Redeeming the Rogue (17 page)

“For the love of God, woman,” he muttered, his face darkening as if thunder could roll from his mouth and lightning shoot from his eyes. “Do we have to go through this again? I know how to dress appropriately. We are on a ship and I didn’t think—”

“It’s your hair. It’s too long.”

His jaw slackened. “My hair?” His ire faded by the second. “Now you dislike my hair?”

“I don’t dislike it,” she said, almost as an apology. “However . . . did you see any of the other men at Countess D’Orange’s reception with hair as long as yours?”

“I don’t know.” He seemed perplexed. “I wasn’t looking at the men. I was looking for a woman in a green gown.” His eyes sparkled with that mischievous twinkle. “I was looking for you.”

“Then trust me in this. None of the other men had hair below their earlobes.”

He studied her face a moment. “All right. Then cut it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re the authority on the appropriateness of . . . everything. I place my head in your hands.”

Mrs. Summers froze in the act of hemming a skirt for Miss St. Claire. Arianne could feel her chaperone’s interest in the discussion even though she hadn’t said a word.

“I’ve never cut hair,” Arianne said. “Why not Mr. Connor? Perhaps he can—”

“Phineas!” Rafferty barked a laugh. “Why, he’d chop it all to pieces just to render me a laughingstock. No, I think you should have the honor.”

“Mrs. Summers?” Arianne swirled toward her in desperation. “Have you any experience in—”

“No, my dear, I do not. Though I agree with your assessment. His hair defies convention.” She dug in her sewing bag. “I’m sure I have a pair of sharp scissors that you can use.”

Rafferty shook his head like a wet dog, then threaded his fingers through the hair at his temples, pulling it away from his face. “I insist that no one else cuts my hair,” he taunted.

Arianne narrowed her eyes. She’d been so critical of everything about his appearance that he was daring her to fail. “All right then.” She rolled up her sleeves. “How difficult can cutting hair be?” She had experimented with cutting hair in finishing school; they all had. But that was only trimming the ends to give a smooth line across the back. Now that she was a mature woman, her hair was artfully piled on her head. A smooth line was no longer expected. “I suppose you should pull a chair over to that basin.” She pointed to a basin used to gather soiled plates.

“You’re going to cut it now?” His eyes widened.

Ah . . . she saw the chink in his armor. He had expected her to back down.

“Yes, I believe I will. That way if I do no better than Mr. Connor, your hair may recover by the time we arrive in Baltimore.”

“Recover?”

“Precisely.” She glanced about the room. “We’ll need something to collect the hair as it falls. A bedsheet should do. Mrs. Summers, could you ask Kathleen if she could locate two extra bedsheets, shampoo and a comb?”

“Your maid . . . perhaps she has some experience . . . ?” Rafferty asked.

“But you insisted that I have the honor, Mr. Rafferty. That was the word you used,” she said, picking up the scissors and snipping the air. “Wasn’t it?”

“Next, you’ll be telling me to grow a mustache like that Crenshaw fellow.”

“Oh no.” Her gaze drifted over his upper lip, and her voice dropped. “I would never do that.”

Mrs. Summers returned with two neatly folded sheets. The first, they spread on the floor in front of the basin, then waited while Rafferty positioned a chair on top. The second, she tied to cover him. “So you won’t get wet. It will be easier to cut if the hair is damp,” she explained.

“Good.” He smiled. “From the look of those scissors, I was afraid you intended this to be a burial shroud.”

“Not yet.” She grinned, enjoying the banter. “Just relax, Mr. Rafferty.” She pressed his shoulders down so that he’d slide to the edge of the seat. “Lean back and let me pour water over your hair.”

“Somehow this is not how I envisioned an etiquette lesson.”

“Neither had I.” She tested the temperature of the water. “But we do what we must.”

 

LORD GOD IN HEAVEN! DID THE WOMAN NOT REALIZE what she was doing?

As she leaned over him to turn on the faucets, the sculpted mound of her breast hovered an inch from his lips. His eyes fixed on the fullness of her, watching the rise of her lacy blouse as it teased and taunted with its close proximity. He clenched his teeth, tempted as he was to catch the froth between them and pull her near. She was so close, he could almost see her lady corset beneath the blouse and the gentle swell above. Lean a little closer, he prayed, imagining his tongue coaxing her rosy nipples into unladylike nubs of arousal.

Suddenly, warm water, comforting as a leisurely bath, flowed over the top of his brow and around the sides of his face. Like a fine Irish whiskey, it warmed and soothed, before her hand, soft and gentle, followed the path of the water. His groin tightened. He firmly gripped the arms of the chair, attempting to cease the decadent thoughts the warmth, the water, and her teasing breast inspired.

“Is the water too cold?” she asked. “I thought you flinched.”

Lord help him, he couldn’t be held accountable for his lips if he unclenched his teeth to speak. Instead, he shook his head, the action liberating droplets of water like some shaggy beast. A few drops found their way to the linen covering her chest, and satisfied with the surroundings, the drops began to spread.

He should close his eyes. A gentleman would close his eyes. His lips curved. Fortunately, he never claimed to be a gentleman. He watched the moisture spread into a small circle of translucence. An obscured view of a blue ribbon threading through lace appeared beneath her blouse. His imagination filled in the rest.

Arianne gathered his dangling locks into a queue. With a firm hand she secured it to the back of his head, then slowly dragged the other hand down its length, presumably pushing the water before it. He closed his eyes, imagining her competent hands wrapped around another length doing much the same thing. Once. Twice. Without thinking, he issued a soft groan.

She stopped. “Am I hurting you? Did I pull too hard?”

Sweet Jesus, how was he to answer that? Beneath the sheet and his clothes, he could feel his cock fighting for similar ministrations.

“It’s all right,” she said, straightening. “I think we’re ready to cut now.”

He carefully pushed himself to a sitting position, letting the sheet hide his arousal. He grimaced, imagining her horror if she knew. As if her soft lady hands would ever touch anything so . . . so . . . much in need.

“You’re awfully quiet, Mr. Rafferty.” She pulled a comb through his wet locks. “Are you afraid of my talent with scissors?”

He rubbed his chin. Arianne’s obvious talent was precisely what he did not wish to discuss. “No. I was just thinking I’m glad I shaved before I came here. Wouldn’t want you taking a straight blade to my neck.”

She laughed and parted his hair down the middle to his forehead. “That’s unlikely. I’ve not—” He jerked upward, catching her by surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“No, you don’t.” He racked his fingers through his wet hair, obliterating the center part. “You can cut my hair, but you won’t turn me into one of your dandies.”

“One of my what?” She frowned down at him, then shook her head. “The symmetrical look with a center part is all the rage in London.”

“If you’ll look out that porthole, you’ll note we’re not in London anymore.”

“I hadn’t realized you were so vain, Mr. Rafferty.” A gleam shone in her eye.

“Not vain, just . . . just . . . I won’t look like one of those,” he grumbled, imagining the guffaws were he to appear at his old haunts all sissified.

“One of those what?” she asked, perplexed.

“A sod, woman.” He could feel his face redden. Next she’d be complaining that he’d used such banal language in the presence of a lady, but what was he to do? She’d forced it out of him.

His hand pushed the wet hair to the right. “Just . . . just part it on the side.”

The comb scraped a new path. He’d just begun to relax when a new horror struck him. “And no side curls. No matter what the fashion in London.”

She laughed again, and his fears abated. “I promise.”

So he relaxed, listening to the snip of the scissors and experiencing the pleasant sensation of her fingers threading through his hair. She moved about him, lifting sections, then snipping off the ends. Every now and then she would stare intently into his face, not really seeing him, but moving her gaze from side to side.

She was so above his station, did she ever really see him? Or had her attention always been of a cursory manner? She had flawless skin, he noted. And clear blue eyes that he knew from experience could shift in a moment from the color of a sun-filled sky to that of a thunderhead rolling swift over the water.

Every time she moved, the faint scent of roses stirred in her wake. She must have an entire floral shop at her disposal. He’d have a hard time seeing a nosegay in another woman’s hand and not thinking of Arianne. Good Lord, was she ruining him for other women? He hoped not, for surely once the
Irish Rose
reached its destination, she’d be gone, and he’d be on his own.

“Mrs. Summers, can you look at this?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice. “His hair isn’t lying as flat as it should.”

Mrs. Summers crossed to stand behind him. “Oh dear.”

The sympathetic tone of her voice caught his ear. “What?” he exclaimed. “I thought you knew—”

“I’m not a barber, Mr. Rafferty,” Arianne said. “Your hair doesn’t look bad; it’s just not as I envisioned.”

“Where’s a mirror?” He stood, letting the sheet covering him fall to the floor. It wasn’t that he was vain, he assured himself; he just didn’t wish to look like a fool.

“Doesn’t it feel more comfortable?” Arianne edged backward toward a china cabinet, her smile uncertain. Did she just hide a hand mirror behind her back? “Lighter perhaps? I removed a great deal from the back.”

He ran his hands down the back as if they had eyes to see. The hair was indeed shorter, but if his fingers were an indication, disheveled. He pulled a knife from his boot and tilted the flat shaft in an effort to see his reflection. The front wasn’t as bad as he expected.

“You must admit the shorter hair gives you a more dignified appearance,” Arianne said.

“The dignity of a man comes from more than the cut of his hair,” Mrs. Summers intoned.

“But it can be jeopardized if the man resembles a fool.” Rafferty turned his head from side to side, but he still couldn’t see the back.

“Sorry, I was detained,” Eva said, walking into the saloon. “I’m afraid the motion of the boat—” Her eyes widened. “What happened here?”

Her tone confirmed his suspicions.

“I was trying to make him look more respectable,” Arianne said, her voice apologetic. “But I’ve never cut a man’s hair and now . . . well . . . He can’t always wear a hat.”

Eva strolled over and brusquely ruffled her fingers through Rafferty’s hair. He fought to keep his annoyance from his face. “I can fix it,” Eva said. “I’ve fixed worse.”

“Thank you.” Relieved, Arianne hugged her. “You’ve come to our aid again. Thank you so much.”

Eva picked up the scissors and moved them deftly across the back of Rafferty’s head. Eva shaped his hair on a diagonal, and while the end result was shorter than even Arianne intended, it didn’t look bad.

“It’s all a matter of following the shape of one’s head.” Eva stood back to observe her work. “There. Much better. Is there a hand mirror so he can see?”

Arianne shyly produced the one she’d hidden. She should be grateful for Eva’s intervention. And she was . . . but once again she’d fallen short. Lord Henderson had recommended her as an expert, yet none of the lessons she’d prepared for Rafferty seemed to be working the way they should. Perhaps the Baron was right. She wasn’t all she should be.

Rafferty employed the hand mirror and beamed his thanks to Eva while Arianne looked on.

Phineas interrupted. “I was wondering, Lady Arianne, if I might borrow the likes of Rafferty for a moment.”

Rafferty stood. Phineas broke into a wide smile. “Well now, you look like a proper Englishman, and not the devil himself.” He glanced at Arianne. “I do believe you may have created a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

Rafferty grumbled something, but Arianne didn’t really hear it. Instead she was remembering those same words from Miss Sharpe.
You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.

“That would take more than a haircut,” Rafferty grumbled.

“My thoughts exactly,” Arianne said, thinking of the Baron. Perhaps he wasn’t the catch she had imagined.

THE
IRISH ROSE
HAD CROSSED INTO DEEP WATER. Arianne knew this, not by the change in the color of the sea or the shift in the taste of the air, though both of these things occurred, but by the increased roll and pitch of the vessel. Walking on deck was difficult, but staying in an enclosed room even more so. The fresh air helped keep one’s stomach settled, but Arianne was troubled by the small explosions of spray that fell like rain on the deck when the bow sliced through a wave with a thud. The salty water splashed on board in its attempt to pull the vessel under, then scampered through the drainage holes with a hiss of failure to return to the sea. She reminded herself of Rafferty’s assurances that the
Irish Rose
was seaworthy, but the hissing water whispered otherwise.