looked around for spare blankets. None. She sighed. The floor was going to be very hard. It was amazing how quickly you got used to sleeping in a bed with a soft woolen mattress. But if you were tired enough, you could sleep anywhere, and she was very tired.
She took off her dress and hung it on a hook, then spread out her shawl on the floor and lay down.
“Get into bed, Ayisha,” a deep voice growled, making her jump.
“I am in bed,” she responded. “Good night.”
“I said, get into bed. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“I will sleep where I please.” She closed her eyes.
“This bed is big enough for both of us.”
“This cabin isn’t big enough for both of us.” She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on deep and even breathing. Impossible man. Just when she’d achieved calm, he must argue and stir things up.
He sighed. “Very well, if you’re going to be stubborn . . .” There was a swishing of bedclothes and she heard bare feet padding across toward her.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t let a woman sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m used to it, you’re not.”
“I’m a soldier. I’ve slept on the ground hundreds of times.”
“You’re not a soldier anymore, the ground is a great deal softer than any wooden floor, and you’ve been sick. Go back to bed.”
He knelt down beside her.
“Go away, I’m not moving,” she hissed.
He lay down beside her on the floor. “Good night, little cat.”
She lay there fuming. “This is ridiculous. I’m not sleeping beside you.”
“Then use the bed,” he said and snuggled up close to her.
She wriggled away. He wriggled close again.
“Stop doing that.”
“It’s cold.”
“Then get in the bed.” He didn’t move, so she pushed him. “Go on. You’ve been sick. You need to take care of yourself.”
“Can’t leave a lady on the floor.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She rose and grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it over him.
She stood looking down at him and caught the faint glint of white teeth in the moonlight. Ridiculous, impossible man. If she stayed on the floor, he’d just keep annoying her and neither of them would get any sleep.
“Very well, since you’re determined to be completely impossible, I’ll sleep in the bed.”
“Well, do it then, and stop keeping me awake.”
She gritted her teeth and got into the bed. It was very soft and warm and comfortable. She waited, but he didn’t say anything and after a few minutes she relaxed. It was really very comfortable and she was so tired . . .
A big, warm body slid in beside her.
She stiffened and her eyes flew open. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting into bed. You told me to, remember? At least twice. Hate to disoblige a lady.”
“Then let me out.”
“No. We’ll both sleep better here.”
“I can’t sleep in the same bed with you.”
“Why not? You did it the last three nights.”
“That was different. You were unconscious then.”
“So, it’ll be more fun now. Ooof!” There was a short silence. “I’d forgotten about your elbows.”
She examined the remark suspiciously. “What about my elbows?”
“Just that you have them. Lots of them.”
“That’s ridiculous, I only have two. Now let me out.”
She felt slightly desperate. She didn’t want to sleep here, so close to him. She was angry with him. She wanted nothing to do with him.
But he’d trapped her between the wall and himself. The only way she could get out was to climb over him, and she was fairly certain he’d enjoy stopping her.
“Now stop arguing; there’s a good girl. We’re both tired, so let’s just declare a truce and agree you’re sleeping here, with me.”
She considered it. The bed was very comfortable. She would sleep better here. And it wasn’t as if he’d left her any choice. “Very well,” she said. “There are two mattresses sewn together, so you stay on yours and I’ll stay on mine, agreed?”
“Whatever you say, my dear.”
She tried to relax and was succeeding quite well until from out of the darkness he added, “Not that it matters. We’re going to get married anyway. Ooof!”
Something woke Rafe in the middle of the night. He’d always been a light sleeper. He tried to work out what it was. And then he realized.
Her body was curled along his side, shaping herself to the contours of his body, on his half of the bed, holding him, one hand cupping the side of his face, the other with the palm pressed, skin against skin, inside his shirt, directly over his heart.
He turned his head cautiously to look at her. She was sound asleep, but was whispering something, the same word, over and over, her breath warming his skin. He leaned closer to hear what it was.
“Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.”
For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as slowly it dawned on him what she was doing. Protecting him, caring for him, keeping him alive, even as she slept.
“Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.”
A tight ball formed in his chest. His hand came up and covered hers, where it lay over his heart.
He didn’t care how much she argued and denied it; she was his.
The next morning, Higgins woke them with a knock on the door. Ayisha sat up, yawning. She glanced at the porthole. The day was bright.
“We slept in,” she said, sounding surprised.
Rafe pulled on his breeches. “We were both very tired.” He padded to the door in shirt and breeches.
“Morning, sir, Miss Ayisha. How do you feel, sir?”
“Better, thank you, Higgins,” Rafe told him. “Much more the thing. What’s this?”
Higgins handed a can and a neat bundle over. “Can of hot water for your ablutions, sir. And a bit of old sailcloth and some rope. Figured you could rig up a private corner.”
Higgins went off, promising to return with breakfast in about half an hour. Rafe rigged up the sail to make a private corner, then sat down and pulled on his boots.
He turned to Ayisha, who was still in bed, her bedclothes clutched up around her neck as if he was about to pounce on her. He smiled to himself. If she only knew how she’d held him in her sleep. He’d woken first and moved away from her reluctantly, knowing she’d be upset if she woke to find them practically intertwined.
He’d woken with renewed hope. She’d embraced him in her sleep; that had to mean something.
He gestured to the hot water and the private alcove. “Ladies first. I’ll go up on deck for a quick stroll. Fifteen minutes?” And pulling on his coat, he left.
On his return, she headed above deck while he shaved carefully. It was disconcerting how much the short stroll on deck had tired him out, he thought, stripping to wash the rest of his body. He had to get his strength back.
When she came back, Higgins was waiting with their breakfast. At his feet was a basket containing one slightly aggrieved kitten. Ayisha pounced on the kitten with delight and released her, crooning and cuddling the tiny thing.
As they broke their fast on hot tea, porridge, new-baked bread, and honey—no ham or bacon, much to Rafe’s disgust—Cleo prowled around the cabin, sniffing everything, learning her new territory.
Rafe only managed a few spoonsful of porridge and a little bread and honey, but Ayisha was busily working her way through everything there was. She was obviously ravenous. He felt a pang as he recalled she’d missed her dinner because of him.
He put his porridge bowl down for the kitten, who examined the bowl from all angles before lapping contentedly. Rafe sprawled sideways across the bed, his head propped in his hand, and watched Ayisha.
She gave him a look as if to say, what are you doing, but went on with her breakfast in silence.
“I like to watch you eat,” he told her.
“Why?” She frowned and lowered the piece of crusty bread and honey. “Do I do it wrong? For England, that is? Should I cut this into small pieces or something?”
“No, no, don’t worry. It’s just that you really enjoy your food.”
She shrugged. “Why not? I was hungry and this bread and honey is delicious. I had forgotten how delicious fresh Frankish bread was.” She finished the last piece and licked her fingers. “And I love this Greek honey, mmm.”
“You’ll get no objection from me,” Rafe said, watching her tongue curl around her sticky fingers. His manhood stirred at the sight. He gently rolled over and lay on his stomach.
“You can have honey every day once we’re married.”
“Don’t start that again,” she ordered. “I refuse to spend the next ten days locked in with you arguing about such a piece of nonsense. You’ve said your piece. I’ve given you my answer, and that’s my last word on it.”
“Very well, I won’t browbeat you about it,” he said, “but I’m still going to marry you.” He held up his hand to stop her speaking. “And that’s my last word on it. For today.”
She snorted and picked up the damp washcloth to wipe her hands.
He moved into a more comfortable position on the bed and his eye caught the pistol case, still open near the door. He knew why she’d wanted the pistols—though it still dazed him—but he recalled that his razor had been out and open, too. Why?
“I noticed you had my razor out when I was sick.”
“Mmm.” She was cross-legged on the floor now, playing with the kitten.
“How did you plan to use it? I presume you weren’t planning to shave me. Or cut my throat.”
She gave a wry smile. “Not then I wasn’t. You weren’t talking such nonsense then. Just a bit of delirious rambling.”
She said it as if it was nothing, but dealing with a delirious man was no joke. “The razor?”
She shrugged and glanced at the medical text next to the bed. “If it was the plague, I might have had to lance the buboes.”
He clo
sed his eyes, imagining it. He could never make it up to her, never. And now, as a reward for her heroism, she was trapped with him. In more ways than one. “You’re not sorry you did it, are you—looked after me, I mean?”
“Of course not. How could I be?” She sighed. “I just wish people’s reactions to it weren’t so stupidly complicated.” She meant marriage.
“Because the world is complicated.”
“It’s not. It’s quite simple. I was simply taking care of a sick man. And you’re simply giving in to the gossips.”
“No, I’m protecting you.”
She snorted. “I don’t need protecting from the likes of Mrs. Ferris. I told you about people like her—if they don’t have anything real to talk about, they’ll make something up.”
“But this is real.”
“No, that’s just it—it’s not! You were sick. Nothing happened. Any compromising happened only in their minds—it wasn’t real at all. And I refuse to give in to it, so please, let us not argue.”
“I have no intention of arguing,” he assured her. No argument at all; he was simply going to marry her.
She played with the kitten for a while, then said, “Tell me about this Lavinia person.”
He smiled. “She’s simply a young woman who my brother was negotiating for me to marry.”
She frowned as she twirled a stray tuft of mattress wool into a kitten plaything. “He’s your older brother, yes? Is it normal for older brothers to arrange marriages for their younger brothers?”
“Not really, but in this case he needs an heir.”
“Then why does he not marry and beget one?”
“He’s been married for ten years. His wife is barren.”
“Oh. Poor thing. I’m sorry.” She picked up the kitten and cuddled it.
“So it’s up to me to beget the next Ramsey son, and since he’s very concerned with breeding and bloodlines—his wife was selected by my father for her excellent family connections and her fortune, so he’s doing the same for me—he did a great deal of research and came up with Lad—Lavinia.”
