I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series (10 page)

“Checkmate,” he whispered dryly to himself.

And he took himself off to sleep in the vole hole.

Chapter 7

V iolet awoke abruptly, but long moments passed before she understood she wasn’t still dreaming. She recognized at once that she was fully clothed and swaying gently, as though a giant cradle held her. Startled, she fisted her hands in the counterpane to ascertain it was real, found it already warmed from sunlight pushing in through a blinded window. She saw strips of blue through the blinds. Sky. The rocking was caused by the sea. She was on…a ship. Good God, she really was on a ship! Because of Lyon.

She took her first tentative breath, and the scent of the room was so overpoweringly, stimulatingly, foreign and masculine—smoke and cloves and starch and bay rum and sea and sweat—she sat bolt upright. Panicked. Which was when she discovered parts of her body were stiff from the unfamiliar mattress and that she’d kicked off one of her slippers during the night. She peered beyond her feet, one slippered, one not, and saw in the room’s filtered light a fine mirror reflecting a startled, sleep-flushed woman hanging above a fine low chest of drawers laid out with men’s toiletries. In the corner was a washbasin perched on a washstand, with towels hung near. On one wall was a small fine painting of an exotic landscape—tawny beaches and fronded trees, mountains and small whitewashed houses; on another a great map was pinned; on another a dartboard. Two small, beautiful carpets, also exotic, in shades of ruby and cream covered the floors. Elegantly simple room, almost Spartan, and she suspected the things in it had been carefully chosen from his travels. She was suddenly reminded of Lyon taking only his rosewood box when he’d disappeared.

At the far end was a shelf of books she longed to inspect; near her were the two sturdy-backed chairs flanking a table upon which was…

Ah, yes. The chessboard.

Memory shifted into place in a backward rush when she saw the earl’s black queen lying prone as surely as if she’d been shot down.

Well.

She smiled slowly, and a surge of triumph and pleasure flushed her cheeks with warmth. He’d known she was about to win. Ha! He possessed enough honor to both acknowledge it and maintain the spirit of their agreement, too.

This was something of a surprise.

The smile faded as something occurred to her:

How did she get to the bed?

She didn’t recall a thing.

She frantically patted at herself and to reassure herself that her clothing was indeed on and fastened, then leaped to her feet to have a good poke around.

The ceiling was so low she felt both penned and securely enclosed. Her head didn’t brush the ceiling, but the earl probably crouched a bit to move around this room. She disentangled herself from her bonnet strings and tried to massage some shape back into her poor slept-upon bonnet. She unpinned her hair in the mirror the captain no doubt used every morning. She pulled the hairpins from her hair, where they poked up out of it at odd angles, raked her fingers through it, twisted it up, and re-pinned it with breathtaking speed and efficiency, which would have to do until she was able to return to her trunk in the vole hole for a good hundred strokes with her brush. She knuckled kernels of sleep from her eyes, shook out her dress and patted it down, and inserted her foot into her slipper. Now she could prowl.

First she studied the landscape; it was likely meaningful to the earl, she suspected, as it was the only picture in the room. She wandered over to where the mysterious male toiletries were lined, and after only a moment’s hesitation, lifted up his shaving soap for a sniff. She was just rediscovering the tantalizing whiff of the earl she’d had when he’d leaned in during the waltz when a knock at the door startled her, and her hands clamped suddenly. The soap shot from her hands and flew across the room, skidding to a halt under the bed. Bloody hell.

“It’s Lord Lavay, Miss Redmond, with a breakfast for you.”

Lavay! The prospect of conversation with a handsome, easily charmed man cheered her, and the moment she heard the word breakfast her stomach whined like a punished mongrel. She dove for the soap and patted fruitlessly beneath the bed, but it remained out of reach. She gave up when he knocked again, and flew to the door and opened it.

Lavay took evident pleasure in just looking at her. Those gray eyes glowed in silent, subtle masculine approval. In other words, he didn’t appear to be about to lose himself in a frenzy of animalistic behavior.

“Good morning, Lord Lavay.” She curtsied. “I imagine the captain informed you I was aboard. Thank you so much for thinking of me. You are too kind.”

Violet took the tray from him. A domed tureen perched on top of it. She looked around the cabin for a spot to place it, and decided to carefully settle it next to the chessboard. When she did, the fallen queen rolled a bit, as though suffering a stomachache. Violet didn’t yet want to right it; it reminded her of victory.

“Oh, yes. And Corcoran has been spreading your legend among the men on the ship. You’d think a mermaid had come up in one of the nets. We came to fisticuffs in the galley over who would have the honor of bringing breakfast to you, and I won.”

“Fisticuffs?” This sounded ominous. It was precisely what the captain had predicted. Good God, she’d already laid his crew low. She surreptitiously inspected Lavay for bruising. “And yet…you won?”

Mr. Lavay laughed. “Your skepticism wounds me to the very soul, Miss Redmond! Very well. I’ll confess the crew recalled my rank just as the discussion was growing heated. I apologize if I led you to believe you may have caused bloodshed.”

Bloodshed! It was likely the one thing in her life she hadn’t yet caused. She supposed there was still time.

“Fear not, Mr. Lavay. I suspect I shall rapidly recover from my shock,” she said gravely. Which made him smile slowly. “You’re not shocked at all.”

She returned his smile. Freshly taking his measure. Approving his insight and his humor. Oily, Jonathan had called him. Jonathan was likely simply envious. She found him just as elegant and unforced as when she’d first danced with him. He showed no signs of influencing her breathing or her temper the way the earl did.

Still…she recalled her profoundly self-contained brother Miles throwing a fist into Argosy’s face in the name of love. And of her brother Lyon vanishing and possibly taken to pirating. Reckless extremes and absurd behavior always seemed to accompany love. Perhaps she was immune to love.

She wasn’t certain whether or not she was relieved at this notion.

“I find it intriguing that we should meet again under these circumstances,” he added. A leading statement to be sure. An invitation to expound. And how different this was from the captain’s relentless interrogation.

As if the thought of him conjured him, they both whirled guiltily at the sound of booted feet rapidly heading their way.

Seconds later something like an eclipse fell across the doorway.

“Good morning. I trust you slept comfortably, Miss Redmond.”

The earl’s voice was formal, bass, and brisker than a carafe of coffee poured down one’s gullet. It was the sort of voice that pulled spines straighter, would get a man’s head swiveling guiltily in search of work to do. She could only imagine the effect it had on his crew, since her head swiveled, too, and she had no intention of doing any work. Lavay, spine immediately straight, bowed crisply.

She didn’t think for an instant the earl cared very much how well she slept.

“I slept well, thank you for asking. Did…you?” she couldn’t resist adding cheekily. He frowned repressively. He looked none the worse for his night in the vole hole; he was flawlessly groomed, bright-eyed, tight-jawed. He needed a shave. The shadow of whiskers suited him. Made his eyes bluer, somehow. Like windows out onto the ocean. He glanced a question at the domed platter of food.

“Lord Lavay was gentleman enough to bring a breakfast to me.”

“He certainly is a gentleman,” the earl agreed, in a tone that implied she’d instead called Lavay a “son of a bitch” and he quite concurred. “Lavay, you have duties to see to.” His crisp captain’s intonation made it clear that Miss Redmond fell distinctly into the category of

“pleasures.”

“Of course, sir. I simply thought to relieve you of the burden of feeding our guest.”

An interesting, infinitesimal pause followed. The two men regarded each other evenly. Lavay was about the same height as the earl, but he hadn’t the earl’s air of arrogance and impatience, which was why in part he seemed to take up more than his fair share of air. The ship gave a sway, sending the soap sliding gracefully out from under the bed. It came to rest at the earl’s feet, as if eager to join the conversation. He stared down at it. Clearly bemused. He bent to pick it up. Hefted it in his hand. Then stared at Violet, eyebrows arched sardonically.

She gave him wide-eyed innocence.

“She’s not a guest, Mr. Lavay. She’s an invader as surely as a pirate or a termite, and we shall relieve ourselves of the burden, as you say, of her soon enough.”

Good heavens. This sounded ominous. Perhaps he’d decided to cast her overboard, anyway, thanks to an unpleasant night’s sleep.

Another silence, during which expressions remained impassive but she sensed Lavay was somewhat surprised. She waited breathlessly to see if he would step gallantly into the breach.

“A…termite?” The traitor was clearly amused.

Flint’s mood, however, matched his name. “We shall of course extend to Miss Redmond all courtesy and respect due her station for the duration of her stay, which will be until we reach the next port. Which means two days, if the wind remains fair. I trust those are your rations, Mr. Lavay, you’ve donated to her breakfast?”

Said with almost no inflection. But the abrupt silence was the sound of Lavay’s surprise. She sensed Flint had meant a jab, though she didn’t fully understand why.

“I took up a collection from among the crew,” Mr. Lavay volunteered smoothly. “It’s a combination, shall we say, of everyone’s morning rations.”

This was likely a lie, but Violet admired it immensely, and smiled at Lavay encouragingly.

“We do not issue rations in fractions. We’ll deduct her breakfast from your rations,” the earl said briskly. As if solving a problem of interest to everyone. Violet had the curious sensation that entire portions of the conversation were somehow magically being held out of her earshot via steely male stares and shared personal history.

“Perhaps you need to take a double portion of rations this morning, Captain Flint, as your mood calls to mind a hibernating bear awakened well before spring.”

Said with that smooth, exquisite politeness, but barbed all around as chestnut pods. Surprisingly, only a short silence followed. The earl didn’t immediately challenge Lavay to a duel.

“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Lavay. I shall take it under advisement,” he said surprisingly easily. “Please meet me on the foredeck at half past the hour to discuss our supply circumstances and the charts. You will excuse me, as I now need a word with our…guest.”

Captains, it was to be expected, always had the last word. Not to mention captains who also happened to be earls.

“Thank you again for seeing to my breakfast,” Violet said hurriedly, before Lavay, her ally, departed.

“My sincere pleasure, Miss Redmond.” He left behind his charm like a sparkly little gift, then Lord Lavay bowed with swift elegance, to both of them, and Violet curtsied. She was alone with the earl.

“Why don’t you eat your breakfast whilst I shave, Miss Redmond? It’s porridge.”

It was really more of an order than a suggestion. Like as not he spoke to everyone in just that tone.

Violet lifted the dome and peered beneath.

It was indeed porridge. Accompanied by what appeared to be a pale rock. She poked the rock. It rolled on the tray. She sniffed the porridge. It had virtually no scent. Unless beige could be considered a scent.

A mug of tea alongside both smelled mercifully familiar. She sipped it first. It was bracingly black and bitter as a punishment. There was nothing with which to sweeten it. She didn’t mind in the least. She sipped at it and shuddered as it surged its way through her veins. Very reviving.

“Haven’t you a valet?” she said to the earl, surprised.

He threw a baleful sideways glance at her as he strode across the room with the soap in hand.

“‘Haven’t you a valet?’” he mimicked girlishly under his breath, shaking his head. He ducked slightly to avoid brushing his head on the ceiling, and peeled off his coat, folding it neatly and placing it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing hard brown forearms covered in coppery hair. He splashed his face with basin water. He twirled the brush into the soap vigorously then painted the bottom half of his face with soap. He whisked the razor up and tugged his cheek taut, and scraped the blade over it.

Violet spooned in porridge. She tried not to stare. Watching a man casually take off his coat and then whiskers seemed almost as intimate as watching him disrobe completely. The porridge was nearly flavorless, though perhaps a bit of bacon fat had been stirred in. The rock, she finally concluded, was a sort of bread. It was about the size of her fist. She hefted it gingerly in one hand and tapped it with the finger of the other. It even sounded very like a rock.

He watched her experiment with the food in his mirror as he shaved.

“Likely the weevils were cooked from it before it was brought to you. They stalk off the bread when it’s heated, you know. Disgruntled, I imagine, at the indignity of being so treated.”

She froze. Her fingers loosened in horror on the bread, which suddenly seemed alive and pulsing. She would rather have died than drop it, however.

“Do you fire these from cannons at enemies?”

Insulting it would have to do.

“When we’re out of shot,” he said easily. “They taste a bit like mustard,” he said cheerily.

“Weevils do. Can’t harm you if you bite into one. So tuck in.”

Tuck in. How American he sounded.

She held the thing gingerly. She cleared her throat.