Slowly, too slowly for Nathan's peace of mind, she stopped shivering. The trouble was he'd begun to feel things, too. Like her thigh pressed against his own. Or her breath as it warmed the skin of his neck. Against his better judgment, against all damnable reason, he felt his body begin to stir. He closed his eyes, on the verge of muttering a frustrated oath. How the hell could he desire her after all she'd done?
He was on the verge of getting up angrily when she said, "Nathan?"
"Yes," he answered, having to grit out the word.
"How did your face get that way?"
He jerked away from her as if her body had turned to ice. Her eyes snapped open. The look on her face was one of surprise.
"I didn't mean to offend you, I just wanted—"
He stood, tossing the blanket over her. "The question is not a good one, my lady."
He saw her swallow. Saw her nod. "And while we're in a chatty mood, let us get a few things straight. You are now my captive. Any kindness I may have shown you in the past was purely to lure you into thinking I was your friend. I am not your friend. Nor will I ever be."
He expected her reaction to be anger, he truly did; instead all he saw was hurt.
"I see," she murmured. She tilted her chin up, just as he'd seen her do when confronted by society's maltreatment of her. "Thank you for clarifying the matter. I confess myself relieved, for I was about to suggest you and I become blood brother and sister, and I do so hate the sight of blood."
Her sarcasm wasn't lost on him. Damn, but he liked the way she snapped back at him.
"See that you remember my words," he warned.
"Oh, I will, Nathan Trevain. I will."
Minutes later he'd retied her wrists, wound the blanket around her and sternly warned her not to move as he lay down next to her.
Ariel would have been glad to comply, except she was bloody well uncomfortable wrapped up like yesterday's meal.
Wiggling a bit, she tried to loosen the bonds. But with her hands tied behind her back, her struggles were as effective as trying to untie stays with teeth. It rained outside. Despite the doors he'd wedged back into place, the smell of wet leaves and sodden ground permeated the room. She was cold again in her still damp chemise and growing colder by the minute. She tried to shift in the blanket, but only ended up sinking deeper into the roll, her vision partly blocked by the gray edges of the fabric.
Bullocks. Now what?
"Stop wiggling," he growled.
She stilled, blowing a hank of dank hair out of her face before peeking over at him. He hadn't moved. The hateful man looked blissfully comfortable. His shirt was already dry, she noted, having no wet layers beneath it, unlike her chemise and corset.
When she noticed him still staring at her, she lifted a brow, shooting him a scathing look of impatience. "I would love to stop wiggling, sir. But it's a bit uncomfortable with every limb save my ears tied."
"Then don't think about them being tied."
"Are you mad?"
He still hadn't moved. Impossible man.
"I had no idea English women were so delicate," he drawled.
The words got her back up, as she supposed they were meant to do. Delicate, indeed. Why, she'd once spent a whole evening out of doors. Of course, she'd accidentally locked herself out of her cousin's home, but that was beside the point. She wiggled some more.
"Can you not sit still for a minute?"
"Can you not keep quiet for a minute?"
He opened his eyes, tilted his head a bit to peer at her. "Go to sleep, Lady D'Archer. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
"If you think it easy to sleep this way, sir, than I encourage you to do it."
"I have done it."
"Really?" she asked, not believing it for a minute.
His eyes narrowed. "I was a prisoner of war for several months, my lady," and the way he said "my lady" was akin to the way most people said pig saliva. "A guest of His Majesty the King's army in Charleston. It's where I learned to love your fellow countrymen so much, for they were quite generous hosts."
Her mouth dropped open, a part of her thinking he'd made the story up just to suit the moment. Then again it was entirely possible he'd been taken prisoner. Such things happened in war. "Is that where you learned your manners?"
"No, it's where I learned to hate anything British." And with that, he lay down again, ending their conversation.
Ariel started at him with narrowed eyes. Cad. Blackguard.
But when she closed her eyes, she only heard his words again:
It's where I learned to hate anything British.
Is that how his face had been wounded? Had something happened while he'd been a prisoner? She settled herself beneath the blanket, telling herself it didn't matter how it happened. A pox on him. He deserved to be taken prisoner. What was more, it was not possible to sleep this way.
But despite the anger she felt, she was human enough to admit that he was also a man whose brother had disappeared. He'd crossed an ocean to find that brother, and though she told herself that this should not make her feel sympathetic or even a wee bit sorry for him after all he'd done, a small, tiny smidgen of her did feel sympathetic.
Bloody stupid man.
She turned her head, studying him, her eyes somehow drawn to his face. The good side of his face was turned to her, his lids still shut, the man feigning sleep. He had a rather strong jaw, she thought, not at all like Archie's. Phoebe had said Archie had a jaw like a catfish and the lips and whiskers to match. But Phoebe always said such things about Archie. She hated the man for what he'd done to her.
Ariel shifted even more, facing him fully now, knowing she should stop looking, but unable to stop herself. For a moment she became intrigued by the fact that no frown lines marred his face, no scowl curled his lips, no sneer lifted the corner of his mouth. With his face so relaxed, his cheekbones seemed less prominent, softer, younger.
It struck her then that Nathan Trevain, heir apparent to the duke of Davenport, really was a handsome man. Oh, not beautiful like the sculpture of Apollo she seen in a book. No. Nathan was handsome in a wild, untamed sort of way.
He shifted. Ariel caught her breath. He turned to his side, facing her. Gracious, his lips almost brushed hers, he was so close. She prayed he wouldn't open his eyes, but as always happened when she truly wanted something, the opposite happened.
He opened them.
"Bloody hell," he roared, sitting up. "What do you think you're doing so near to me?"
"I. . .ah. . ." She'd been caught staring. "My, ah, arms have become numb, so I moved to my side."
It was a lie. She knew it was a lie. He knew it was a lie. Queen Charlotte would have known it was a lie.
"Get comfortable facing the other direction," he growled.
She blinked. Nathan sitting above her was a sight. Suddenly, she felt as if the blanket was wrapped around her too tight.
"Go back to sleep, my lady."
Yes, indeed, she should.
She watched as without another glance he lay down again, turned his back to her and closed his eyes.
Ariel felt like a broom whose handle had been cut. Gracious, how was she to get through this night? She could hear him breathing, and though she told herself to ignore him, that the man was a liar and a bounder, she discovered it was nearly impossible to do as she ordered. Moisture from outside stirred lazy air currents, currents that brought the smell of him to her nose. His scent was unlike any she'd smelled before. Unique. Wholly Nathan Trevain. It reminded her of their time together in the garden.
She groaned. She was certainly in trouble if she found the smell of Nathan Trevain attractive. She should hate the smell of him. Truth be told, she should hate everything about him. Yet no matter what she told herself, she only became more and more aware of him. . .of the way he sounded as he breathed, of the way his warm body felt lying next to her. That he slept was patently obvious by the way he inhaled deep breaths of air. The sound was rhythmic, foreign and
so utterly masculine she found herself wanting to listen.
Escape, screamed her mind.
Yes, escape. A most excellent notion. Without another thought she rolled away.
She wiggled the blanket loose, then pushed herself to her feet gently, so as not to startle him or worse, lose her balance and fall atop him. Heaven knows what he'd do if he found her trying to escape.
The blanket slid down to the floor. Ariel side-hopped over it, peeking glances at her captor the whole time. When that was done, she used a shuffling motion to move away from him, feeling rather like an octopus with its legs tied. She had to move at the pace of a snail. At this rate the sun would rise and birds chirp before she made it to the door.
She glanced at her captor again, only to pause. Gracious, he'd begun to sweat. She could see big beads of it on his brow. Curiosity made her stare, light illuminating features gone suddenly gaunt. That gave her pause, too. He jerked. She started, then chastised herself for being such a ninny. He was asleep. A troubled sleep, for his head thrashed back and forth, but a sleep nonetheless. Her own head tilted as she stared down at him. What demons haunted his soul? she wondered, for it was obvious that some did. Well, that was as it should be. He deserved whatever horrible dreams his past brought him.
She turned away—well, shuffled around, really.
A hand reached out to stop her.
It spun her back to face him. Ariel gulped, for the man must have bounded to his feet.
He looked livid. Absolutely put-her-over-his-knees livid.
"Minx," he spat.
"Unhand me."
"You were trying to escape," he accused.
"Of course I was. You kidnapped me. I'm supposed to try and escape."
He looked like he didn't know what to say to that outstanding piece of logic. They stared, Ariel wondering what he would do next. Apparently stare some more.
"Lie back down," he ordered.
"If it's all the same to you, I should prefer to sleep standing up."
"Lie back down," he shouted.
She jumped. "But I—"
"Now," he shot. "Or do I have to put you on the floor myself?"
She gulped. "No." Please no. She didn't want him touching her. Moving back, she carefully lowered herself to the filthy floor, feeling rather like a sacrificial lamb. But that feeling faded when he lifted the hem of her chemise. She shot away, horrified. "What are you doing?"
"Tying you to me."
"You're what?"
He held up a rope. "Tying this end of the rope around your ankle and this end around my waist, so you cannot try and escape again."
Bullocks. If he did that, then she would not be able to try and escape.
Well, yes, Ariel, that would be his point.
"Very well, sir," she said, knowing that to protest would do her little good. "I give you leave to lift my chemise."
He stared at her a moment longer, seemed to grit his teeth, then lifted her skirt, tying the rope around her left ankle, then the other end around his waist.
When he was finished, he straightened, saying, "Get some rest."
Not bloody likely, Ariel thought, closing her eyes. How could she sleep next to such a cad? Likely she'd lie awake all night.
She rolled to her side. Instantly she fell asleep.
11
He was going to die.
Wess Trevain supposed the realization ought to bring him pain, but he was in so much pain now, he didn't care.
"Flog 'im again," cried a man.
Wess tensed, waiting for the pain to pierce his flesh again, that momentary instant of agony as acute as the sting of a jellyfish.
And then it hit. Through sheer force of will, he didn't cry out. He'd never give these British the pleasure of hearing him cry out. They'd kidnapped him from the deck of his ship, forced him to serve in their damnable navy, taken him from his family, his home, his homeland. They would not hear him scream. Still, a small moan escaped.
The crowd murmured at the sound, though some of the men remained quiet. Those he'd made tentative peace with in the past months. Those he could count on as friends, despite his forced tenure aboard the HMS Destiny.
The lash fell again.
Once again he couldn't stop the gasp that escaped, though God, how he tried. Heat seared its way down the back of his bare legs. Someone cheered, instantly silenced by one of the officers standing to his left.
Again the lash fell.
Twenty more to go.
Then fifteen.
By now he was crying out in pain, tears escaping from his eyes. Then suddenly he found himself cut down, his body falling to the deck.
"Run him the gauntlet," intoned a well-modulated voice.
The crowd broke out into murmurs. Wess well knew why. Running the gauntlet was a punishment usually reserved for thieves; so was flogging. But he wasn't a thief, he was a deserter, and by the Articles of War should be subject to a court-martial, not a flogging at the hands of the crew. But apparently Captain Pike cared not for maritime law.
If he doubted his death before, he knew it now. Ten, perhaps fifteen days hence he would succumb to an infection. Or perhaps malnutrition when they sent him to the hold to "contemplate his crimes."
Two men came forward, lifted him, causing another unwanted cry to escape his lips. They strapped him to a wheeled seat, then dragged him toward the crew. Wess knew what came next. He watched as the bosun handed the cato'-nine-tails to the nearest crew member. It was a brutish seaman Wess knew well. The man had never liked him. None of them did, with the exception of his five fellow countrymen.
"Bloody patriot," the brute muttered, raising the lash.
It fell with more force than any of the bosun's blows. The pain never went away. He never entered that plane some men talked about, that state where no pain existed. He felt each blow, felt each piece of leather lick at his flesh, tear into it, only to crack through the air to land again. He tried, dear God he tried, to let his spirit float free. Tried to think of things familiar and dear. His father. His brother.
Nathan. I hope they didn't kill you, too.
"Bastard," cried another man. "Your friends killed me da'." The cords fell.
"I lost half me family to one of yur troops." It fell again.
And on and on it went. Wess lost track of how many men he passed. The strands were raised, brought down, then lifted again.
Suddenly it stopped. Pray God it was over.
"I can't," said a familiar old voice.
Wess lifted his head. A wizened face stared down at him, two front teeth missing. Samuel.
"Don't make me do it," begged the man who'd taught him how to tie his first knot.
"You must," Wess rasped.
"I can't, Captain," he near sobbed. "Lord, when I looks at what they done to you—"
"Do it," snapped the man holding his chair.
Do it, echoed Wess's eyes. For if he didn't, they both knew what would happen. Samuel would suffer a similar fate, only worse, for the British crew members didn't take kindly to men holding back.
Samuel raised the tails. The nine ends shook in his grasp. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, tears gathering in his eyes.
The whip came down. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough. Wess gasped, his body beyond him now, his reactions automatic.
He lapsed into unconsciousness.
Water brought him back, salt water that trickled down his back and brought fresh waves of agony. He waited for more blows to fall, but apparently the captain was through with him. Through blurry eyes, Wess saw the bastard raise his hand and turn toward the crew.
"Let this be a lesson to those of you not anxious to serve aboard my ship." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I will brook no deserters aboard this ship. The next man who tries to leave will suffer the same punishment." He let his words sink in, then turned to Wess. "Take him below."
12
Ariel decided the next morning that sleeping on a dusty floor wrapped up like a sausage did not, as a
rule, put a person in a good mood. It didn't help that she'd only managed to doze as she'd fought to get comfortable. It also didn't help that Mr. Trevain had awoken looking as refreshed and as relaxed as a man with eight hours of sleep. It irked her no end, the only thought to console her that she would take pleasure in seeing him bound and gagged one day. Soon. Thank goodness he'd untied her limbs. They still buzzed as if asleep, but she had some sensation in them. Jolly wonderful.
She studied him. He'd donned his coat again, not black, she suddenly realized, but dark, dark gray. It hung to just above his knees. His dusty-from-the-floor fawn breeches pouring into black boots. And yet despite the rather plain look of his attire, there was a brief instant, half a heartbeat, really, when she thought him quite handsome, but then he turned to her. His eyes glared. He turned ugly again. Or so she told herself.
"How long are we going to stay here?" she asked.
"We're not."
She felt her brows lift. "We're not."
He shook his head.
"Well, then, where are we going?"
"To Bettenshire."
"Bettenshire! Why, that's the town where I live."
"I know," he answered, pinning her with a stare.
Understanding dawned. "You want to search the house there, too."
"I do."
"I'm surprised you haven't already. You are, after all, a master spy."
"And how do you know that?"
"I asked someone at the Admiralty."
"How thorough of you."
She nodded.
"Then it may interest you to know that I already have searched the house, though not as thoroughly as I would have liked. It was difficult with your staff in residence. Now, however, I have you. You will dismiss the staff then aid me in my search."
"I will not," she huffed.
He took a step toward her. His face and the scar, something she'd hardly noticed this morning, suddenly looked ominous. "You will aid me, my lady, for if you do not, I shall send word to have your cousin taken from her home and disposed of."
Enchanted by Your Kisses Page 12
