Siren's Secret (8 page)

“Truthfully, those exotic ports are usually much less comfortable than home. And oftentimes in less modern societies, there can be any number of uncomfortable diseases to be found.”

She held up a hand. “Do not tell me now.”

“Once you’ve recovered your strength and gotten some sea legs, I think you’ll enjoy meeting the people and discovering other cultures in the world. Provided you keep an open mind, of course. There are many treasures to be found, Lady Olivia. Be sure you look for the right ones, eh?”

“Are you a philosopher now, Mr. Stafford?”

“No. Just a lot more experienced than you, Ollie. And since you are on my ship, you should call me Captain.”

“I hate that name.”

“Captain?”

“No. Ollie.”

“Me too. It doesn’t suit you at all. You’re much too elegant for it. Though right now is not your best moment. I’ll only call you that when you annoy me.”

She groaned. “That will be forever.”

He laughed.

Despite her misery, it pleased her that she made him laugh. And he’d said she was elegant? A compliment? She grabbed the bowl, retching with dry heaves again.

“Please leave.”

“Not until you vomit. If I can’t make you ill, I’m not certain who can.”

This time
she
laughed. Then coughed. He patted her back. “Let it out.”

She choked thrice, then pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and tried to control her breathing again.

“I have friends, you know.”

“Of course you do.”

He sounded placating. She looked up and caught him suppressing a smile.

“I do have friends. They’re just academics or other ladies, so not useful in a real fight—which I never get into, so why would I need those types of friends?”

“I’m sure the ladies of the ton are discreet, loyal, and fierce in their defense of their friends.”

Olivia paused and thought. She supposed that was possible. She didn’t really have any of those friends either. Mrs. Tisdale maybe, though Mrs. Tisdale was paid. But Mrs. Tisdale liked her. Yes, certainly Mrs. Tisdale liked her and considered her a friend. Right? And why was she the only one still calling her Mrs. Tisdale?

The nausea passed for a moment. It felt like the ship might be settling, the waves not so large. She lay back down on the bed she shared with her chaperone and watched as Mr. Stafford dampened a cloth in a bowl on the dresser. Mr. Riedell had given up his cabin for them. It was a simple room. Nothing like home, but that was part of the adventure. She thought about what Captain Stafford had said about friends. “Are your friends like that, Captain Stafford? Discreet, loyal, fierce? And what, may I ask, are you doing that you need friends to be discreet about? That implies—”

He laid the wet cloth over her face. Her entire face.

As if that would stop her. She finished her sentence.

“—woo are reguwerely doing indescweet things.”

She sucked in moisture from the cloth, then pulled it off of her mouth, folding it over her forehead. If only the pressure on her temples would stop.

“Everyone has their moments, Lady Olivia. That’s when friends come in handy.”

“I think we should be friends, Captain. I have no sea-captain friends—” She choked and sat up in the bed. He brought the bowl back to her lap. “It’s useful. Plus—” Her stomach convulsed and she closed burning eyes, desperately fighting the weakness. He brushed back some strands of hair from her face. His touch felt remarkably cool. Despite the humiliation, it was a relief to know she would not die alone in her bed. She really didn’t want to die alone.

“Plus,” she gasped after another convulsion receded, “you are healthy and strong, with adequate defense skills, should they be required on my adventure.”

“Your adventure? Just what do you intend to do once you crawl out of here, my lady?”

“Get to Egypt, save my father from certain death, decipher the rest of the writings in the tomb, and become a world-renowned expert on ancient Egypt, after which I will be invited to speak at top institutions around the world.” She got it all out in one breath, before the next convulsion racked her body.

“Ah. A woman with purpose. That is to be admired.”

She smiled.

“Even if she is quite insane.”

She scowled. A gurgling in her guts ruined it.

“And I do have friends. Just no American ones. I don’t want people to think I’m—”

“Narrow? Rude? Snobbish?”

“No—”

“Bad-tempered, close-minded, intolerant?”

“No! Oh, forget it. You’re impossible,” she hissed. “A mome, a jackanapes, a complete varlet!” She gasped for air, trying to get oxygen as another wave rocked the ship, and she fell to the floor on her knees, holding the mattress with one hand, the bowl with the other.

“You shouldn’t care what others think.”

“I never have … before.” Strange that she would care what he thought.

Her body made a terrible hacking sound. She saw his soft leather boots inches away. He should be grateful she didn’t aim for them.

Then he was kneeling, holding her body as finally she convulsed out of control over and over into the bowl. It was horrible. Disgusting. Still he held her, pulling her hair back when it fell forward, murmuring words of encouragement. While she suffered, he could have been the devil himself, and she wouldn’t have cared.

Then finally it was over.

Her body trembled from the effort, her face covered in sweat and tears. He lifted her onto the bed, wiped her face, then gave her the cloth to wipe her mouth. Then he handed her some tea and told her to rinse and spit. That process nearly made her throw up again.

Somehow he made the evidence disappear with a call to a young cabin boy. She drank the rest of the tea and lay down. Relieved. Feeling better. Just tired. Maybe now, she could sleep.

He sat on the edge of the mattress.

She looked up and he smiled kindly. It made her wish she hadn’t called him a mome. But he must be one to have stuck around for her illness. No doubt he would gloat later. She closed her eyes in misery. A real adventuress would not have been sick the first three days of her adventure. It was a dismal start.

“I predict you will live to see another day, Lady Olivia. Feeling better?”

“Surprisingly.”

He massaged her scalp with his hands. It felt good.

“Try the biscuits before you fall asleep. You’ve barely eaten in three days. Now that you’re over the worst, food will help.”

“Does this automatically make us friends? Losing our guts together?”

“Only
you
lost
yours,
my dear. And usually ‘losing your guts’ is the result of a long night of drinking and bonding.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes, too tired to care.

“You still want to be friends even now that you know you will survive?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed and got up. “Ah. Feeling much better, I see. Good. We will see you for dinner this evening.”

She grunted, her eyes already closed, listening as he walked to the door.

“And Lady Olivia?”

There was a pause. She peeked open one eye.

“I’m neither a fool nor conceited. But I am a varlet. You’d do well to remember that.” With that, he winked and closed the door.

Olivia curled up on her side, eyes closed, a smirk on her lips. A rascal indeed. And perhaps the strangest man she’d ever had the good fortune to meet.

Samuel didn’t know what to make of Olivia Yates. She was the strangest woman he’d ever met. Sweet, smart, and sassy one minute; snooty, snobby, self-important the next. Though he was getting a sense that the latter part came simply from an ignorant upbringing. She had read about the world in books written primarily by Englishmen. He supposed that could ruin anyone. To make matters worse, many of her assumptions were based on her own experience—which was next to none.

They were having their first civilized meal on board since she and Elizabeth had joined them. Olivia was obviously feeling better, as she did everything possible to irritate him—which mostly meant she never stopped asking questions. His crew might find her curiosity flattering, but he preferred that some things remain private. Unfortunately, she was obsessed with his family—what it was like to have siblings, the rampant gossip surrounding his little sister’s exploits, and which stories about his family were true and which were not.

His plan for a pleasant dinner turned into an inquisition. He tried to put an end to her queries. “I think you should just assume anything you hear secondhand is not true, Lady Olivia.”

“Exactly! But now I can get a firsthand account!” She cut into her fish and chewed thoughtfully while observing him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mr. Stafford, but you get very tense whenever I mention your family.” She pinched between her eyebrows to indicate. “You frown. Do you know if you do that too much you will have permanent wrinkles from frowning? The muscles get used to going that direction. Isn’t that so, Mr. Andersen?” She turned to his second mate and onboard medical expert for confirmation.

Andersen grinned with amusement. “Indeed, my lady. I’ve told him so myself.”

She took a different tack. “This fish is excellent. So fresh.”

Samuel took a drink of his wine, studying her. She had the look of an inspector bound and determined to get to the bottom of something. He kept his mouth shut.

“The captain is a top fisherman. Always knows where the fish are,” Andersen said.

Olivia’s hand froze in midair at the comment. “Really?”

“Yes, my lady,” Andersen said. “Never seen anyone with a luckier knack for catching fish. It’s like he can hear them talking.”

Curious, Olivia studied the forkful of fish before her. “If you are using such a talent to capture them to eat”—she held a piece offish up to Stafford, emphasizing her point—“then it hardly seems sporting.”

“She has a point, Captain,” Mr. Riedell said. He held up a piece of fish, imitating Olivia’s recent gesture. “Though I’m very grateful to sail with one who has such a talent, sporting or not.”

“Quite,” Mrs. Tisdale said. “Food is a necessity.”

“I’ve heard your sister is quite mad,” Olivia blurted out.

“Olivia!” Elizabeth nearly shouted.

“In an endearing way, I’m certain,” Olivia said. “I would be rude to imply otherwise.”

Samuel laughed.

“I mean only that, according to reliable sources, she is umm … very lively! Yes, that’s it. Falling off stairs, swinging from curtains at parties, and such. That certainly suggests a degree of madness.”

“Well, she does come from a country of cultureless heathens,” Samuel offered.

“Oh stop. Only some are cultureless heathens,” she teased.

“What kind of heathens are the rest of us?” Mr. Riedell asked.

“There. You see? Even Mr. Riedell is droll about the heathens.” Olivia continued with her observations. “I was merely trying to get to the truth, so next time there is gossip I might correct people with some authority. However, since you don’t deny any of it, I find myself in a shocking position.”

“Not a first, I’m sure,” he shot back.

Olivia pretended not hear. “She married well, so all is forgiven.”

“I don’t recall her requesting forgiveness.”

Olivia ignored him again. “The ton is fickle that way. Money and title. It’s a perfect match.” Olivia sipped her wine. “I’m fortunate to have both. At least enough money to get along without having to marry.”

“That
is indeed fortunate,” Samuel quipped.

She was getting to him. It was interesting. And he was clever. That made it all the more amusing.

Mr. Riedell reached for Olivia’s wineglass and moved it away, “There now, enough for you, my lady.”

“I won’t take offense at your tone, Mr. Stafford,” Olivia forgave.

“You should,” he retorted.

She laughed. There was so rarely anyone to spar with in town. “You must understand that, as a lady, I cannot take your measure through cards, or boxing, or swords. I am left only with words.”

He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass, inspecting. Olivia felt a blush heat up over her chest. Not inspecting—giving her the benefit of unabashed male regard. The heat continued up to her cheeks. He smiled, knowingly.

“I think you have a couple other options for taking the measure of a man, Lady Olivia.”

Riedell cleared his throat, and Andersen chuckled. Even Mrs. Tisdale turned a bit pink.

“Don’t look at me, dear,” she said. “You started this.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes at Stafford. Gads, her skin burned. “I think perhaps Mr. Stafford meant dancing and riding.”

Stafford grinned. “Yes, I believe it has been referred to that way. Very clever.”

“I didn’t mean—” Olivia gasped, if possible getting even hotter. The other guests were unable to repress their laughter, and Olivia gave in, fanning herself good-humoredly. Stafford still watched her. It did nothing for her temperature. She lifted her nose and scolded. “Heathen.”

He laughed as well.

“I’m very grateful Americans appreciate honest conversation,” Olivia said. “It makes life so much more efficient.”

“We do,” Stafford said. “So I must correct you on a matter or two.”

“You may try, Mr. Stafford,” she challenged.

“First, my sister Alex doesn’t give a twit about titles—unless it’s
Captain,
and that’s because she earned it. Second, it was a love match. So yes, it
is
a perfect match. Last, just so everyone is absolutely clear,
he
is the one who married well.”

“Oh. I just thought—”

“Don’t. It’s annoying.”

Mrs. Tisdale snorted, and covered her mouth quickly. “Sorry, dearest,” she said to Olivia.

“It’s just that it’s unusual,” Olivia insisted. “Marrying for love. Of course one hopes for mutual respect and growing admiration for one’s partner, but—”

“You’re being annoying again.”

Olivia stopped, for the first time thoroughly confused. To marry for love? Was that even done? By servants perhaps. Or the working class. But rarely did love matter among the ton, where it was important to preserve bloodlines and social connections. What would happen to history, culture, and heritage if everyone just married for love? And who could determine what love was? Perhaps he meant lust combined with a sense of comfort and friendship with another?