My Fallen Angel (10 page)

The stern swung around. He looked away. “Cut the other line before the mast breaks,” he yelled.

A sailor raced forward to do as he was told, the plank which stretched down to the dock falling into the sea with a loud, water-displacing splash.

“Dear God,” Beth croaked from alongside of her.

“I know,” Lucy groaned.

“Get below,” Garrick ordered.

Lucy swallowed and nodded, but as she turned away, a thought suddenly gurgled to the surface of her mind.

No aunt, no chaperone.

She smiled, a great grin of a smile that must have looked odd considering the trouble she’d just caused. But she didn’t care. She’d have Garrick to herself, at least for a few hours.

There was a God.

•  •  •

“What am I going to do?” Beth cried four hours later. Her blue-black hair swished from side to side as she paced in front of Lucy. “My father doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

“Does now,” Tom announced.

Beth glared at the boy.

Lucy stared at them both from her position atop one of the cabin’s two beds. “It’s all right, Beth,” she said brightly. “I’ll speak to the captain about turning around just as soon as I see him.”

“Can’t do it, me loidy,” Tom answered cheerfully, swinging his legs back and forth and rocking the hammock he was perched upon from side to side. The boy had his own cabin in the bow of the ship, but he’d been keeping them company for the last half-hour. “A man told me we couldn’ turn back, what with the wind an’ the tide’s bein’ against us. Strangest weather ‘e’d ever seen, he said.”

“But they
have
to. Dear God, we could be
ruined,”
Beth announced.

“Ruined?” Lucy echoed in disbelief.

“Yes, ruined, Lucy. We have no chaperone, no maid, not a single proper garment for attire—”

“But—”

“We’re unmarried ladies on board a ship full of men,” Beth continued frantically. “Once word reaches town, we’re doomed.” She turned back to Tom. “Are you sure they are unable to turn the ship around?”

“Positive, me loidy. The gent told me the wind is carryin’ us out ta sea as surely as the tide lowers the Thames. Said every time they trim the sails, the wind changes directions on ‘em. They’ve given up tryin’ ta fight it.” And the child fairly smacked his lips in delight.

“Oh, how awful,” Lucy said in mock dismay. She almost squirmed in delight. She’d have Garrick to herself for a while longer. She bit back a smile, staring at Beth’s hands as they alternately crushed, then released her yellow silk dress.

A wave pitched the ship violently, causing Tom to giggle. Beth dove for a small table anchored to the wall, clutching it in terror, blue eyes round with fear.

“Beth”—Lucy made her voice as encouraging as possible—“my aunt will tell no one what happened. I’m sure she’ll see to it our reputations won’t suffer. And sailing to Spain with us won’t be so bad. You could use the color in your cheeks.”

Another wave pitched the ship, the look on Beth’s face reminding Lucy of a cat she’d once seen caught atop a moving carriage.

“And it’s not as if we’re going to be gone for very long,” she continued earnestly. “Before we left, Garrick assured me the voyage would only last a month. We can make do with what we have until then. And I’ve an idea about how to resolve being unchaperoned—”

“And what do we have?” Beth interrupted, still holding on to the table for dear life.

Lucy blinked at her in chagrin.

“I’ll tell you what we have,” Beth continued. “We have one trunk filled to the rim with petticoats, andanother trunk filled with hats and gloves. I don’t know about you, but I do not find the idea of parading around in my shift and a hat all that appealing.”

“We have stockings, too, “ Lucy mumbled.

Beth clapped a hand to her forehead. “Yes, the stockings. Goodness, how could I have forgotten those? I suppose if we add the stockings we
will
look much more the thing, especially if we complete the ensemble with gloves.”

Lucy looked down at the battle-scarred floor, unwilling to admit that she’d been hoping to impress Garrick with her beautiful new gloves, all fifty-two pairs of them. Sighing heavily, she realized the idea she’d been about to share with Beth would never work. She’d be lucky if Garrick ever spoke to her again, much less marry her to save their reputations. What she wouldn’t give to be able to crawl under the sheets of that bed and forget all about the horrible day she’d had. She looked up as the door opened.

“Aaaaa-tention,” Prinny called from his battered cage in the comer of the room. He ruffled his feathers, many of which were broken, then tilted his head to stare at the new entrant.

Lucy stared, too; it was impossible not to.
Garrick.
Oh, gracious. Her Garrick. Body parts tingled as she observed his wet, white lawn shirt plastered across hard, sun-bronzed skin. Two dusky nipples peeked through the shirt, a shadow of thick hair in between.

She swallowed, then met his eyes, brought back to earth with a thump at the fury she saw glinting from their depths. When she looked away, she told herself to buck up. Besides, how angry could the man be?

“Miss Hartford,” he growled.

Very
angry.

“Garrick, where have you been?” Beth asked.

His eyes darted to Beth’s. “Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Helping to sail a ship with half its crew, including the captain, still in England.”

Lucy gasped.

“No captain!” Beth cried. “Good heavens, who’s sailing the ship then?”

“Thanks to Miss Hartford,
me.”

He
was sailing the ship? Blast. That meant that he’d be too busy to spend any time with her. Then again, she could always go up on deck. She wouldn’t even have to dampen her chemise since it was raining outside….

“Is there any chance we can turn around?” Beth asked hopefully.

“None. In fact, I’ve come to give you warning.”

Lucy looked up in time to see him grit his teeth.

“A storm is brewing off our port bow. It looks as if the wind is pushing us directly into it. One of the crew will bring you some dried beef for your dinner. It will have to do until it’s safe to light the stove.”

The ship lurched. Beth’s knuckles grew white. Lucy clung to the bed. Tom grinned widely as his hammock swung to one side then the other with a creak.

Only Garrick seemed unaffected. He stood in the doorway as if his boots were cemented to the deck. When the boat rocked again, he looked at her with the most
awful
expression on his face. As if she’d burned down Buckingham Palace or something. “Garrick, it can’t be that ba—”

“Do not
say a word, Miss Hartford.”

So she didn’t. She’d a lot of experience with people looking at her thus. Sometimes it was better to hold one’s tongue. Still, he didn’t have to be such a tyrant. What was she supposed to have done? Let Prinny die in the jaws of that miserable cat?

The door slammed behind him. All three of the room’s occupants jumped.

“Braaah, typhoon a-comin’,” Prinny cried, shaking his red tail feathers.

Lucy looked at her bird, murmuring to herself, “I think you’re correct.”

Lucy tossed and turned for hours that night listening to Beth’s moans from seasickness and the ship’s creaks and whines as it fought the storm. She went over the events of the day, wondering what she could have done differently. But there was nothing. Garrick would just have to get over his anger.

“Lucy?”

Pushing herself up on her elbows, Lucy answered, “Yes, Beth?”

“Water,” came a hoarse groan.

“You’re thirsty?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“We’re out.”

Lucy nodded. “I’ll go get some then.”

Beth didn’t respond, and a flash of concern shot through Lucy. She sat up. All she had on was her chemise. The scratchy wool of her bed coverings had rubbed raw her exposed parts, but she clutched thecover around herself anyway. The wood floor was cold as she crossed the room to Beth’s side and reached out a hand to feel her forehead, relieved when she felt no sign of fever.

“S’my nose,” Beth groaned.

Lucy hastily pulled her hand away and wiped it on her chemise. “Sorry, Beth. I was trying to see if you had a fever. Here.” She reached out again, this time finding Beth’s forehead. “No fever, good. Just lie still. I’ll go for the water.”

Beth mumbled something unintelligible as Lucy turned and felt her way though the darkness heading toward what she hoped was the table draped with their cloaks. She yelped as her toe collided with a chair.

“Luce?”

“I’m fine,” Lucy called as pain-tears clogged her throat. Blast. Nothing had gone right today. First the Prinny Incident, then Garrick, and now
this.
She shook her head, thinking she hadn’t had such a string of rotten luck since the time she’d tried to invent a new style of curling tongs, only to all but scalp herself in the process. She reached out, her hand shaking with cold as she felt for her cloak.

In a matter of moments she stood before the door to the main deck. The heavy wood rattled ominously as great gusts of wind crashed into it and whistled through its cracks. The moment the heavy plank was unlatched, the galelike winds pulled it from her grasp and slammed it against the outer wall. Immediately, the sting of rain and the pitch black of midnight assaulted her eyes. Air swirled around her legs and blew a hank of hair into herface. She shoved it aside, terrified, then leaned over and pulled the door closed, nearly falling as it slammed shut.

When she turned around and leaned against the door, her chest heaved in fear. She couldn’t go out there, not even if her cabin were on fire and the ship about to sink. She pressed her hand against her heart, feeling its frantic gallop, then headed back to her cabin. That Garrick was out there sent a shaft of fear through her. Dear God, what if he died? She would lose the man she had loved. She would die an old maid, living in some cottage on the outskirts of London, untouched, unloved.

She clutched her hand to her mouth. But, no, Garrick was known throughout society for his prowess as a ship’s captain. Certainly he would be safe.

She frowned as her thoughts returned to her original problem. She needed to think about Beth, not herself … or Garrick. And there was only one other place there was sure to be water. The captain’s quarters, to her left and up some steps.

A few moments later she stood before the oak door leading into Garrick’s cabin, her heart doing its best to throw itself from her chest. She took a deep breath and knocked.

No response.

She knocked again.

Still no response. He wasn’t there, which meant he
was
out in that weather. Fear once again reared is ugly head. What if he was swept overboard or … or caught a cold? She straightened. If he caught a cold she would nurse him back to health. Visions of a sick Garrick, his eyes filled with undying gratitude as she spooned him soup, brought the firstsmile to her face in hours, a smile that faded when the ship lurched beneath her feet, almost pitching her on her rear.

Oh, goodness—Beth!

She braced herself on the wall, the hurriedly opened the door, relieved it wasn’t locked. The smell of tobacco, man, and salt greeted her.

She peeked her head inside. “Hello?”

Empty.

Disappointment followed by relief brought a frown to her face. She stepped inside.

Two lanterns, one to the right of the windows and one to the left, lit up the room as if she were at one of Lady Chesterly’s balls. The flames sputtered and hissed as the ship rocked, the sides of the lantern glass splattered with wax. She blinked against the brightness; shutters which protected the wall of windows above the bed rattled as wave after wave hurled against them.

Best to get what she needed and leave, she thought. Especially after his dire warning that he wouldn’t be happy to find her in his appropriated cabin. Discouragement clogged her throat, but she smashed it down. Beth, she must think of Beth.

She had only taken two steps, however, when she heard the door to the main deck open with a
bang.
She paused. Footsteps sounded.

It couldn’t be, she thought. It wasn’t … ?

“Oh, heavens.”

It was.

Whirling, she quickly searched for a place to hide, her eyes alighting upon the trunk at the foot of the captain’s bed. It was huge, big enough to …

There was no time to think, just act, for she knew with an absolute certainty Garrick would be furious if he found her. Absolutely furious. Just right now she didn’t think she could take another of his stinging rebukes. She opened the lid. It was empty, thank God.

As quickly as she could, she climbed inside, then scrunched down, releasing a huge sigh of relief when the lid closed easily over her head. Darkness and the smell of old leather enveloped her. Footsteps sounded. They paused in front of the door. Lucy heard the knob turn and held her breath. Two seconds later he was in the room.

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.

She tensed. More footsteps sounded. They passed in front of her, then paused. The bed creaked. The unmistakable sound of clothes being taken off followed. Her eyes widened. Shifting a bit, she lifted the lid just the tiniest bit, the hinges squeaking in protest. She told herself she only wanted to see where he was, but she knew better. She wanted to see him, wanted to memorize him. On those cold, dark evenings, with nothing but a fire to keep her company, she would think of this night. Think of her Garrick.

As it turned out, she needn’t have bothered. All she caught was a good view of the wall opposite the trunk. Disappointed, she was about to close the lid when a blur of fawn-colored fabric blocked her vision, a blur which quickly materialized into breeches as the lid abruptly opened.

Garrick jumped. His dirty shirt fell to the floor.

Lucy sat up, her gaze sliding over his breeches-clad legs, oh-so muscular when viewed up close, to his nakedchest. She just about swooned. Never,
ever
had she seen a man with a chest like Garrick’s—not that she’d seen a lot of chests—but she was sure Garrick’s was the most amazing chest in the history of chestdom. It had ripples in it, sinewy ripples coalescing into hard muscles that quivered and rolled when he moved. She released a soft sigh, having to force her gaze away to meet a pair of furious, snapping-blue eyes.

She gulped. “Good evening, Garrick,” she croaked.

For a long, tension-filled moment he just stared, then he placed his hands on his hips, his blue eyes growing as chilly as Lady Selby’s pond.

“Lucy, what are you doing in my trunk?”

That was a very good question, Lucy thought. She decided to try a smile.

He glared.

She brightened her smile. “I, ah, I was looking for water.”

“In a trunk?”

“Yes.”

He frowned, his eyes stating clearly that he didn’t believe her excuse, not that she’d expected him to. As an excuse, it was a silly one. Slowly, she stood. But Garrick didn’t seem interested in arguing the point.

He stepped back, his pupils dilating as she exited the trunk. So he wasn’t as oblivious to her as he pretended. Good.

“Beth is ill,” she said when he looked about ready to let his anger loose. She peeked a glance at him, just in time to see a smidgen of his temper dissipate.

Just smile at me,
she thought.
Just one little smile.

He frowned. “It’s over there,” he snapped, nodding toward a side table.

She narrowed her eyes, beginning to get a little irritated with his attitude. The man acted as if she’d sunk the entire English fleet. It wasn’t her fault she’d been so intent on freeing her bird that she hadn’t realized the consequences of her actions. And just how
would
she have known? She’d never been on a bloody ship before. She reached for the decanter.

The thing slipped from her fingers. She tried to catch it. Too late. It hit the floor and shattered.

Horror held her immobile for a long I-can’t-believe-I-did-that second. She looked up.

Garrick scowled.

It was too much. She wanted to scream. She wanted to yell. She wanted to hit him. Bugger it. She
would
hit him. She took a step.

Pain shot through her leg.

“Ooouch,” she gasped, clutching at something to keep her from falling.

Garrick lunged forward.

“Little fool,” he muttered as he scooped her into his arms. “There’s glass.”

All her anger faded away at the feel of his arms around her. Her mind went slack. He carried her. Oh, gracious. She clutched at him, her arms automatically clasping behind his neck. His warm neck. His strong neck, the fine little hairs that sprouted from it like the softest down.

Her breath caught. Held. Then slowly released as she became aware of other things. His eyes, so dark as shestared up at him. His chin, so strong-looking with its slight stubble of beard and a little teeny cleft. The shape of his ear with its small gold hoop. She’d never seen a man wear an earring before. Well, she had, but they weren’t men in the truest sense of the word. Garrick was a man’s man.

He laid her on the bed, but Lucy didn’t return to earth. It was with a great deal of reluctance that she released him, her hand catching his blonde queue and bringing it forward over one shoulder. She watched through slitted eyes as he drew back, then reached for her foot, raising it for an inspection, a delightful squint on his face as he studied it.

Sudden thoughts entered her mind. Crazy thoughts. Did her feet smell? Were her toenails clean? Did she still have that teeny tiny little corn on her big toe?

“You have a shard of glass.”

Oh? Was that all?

“Here.” His face scrunched into an adorable frown as he eyed the shard as if it were a battle sword. There was a small prick. She flinched, the pain restoring a small portion of her wits. A very small portion, for it faded the moment he flicked the glass away and met her eyes.

Oh, Garrick,
she thought.
Don’t you feel it? Can’t you see the way I feel for you? You must be blind as a bat if you don’t.

He slowly lowered her foot. Lucy wanted to cry out when he released it.

“You better stay there while I clean this up.”

Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest. She’d stay all night. Forever. He was being nice. Oh, heavens, he was being nice. She nodded, sighing and laying back on the bed at the same time.

He stood, staring down at her for a breath-catching moment.
I’ve lost my mind,
she thought.
I must have.
For a split-second she thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Longing? Desire? He turned away. She melted into the bed. Oh dear. Could it be? Could it really, really be?

She held her breath as she waited for him to clean up the mess. When he faced her again he’d mastered that look.

“You should go back to your cabin.”

Yes, she should, but she didn’t want to. “I don’t think I can walk,” she announced.

“I’ll carry you.”

Oh, would he really? He walked forward. He didn’t appear angry anymore. As he stared down at her he appeared … perplexed.

She sank back into the bed even more, putting on her best I-feel-faint look.

“Garrick,” she said softly, hoping, begging, praying, that not even
he
would kick a horse when it was down. “I’m so sorry for what I did earlier today.”

She braced herself, praying that the cold Garrick wouldn’t return. She watched as he shook his head. Her hopes lifted. His look turned to one of pained resignation. A breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding steamed past her lips.
Thank you, God. Oh, thank you.

“There’s no need to apologize, Miss Hartford. I realize I’ve been a bit harsh with you. ‘Tis I who should apologize. I realize your propensity for disaster is not intentional.”

She stiffened.

“In fact, I would venture to guess that much of it is beyond your control.”

“Oh, it is,” she agreed, relieved beyond words that at last he understood.

“Which is why I’ve decided to lock you in the hold.”

She sat up. “You’ve
what?”

There was a look on his face. The oddest look. A look very much like a … She felt her eyes widen. It couldn’t be. She tilted her head. It was. Oh, joy upon joy, he was
smiling at her. Thank you, God. Oh, thank you. I shall never, ever ask for anything again. Never. Not even that new reticule I’ve been admiring at Madam Sophie’s.