Now there was fanciful thinking.
Sisters-in-law to marquises and wards of earls did not marry uneducated bastards with empty coffers. Men who called the sea their home and hadn’t elsewhere but their ships to lay their heads except for the generosity of his friends on occasion.
Not exactly truth, that. Willoughby had often issued an invitation, as had Oliver’s half-brother and sisters. Of course he’d refused, but he also knew deep inside, his rejection of his father would’ve saddened Mamma.
He shut his eyes again, lest he betray himself further. Truth to tell, he was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to sleep for four and twenty hours.
Ballocks to that.
He wanted Blaike more, but that wasn’t ever going to happen.
Catching up on his sleep would have to wait until the Sea Gypsy made the Mediterranean Sea. Not much respite to be had, however, before she sailed into the Bay of Biscay, and then they’d best pray for favorable weather. Many a ship had foundered during a tempest in those unpredictable waters.
“Have you any news from home?” Blaike glanced upward, melancholy shadowing her face. “I’ve missed everyone horribly. Brooke’s baby boy arrived the second week of February. I cannot wait to see little Leopold. Have you seen him? Blythe is due in May, and Brette a few months later, I believe.”
Fertile bunch those Culpeppers.
What joy it would be to see Blaike’s belly round as Oliver’s child grew within her. Such fantasies were for fools.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the future Earl of Ravensdale yet. Drake’s resigned his commission. Familial obligations.” He could’ve bitten off his tongue for revealing that.
Why couldn’t he have blathered something trivial: Gunter’s had a new ice flavor or that the king had packed on another stone?
She paused in her preparations, giving him a wide-eyed look. “Oh, I hope nothing unfortunate has occurred.”
“His family is landed gentry, and his older brother was shot dead—a hunting accident.” Or so everyone was being told. Drake wasn’t convinced. “He left behind an . . . ah . . .”
Damned awkward. Should’ve kept his mouth shut.
Oliver ought not to have mentioned Drake’s situation, devil it. Especially since Drake had cast his eye on Blaire months ago, and she’d obviously returned his regard.
Blaike held up a wicked-looking needle, and Oliver broke out into a cold sweat.
She set the miniature spear aside. “We won’t be needing that, I don’t think.”
Thank God.
In the last few hours, he’d called upon God more than he had in his entire life.
“Did he leave behind a wife? Children?” Sympathy creased the edges of her eyes. “So tragic when death strikes someone so young.”
“No, a betrothed in a . . . delicate condition.” No need for her to tell him his cheeks glowed.
Why did discussing pregnancy turn even the most stalwart of men into stammering milksops?
“Oh, dear. That’s most unfortunate. Whatever will she do?” Blaike hadn’t judged harshly, as most would a woman in that situation, but instead had shown compassion.
Should he tell her?
She might as well know, so she could tell Blaire, since it was possible Drake would’ve made a decision by the time they reached London. The next time any of them saw him, he might well be married.
“The last I heard, Drake—ever the noble chap—was considering, albeit reluctantly, taking his brother’s place. That way the child, if a son, could claim his rightful inheritance.”
Blaike’s face fell, and she dropped her gaze to the floor, but not before he saw the devastation for her twin in her eyes. “That is very benevolent of him.”
“He’s a true gentleman, to be sure.”
Drake was considering marrying to protect the reputation and lineage of a child that wasn’t his, while Oliver’s own titled father had never once offered Mamma marriage. Bitterness Oliver had striven to dispel for years coiled ’round his belly.
Not for himself; he didn’t want anything from Willoughby.
But his mother had loved him until she drew her last breath. Even as a small child he knew she adored Willoughby. Dangerous to love like that. It warped common sense and reason.
Shut up, he ordered his morose thoughts.
Ruminating on the past only tainted the future. Instead, he concentrated on the alluring woman in his quarters. Much more pleasurable and certainly not likely to be repeated on another voyage.
Blaike resumed puttering about, talking to herself every now and again.
He ticked his mouth upward.
What a delight she was.
M’Lady Lottie must’ve finally gone to sleep. He cringed to think how Blaike would react if she heard the bird’s most flamboyant phrases. It might be a good idea to teach Lottie some new, less unsavory quotes, as Hawkins had advised.
“Here, Oliver.”
Dragging his eyelids upward, he found Blaike hovering over him, her small bosoms, stained with his blood, dangerously close to his face.
What had he done to deserve this torment?
Hawkins would, no doubt, have an opinion as to that.
With determination that would’ve made a monk proud, Oliver averted his avid attention. He forced his gaze to stay above her chin.
Blaike held a tumbler filled with a generous portion of brandy. “I’ve decided you should have something for the pain while I tend you. I’m sure it will still hurt, but perhaps a little less.”
Anything to numb his raging senses.
He gulped the strong spirit down, and the next glass too. He welcomed the burning in his belly, and even more the languid warmth spreading through his veins.
No. What he welcomed more than anything was Blaike’s sweet touch upon his naked flesh.
“I’m in your capable hands, cara mio.”
“Cara mio?” She gave him a perplexed look. “Is that Italian? What does it mean?”
“It is. My mother and grandfather spoke Italian at home, and naturally, I learned to as well.” Oliver didn’t answer the second question since he had no right to call her by any endearment. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles, sanitation be hanged. “I trust you.”
A proper lady is at no time honor-bound to keep a
depraved secret nor compelled to reveal a joyous one.
~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living
Hours later, Blaike pressed the back of her hand against Oliver’s cool forehead.
He didn’t feel hot, but what if he developed a fever?
She hadn’t considered that possibility. Keeping the wound sterile had been her chief concern. Other than to wash him down with cool water, she had no idea how to treat a fever.
Heat skated up her cheeks at the notion of bathing his nakedness, and she pressed her hands to her face as she spun away from him.
Her gaze fell on the volume Mr. Grover had brought up with the medical chest.
Surely the book mentioned how to treat fevers.
Her panic subsided, and as she studied one of Oliver’s drawings, she finished eating the dried plum she’d been nibbling.
Mr. Hawkins had brought up a tray hours earlier.
Simple fair: Bread, cheese, cold meat, fruit, and tea.
She’d enjoyed every bite, until she remembered Oliver’s growling stomach before she dosed him with brandy. The laudanum hadn’t been necessary, but now she fretted that maybe she shouldn’t have allowed him to sleep until they knew for certain he hadn’t been concussed.
Thrashing about in his agitation, he mumbled in his sleep again.
Something about Abraham.
A history existed between those two, she’d vow. Something ugly from the extreme animosity they held for each other.
Yawning, she glanced around Oliver’s quarters again.
Only one lamp remained lit on the desk.
When she’d returned from changing her gow
n and looking in on Blaire, fast asleep in her berth, she found Mr. Hawkins had put the lights out. He’d also tucked Oliver beneath the bedclothes after removing his boots, straightened the cabin, and removed the bloody cloths and clothing.
A true gem, was Mr. Hawkins.
She’d wager not every first mate tended to his captain as if he were his son.
M’Lady Lottie occasionally made little chirping noises, but hadn’t screamed anymore blush-worthy expressions.
Arching her back, Blaike stretched her arms overhead. Lord, she was exhausted.
The ship’s gentle, rhythmic rocking revealed they’d left Port de Lyon.
She’d scarcely paid attention to the shouting and other noises above deck as the crew prepared to weigh anchor. Her entire focus had centered on treating Oliver’s wound. It wasn’t as deep as she’d first feared, and surely a man as young and strong and virile, as he would make a quick recovery.
When another large strand of hair slipped loose from its pins, she blew out a frustrated sigh. Might as well unpin the whole mass then.
Using the looking glass attached to Oliver’s washstand, Blaike removed the pins. She tried running her fingers through the length, but encountered several snarls. Upon spying his hairbrush, she boldly snatched it up, then returned to her chair positioned beside his bed.
His black, slightly wavy locks sharply contrasted with the white pillow. The ribbon tying his hair had gone missing on the way to the ship. She rather liked his shoulder length mane. It fit the dashing, pirate image she’d first formed about him.
A romantic at heart, she’d secretly harbored girlish fancies since meeting him at her very first le beau monde gathering.
Oliver would fall passionately in love with her and whisk her away on his ship, she fantasized. They’d sail around the world, visiting exotic places, happy as grigs. And when the children came along—three, no make that four—he’d gladly forfeit his carefree life. They’d settle on a cozy farm in the country; perhaps raise sheep or dairy cattle.
Yes, he’d be the buccaneer turned gentleman farmer.
That was before she’d seen his drawings though. He’d never be content planting corn or herding sheep.
She skewed her mouth into a slight pout.
That wasn’t the life she craved either—except for that part about sailing from port to port. She’d perish from tedium on a farm, but neither did living an idle life in London, flitting from once social assembly to another, appeal.
Why Blaike was so discontent, she didn’t know.
If the world were a fair place, and women weren’t considered inferior to men, she’d attend university. Become a scholar or a barrister or a politician. Maybe even a physician or a ship’s navigator. Now those careers sounded exciting, and she’d be able to use her intellect, mayhap learn several other languages, too.
Although, vernaculars didn’t seem her strong-suit.
Of course, children would be lovely, but she wanted more from life than darning socks, baking pastries, endless needlework, and wiping adorable turned-up noses.
This dissatisfaction had grown since she left Esherton Green. At times such frustration overwhelmed her, she wanted to rail at the injustice. To do so would be futile; she and Blaire had already been given more opportunity than most women.
As Blaike watched the even rise and fall of Oliver’s chest, she ran the brush through her hair. She’d always found the action soothing, and soon, drowsiness engulfed her. Oh, to be in her comfortable, sparse bedroom at Esherton, tucked beneath her worn quilt. Life at Esherton hadn’t been easy, but it had been safe.
Sedate. Predictable.
And boring as aged, snoozing cats.
She closed her eyes, and allowed her head to droop to her chest. Sleep beckoned, but she feared leaving Oliver, and other than Hawkins, commanding the ship at present, she didn’t trust anyone else to watch him.
“Blaike.”
She jerked her head up. “Yes, Oliver?”
He slept on, but she touched his brow again just to be sure it wasn’t hot.
What agitated him so that even after drinking nearly three full tumblers of brandy on an empty stomach, he muttered in his sleep?
If he hadn’t intervened on her and Blaire’s behalf, he wouldn’t be injured.
A shudder rippled down her spine, and she swallowed.
Thank heavens he’d come along, or at this moment, instead of anticipating a joyful homecoming, she and her twin would be sailing to a horrific fate. Blaike would’ve thrown herself into the ocean before enduring a lifetime as a sex slave.
Utter nonsense his vowing he deserved to be shot. Meunier was the one who’d earned a hole in his shoulder. Oliver judged himself too harshly.
Yawning again, she wistfully eyed the big bed while setting the hairbrush on the night table anchored to the floor.
Did she dare?
Why not?
There was plenty of room. No one would know, save she.
Fully dressed, except for her half-boots, of course, she’d rest beside Oliver, and if he stirred, she’d be right there. No one could suggest anything untoward had occurred. How could it possibly anyway, when he was injured? For certain his crew would be grateful that their captain was so well cared for.
True, she shouldn’t be in his quarters unchaperoned, but neither should she and Blaire have traveled from Geneva without a companion.
Once Blaike had settled herself comfortably—beneath the coverlet, yet atop the other bedding—she closed her eyes. Taking care not to bump Oliver or wake him as he softly snored, she relaxed into the pillows with a long sigh.
Her mind turned to the worry that had plagued her for days now.
“How am I going to explain why we left Geneva?”
“Why did you?”
Oliver’s whispered question almost had Blaike tumbling off the bed. She turned her head to study him, his dear face mere inches from hers.
He was awake now and not talking in his sleep.
“Oh, Oliver, I didn’t mean to waken you.” She touched his chest, almost yanking her hand away as little sparks of sensation where she’d encountered crisp hair skittered all the way up her arm. “Do you hurt? There’s laudanum—”
“No. The pain is bearable.” After staring at her hand for a long moment, he entwined his fingers with hers, then cast the cage a fleeting glance. Her skin was so pale beside his tanned flesh. “If we keep our voices down, M’Lady mightn’t awake yet.”
“And squawk something else embarrassing?” Blaike whispered.
“Exactly. What time is it?” He shifted to look out a window. “We’re underway?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’m not certain of the time. Early morning I should think, and yes, we’ve been underway for a while. I’m sorry I woke you.” She apologized again.
“You didn’t. I habitually awake and rise early.” Oliver glanced around his cabin before his scrutiny came to rest upon her. He gave her fingers a little squeeze. The gesture comforting and natural.
“What has you so tormented, Blaike?”
Perhaps it was exhaustion; or shock from the terrifying encounter with Captain Abraham; or relief that Oliver hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness; or simply the need to tell someone what she’d stuffed into a dark, remote niche and feared to utter, but tears leaked from her eyes.
The hot drop trailed over her cheeks, slowly at first, then ever more swiftly.
She turned her face away and tried to extract her hand.
Rather than releasing her, Oliver pulled her nearer, urging her to lay her head in the crook of his uninjured arm.
“Come, dolcezza. I still have one good shoulder you can cry on.”
His voice had the merest slur. The effects of the liquor or sleepiness? Pray not his head injury.
The temptation proved too great.
With a ragged sob, she yielded. One arm wrapping around his waist, she folded into his side and pressed her face into his strong, wonderful smelling flesh.
&nb
sp; “Cara mia,” he murmured into her hair. “Sometimes the telling of secrets sets one free.”
She shook her head. “Not in my case. I’m afraid I’m ruined, Oliver.”
He stiffened for an instant.
Shocked by her admission?
Then how could she tell him the whole sordid account?
He pressed his mouth to the top of her head and ran his strong fingers through her hair. The caress soothed as well as stimulated. A dangerous combination.
“I cannot fathom such a thing. Tell me what has happened, and we’ll contrive a solution.”
Blaike couldn’t bear to look at him. To see the disgust or accusation in his eyes. With her face still tucked into the corner of his shoulder, she whispered, “I was foolish and gullible.”
The words came forth, one painful utterance at a time. While he simply nodded or made comforting sounds, the awful story spilled from her lips.
“I suspected something sinister was afoot, almost since we arrived at Les Dames de l’Académie de Grâce. But everyone was so closed-mouthed. Afraid to speak their suspicions. Far too many gentleman were invited to dine with us, to join us for musicals, to play cards or charades, or to attend dances at the academy for my peace of mind. Often male guests would disappear half-way through the evening, sometimes reappearing, but usually not.”
“You think the school is a front for something else?”
Even his breath warming her scalp brought succor to her harrowed soul.
“I’m convinced it is. There were women there, in another house, who never attended lessons. Supposedly, they were former students who’d accepted offers of employment from Madame Beaulieu. Seamstresses, milliners, lace-makers, that sort of thing. We were told they did so because their schooling had ended, and they didn’t want to go home. Or else their tuitions hadn’t been paid, and Madame demanded compensation.”
Blaike rubbed at her wet cheeks, then took the edge of the sheet and dried her face before dabbing Oliver’s damp shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I’ve soaked you.” She turned onto her side, and after sweeping her hair out of the way, pulled a pillow beneath her head.
He grasped a handful of her hair and brought it to his face. He closed his eyes and brushed his cheek. “I adore your hair. I’ve never seen any lovelier. Moonbeams and stars and silver and fairy sparkles and all sorts of wondrous things must’ve been used to create the color.”
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