The Brigadier's Daughter (8 page)

‘Sasha, explain yourself!'

‘No, I won't!'

‘Yes, you will!' Reid marched up to her and fastened his hands around her slender upper arms, pulling her towards him and bending his head so that she could clearly see his face, and the anger written on it. ‘You surprise me, Sasha, I did not think you capable of such low behaviour, making a play for a man who has just married your sister!'

‘You did not marry my sister.' Sasha arched away from him, but this only pressed her bosom closer against his chest.

‘Of course I did!'

‘No, you married me.'

‘But—'

‘Georgia has run away to Gretna Green to marry Felix Westfaling.'

For a moment Reid was dumbstruck, his silence absolute while this information seeped into his understanding. She watched the pupils of his eyes dilate as sudden rage at Georgia's duplicity ignited. He swore, most rudely, words that Sasha had never heard before, but she deemed them no doubt to be absolutely forbidden in the presence of a lady. She frowned at him, and then he said, ‘Explain to me what the hell is going on!'

She shook her head, not at all liking this Captain Bowen, who was showing a side of his character that she had never suspected. Were all men like that, she wondered, so uncivilised the moment they were presented with something they did not like? Well, he was certainly not going to behave like a rabid animal in her presence! And with a disdainful little arch of her brows and a haughty lift of her chin, Sasha shook her head.

His frown was thunderous. ‘Speak!' He shook her, not too hard, but hard enough to make her glare at him. ‘Why have I been deceived into marriage with the wrong woman and made a complete fool of?'

Sasha replied, ‘No one has made a fool of you. As far as anyone's concerned, you are happily married to Georgia Packard.'

‘You can stop talking now. I need to think.'

‘Don't speak to me like that! Who do you think you are? Just because you've put a gold ring on my finger doesn't mean you can behave so rudely, and it doesn't mean for one single moment that I would tolerate—'

‘Please, do me a favour.' He strode up to her then, towering over her, as he barked, ‘Shut up!'

Sasha drew in a sharp breath between her teeth. ‘Captain Bowen, I find I do not like you at all and cannot imagine why I thought you a charming man! One moment you tell me to speak, and the next to—to stop!'

‘Indeed?' He cast her a sour glance. ‘Well, Miss Packard, I find I do not like you very much, either, and cannot imagine why you are here, pretending to be my wife!'

‘Because Georgia asked me to. She was utterly distraught without the love of her life.'

‘Oh, that's good, blame your sister.'

‘Well, of course. It was all her idea.'

He frowned. ‘Why would she marry Felix when she's in love with me?'

‘She is not in love with you. She loves Felix and always has.'

He grunted as he mused on this distasteful, yet not altogether surprising, information. ‘Then why did she agree to marry me?'

‘Because our papa forbade her to have anything to do with Felix.'

‘Wise advice. Pity she didn't listen.'

Sasha wondered if it was his ego or his pride that was wounded. ‘And I doubt very much whether you were ever in love with Georgia.'

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘How do you know? She may well have broken my heart.'

Sasha leaned her head to one side and gave him a sceptical glance and a wry grimace, clearly indicating that she did not believe so for one moment.

‘Anyway, I'm not pretending to be your wife. I am your wife.'

‘No, you're not. Your name is not Georgia Louisa Roberta, is it?'

For a moment, Sasha was disconcerted, as she realised the truth of that.

Reid contemplated her, with a furious frown, hands on hips, and then sighed with a shrug of his very broad shoulders. ‘What am I to do with you?' His glance strayed to the dark glimmer of the porthole. ‘It's too late to put you ashore, we've already left the English Channel.' He looked about at the enclosed space of the cabin, and then at her. ‘You realise that your reputation will be ruined when this gets out?'

‘Will it?'

‘Most certainly.'

‘Why?'

‘Why do you think? Shall I spell it out for you? You are alone with me, in—in—' he waved his hand about the narrow confines of the cabin ‘—intimate surroundings, and we are most certainly not legally married.' He spoke the last three words very slowly.

‘What are we to do?' she asked, in a rather small voice.

‘Stay well away from each other. I will ask the purser for a bunk somewhere else.'

‘But—' Sasha now began to worry in earnest ‘—we are supposed to be on honeymoon; if you leave this cabin, there most certainly will be talk.'

‘Hmm,' he conceded in a reluctant voice, ‘you are right. We must carry on as normal and not arouse any suspicions.' He shrugged off his jacket. ‘It's late; let us sleep on it and in the morning we will find a solution.'

Sasha turned her face away as he began to undress, pulling off his boots. She felt the colour flare in her face; she did not know where to look as she glimpsed his chest beneath his shirt, and certainly there was nowhere to hide.

He stopped, realising her predicament, and left on his shirt and breeches, yet his voice held a wry tone as he said, ‘It's a bit late to be turning missish now.'

Sasha smiled slightly, her humour robust enough to appreciate the irony, and then she realised that she too must undress, for she could not endure a moment longer in the crushing grip of her corset. ‘I would be very glad if you could help me.' She turned and presented her back to him, her fingers indicating the row of hidden hooks that needed undoing.

He stared at the slim width of her back, his elbows akimbo and still a frown upon his brows.

‘Please,' Sasha pleaded. ‘I can hardly breathe.'

He took a step closer and stooped, brushing aside the long swathe of her dark hair, lifting it over her shoulder. His fingers felt warm against her neck as he inserted them into the high lace collar and tugged. It was easier than he expected, the hooks slipping in rapid succession as he pulled them apart, the heavy
lace fabric of her bridal gown gaping, revealing her shoulders. He noticed she had a few freckles between her shoulder blades, and her skin was very soft and pale. A faint scent of roses and female penetrated his nose and teased his senses. The final hook gave way under his fingers and the gown fell down to her waist.

Blushing profusely, hiding her face behind the curtain of her hair, Sasha turned to look over her shoulder at him, as he stood there still and silent. ‘The, um, corset, too, please.' Her voice sounded very odd, husky and almost inaudible.

She heard his uneven breathing, and then felt his fingers on her waist as he pulled her closer, narrowing his eyes in the poor light as he peered and tried to make sense of the intricate lacing.

‘Don't know why you women wear these contraptions,' he muttered, strangely embarrassed. It was not the first time he had unlaced a woman from her corset—indeed, undressing was a pleasurable part of the act of lovemaking with a mistress—but it was certainly the first time he had ever performed such an intimate service for Miss Sasha Packard. Or was she Mrs Reid Bowen? He frowned again, his fingers tugging ruthlessly.

Sasha tried to speak, quite out of breath for more than one reason. She had to clear her throat to murmur, ‘Maybe we wear them because you men demand that ladies be the height of fashion.'

‘Oh, really?' He laughed, getting to grips with a stubborn knot. ‘I think you are mistaken; men don't give a damn, really, they only want what's underneath.'

Sasha did not think her face could go any hotter, but another surge of colour prickled her skin, and she reached out to steady herself on a corner of the bureau as his movements pulled her slender body about in an effort to free her from the corset. At last it came loose and she heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Besides, with your tiny waist, you do not need such a thing.' He tossed the corset aside in disgust, and it landed with a thwack of cotton and whale-bones in a far corner. For a moment he stood gazing at her, wearing nothing more than her thin chemise, frilly
drawers and silk stockings. She had a lovely figure, and if this was indeed his wedding night it would certainly please him to reach out and remove her undergarments.

‘Thank you.' Sasha moved away, drawing in a deep breath of air, and turning shyly to face him.

They stood looking at each other, both of them acutely aware of their state of undress, and the fact that they were alone in the confines of this darkened cabin. His eyes narrowed as they roamed over her, taking in at a glance her flushed face, her lips, parted as she breathed rather quickly, and the rise and fall of her bosom. He lingered on her breasts, noting that they were small, yet round and firm, her nipples hardened and showing pink through the fine white fabric of her chemise. His gaze lowered farther, skimming over her slim waist and the curve of her hips, down to slender thighs showing above the tops of her cream silk stockings, covering slim yet shapely legs. His impression had always been that she was rather thin and fragile, but looking at her now he found her to be most delightfully formed, slender yet curvaceous in all the right places. He felt his blood stir, yet he resisted the temptation to yield to desire as he remembered their circumstances.

Sasha was all too aware of his examination, and she moved away to fumble in one of her overnight bags for a robe, slipping on the flowered satin and tying the sash firmly about her waist.

‘Well…' He cleared his throat, and moved to blow out the lamp. ‘We should get some sleep.'

She nodded in agreement.

‘Do you want the top bunk, or the bottom?'

‘I don't mind,' she replied.

‘Well, I don't, either.'

For a moment they stood and stared at the beds, each of them wondering which would be best, to avoid the danger of any further intimacy.

‘Damn ridiculous, if you ask me, giving a couple on their
honeymoon bunk beds,' he grumbled, reaching out to pull aside the stiff sheets of the upper bunk.

Sasha smiled, following his lead and leaning down to tug at the linen of her own bed underneath, ‘It would make things rather awkward. How on earth would we both fit into the same bed and—and—?' She stopped then, suddenly embarrassed at her own conversation.

He laughed, unabashed as he followed the train of her thoughts. ‘I guess we would have ended up on the floor. More room there.'

‘On the floor?' Sasha glanced down at the hard surface of the wooden boards.

‘With plenty of blankets to lie on, of course. We wouldn't want to get bruised.' He lay back with a sigh, hands behind his head. ‘Good night, Miss… Sasha.'

‘Good night…Reid.'

 

She slept a deep and innocent sleep, considering her guilty conscience, not waking until well after ten, and only then stirring at the sound of a knock on the door and the rattle of a tray. Sasha opened her eyes, momentarily confused and wondering where on earth she was. And then her memory was jolted as a pair of masculine legs swung out from the bunk above and her ‘husband' jumped down, padding to the door in his under-drawers, bare chested, having divested himself of his clothes some time during the night.

‘Good morning, sir,' the cabin steward greeted him as the door opened.

‘Mornin'.' Reid yawned, rubbing his chest hairs absently with one hand as he took the tea tray from the steward.

‘You've missed breakfast, sir. I was told not to disturb you and your good lady—' the steward winked ‘—but I've put on some sandwiches and biscuits to keep you going. Lunch is at noon in the dining salon.'

‘Very good.' Reid Bowen closed the door and moved to set
the tray down on the bureau, saying with a dry note of amusement in his voice, ‘You can come out now, he's gone.'

Sasha raised her head from where she had ducked underneath the covers, mortified with embarrassment, spluttering on her words. ‘He—he thinks we—we've—!'

‘Of course he does. The whole ship does. We were married yesterday, after all.'

Sasha groaned, diving under the covers again and pulling them over her head. ‘I will never be able to set foot out of here until we reach St Petersburg!'

‘Nonsense.'

She became aware then of a heavy weight and warmth as he sat down on the edge of her bed and leaned towards her, pulling down the covers. She resisted, trying to pull them back up, but he was stronger and the covers came down.

Sasha stared at him wide-eyed, her heart beating very hard as she covered her breasts by crossing her arms protectively over them. ‘You are not going to—to ravish me, are you?'

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes lowering to the swell of her bosom, a speculative gleam in his eyes, and then he smiled, aware of her tension. ‘No,' he said gently, ‘not right now.'

Sasha heaved a sigh of relief, but she still sat warily as he made no move to stand up.

‘I've been thinking, though, while you've been snoring—' he said.

‘I do not snore!'

‘Well, snuffling, then, but you do make a funny noise when you're asleep—anyway, we digress. As I said, I've been thinking—'

‘Good for you.'

He placed his hands one on either side of her hips, and leaned closer, in a manner that was intended to silence her, and yet was more arousing than intimidating as she became aware of his
muscular broad shoulders and strong arms, his skin tanned to a honey colour, and his chest liberally covered with golden hairs.

‘Listen to me, please.' He tapped her lips with his forefinger. ‘Well, it seems that this marriage thing is three-quarters done, and maybe Georgia was right, I should have asked you to marry me in the first place—'