Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03]

by The Storybook Hero

  She ventured several steps forward, only to be tossed against one of the stout oak timbers. Repressing a most unladylike word, she rubbed her bruised shoulder and started off again, this time keeping her body pressed up against the rough wood. Her progress became steadier, and as she descended another set of narrow steps, she felt she was nearly there.

  Suddenly, the ship yawed nearly on its side. Octavia was flung across the passageway, but instead of crashing into another beam, she found herself up against something equally as solid, but a bit more yielding.

  "Well, well, what have we here?" came a slurred voice.

  To her dismay, Octavia discovered that her nose—and a good deal of the rest of her anatomy—was buried in the rough wool of a man's coat. An arm groped its way around her waist and pulled her even closer.

  "Why, it's a female," continued the soft drawl. "And a rather shapely one at that." The man's feet moved unsteadily with the next buck of the hull, causing the bottle in his other hand to thump into the cross beam. "Perhaps you would care to join me in a little toast to weathering this blow. I'm sure we could also... come up with some interesting ways to keep each other warm in this cursed cold."

  A binnacled oil lamp up ahead cast just enough light for Octavia to make out the lean jaw, straight nose and full lips of the face before her. Lips that were slowly curling into a suggestive smile. He was tall enough that he had to stoop quite low to avoid hitting his head, causing a tangle of long, raven locks to fall over his bleary eyes. They were blue, she noted, despite the tumble of curls. An unusual blue, somewhere between cerulean and slate.

  "Let me go at once, sir!" she demanded as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.

  His arm only tightened its hold. "I assure you, it would be a most pleasant way to forget about the storm outside." The hull rocked wildly once more. "We could... make our own waves."

  What gall! How the devil did he presume to know what she would find pleasurable? As she opened her mouth to tell him just that, his mouth brushed against hers and she felt his hand begin to rove lower.

  That settled it. Since words were having very little effect in discouraging his amorous attentions, she decided she would have to resort to a more convincing way of saying no.

  Her knee came up hard in his groin. Very hard.

  The bottle fell from his hand and rolled away. With a sharp intake of breath, the man sunk to his knees, then toppled forward and rolled into a fetal position. A low moan escaped his lips—which, she noted in grim satisfaction, were no longer curled in a smug smile.

  Her rather limited experience in such evasive action had taught her now was the time to take to her heels. As soon as the man recovered, he was likely to be in quite an ill-humor. Unfortunately, the ship took a steep plunge. Octavia lost her footing and both she and the other body slid down the pitched planking, coming up hard against the latched door of storeroom.

  She began struggling with her tangled skirts, desperate to be out of the man's reach by the time he was able to move again. However, another sound from his lips brought her up short. She couldn't quite believe her ears.

  Why, it appeared he was laughing.

  "Good Lord, where did you ever learn that?" he managed to gasp.

  Octavia sat up on her knees. "From a friend," she replied warily. "I was told it was the most effective way to discourage a man's attention."

  "Oh, most effective," he agreed. He slowly propped himself up against the closed door and wedged his long legs against the other side of the bulkhead to keep from being thrown about any more. Octavia couldn't help but acknowledge that it was handsome face, despite the sallow skin and fine lines etched at the corners of the mouth. Such hints at dissolute habits were at odds with the flash of lively intelligence in those piercing blue eyes, a light evident despite the haze of alcohol. "I suppose it is a good thing I am a youngest son and need not worry about begetting an heir."

  A flush of color rose to Octavia's cheeks. "That, sir, is a most ungentlemanly remark."

  He chuckled. "And your action, my dear lady, was a most unsporting blow."

  "I didn't realize it was a sport to accost innocent females," she countered.

  The grin disappeared. "To some perhaps, but not to me. Believe me, I am not in the habit of forcing myself on a lady, no matter how deeply foxed. Allow me to apologize."

  She could hardly believe her ears. "You are not angry?"

  "I imagine I got what I deserved." He regarded her in silence for a moment. "Though I must admit it came as a bit of a shock. You have a good deal of, er, spirit, Miss—"

  She ignored the pointed hint for her name." A shock? By that do you mean you are not in the habit of being told no?"

  The seductive smile reappeared. "No, indeed I am not."

  Arrogant coxcomb!

  "Allow me to offer you one bit of advice, however," he continued. "Most men will become, er, rather enraged at that little trick. You had best be as far away as possible in the short time you have."

  "I'm well aware of that," she snapped. "I slipped. The other time—"

  "The other time! Are you in the habit of trying to make a choirboy out of every man you meet?"

  Octavia looked at him in some confusion.

  "Never mind," he muttered. "And what happened on that occasion?"

  She quirked a rueful smile. "I am on a ship bound for Russia, that is what happened, sir."

  His brow furrowed. "How could he force such a thing?"

  "I don't wish to discuss it, especially with a stranger," she said curtly. "As if you aren't acquainted with the way men may force what they wish upon females." His simple inquiry, however, had suddenly stirred up all the anger of the last few months that was pent up inside her. Giving vent to her feelings, she went on. "Really, what an incredibly stupid question. Are all of you men so thick that you don't see what little choice a female has in life? What rights do I have? I can own no property, I have no voice in what laws govern me, I can seek no interesting employment. And," she added for good measure, "if I were leg-shackled it would be even worse!"

  He looked at her with interest. "Ah, a sympathizer with the ideas of Mrs. Wollenstonecraft, no doubt."

  "What halfway intelligent female wouldn't be? There are any number of sensible ideas in her writings." As she spoke, it struck her that, given the circumstances, this was turning into a most peculiar conversation.

  "You have an interesting point. Have you considered—"

  At that moment, a monstrous wave crashed into the side of the ship, sending a strong tremor through the oaken timbers. The man winced, and his gaze searched wildly for his lost bottle. "The devil take it! My brandy," he croaked thickly. "Where's my brandy."

  Octavia was about to answer with a scathing reply when she caught sight of the rigid set of his jaw and the haunted look that had suddenly dulled the unusual blue of his eyes. Another shudder of the hull caused those eyes to squeeze tightly shut, as if in anticipation of a physical blow.

  It was the storm, she realized with a start. Its effect on him was so palpable she could almost feel the tension stiffening his rigid limbs. In the flickering shadows she saw him blink once more, and in that instant, a wrenching look of raw need replaced the studied nonchalance of a hardened wastrel. Then the shadows moved once again, casting the plane of his chiseled profile in darkness.

  She sensed the fleeting emotion she had just witnessed had nothing to do with physical fear. No, something infinitely more complex than that had suddenly made him seem very vulnerable and very alone. For some reason, she felt a twinge of sympathy in her breast.

  "This storm is truly upsetting you, is it not?"

  Another resounding crash tore a wild oath from his lips. The lamp swung wildly, then went out, leaving them in pitch blackness.

  "Sir, let me help you to your cabin. Perhaps you would feel better there." Octavia felt her way over to him and touched his arm.

  He gave a low groan and clutched at the collar of his coat. "For God's sake, don't
let go of me," he said thickly.

  Octavia wedged herself in beside him and slipped her arm around his shoulders. "Very well, I won't let go." His head fell against her breast. Through the thick wool of her coat she could feel the racing of his pulse and hear the raggedness of his breathing. Her hand came up, threading lightly through the tangled locks, brushing them off his forehead. Beads of sweat clung to his temples, despite the chill air. "It will pass," she whispered.

  He made some incoherent mutter in return, stirring in some agitation, but only to settle himself closer. One of his legs came over hers while his arms crept back around her waist. If anyone were to come along and see such a scandalous sight... She was thankful that the lamp had been doused and that the only sound of movement was the muffled tramping on the deck above.

  Octavia had no idea how long she sat in such a compromising position, but her presence seemed to bring a modicum of comfort to her companion, so she made no effort to move. Neither did she attempt to converse. Only when the force of the storm gave signs of abating did she give a gentle shake to the man's shoulder. "Sir, I believe the worst is over. We cannot sit here all night, you know. You must get up and let me help you to your cabin."

  Her words finally seemed to roust him from his stupor. He groped for a handhold and slowly pulled himself to his feet, her arm still steadying his progress.

  "Which way?" she demanded.

  "I... I'm not sure," came the vague reply.

  "Well, think!"

  He swayed slightly. "Ah... left."

  "Then move, sir! I cannot carry you there."

  He stumbled forward, leaning heavily on Octavia'a shoulder. Somehow, she kept him upright, despite the constant pitch and roll.

  "It's this one," he said, a bit uncertainly as he lurched to a stop before one of the tiny cabins. "At least, I think it is."

  She opened the door a crack, praying that he was right. The last thing she needed was to be observed with a thoroughly foxed man hanging around her neck. Thankfully, the tiny space was indeed empty. She shoved him inside, then quickly pulled the door shut behind them. Only then did it occur to her that matters would be even worse if she was seen leaving his cabin.

  "Oh, damnation," she muttered to herself. At least it was dark in the narrow passageway so the chances of being caught were slim. In any case, there was little to do about it now. "Will you be all right? Do you need some assistance in removing your coat?"

  He appeared to have regained control of his emotions, for the half mocking, sensuous smile had returned. "It is a tempting offer, my dear, but I do not relish another encounter with a certain part of your anatomy." He grabbed hold of the side of his narrow berth to steady himself. "However there are other parts I would dearly love to feel," he couldn't resist adding.

  Her face flamed. "Let me out of here."

  He made no attempt to stop her. "Before you go, would you be so kind as to pass me a bottle of brandy from the chest behind you?"

  "I think you've had enough."

  "The hell I have," he said softly.

  She hesitated for a moment, then handed him the spirits with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. "Go ahead then, drown whatever it is that you are running from—and yourself along with it. Good night, sir."

  Whether it was the lurch of the ship or his own willful steps, his broad chest was suddenly between her and the door. "Good night, Miss," he murmured, his head bending closer to hers. "And... thank you."

  Octavia swallowed hard. "Sir, I warn you, I'll not stand for anymore of your nonsense. If you try to kiss me again—"

  There was a low rumble of amusement in his throat. "Kiss you? That was not a kiss back there, my dear. This is a kiss."

  His lips came down on hers, firm but gentle, sending both shivers and sparks down her spine. They parted and his tongue brushed against her own tightly shut mouth, urging her to open to him. She made to protest, but no words came forth as he slid inside her. He tasted of fiery brandy and the salty tang of the sea. It was like nothing she had ever imagined—and certainly nothing like the fumbling advances of her cousin. For a moment, she found herself responding to the heat of his embrace. She melted into his chest and tilted her head back, allowing him to deepen the embrace, if only for a brief instant.

  Suddenly, she came to her senses and pushed away from him with a small cry of outrage. "How dare you!"

  "I warned you that you might enjoy it," he murmured with a roguish grin.

  Octavia pushed past him and flung the door open, heedless of who might see her.

  "Conceited rake," she muttered under her breath as she hurried towards her own cabin. "Why, he is nothing but a drunken lout. And a most ill-mannered one at that!" How in heavens had she been gulled into thinking he had any need of her sympathy, she thought angrily, though in truth she was not sure with whom she was more upset—her accoster or herself.

  * * *

  The sun was bright, even though it rose no more than thirty degrees above the horizon at the noon hour. They had tacked into the Gulf of Finland that morning and were in the final leg of their journey. The Baltic waters were as blue as the sky, and just as calm. A brisk wind had the ship running under full sail, its hull leaving a foaming wake as it raced along at eight knots. Octavia watched the gulls circling overhead, feeling just a slight pang of envy at their total freedom. She could help wondering just what it would be like to be able to chart one's course in life, to have choices.... A movement near the galley caught her eye and brought her thoughts back down to earth.

  Well, at least one choice she had was to avoid the odious Mr. Sheffield!

  That was his name, she had learned. But since that initial meeting during the storm, she had taken great pains to stay out of his presence, no easy task given the cramped quarters of the ship. There was no way to get around his company at mealtimes, but she had studiously refrained from any more that the barest conversation that civility allowed. At least he had shown a modicum of tact by not forcing his attentions upon her, or making any sort of reference to the fact that they were acquainted with each other. On being formally introduced, he had kept his expression a mask of bland politeness. But as he bowed over her hand, the rogue had actually winked at her!

  And he kept following her around, popping up at the most inopportune moments, like these, when she was alone and looking forward to some quiet time for reflection. On any number of occasions she had been forced to be rather rude, but he didn't seem to take the hint.

  Drat the man.

  She looked aft, with the thought of slipping up towards the quarterdeck, only to see her retreat cut off by the formidable bulk of Mrs. Phillips. Good Lord, was nothing to go right this afternoon?

  "Ah, Miss Hadley, a lovely afternoon, isn't it?" exclaimed her cabin mate.

  It had been, she thought.

  "Indeed it is." Alex leaned nonchalantly against rail and fixed both ladies with a brilliant smile. He seemed to repress a chuckle at the scowl his approach brought to Octavia's face. "We look to have clear weather for the rest of our journey to St. Petersburg."

  "I'm sure that is a great relief to some," replied Octavia a bit acidly.

  "Yes, I imagine there are those who take great exception to being tossed and tumbled around."

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes, and the man had the nerve to wink again.

  "Oh, I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. Sheffield," said Mrs. Phillips. "Storms are most uncomfortable things." She paused to readjust her bonnet. "Sheffield, Sheffield. Tell me, you are not by any chance related to the Marquess of Wright?"

  He raised one dark eyebrow. "Madam, do you imagine I would be on a ship bound for the wilds of Russia if I was?"

  She gave a titter. "How silly of me. Why are you on your way to Russia, if I might be so bold as to inquire?"

  Bold? Ha! Brazen was more like it, thought Octavia to herself. The lady had done nothing but try to pump information out of anyone she could corner. However, for once it might be interesting to hear the result
s. She, too, had wondered just what brought the man on board.

  That he was no fine gentleman was evident. His clothes were presentable enough, but little things gave away the state of the owner's purse. The cuffs of his jacket were slightly frayed and the elbows showed a bit of shine from long use. His shirt collar had already been turned, and the polish on his boots could not hide the fact that they had seen better days. Her mouth quirked slightly. Oh yes, she recognized the signs of economy quite well. Mr. Sheffield was no more plump in the pocket than she was.

  And remembering his roving hands and lips, she had other reason to know he was no true gentleman, even though she had to admit such behavior was hardly a reliable measure of one's breeding these days.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Alex's reply. "I have been engaged as a tutor, ma'am."

  Octavia gave snort, which she disguised as a cough. What in heaven's name was he going to teach a young man—drinking, cards and wenching?

  He seemed to read her thoughts and a faint smile came to his lips. "I have some proficiency in languages and mathematics," he continued. "Among other things."

  She couldn't believe it! Another wink! The man was insufferable.

  "Why, what a coincidence!" exclaimed Mrs. Phillips. "Miss Hadley is engaged as a governess, aren't you my dear?"

  Octavia muttered an assent through clenched teeth.

  "Yes, she is to see to the ward of one of our deputy ministers. An excellent man. My husband knows him well."

  "You will no doubt find St. Petersburg a fascinating city. The French architect—"

  "Oh, Miss Hadley will not be in living in St. Petersburg. She is going to Moscow."

  Why didn't the woman give him her bust measurements and the color of her garters while she was at it?

  Alex's brow puckered. "Moscow?" He slanted a glance at her. "Reports have it that Napoleon means to invade Russia shortly, despite his alliance with the Tsar. Moscow will no doubt be his main target."