More Than You Know (17 page)

It was barely morning when
Cerberus
made her way out of Charleston harbor. Her white sails spread wide, she carried the wind and the rosy-hued light of dawn in her canvas. Rand stood at the helm, his copper hair windblown and glinting like fire. Inside of thirty minutes, he thought, they would be making ten knots, perhaps twelve. In a few days they would pass through the Caribbean and on to the warmer waters around the equator. He could anticipate this leg of the journey would be smooth, just as he could predict foul weather as they headed into winter on the underside of the world.

He would not dare imagine how the same journey might go with Claire. Rand only thought it safe to suppose they would not experience the doldrums.

Below, in her cabin, Claire lay awake. The change in the ship's pitch, the steady beating of water against the hull, raised her from an already restless sleep. Turning on her side, Claire hugged the pillow to her breast with one arm and rested her head on the other. She extended her fingers to the wall and traced a furrow in the wood paneling.

What had Bria meant, she wondered, by her parting words?
Have a care,
she had whispered in Claire's ear,
I won't be on board to draw the doctor's attention.
Had Bria set out to do that at Henley? Quite purposefully? Claire had never considered that. It appeared to her that Macauley Stuart had been attracted to Bria from the outset. His poetic description of her features certainly seemed to indicate that was so. Bria had not always been encouraging to him, or at least not past a certain point.

With a heavy sigh, Claire fell on her back. Why had Bria wanted to draw Macauley's attention to herself in the first place? Had she imagined she was doing her brother a favor? Or was it something else?

Claire closed her eyes. How like a Hamilton, she thought, to present her with a riddle.

Over the next week Claire played with the puzzle in her head. She spent much of her time with Cutch, caring for him almost exclusively until Macauley pronounced him fit for light duties. If anyone was especially attentive to her during that time, it was Cutch himself. He found ways to keep her at his bedside, and once or twice she suspected he was better than he would allow. Claire didn't mind his fakery, if that was what it really was. He read to her with more animation than Macauley and his conversation was less taciturn than Rand's. The morning that he reported himself for duties on deck, Claire knew that a measure of the peace she had enjoyed was at an end.

As the weather grew warmer and the wind softened, Claire spent more time topside. The crew was watchful of her—she always sensed that—and at times they were even friendly. Paul Dodd taught her how to do rope work. She learned the difference between bends, which joined knots, and hitches, which anchored a rope to an object. He showed her how lines could be joined by lashing them together side by side, or by splicing them, unraveling the ends, then weaving them. Making a half hitch was no more complicated than tying a shoe. The square and thumb knots took her more time. Claire worked for half a day on a double carrick bend. She found infinitely more patience for the task than the knitting Macauley Stuart wanted her to practice.

She had no skill for mending sail, though several different members of the crew tried to help her. The tools were too unfamiliar. If there was a large repair to be made, it was not so simple as whipping a needle and thread through the canvas. It could require mallets, hooks, and a tapered wooden pin called a fid for opening up the strands of rope. The men also wore a leather strap which fit over the thumb and around their palm and held a metal needle pad. None of them fit Claire's small hand properly. She was not particularly sorry.

Claire lost her concentration for the sheet bend she was working on when someone rapped lightly on her door. The two ropes separated, one in each hand, and she was holding them that way when Rand stepped inside her cabin.

"I don't think I said you could enter,” she told him.

He looked at the ropes she clenched, then the frustration that pulled her mouth tight. “I suppose what I mistook for your welcome was actually several pointed curses."

"Hmmm.” Claire dropped the ropes and rested her elbows on the small writing table where she sat. She propped her chin on her fists and waited for him to state his business. It didn't seem likely that he had sought her out for companionship, or meant to provide her with any. He had not done anything so overtly pleasant since leaving Charleston.

Rand shut the door and leaned against it. He crossed his arms and ankles at the same time, his eyes never leaving Claire's face. A strand of dark hair had fallen forward across her brow. Disdaining to repair it in any real way, Claire simply blew upward to make it flutter to the side. Fascinated by the artless gesture, Rand watched the shape of her mouth soften.

"Yes?” Claire asked.

Her cool tone brought Rand around. Her mouth might have softened, but butter wouldn't melt in it. “Did you know it was me at the door?” he asked.

She couldn't imagine why it was important. “You have a sharp rap,” she said. “Two rapid bursts. Like gunfire. Very much to the point. Mr. Cutch, for all that he's half again your size, taps with his fingertips. Dr. Stuart knocks with the back of his hand. It makes a different sound somehow, and it's usually done in sets of three.” Claire's brows rose a notch. “Shall I tell you more or is that satisfactory? Mr. Cutch and Dr. Stuart are my most frequent visitors, but I can sometimes recognize others."

"I've heard enough, thank you. May I sit down?"

"Of course.” Claire's position in her chair changed slightly as she followed Rand's progress across the cabin. He could have perched on the trunk at the head of her bed, but when she heard the mattress ropes give, she knew he had chosen the bed itself. She tried not to think of that.

"Dr. Stuart said you were not feeling well this evening. You declined to join us for dinner."

"It was a headache.” She found the ropes and held them up. “These, I think."

"You've been tenacious."

She dropped them again and returned to resting her chin on her hands. “I have."

"At avoiding me, I was thinking."

Surprise made Claire's mouth open a fraction. No sound came out.

"You probably thought I was referring to something else."

"You know I was."

"But I'm not mistaken, am I? You have made a point of staying away from me."

"You
are
mistaken. I've left you to the running of this ship and found ways to occupy myself. You didn't want me on board in the first place, Captain. I've never forgotten that and I've tried to be accommodating. I should think you'd be grateful for not having me underfoot."

"It's Rand, Claire, and underfoot is not exactly where I want you."

Claire straightened slowly. Her hands folded on the edge of the desk and her chin lifted a mere fraction. Rand's announcement brought no rush of color to her cheeks. The effect was quite the opposite. Claire felt unnaturally cold. “You would not want me under your thumb,” she said. “It would be like pressing on the wrong end of a tack."

Rand didn't doubt it. But again, it wasn't what he had in mind. “Are you being clever?” he asked. “Or purposely naive?"

"I was giving you an opportunity to change the course of this conversation, perhaps even the direction of your thinking. It occurs to me, rather belatedly I admit, that you believe I should be flattered by your remark. The truth is, I hardly welcome the idea of being under you.” She smiled without humor. “There. I said what you would only allude to. You can dismiss it from your mind that I'm naive. I suppose that leaves clever."

Rand stared at her, silent. From temple to chin, the thin line of his scar stood out whitely. A muscle worked rhythmically in his jaw.

"Captain?” His silence unnerved Claire. Her head cocked to one side, she strained to simply hear the sound of his breathing. “Rand? What are you doing?"

He still did not answer immediately. He waited until the first full rush of hurt had passed. “Licking my wounds."

"Oh.” She slumped a bit in her chair.

The mattress ropes creaked as Rand stood.

"Where are you going?” asked Claire.

"Out."

Claire followed his progress to the door. It was when she heard Rand twist the handle that she came to her feet. She put out one hand. “Wait.” She could almost feel his hesitation. “Please,” she said quietly. “Please wait."

Rand released the door and turned to Claire. His eyes fell on the hand she had extended as it was slowly brought back to her side. “I'm still here, Claire."

She nodded. Her heart was in her throat and her voice never rose above a ragged whisper. “Can you comprehend how humiliating it is for me to have held your penis in my hands and never once been invited to touch your face?” Tears washed her eyes. They lay thickly on her lower lashes until she knuckled them away impatiently. Claire sucked in a steadying breath but it didn't help. It shuddered through her like a half-sob and she realized that she was in danger of crying in earnest. She quickly turned away from Rand. Her arms were crossed and raised in front of her, part for protection, part for comfort.

"Claire."

His voice came from just behind her and Claire realized she had been deaf to the sound of him crossing the cabin. She took a step forward, away from him, and was brought up short by the edge of the desk.

"Claire, please."

She could feel the heat of his hands as they hovered near her shoulders. Claire's head bowed, exposing the nape of her neck. She was not trying to avoid him now; it was a gesture of surrender.

Rand's palms fell on the curve of her shoulders. He bent his head so his mouth was near her ear. “God, Claire,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry. I didn't ... I never meant...” He didn't finish his thought. Instead he turned her so that she was facing him. His hands slid from her shoulders to her elbows and finally to her wrists. She offered only the slightest resistance as he unfolded her arms. He raised her hands to his face. “Look at me, Claire."

She hesitated a moment, telegraphing all her uncertainties.

"I have no expectations,” Rand said quietly. “This will not end in your bed or mine.” He felt Claire's knuckles brush his cheeks as her fingers unfolded. Rand released her wrists and let his arms fall to his sides. “Go on,” he encouraged her. “I want you to see me."

His skin was warm under her fingertips and stretched taut across his cheekbones. Claire pressed her palm to his forehead and made out the gentle ridge of his brow. She felt the slight indentation of his temples. His lashes fluttered against her fingers as she passed over his eyes. She had never forgotten that Mrs. Webster told her they were brown, but she wondered about the exact shade. Were they more like teak or hickory bark? Dark as coffee or light as sand?

Claire traced the line of his nose once, then again to judge the faint arch that gave it its aggressive character. She felt the flare of his nostrils as he anticipated her touch. Her fingertip fit perfectly in the groove between his nose and upper lip; then it tripped past his lips and rested briefly on his chin.

Rand captured her wrist again and brought her hand back to his mouth. “Here, too,” he said.

Claire felt the soft rush of his breath on her fingers. When he released her, her hand stayed in place and she explored the shape and texture of his lips. His mouth parted slightly and there was heat and dampness on the tip of her finger. Her own breath caught and she withdrew, this time cupping the underside of his jaw. Lowering her hands, she could feel the pulse beating strongly in his throat. She paused, then raised her fingers to just behind his ears. Her thumbs grazed his cheeks.

Rand held his breath as her thumb passed over his scar. He made himself stand without moving while her nail traced the length of it from just beneath his hairline to his jaw.

"Your beautiful face,” she said softly. There was compassion in her voice but not pity. “How did it happen?"

"A Yankee saber."

"You might have been killed."

A glimmer of a smile lifted Rand's mouth. “I believe that was the Yankee's plan."

"How did you escape with only this?"

"A lead ball cut him down before he finished pressing his swing. I passed out under him. Instead of being left for dead, I ended up in a Yankee field hospital. After that, prison."

"Oh, Rand.” Claire's hands fell to his shoulders, then slid lower and rested against his chest. “I didn't know. Were you there long?"

"Until the end of the war. About eighteen months."

Claire could only nod, trying to take it in. Rand's experience was outside her imagination. “I knew about the scar,” she said. “Mrs. Webster told me."

"I thought perhaps you were expecting it,” Rand said. “When you weren't repulsed...” He shrugged. “I guess you had prepared for it."

Claire frowned. “I didn't have to prepare myself, not the way you think. Frankly, I was curious.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she went on in the manner of a confession. “Intrigued, actually."

Rand stared at her, fascinated himself by the faint wash of pink that colored her cheeks. Her head was turned slightly to one side, and if she could have seen, she would have been staring at some point past his shoulder, her posture vaguely shy and uncertain. “What exactly did Mrs. Webster tell you about me?” he asked.

"She said the scar merely kept her from pronouncing you beautiful."

Rand ran a hand through his coppery hair. His weight shifted from side to side.

"I've embarrassed you,” said Claire. She was smiling softly now, taken by the notion that Mrs. Webster's observation had made him uncomfortable. “Would it help if I told you that I've always imagined you as a great stone tiki?"

Rand thought about all the carvings he had seen in the South Pacific. None of the images flattered the human face and form. The features were usually cut broadly, somewhat aggressively, and the spirits that lived in them were not always friendly. “I think I prefer Mrs. Webster's description,” he said dryly.

"I thought you might.” Claire removed her hands from his chest. She expected Rand to take a step back and place some distance between them. He didn't move.

Rand studied Claire's fine features. The hint of a smile still hovered about her mouth. “Tell me something,” he said. “Was Mrs. Webster's description offered spontaneously, or was it perhaps prompted by someone's interest?"

Claire's smile vanished. “I don't think I remember,” she answered coolly.

"What a terrible liar you are."

"Stickle says the same thing."

"And I thought there was so little the duke and I could agree on.” He chuckled as her mouth pursed. “You asked her what I looked like, didn't you?"

"It signifies nothing. I ask the same about many things."

"What color is my hair?"

"I'm sure I don't recall."

"You never forget anything."

"Oh, very well. She said it was like a dark sunset. Brown and copper and burnt orange."

Both of Rand's brows lifted. He grinned. “I always think of it as a tarnished penny."

"So did she until it occurred to her I might think it was green."

"Then I'm grateful she elaborated. And my eyes?"

"Brown."

"That's all? Just brown?"

"Not so dark as mine, I think she said."

"Bittersweet chocolate,” he told her. “Yours are that dark and fine. Mine are the color of chestnuts. At least that's what my mother has always likened them to."

"Chestnuts. That would make them a close match to your hair."

"Some people say an exact match."

"Women,” Claire said. “Only women would say that."

Rand pretended to think about it. “You could be right."

Claire fell silent, her features drawn and remotely troubled. She did not shy away when she felt his fingers under her chin. Neither did his gentle encouragement alter her distant and thoughtful expression. “I haven't forgotten what I look like,” she said. “My mother was beautiful. I know I'm not. I never particularly minded before, and I find myself wishing I didn't now. But I do mind, Rand. I'm realizing that I'm minding it terribly. I don't have the experience to accept your attentions casually. I'm afraid I'll make too much of it, expect more than you're offering. I won't know how to go away gracefully. I've never had any practice."

Rand's fingers brushed her cheek. He tucked a stray lock of Claire's dark hair behind her ear. “What about the woman who told me she'd been kissed before? The one who's quite literally been around the world?"

"It wasn't strictly a lie,” she said.

"A bit of an overstatement, then."

"Yes."

"So what do I do, Claire?” Rand asked. “Stand by and watch while you cut your teeth on Macauley Stuart and Cutch and half of the crew? Do I have to see you learn to walk away from everyone else before you'll walk
to
me?” He shook his head. “I hope that's not your proposal. I couldn't do it. Seeing you with them now is very nearly painful."

"But nothing's happened,” she said. “Nothing."

"I know. I said
very nearly
painful."

Claire did not hear any humor in his tone. She reached up and touched his mouth. There was no smile edging the corners upward. He was perfectly serious. Claire's hand fell away. She held on to the desk on either side of her to keep her fingers steady and her arms from slipping around his neck. “I think you should leave."

He stared at her face. For all that her voice was a husky whisper, the set of her mouth was resolute. “Very well."

It was only when the door was closed quietly behind him that Claire released the breath she hadn't known she was holding.