More Than You Know (20 page)

When Claire woke, she was alone and with no clear idea where she was. She didn't know if she had slept to daybreak or well past it. Sitting up slowly, she began orienting herself to her surroundings. Her fingers ran across the distinctive pattern of the quilt beneath her. She recognized it as her own, not the woolen blanket she had lain on in Rand's cabin. A vague memory returned to her, that of being carried in Rand's arms.

"Put your arms around my neck,” he had said.

Smiling sleepily, she had complied without protest. Her head had fallen against his shoulder and she had closed her eyes, quite secure in the cradle he made for her.

Claire touched her throat. Her fingers came in contact with the warm brushed cotton of her nightdress, not the satin neckline of her gown. She remembered something else: Rand had undressed her.

"Stop wriggling,” he had said. “I'll never undo all these buttons."

And he hadn't. Some of them had been scattered to the floor when she pushed impatiently at her gown. She had pulled at the ribbons securing her petticoats and let them form a puddle of fabric at her feet. He had tried to help her with the chemise, but she brushed his hands aside and managed the thing on her own.

Claire had fallen on the bed, her bed, and he had joined her, first to remove her stockings, then to lie between her open thighs.

He had said her name in question, his mouth very close to her ear. “I don't think you're even awake,” he had said a moment later.

He had been right, of course; she hadn't been. Not fully. But she hadn't acted against her conscious self. There was no denying, then or now, that she had wanted him.

Claire lowered her head and rubbed her temple. There was the beginning of an ache behind her eyes. She wondered what Dr. Stuart might carry in his black bag that could ease it.

Straightening slowly, Claire came to her feet. Rand had fired up the small stove in her cabin and the floor was not unbearably cold. She found her robe in the armoire, slipped it on, and belted it. Claire padded soundlessly to the writing desk and sat down behind it. Folding her hands, she raised them, and propped her chin on the fist she made. She tried to make her mind a blank, or at least think of something else, but it was impossible.

How could she, she wondered, when her skin carried the lingering scent of his? Even a small movement of her head lifted her hair and made her think of how his fingers had sifted through it. She could still feel his hand on the flat plane of her belly and his mouth on her breast. She did not have to touch her lips to secure the sensation of his kiss.

He had asked her once, teasingly, if she had any shame. Now Claire wondered if there wasn't some substance to the question. He did not seem to mind that she had drawn him onto her bed, that she had invited him to take her, but then, she had not been able to see his face. What her travels had taught her was that different standards were often applied. Trenton Sinclair, while welcoming the lack of inhibition of the Solonesian women, would have been repulsed by Claire's advances. He would have berated her for acting in any way like the island women he found so fascinating. If he had followed her onto the bed, he would have treated her with the contempt he reserved for whores.

Rand hadn't done that. Not at all. He had ...
adored
her. Claire blushed, closing her eyes, wondering if she was putting too fine a point on it. But no, she thought, remembering the way his fingertips dragged lightly across the underside of her elbow, there were times when his touch had seemed almost ... well, reverent.

Had he loved her?

Claire shook her head, forcing herself from her reverie. She would not think of the unfamiliar ache between her thighs, or the sensation of feeling him there, moving in and out, carefully at first, then more forcefully, hard enough at last so that she had dug her heels into the mattress and gripped the bed frame above her.

The picture would not be banished. “Oh, God,” she moaned softly. The words echoed for a moment, until Claire finally heard herself and understood that she had spoken aloud. She had said those same words earlier, she recalled, but with a very different cadence. That she had used them just now brought a slight smile to her lips. She laughed, under her breath at first, then harder, with genuine amusement. “Oh, God."

The rap at her door sobered her. Claire had been too caught in reflection to identify her caller. “Yes?” she asked.

"Dodd, here. Cap'n sent me with fresh water for your bath."

Claire went to the door and opened it. “Fresh water?"

"Been saving it a little at a time from the rains. This morning the captain said there'd be enough and you might like it."

"Oh, yes. Please."

Paul Dodd's cherubic face reddened under the fierce pleasure he saw in Claire's. He motioned to the men behind him carrying the copper tub and cask of heated water. “This way,” he told them. “Step lively."

Claire laughed as they marched past. She thanked them individually while they set up the bath and again as they were leaving.

"Sure wish the cap'n could see you,” Dodd said. “He's been like a man with a sore tooth since he stepped topside. Seems like your smile would be pure clove oil to him."

Claire heard the other men laughing as they headed up the companionway, probably winking and poking one another in the ribs, but she thought it was a very pretty compliment. She touched the seaman's arm. “They're wishing they could have thought to tell me something as nice. Thank you, Mr. Dodd."

Dodd shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I'm supposed to see about a lock for your door later,” he said. “Cap'n Hamilton was specific that it should be done today."

"Give me an hour,” she told him. “And perhaps you would bring my breakfast."

"Yes, Miss Bancroft.” He turned on his heel and headed off, ticking off his duties under his breath. “An hour. Breakfast. Lock."

Claire poured one full quarter of the jar of lavender bath salts into her water. Kneeling beside the tub, she stirred the salts with her arm to dissolve them. The knock at her door was not a welcome reprieve this time.

"What is it, Macauley?” she asked when Dr. Stuart put his head in the door. Claire made an effort to hide her displeasure as the door was pushed open. “Yes?"

"It's time for our—” The doctor stopped, surveying the scene. “Have you just awakened?"

"A short while ago.” Claire did not ask the time. If he had arrived for their lesson, then she knew it was half past ten. “I think I'll pass on our work this morning."

"Are you feeling quite all right?"

It was a reasonable question given the lateness of her rising, but Claire found she resented it. She did not want to tell him about the ache behind her eyes just now, or anything else about her physical condition. The last thing she wanted was an examination. “I'm fine. I'd like to take my bath now. Mr. Dodd brought me hot fresh water."

Macauley Stuart did not move. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Dodd. He's the one who looks after you with those puppy eyes."

"Does he? I wouldn't know."

"You should exercise caution, Claire, when dealing with members of the crew. Mr. Cutch included. They can be rough men, given to loose tongues and temperament. Captain Hamilton informed me what happened last night."

Claire's hand stilled and her head jerked up. “He did?"

"Of course. My duties here include more than caring for your health. The duke expects me to offer my protection as well. I'm afraid I failed in that last evening."

Claire's throat was dry. She slowly withdrew her hand from the water and gripped the edge of the tub. It was barely enough to steady her. “I don't know what—"

Stuart interrupted. “I should have thought of a lock for your door myself. I understand you were under the impression that someone may have been inside your cabin."

Claire's world righted again. “Yes. As you said, it was an impression. It frightened me, but nothing more. I looked for you afterward."

"Hamilton mentioned that. I was surprised to hear it. I was in my cabin."

Claire's dark brows drew together slightly. “But I knocked. Pounded, actually. How could you not have heard me?"

"I don't know. I was sleeping for a while. Perhaps it was then."

She had no choice but to accept it. “Very well."

"You don't believe me,” the doctor said. It wasn't a question. Something of Claire's reluctance had shown on her face. He watched her closely, a faint flush shading his freckled complexion.

"It's just that I called your name,” she told him. “I was quite loud. I even put my head inside your door and inquired again. I was so certain you were not in your cabin that I went on deck to look for you."

"But you can't look, can you, Claire?” he pointed out. “At least not properly."

His statement, for all that it was true, rubbed Claire the wrong way. Often she appreciated the doctor's directness, but not just now. “You're right,” she said. “I couldn't see that you were lying abed."

"To my lasting regret,” he said softly, taking some of the sting from his earlier words. “I shall endeavor to make myself more available to you from now on."

"I think I will find the captain's precaution sufficient,” she said. “There's no need for you to trouble yourself."

"No trouble. It's hardly a burden to be in your company."

Claire's grip on the tub eased. She dipped her fingers below the water and tested its temperature. “Would you mind leaving me now, Dr. Stuart? I wish to take my bath in warm water, not cool."

Stuart was not unaware of Claire's sudden formality toward him. “I apologize if I offended you with my plain speaking,” he said. “A man can tolerate many things, but being called a liar is not one of them."

"Oh, but I never—"

He did not let her finish. “I'll leave you to your bath."

Listening to his steps receding in the companionway, Claire felt strangely deflated. She hadn't meant to suggest he was lying. She couldn't imagine why he would. Perhaps he was embarrassed that the rough winter seas had put him under again. After all, her godfather had certain expectations that Macauley Stuart would act as her companion and protector. The doctor was probably afraid she would tell the duke he had failed her in some way.

Claire stood and shrugged out of her robe. Raising her nightshift, she stepped into the tub. It was still hot enough to afford pleasant relief. She pulled the shift over her head, let it fall on the floor, then eased herself into the water. She wondered if her sigh was audible topside.

It was not. On deck Rand's eyes scanned the horizon without the aid of the telescope in his hand. For all intents and purposes he was occupied with the storm front. He doubted there was anyone among his crew, even Cutch, who thought otherwise. They believed it was the portent of a gale brewing that kept him occupied this morning. No one suspected his mood had anything to do with Claire.

Rand had only to look at Paul Dodd's face as he returned topside to know Claire had been pleased with the gift of rainwater. Her appreciation, if Dodd's beatific expression could be used as a measure, had been warmly given.

Now she was enjoying this small pleasure while he was left with disturbing images that all but robbed him of his concentration: Claire with her head tipped back against the lip of the tub, her damp throat exposed, her complexion flushed with heat and beaded with steam; Claire with her dark hair in a loose topknot that was already slipping to one side; Claire with a sponge in one hand and a slender leg raised, resting at the foot of the tub. She would drizzle fragrant water over the length of that leg, across her other arm, and again between her breasts. She might push the sponge under the water and touch it to her waist or the curve of her hip. She would draw it along the edge of her inner thigh.

Impatient with himself, Rand's fingers raked his hair. The image faded slowly; his head cleared. There was nothing about the night with Claire that he regretted. Only that morning ended it.

"That's a deep scowl,” Cutch noted, coming up beside him. “You're making the men nervous. Are we in for it even before we round the Horn?"

Rand handed his second the telescope. “Judge for yourself."

Cutch lifted the scope and eyed the same view as his captain. He whistled softly. “She'll come up on us fast."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Someone should warn Dr. Stuart and Miss Bancroft.” Rand nodded. “You can tell the doctor now, but let Miss Bancroft enjoy her bath. There's time yet."

"As you wish."

Watching Cutch go, Rand thought to himself that it was not as he wished at all. Given a choice, he would have elected to go to Claire himself and tell her what the next few hours would bring them. The storm might trap them for the better part of the day. And there was always the chance
Cerberus
wouldn't survive it.

Rand realized he knew nothing of Claire's experiences at sea. Had she been through a storm like the one they were about to face? The high wind and crashing waves could be terrifying for sighted men. What would it be like for her to face in the dark, without the comfort of family nearby?

Then there was no more time to think on it. The wind shifted, this time coming from the east, and
Cerberus
rode the waves into a thick bank of fog. When Cutch returned to the wheel, rain was already pelting the deck. He handed Rand an oilskin like the one he was wearing now. In a few hours the covering would serve no purpose. With the deck awash with seawater and the skies opening up above them, there was little protection from being soaked to the skin or feeling the cold all the way to the bone.