Yanking her gaze away with an act of will, she saw that a white shirt such as he customarily wore lay in a wet heap on the plank floor. Her gaze skittered back to that bare chest and away. Deliberately she swallowed as her eyes met his. She was careful to keep her voice even in spite of her agitation as she answered, “Pray accept that I will not sleep with your…” Genevieve paused, unable to speak deprecatingly of the other woman despite her anger and disappointment over everything that had happened.
He scowled blackly at the unfinished sentence but made no remark on it. “Would you prefer me to sleep with her in yon bed?”
She could not prevent a horrified gasp. “Nay, I—”
He nodded knowingly. “Just as I thought. You must realize that even I require sleep.”
She stood, moving away from him as she tilted her nose high. “Of course.” She waved toward the now vacated bench. “Please, be my guest.”
“Oh, no,” he reminded her coolly. “It is you who will remember that you are my guest.”
Marcel turned his back on her and reached down to pull the top up on the bench, which she now realized doubled as a storage chest. He took out a dry shirt and pulled it over his head, bringing some relief to her wayward thoughts. He then withdrew a thick blanket and slammed the lid back down.
She watched as he lay down upon the bench and spread the covering over himself.
He was oblivious to Genevieve. He simply pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes without saying another word to her.
Aghast that he would dismiss her so easily, she moved to stand beside him. As if sensing her there, he opened his lids and looked up at her, his expression reluctantly resigned. “Pray, what is it now, Genevieve?”
As he spoke, she was aware of the exhaustion in his face. In spite of her anger, she felt a stab of sympathy. He had battled the storm for many hours, though from the quiet that had fallen it seemed to have abated. Her anger deflated, she shook her head. “Go to sleep.”
In spite of his exhaustion, it was some time before Marcel did finally fall asleep. He could not stop thinking about the way she had looked at him, how her eyes had darkened to the color of rich moss as they slid over his chest, seeming to leave a trail of heat in their wake.
God help him, Marcel had not been able to prevent his own reactions, the tightening in his belly, the quickening in his loins. For in spite of everything, she was not indifferent to him and he seemed to have no ability to quell his responses to her desire.
Though that was precisely what he must learn to do. Until such time arrived, he was determined to keep her from seeing that he wanted her still.
No matter that it continued to prove as difficult as it had during their confrontation this morn.
When at last he did sleep it was only fitfully. An indeterminate time later he opened his eyes and saw that it was not daylight. His gaze immediately came to rest upon Genevieve. She was seated on the floor atop her cloak, her resentful gaze trained upon himself.
The moment she realized he was awake she leaped to her feet. Her concern as she looked down at her hands was more than apparent.
Carefully hiding his agitation at her obvious uneasiness, he sat up and rubbed the grit from his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Absently he glanced around the cabin for Constanza.
Interpreting his action correctly, Genevieve said stiffly, “She has gone out on deck. She did not wish to wake you.”
Her tone told him that she considered such thoughtfulness overdone. Perhaps he had been wrong this morning and simply confused with exhaustion when he’d thought she looked at him with desire. It did appear that all she felt toward him was animosity.
Perhaps it was his own desire for her that had made him think…aye, mayhap it had been. He barely felt the answering jab of disappointment this time and assured himself that he was coming along well.
Yet he had no more wish to be ruled by her anger than her passion. As his gaze traced her stiff form, he told himself he would not be ruled by her clearly disapproving opinion of him.
His wary eyes swept her again. Gratefully he took in the fact that she was still wearing the boy’s cap and garb. As he did so an unpleasant suspicion swept through him and he found himself asking without thinking, “You did not cut your hair?”
She shrugged, frowning at his sudden change of topic. “Nay, I did not think of it. ’Twould have made keeping it in this hat easier. Though it has proved roomy enough, it is hot.” She scratched at her nape as she spoke.
What was he to do with her? he asked himself even as relief washed through him. It would simply be a shame to ruin what was an undeniably lovely feature.
He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. What little sleep he just had had left him stiff and he could feel her watching him, assessing him.
Taking a deep breath, he brought his hands down to his sides and faced her squarely, not wanting to show any hint of uncertainty. “Genevieve, we must talk.”
She drew herself up to her full height, which still meant that her head did not reach past his shoulder. But there was cool steel in her green eyes as she said, “Aye.”
He could not deny a sense of admiration at her directness, but he did not wish for her to know that.
Turning her back to him, she added. “Oh yes, we must. I wish to tell you why I came aboard the Briarwind It is because I…”
The long silence that followed this statement prompted him to say. “Because you…”
She swung around to face him. “Because I too long for adventure. I wish to see some of the world and since you were going to Scotland and I had never met your Aunt Finella, I thought that would be a fine place to begin.”
This was far from anything Marcel might have expected her to impart. It was certainly quite different from what he had assumed. For a long moment he could summon no reply as he stared down at her.
When an annoyed expression clouded her lovely face, he realized that he was staring and spoke more forthrightly than he had intended. “You did not come here so that you and I could…”
She gasped with unflattering horror. “I should say not. I thought that we had discussed all that back at Brackenmoore.”
“But that was before I kissed you.”
She blinked as if stunned by his remark, then looked him straight in the eyes. “It is you who must answer to that if it plagues you, Marcel, not I. I have forgotten it. And I would think—” she cast a quick glance toward the bed “—you would have good reason to be sorry for that kiss.”
He could hardly believe what was happening. The unpredictable damsel had turned the tables upon him. He sputtered, “What of your marriage?”
She looked away, shrugging casually. “I will see to that when I am ready.”
He watched her for a long moment, wondering if her coming after him might have something to do with her willingness to abandon poor Roderick on the chance that the Ainsworth name could still be hers. He said so. “Did you imagine that I might be willing to make your desire to have the Ainsworth name a reality because I had kissed you?”
Her head jerked up, her eyes flashing daggers. “You assume too much.”
Though he searched her face carefully, he could find no hint of prevarication. He saw nothing but a possible heightening of color along her cheekbones. That could be brought on by the very fact of speaking of such discomfitting subjects as his having kissed her.
He was, in fact, not unperturbed at the conversation himself. Nor was he, if he were completely honest with himself, unmoved at her easy dismissal of the passionate embrace they had shared.
He didn’t imagine himself in love with her, no never that. But he was well aware that their kisses had moved him more than any other in his life.
Her gaze found his again and she spoke with cool rebuke. “You must certainly cease worrying about what I am about, my lord. I would think that you would not find the hardihood to concern yourself with my life, as you surely have all you can manage in concentrating on your own relati
onship with Constanza.”
He nearly winced at the words, unnerved and angered by her utter willingness to allow him to take all the responsibility for what had happened between them. He also balked at her obviously damning assessment of his behavior toward Constanza.
Well, her condemnation would have been deserved if he was involved with the Spanish woman, but he was not. Yet under no circumstances was he willing to admit that now. He would look like a fool.
He would carry on with the charade until he returned Genevieve safe to Brackenmoore. That could only be done after things had been resolved in Scotland.
Be that as it may, Marcel had suffered enough reproach from the woman before him for one day. He spoke more sharply than he had meant to. “You say that Scotland seems a good place to begin your life of adventure?”
She flinched at his tone, but answered haughtily enough. “Aye.”
He shook his head. “’Twill be the beginning and end of any adventure that I have a part in. Know you this, my fine adventuress, I will not be taking you on with me once I have done what I can for Aunt Finella. I shall take you back to Brackenmoore forthwith.”
She cast a disdainful glance around the cabin before meeting his gaze. “That will suit me full well, my lord. I find this particular adventure has less appeal than expected.”
Marcel realized he was scowling again, that he had scowled more since finding Genevieve aboard his ship than he ever had in his life. What a fickle, unpredictable, self-indulgent creature she was.
For a long moment he could not reply. All these years he had known this woman—or at least thought he had.
Now he found that she was someone completely different from all he had thought of her. The Genevieve he had known had been a being apart from others—gentle, beautiful, and so delicate that she must be protected from unpleasantness or hurt of any kind.
Somehow in the years he had been gone, she had become a willful woman, a creature unknown to him. And regretful though he might be to admit it, she seemed for a moment far more mysterious and intriguing than ever with her eyes flashing headstrong defiance and undeniable arrogance. This knowledge was far more disturbing than he cared to admit even to himself.
Deliberately Marcel gave himself an imaginary shake. He had managed to go quietly mad over the course of the last hours. He could not be more attracted to Genevieve on learning that she was obstinate and willful.
The light of morning did seem to paint a lovely gilded sheen over her face and neck as it slanted through the portal. It also glowed upon her lashes and brows, her lips…
Suddenly realizing just what he was thinking, Marcel closed his eyes on the sight of Genevieve, on his own reactions to her.
Good God, what was wrong with him? He must wrest control of these feelings—and without delay.
He swung away. “Unless you have something more of import to say I have work that needs doing. There will be much to set to rights after the storm. There has been some serious damage to one of the masts and I must determine whether or not the repairs can be made aboard ship.”
Her tone was clearly startled. “I…nay. I have nothing more to say.”
He moved toward the door without looking her way. Her voice stopped him as he reached for the latch. “Marcel, I…is there not something I can do? I am going mad with naught but my own thoughts to occupy me.” The frustration and regret in her tone told him just how difficult this admission was to make.
Although her situation was completely her own doing, he felt a stab of sympathy. He turned and nodded, noting that her gaze did not meet his as he said, “I will see if I can find something for you to do, though ’twill likely not be anything you are accustomed to doing as we must keep up the pretense that you are a lad. Aside from that, there is no stitchery to be had aboard the Briarwind.”
She drew herself up, her lips thinning as she said, “I understand that, Marcel. I am not a simpleton, whatever you might think.”
Marcel felt a momentary regret that he had offended her with his last words. He had never doubted her intellect, had, in fact, always had a great respect for her mind. He said, “I did not mean to imply such a thing. I regret that you would think thusly.”
Her gaze met his and, for a moment, he thought he saw a hint of vulnerability before it was quickly masked by a cool courtesy. “Pardon me for taking offense. Considering the circumstances, I suppose we must make some attempt to get along in the next while. We have known each other for so long.”
To his utter self-disgust Marcel was more offended by this show of politeness than he would have been by anger. Her offer of civility was painful.
He could not help thinking of the way it had been before he left Brackenmoore, of the talks they had had about all manner of subjects, the walks they had taken, sometimes falling into silence but never into indifference. He went on softly. “There is no need for you to work, or take care of anyone in order to prove that you have worth, Genevieve. That has never been questioned in my mind, nor in the minds of anyone at Brackenmoore.”
As he said the words, he knew how true they were. All her care of those who loved her was appreciated, not expected. She was loved for her own self, could she but see it. Yet she could not, for if she could she would never have felt she must become an Ainsworth in order to make herself whole.
Clearly oblivious to his thoughts, she replied with a stubbornly raised chin, “I am to act the part of cabin boy. No cabin boy would be allowed to lounge about. I have made my choice in coming here. I will accept the consequences of that choice.”
Her tone was cool and displayed no hint of the friendship they had once shared, in spite of her previous words.
Feeling unexplainably bereft, he could not find it in him to answer her but with a sharp nod. “Very well then, but please remain here in the cabin until I can arrange something.”
She answered with an equally sharp nod.
Abruptly he swung about and left her, his heart heavy and tight in his breast.
Chapter Five
Genevieve had never been so miserable. This was doubly difficult to accept with aplomb as she had hoped for something so very different from the situation she found herself in. When she had taken her future into her own hands and stowed away aboard the Briarwind, she had thought…well, that no longer mattered.
She had spent the day plaiting rope. A proper task for a cabin boy no doubt, but not so very easy for a noblewoman with soft hands. Those hands were hurting so badly now that she did not know what to do with them. No matter how hard she applied herself to taking her mind from the throbbing ache of them, it did no good.
Genevieve knew she could have simply left the task undone. Marcel would not have berated her. Yet she had not been able to bring herself to set the work aside.
Genevieve had been the one to ask Marcel to give her something to do. She would carry on.
Besides, the task of plaiting the rope had kept her mind from her own unhappy thoughts. Somewhat.
It gave her something to think on other than the cold expression in Marcel’s eyes as he had told her to remain in the cabin until he found something to occupy her. His curtness told her very clearly that he did not wish to be bothered with her.
His manner left Genevieve feeling very grateful that she managed to conceal her agitation as she told him that incredibly ridiculous lie about coming aboard the Briarwind in search of adventure. She could only be glad that Marcel so deeply disliked the notion of her wanting him that he would believe such a transparent falsehood.
Luckily Constanza had appeared a short time after he had left, giving Genevieve something else to occupy her. She had been the one to show Genevieve where she was to work—just outside the door of Marcel’s cabin. Two crates had been arranged close together, obviously one was to act as a seat and the other one, which was topped by the materials she would require, was to act as a table. Constanza had also shown her how to plait the rope before going off on some business of her own.
Not lon
g after Genevieve had begun, Marcel and his first mate had gone into the cabin. They had been too deep in their conversation about navigating through small islands and shoals to pay her any heed. With the constant rush of the sea sounding in her ears, she was unable to make out the specifics of their conversation once they were inside, though she was able to recognize the deep timbre of Marcel’s voice each time he spoke. This did little to aid her in her desire to put him and all things concerning him from her thoughts.
The other hands seemed to pay her no more than cursory attention as they went about their work. Though she could not see that there was anything particularly amiss, it seemed that there was still much to do after the storm. At least it appeared so from the level of activity on deck.
They scrubbed the deck and unwound rolled-up sails in order to allow them to dry in the sun. They coiled and uncoiled the ropes, and a myriad other tasks with an efficiency that was somewhat awing.
When they stopped working to answer a call to eat, she remained where she was. Genevieve did not believe that Marcel would wish her to go with them to the wooden structure at the opposite side of the ship.
Just moments after the last of them had disappeared inside, the cook, who had first discovered her presence down in the hold, came out with a laden tray. He brought it to the captain’s cabin and, as he thumped upon the door, she felt his deeply scowling gaze upon her.
Genevieve kept her own head down as he entered then came back out again, but she was aware of his close regard. She clearly recalled Marcel’s admonition to keep her true sex secret.
A few moments later a rough cough brought her gaze up in surprise. Once again, it was the cook. Silently his craggy brows pulled together in what she could only begin to think of as a permanent glower, and he held out a heavy wooden bowl.
As she smelled the surprisingly delicious aroma rising from that bowl, her stomach growled loudly. Genevieve reached out to take it as the old curmudgeon grimaced crookedly, his brows not parting as he said, “I thought as you’d be hungry.”
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