God, how he loved her.
The realization gave him no pleasure and was like a cold fist around his heart.
The thought of his seed filling her caused him to burn with a primitive satisfaction but it reminded him his child was already growing within her. It was like having ice water dashed over his head.
Adam turned her from the wall with as little tenderness as he’d placed her there.
“I have not harmed you? I have not harmed the child?” His coldly abrupt words could barely squeeze past the lump lodged in his throat.
She shook her head, her green eyes languid and sleepy, her skin still mottled with passion.
He turned away, snatched a towel off the pile, and walked to the door.
“Adam?” The word was breathless.
“What?” He stopped to wrap the towel around his waist but he didn’t turn around.
“Are we going to sleep in your room or mine?”
“Both,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The two ships were bustling with activity when they boarded them the next day.
Ramsay had already tried to give Adam and Mia his cabin but it was clear there would be no place large enough to comfortably hold the baron if they accepted his offer.
Adam thanked him, saying a smaller cabin would suffice. Ramsay stared intently at Martín until he heaved an exaggerated sigh and flung his hands in the air.
“Take my cabin, my lord.”
Adam opened his mouth but Mia intervened before he could reject the offer.
She knew her husband would much rather travel on Ramsay’s ship, but she’d already made the journey once and knew the discomfort of small cabins.
“Thank you, Captain Bouchard, we should be very pleased to accept your kind offer.”
Bouchard’s hostile eye roll was more rewarding than the slap she’d wanted to administer the day before. “Follow me,” he said abruptly, turning on his heel and striding ahead of them, not waiting to see if they were behind him.
The Golden Scythe had been one of the sultan’s finest ships for years and Mia knew it must have infuriated Assad to lose it to a privateer so soon after his father’s death. The sultanate relied heavily on its ships, both to engage in legitimate trading as well as the lucrative and highly illegal slave trade. It did not bode well for Assad’s crumbling empire that he was unable to maintain control of his small fleet.
The Scythe was smaller than Ramsay’s Ghost but impressively armed and as clean and polished as the finest carriage in Hyde Park. Mia could see by the way the sailors greeted their captain they held him in high regard. Indeed, Bouchard became a different man when he boarded the ship, his movements sharper and more purposeful. He almost appeared ... mature.
He led them belowdecks to his cabin and Mia stared in wonder when he opened the door. She’d stayed in Ramsay’s cabin on the Ghost and it had been larger than usual, altered to fit the man’s size. But Bouchard’s cabin? It was like ...
“Good Lord, it is just like a brothel,” her husband muttered. Mia bit back a laugh, and then frowned, wondering how her husband knew of such things. She would ask him later, if he ever relented toward her.
“Thank you, Captain,” Mia said, when it was clear Adam would say nothing good. “It is quite ... luxurious.” And it was. The bed took up half the room and was piled high with velvet and silk bedding, the dark wood and brass polished to a blinding shine. One wall, the wardrobe, she supposed, bore large mirrors, a silent but vocal testament to Bouchard’s staggering vanity.
The captain grunted and flung open the wardrobe doors. “I have made the room for your cloth.” He paused. “Cloths, clothe.” He finally gave up, shaking his head in disgust, his tongue unable to accommodate the English combination of t and h.
Mia thought his English was much improved even in the short time since she’d last seen him, and the mistakes he made were rather charming, not that she would ever tell him so.
“Thank you, Captain.”
He nodded abruptly. “I leave you now.”
Adam turned to his luggage once the Frenchman had gone, his expression perplexed.
“I shall put away our clothing,” Mia said. Like the aristocrat he was, Adam had not done without servants in quite some time, if ever. He nodded and Mia could feel the tension coiled inside him as he paced about the small space. He’d not forgiven her. Oh, he answered her questions and discussed the details of their trip readily enough, but there was a distance between them that had not existed since the early days of their marriage. Mia had no idea how to cross it. She’d tried to sway him with her lovemaking, but he’d slept alone last night and she’d not had the courage to force her way into his bed. He was very, very angry and hurt. Mia could not blame him for either feeling. It was her job to bridge the distance between them.
She took a step toward him and it felt symbolic. “Will you keep me company for a stroll on deck?”
* * *
Adam looked down into his wife’s pleading eyes, fully aware he was acting childishly. He’d managed to discard the anger he’d felt regarding her lies, but her abandonment was another matter entirely. He still couldn’t forgive her for looking to another man in her time of trouble. Maybe he never would.
He resumed his pacing without answering her, coming to a halt in front of the built-in bookshelf above the desk.
“Our captain likes to read,” Adam murmured, browsing the small selection of books.
“He also likes to play chess.” Mia gestured to a handsome box and board that sat beside the bed.
Adam snorted. “Let us hope he has cards, as well.”
A month of getting thrashed at chess by his wife would be enough to rattle even the most sanguine man, and Adam was far from that. Especially not since he now had his own lies to hide.
“I will not allow my wife to leave that ship, Ramsay. If I had my way, she’d not be on it in the first place,” he’d told the baron last night after Mia had finally gone to bed—but not before she’d cast him enough suggestive, longing looks to melt stone.
“I understand and I would not like to be in your position. I’m sorry I agreed that she should go with us, but I would hate to go all that way and not have her on hand if we can’t find the boy as easily as we think. Or if Assad demands to see her before he produces him.”
Adam had lowered the glass of port he’d just raised to his mouth. “Please tell me you aren’t planning to use my wife to bait a hook, Ramsay.”
The baron waved Adam’s glare away with his brawny three-fingered hand. “No, of course I’m not. However, if Assad believes she is there, he may trot the boy out and make things a lot easier. Besides, I don’t fancy your chances of keeping her from going, not if you ever want her to speak to you again.”
Adam grunted, knowing the big man was correct. He wished her displeasure did not matter to him, but there was no denying it did—even though he was currently too furious to speak to her.
“I will draw the line at her stepping foot on shore. I want her far away from those docks when you and I go to find her son.”
Ramsay grinned. “You and I?”
Adam knew Ramsay was no fool, for all he enjoyed playing the jester. If he did not believe Adam would contribute anything, he would have no qualms about leaving him on board the ship, just as Adam had no qualms about leaving Mia.
“You cannot think to leave me behind. I will be valuable when it comes to fighting in close quarters and dispatching men without a pistol. I’m assuming we will want to keep our presence quiet if we need to get close to the palace.”
“I’m hoping there will be no dispatching,” Ramsay pointed out.
Adam nodded, willing to be amenable, as long as it served his interests. “As am I. However, praemonitus, praemunitus.”
Ramsay laughed. “I take your point and I would certainly rather be forearmed in this situation.” He looked at the liquid in his glass, his usually amused face pensive as he considered the
matter. “Assad will expect me to bring her back, so he’ll think she’s on the Ghost. That means we should keep her on the Scythe. We could always move her to the Scythe before we reach Oran, but I can’t help thinking that would make her suspicious. It would be better if you commenced your trip on Martín’s ship. He will protect her when you’re not there, Exley,” he added, after noting Adam’s skeptical expression. “Since he will not be coming with us, he will be the best we have to offer.”
Adam bristled at the notion of spending weeks at sea with the obnoxious Frenchman and then leaving Mia alone with the arrogant lothario.
He allowed the fine brandy to warm him as he considered the man’s words. “Bouchard is that good?”
“Bouchard is who I would want to guard my own wife, if I had one.” He gave one of his booming laughs. “Well, perhaps not when it came to her virtue.”
Adam flicked Ramsay a look of contempt. “I am not concerned about that,” he lied, a hateful wave of jealousy cresting all the way to his eyeballs when he thought of the younger man even looking at his wife.
Adam thought back on that conversation now, for the hundredth time wondering if he’d been foolish to allow her to come. He did not feel good about deceiving her, but there wasn’t any other choice. What did it matter if she was angry at being left? Would it be better that she was dead than angry?
He closed the book he was holding, annoyed at the way his thoughts chased one another around and around and yielded nothing new or productive. He sat down at the small table and watched his wife as she worked. He thought about the secret she’d kept from him, and how it had angered him. And then he thought about the secret he was keeping from her, and how much worse it was, how much more irreparable.
She caught him watching and gave him a loving look, not faltering under his scowl—a scowl that was born of guilt and fear rather than anger this time.
His stomach lurched sickly with the secret he could neither swallow nor seem to disclose.
* * *
Life aboard the Scythe quickly settled into a routine.
They woke not long after first light, as it became impossible to sleep with the sounds of activity. After a leisurely breakfast in their cabin they went on deck, foul or fair, to take some exercise.
Silence fell each time they came on deck. The crew, unused to having either women or haughty English peers aboard, couldn’t help staring. Luckily, both Adam and Mia were well accustomed to being stared at and paid the men no mind.
When the heat of the day drove them back below deck they would read or play games to pass the time. While they’d not made love since beginning their journey, Adam seemed to unwind a little toward her with each day. Besides, it was enough for Mia that they slept together each night, the close confines of the cabin making any other arrangement uncomfortable, if not impossible.
Toward the end of the first week, when they were engaged in a game of chess and Mia was trying not to win too quickly, Captain Bouchard knocked on their cabin.
He’d kept his distance for the first few days, but it was difficult to avoid one another in such small spaces. Mia frequently saw him eating with his chief mates in the small room that served as a medical bay, dining room, and meeting area.
“We are going to have a bit of weather in a few hours. Not too bad, I hope, but perhaps a little rough.” The young captain spoke in his native French. He looked at the board between them and smirked at Mia, as if it amused him to think of a woman playing chess. “You play, eh?”
“Yes, would you care for a game, Captain?”
Adam shook his head, no doubt picturing the two of them bobbing behind the boat after she beat the mercurial captain.
Bouchard paused, his eyes sliding to Adam. Mia poked her husband under the table with her foot.
He sighed and answered in French, a language with which the captain was obviously more comfortable. “My wife is almost finished with me, Bouchard. I would be glad for a rest.”
Captain Bouchard looked pleased by the offer and Mia realized he probably didn’t have many other opponents on his ship.
Mia wrapped up the game, glad she no longer had to consider inventive ways not to beat her husband. Bouchard rang for a bottle of wine and took Adam’s seat.
Mia held out closed fists with a pawn in each. Bouchard drew white and an almost childlike look of glee spread across his face, which he made no effort to hide. Captain Bouchard liked to win. She wondered if it would be politic to give him at least the first game. She was considering the matter when she looked up and saw Adam watching her over the top of a book, a glass of wine beside him on the desk. She swiveled her eyes to Bouchard and lifted her eyebrows. Adam shrugged, his resigned expression saying he’d washed his hands of the matter.
Coward, Mia mouthed. She turned to Bouchard’s handsome, conceited face and decided she would enjoy thrashing him.
The game went much as she expected. Bouchard was not a bad player, but he thought no more than a few moves ahead. Also, he was too attached to his pieces to sacrifice any to further his cause. She chased him around the board a bit, not wanting to end it too quickly. By the time she had him in checkmate, she could see it would have been wiser to let him win. He seemed to have grown to twice his size and made no effort to hide his fury. For a moment she thought he might fling the board and pieces across the cabin.
As if sensing the incipient violence, Adam came to stand beside her.
“You are in good company, Bouchard. I have never beaten her. I should have warned you.” He looked down at Mia, his eyes glinting with dark humor. “Why don’t you let us have a game, my lady?”
Bouchard looked so enraged Mia thought he might decline Adam’s offer. But he seemed to think better of it, no doubt believing his manly pride would suffer if he demurred.
The game between the two men was far better matched. The protracted slaughter finally ended in a draw after nothing but kings and pawns were left on the board.
When they finished Bouchard leaned back in his chair, his expression far less disgruntled than it had been an hour earlier.
“That was close, eh, my lord?” He cut Adam an arrogant smirk as the latter put the pieces back in their box.
Adam cocked an eyebrow but made no comment.
“Ramsay tell me you like to play card,” he said, his broken English drawing a faint smile from her husband.
“I do,” he admitted, replacing the box and board on their stand. “Unfortunately, I did not bring any with me.”
Bouchard dismissed his words with a lazy wave. “I ’ave lots. What do you play?”
Adam took a seat beside Mia. “What do you play, Captain?”
“Piquet, vingt et un, lots of udders. Shall we ’ave a game?”
Mia gave her husband a look much like the one he’d given her earlier, but he ignored it.
“I’d welcome a game, Captain.”
Bouchard smiled and switched to his native tongue, as if the conversation were too important to have in English. “Let us play in the boardroom. Perhaps my mate Beauville will join us.”
“Are you coming, my dear?” It was the first time he’d used an endearment with her since she’d left Brighton.
“I think I will take a nap. You go and enjoy yourself, but not too much?”
Amusement flashed in his pale, predatory eyes.
* * *
The wild tossing of the ship woke her and Mia peered at the small clock: it was nearly midnight. Her stomach roiled and her neck was kinked from the odd angle at which she’d been sleeping. She needed fresh air, and quickly.
She sat up too fast and her head spun and throbbed. She forced herself to move more slowly, her stomach creeping inexorably toward her mouth as she fastened her cloak around her and inched toward the door, holding on to walls and furniture as she went. She paused outside the door, glancing toward the end of the corridor, where the wardroom door stood open. The low rumble of male voices told her they were still playing cards. She would not disturb Adam.
/> Mia wrestled opened the door to the deck and encountered the opening scene from The Tempest. She considered returning to her cabin but the fresh air—as violent as it might be—was already beginning to scour away the nausea that had threatened to overcome her below.
She pulled the door shut and wrapped her cloak tighter before creeping toward one of the crates they frequently sat on whenever they came on deck. Wind and rain and salty sea spray whipped her face and the ship tipped wildly to one side just as she reached the first wooden crate. She scrambled for the crate and barely grasped the rough, splintered edge before her feet began to slide out from under her.
Her fingers burned as she struggled to hold on and drag herself upright. The boat crested another swell and then hit the trough, slamming her to her knees. Sharp pain shot from her knees to her hips.
This had been a dreadful idea.
She’d just pulled herself close enough to get a better grasp when the ship listed almost on its side and a sheet of cold water slapped her like a huge, frigid hand. She flinched away and lost her grip on the crate. Time slowed to a crawl as she slid toward the railing, her feet and hands scrabbling to find purchase on the wet, slippery wood of the deck.
A hand closed around her upper arm, the grip hard enough to make her cry out.
“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Her husband’s voice cut through the wind and rain as he jerked her toward the yellow glow of the stairwell. His arm slid around her and pulled her tight to his side as they staggered to safety. Bouchard appeared in the opening and took her other arm while Adam pushed her toward him and grabbed the doors, which were flapping like wings, trying to break free. He slammed the doors shut and turned to face her. The silence that followed seemed louder than the raging storm.
Bouchard released her as soon as the door closed.
“Are you mad at me, Adam?” she asked, stupidly.
Mia had thought Adam had been angry that day he’d caught her flirting with Gamble. And then she’d thought he was even angrier when he’d tracked her down to Ramsay’s house that morning.
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