Nearly a Lady (10 page)

“Ah.” He didn’t doubt for a second she would try. He felt the nearly irrepressible, and assuredly ill-advised, urge to laugh. Not at her, but at his delight with her. She threatened him almost begrudgingly. Not for herself, but for Lilly . . . And not before she had asked her favors.

“What makes you think I’d allow harm to come to either of you?” Except for the obvious reason that he had no intention of being responsible for either of them once they reached London, he silently added. But she couldn’t know that.

“Nothing’s made me think it. I just wanted you to be aware that I am holding you personally accountable for Lilly’s happiness.”

“That’s a bit much to pin on a man, don’t you think?”

She thought it over. “No.”

“I see.” He felt his lips twitch despite the effort to keep them still. “Well, I’ll do my best to ensure that Lilly has her happiness and that my internal organs remain . . . internal.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Thank you. And I do apologize for the necessity of the discussion.”

“You are welcome, and forgiven.” He turned and began walking away but made it no more than three feet before he gave in to his amusement and turned back again.

“Why raw?”

“Why . . . I’m sorry?”

“Why eat my heart raw?” he repeated. “It’s such an odd qualifier, as if it were assumed I’d prefer it first be roasted and smothered in a fine plum sauce.”

“Plum sauce?” Her mouth fell open, and a bubble of laughter escaped from her throat. “I think you
are
mad.”

“I’m curious. Would the act of cooking really render the deed less barbaric? And what of the rest of dining etiquette ? Is anything permissible? Silverware, for example, or napkins? A seat at the table and a glass of port?”

Her amber eyes began to dance with humor, and her lips trembled with suppressed laughter. “I’m going to take my leave now. Good day, Lord Gideon.”

“Could there be side dishes and lively conversation?” He lifted his voice as she spun on her heel and walked away from him, Claire shuffling along at her side. “ ‘Pass the rolls, Mrs. Butley, and another helping of Lord Gideon’s raw heart. No, no, just use your fingers, dear, he’s being punished.’”

He heard her laughter echoing back to him. Unable to look away, he continued to watch her move away from him toward the house. Yes, it was going to be torture to see Winnefred Blythe sitting across the table from him every day, worse if he had to listen to that wonderfully low and free laugh of hers.

He made himself look away and begin a slow walk in the opposite direction. He’d attend breakfast, he decided. From what he could tell, breakfast was the shortest meal at Murdoch House. More important, performing his duty in the morning would give him the rest of the day to be alone.

He would not, under any circumstances, attend dinner. He would not end his day lying in his bed with the picture of Winnefred Blythe so fresh in his mind.

Nights, he thought grimly, were difficult enough.

G
ideon studied the wavering chart. He needed a plan. He needed to find a way to get them all out of this damnable mess.

But the chart kept shimmering in and out of focus. He couldn’t read it. He couldn’t think.

If the fighting would only stop for a minute, if the ship would be quiet for just one buggering minute, he’d be able to think.

“I can fight, Cap’n. Let me fight.”

He looked up from the table. When had the boy come in?

“Get to the hold, Jimmy.”

“But I can fight, Cap’n. Just give me a gun.”

“You can’t fight.” He gestured impatiently at the boy’s chest. “You haven’t any arms for pity’s sake.”

The boy looked down at his bleeding injuries.

“Bugger me. So I ’ave’nt. Me mum’s going to be right peeved.”

Gideon blinked at the blood. That wasn’t right, was it?

No, that wasn’t right at all.

He needed to get the boy to safety. It was his responsibility to get the boy to safety.

“Get to the hold.” Hadn’t he told the boys to go to the hold? “Now.”

“Nah.” Jimmy shrugged. “Don’t need me arms, really. But Bill’s ’ead is gone. Could be a problem.”

The cabin door swung open and young Colin Newberry came in with a hole the size of a dinner platter through his belly, and Bill’s head clutched in his hand like a lantern.

“Found it! Where’s the rest of him?”

“I’m losing you,” Gideon heard himself whisper. “I’m losing you.”

Lord Marson came in behind Colin. The left half of his upper body was gone, utterly gone, and blood flowed from the remaining half to pool on the floor. “What’s the captain lost? Is that Bill’s head? He’ll be looking for it.”

“Get to the hold! For pity’s sake, I told you to get to the hold!”

Bill’s head blinked at him.

“But, Cap’n, we just come from the hold.”

As the figures before him blurred, a scream echoed in Gideon’s head and strangled in his throat. He wanted to force it out. If, just for once, he could force it out, the agony of it would lessen. But nothing came from his lips but a long moan he heard as if from a great distance.

“Gideon. Gideon, wake up. Please, wake up.”

Winnefred’s voice floated to him over the waves of pain and frustration. Finally,
finally
, the scream began to die, slowly fading away like the final note of a violent symphony.

He saw her eyes first. It was so different to see something other than the ceiling or the bottom of a canopy when he woke from the dream, and for a moment he did nothing but stare while the last of the dream shrank away. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, really, to wake to beautiful eyes filled with concern . . . and fear.

“Gideon?”

“Bloody hell.” He pushed her away with shaking hands. “A moment. Give me a moment.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He sat up and reached for the shirt he’d tossed on the floor when he’d grown over-warm reading in bed. Pushing his arms through the sleeves, he rose, grateful that he’d fallen asleep with his trousers still on. Then he planted his hands on his hips and concentrated on settling his heart into a normal rhythm.

Only when he was certain he had regained a modicum of control did he turn to face Winnefred once more.

She was sitting on his bed, and he noticed for the first time that she was dressed in the rich cream night rail and wrap he’d purchased himself. The color had made him think of her skin. That skin was pale now, in sharp contrast with the spray of freckles across her cheekbones and nose. Her eyes were wide with worry and alarm, he realized with a sinking heart. He’d frightened her.

“I . . .” Disgusted that his voice came out rough and cracked, he cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve frightened you. I apologize.”

She shook her head and spoke softly. “I’m not afraid of you, Gideon. Only frightened for you when I heard you call out. You’re not . . . You’re not unwell, are you?”

“No, I’m not ill. I . . .” He trailed off, uncertain of what to say to her or do with himself. He settled for the blessedly mundane task of buttoning up his shirt. “What are you doing out of bed?”

She rose to stand, still watching him carefully. “I wished for a glass of milk. I was walking past your door and I heard—”

“You should have called for a maid.”

“Oh. If you’d rather a maid come, I could wake Bess for you and—”

“No, for the milk . . .” He shook his head, irritated with himself and the situation. “Never mind. I’d like to be alone, Winnefred.”

“Oh, yes. Right.” She hesitated, turned around as if to leave, then turned back again, her hands working nervously at the waist of her wrap. “I find it helpful, on occasion, to speak with Lilly of the things that trouble me. If you’d like to tell me of your dream—”

“I wouldn’t.” His voice was curt, but it couldn’t be helped. The desire to accept what she offered, to tell her everything, nearly overwhelmed him. It was a new sensation for him—he’d never been tempted to tell another of his dreams, not even his brother—and it made him feel like a coward. The dream, and the cause of it, was
his
burden. He had earned it, and he’d bear the weight of it alone. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am.”
For pity’s sake, leave.
“Good night, Winnefred.”

“Yes, well.” She gave him a small smile. “Good night, Gideon.”

She turned again and let herself out with a quick click of the door. For a long time after, he simply stood where he was and stared at it. It would be a simple thing, he thought at first, such a simple thing to call her back.

He considered this for several moments, until he was certain she would no longer be able to hear his voice if he gave in and said her name.

Then he thought of how easy it would be to slip from the room and catch her in the hall before she made it to her chambers.

Minutes passed and he began to envision what it would be like to walk quietly through the house to knock softly at her door. She’d let him in. She wouldn’t give the impropriety of it a second thought. She hadn’t thought of propriety when she’d come into his chambers, had she?

He was thinking of it now, of the door she would close, of the soft bed they would sit on as he told her of his nightmares. He thought of how understanding she would be, how sympathetic. How easy it would be for him to turn that sympathy to his selfish benefit. It was a fine thing, a comforting thing, for a man to lose himself in a woman . . . usually. With Winnefred, it would be something more. And more was not something he had the right to take, nor the ability to give.

Still, he continued to stand where he was and torment himself by imagining what it would be like to seek her out. There was no telling how long he let his imagination run rampant, nor how long he might have continued to do so had a soft knock not sounded on his door.

He should have known she wouldn’t be able to take no for an answer. Should have known her stubbornness and innate desire to protect wouldn’t allow her to back away.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and crossed the room to open the door, prepared to send her away once more.

She wasn’t there. In her stead, a small tray lay at the threshold. It held a piece of toast, a note, and a cup of chocolate.

Her handwriting, he noticed, was atrocious. He stooped to picked up the tray and set it on his desk. Taking the cup, he stood in front of his window, stared into the darkness, and sipped the very last of Winnefred’s chocolate.

Lost in a maze of thoughts, he didn’t realize his lips were curved in the smallest of smiles.

W
innefred woke the next morning with a heavy heart and uneasy mind. For most of the night, she had lain awake, recalling again and again the fear she had seen in Gideon’s eyes when he’d woken from the nightmare, and the misery she had seen after.

It had eaten at her to think of him alone and hurting. And more than once, she had envisioned returning to his chambers, pounding on the door until she gained entrance, and then . . . And then she’d recalled how painfully ineffectual her first attempt to comfort had been, and the determination to try again was lost.

She simply had no idea how to help.

The very few times Lilly had been out of sorts, it had been an easy, even natural, thing for Winnefred to provide what was needed to see her friend smile again. Lilly was fond of wildflowers, tea with honey, and an impromptu and well-executed limerick, preferably of a bawdy (not to be mistaken for vulgar) nature.