A Wedding by Dawn (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I
NDIA
LAY
ON
a hammock watching candlelight dance on the wooden walls and letting her mind go numb, while Millie stood with her forehead and hands pressed against the door. Their prison was a cabin on the same deck as William’s, bolted across the outside with a heavy wooden slider India had barely glimpsed as William shoved her into the cabin with Millie.

“I can’t let them put me on trial for piracy,” Millie said against the wood. And then, “William!” Millie’s voice cracked as she cried out and pounded on the door. “William!”

India had learned years ago that pounding, clawing and shouting would not make a locked door open.

“Millie,
please.
” A cold wisp of panic snaked through her, and India snuffed it out quickly.

Millie stopped shouting. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“My stomach hurts.” It always hurt when she was locked away, probably because being locked away usually meant going without a meal.

“I’m sure William will send us dinner,” Millie reassured her. She knew what India had endured as a child—she just didn’t know the full truth of
why
India had been punished so severely.

And India wasn’t going to tell her. She wasn’t going to tell anyone, ever, if she could help it.

At least William would not be entering the cabin every few hours to make irate demands that India do the impossible.

“I knew Father would send someone after me,” India said now, “but I never thought...” About what that would mean for Millie. Truthfully, she’d never really considered that whomever Father sent might actually succeed in capturing her. “Please forgive me.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Millie said, turning to lean her back against the door.

The old Millie, the pre-London Millie, would have snipped that it
was
India’s fault. The two of them always bickered aboard the
Possession.
And they still bickered plenty. But ever since London...

It was as if Millie had built a great stone wall around herself that even India could not break through.

Perhaps that’s what people did after they’d been beaten nearly to death.

“The money,” Millie said now. “It was everything I had.” Her tone said she already believed their stash of money hidden aboard the
Possession
was lost forever.

“We haven’t left Malta yet,” India said, pressing fingers carefully into her belly, trying to relieve the cramping. “We’re still a stone’s throw from the
Possession.
”

Their entire plan rested on Millie’s money: it would let them make a start in shipping, which would enable them to make enough profits for Millie to attend the surgical school at Malta while India carried on their trade routes. Eventually, India would buy her own ship and return the
Possession
to Katherine.

“She may as well be anchored in Bristol for all the good that does us now.”

“She’s
not
in Bristol,” India said irritably. “She’s a hundred yards away. We can swim a hundred yards. We could not swim to Bristol.”

“We won’t have the opportunity for swimming.”

“Not unless we look for one.”

“William’s crew will be crawling the ship like ants.”

“There won’t be that many of them. If we can escape while it’s dark—”

“That will only make it more dangerous.”

“Fine,” India snapped. “We won’t escape. We’ll be locked away in this cabin forever, and William will likely
not
bring us any dinner—” her stomach spasmed a little “—and we shall waste away until we starve to death and he throws our bones to the fish.”

India reminded herself that Millie was afraid, had
always
been afraid even though she would rarely admit it, and that it was only natural for the fear to grow worse after what she’d suffered at her brother’s hands. But still...

She imagined having Gavin Germain at the business end of her pistol. It would be less than he deserved.

“Or until Lord Taggart marries you,” Millie said, “and I am hanged or thrown in prison.”

She hadn’t come all this way only to be captured and dragged back to England, where she would exchange one gaoler for another: her father for a husband who would have complete control over her, would do with her as he pleased, would own her. Who would discover how useless she was and be ashamed of her, but by then it would be too late.

No. She could not let that happen. At sea, she felt useful. Knowledge came easily. The ropes, the pistol... Father would never, ever have allowed her to touch a pistol.

“You know what happens to women in prison,” Millie said now.

“Stop it, Millie.”

“The same thing that will happen if we manage to escape but can’t retrieve the money.”

India knew Millie well enough to know exactly what she was thinking. “We’re not going to end up as prostitutes.”

“
You
won’t—you’ll be married to Lord Taggart.”

“The devil I will,” India said sharply, reaching for anger as a lifeline, and finally she sat up, steadying herself in the hammock with toes that barely touched the floor. “We haven’t failed yet. We’re on a ship, aren’t we?” It wasn’t logical, but being on a ship seemed better than not being on a ship.

Millie let out a strangled laugh. “As if we could take a ship from William.”

Under no circumstances could they possibly take the ship from William. But, “We could take a longboat. We could float in a barrel if we must. Or perhaps we’ll be attacked and captured.”

“Being taken captive by Barbary pirates is your solution?”

“We only have to escape. We’ll find our way back to the
Possession
before William has a chance to reprovision it for sailing. We’ll sneak aboard—at night if necessary—and we
will
get the money.” Already half a dozen new thoughts tumbled through India’s mind. “Someone will bring us a meal, and that someone will have to open the door. And that someone—” hopefully not William “—will likely be male.”

“How is
that
supposed to be comforting?”

How much would Nicholas Warre want her if she bedded one of William’s crew? “If our chance for freedom equals my opportunity to ruin myself—”

“What fascinating mathematics!”

“—then the odds that we can—”

“It’s your father’s money Lord Taggart wants, not you. You’d wait until some poor sod delivers our gruel, bed him in the hammock and discover that Lord Taggart still plans to wed you and we are as far from that money as ever.” Millie exhaled. “You’ll likely not have the chance to ruin yourself anyhow. Lord Taggart will do the deed himself at the first opportunity—only wait.”

India grew warm, remembering how he’d touched her in the alleyway. She rubbed her arms, pacing a little. “What else can I do to deter him?”

“Likely nothing. God, I hate men,” Millie said bitterly. “I hate them, India.” Those normally soft brown eyes grew hard and cold. “Arrogant sods, expecting everyone to submit to their whims.”

“Indeed.”

“A pox on them all.”

“I shall show him, Millie. I shall show Lord Taggart exactly what kind of wife he would have if he goes through with this, and believe me, he will quickly find some other way to pay off his debt.”

* * *

N
ICK
PACED
THE
quarterdeck, already feeling a little queasy from the roll and sway of the ship, and stared at the near-dark city where that blessedly motionless bed would never see use now—at least, not by him. The injustice of it made him want to cry. Or kill someone.

If that someone weren’t the key to his financial solvency, he might have done just that.

Climbing out the window—God’s blood, he’d been careless, letting himself fall asleep with her there. He was lucky she hadn’t slit his throat.

There were footsteps behind him, and Jaxbury’s voice cut through the night. “India said you threatened to shoot her. Threaten her with your pistol again, and you’ll find your own way back to England.”

Nick didn’t bother to turn. “Now that we’re aboard, there won’t be a need to threaten her.”

“Believe that, and you
are
a damned fool.” Jaxbury laughed and crossed his arms, joining Nick at the railing.

“We’ll be underway in the morning, soon as I find the rest of my crew.”

“Can’t make England come quickly enough to suit me,” Nick muttered, and contemplated taking a longboat to shore for half a night’s rest.

“Then you’d better hope the roads through France are passable.”

Nick’s gaze shot to Jaxbury. “What are you talking about?”

“Change of plans,” Jaxbury said.

Now Nick straightened. “Devil there are. You’ll return us to England as you promised.”

“Happy to, if you’d like to wait a few years.”

“Now listen here, Jaxbury.” Nick advanced on him. “The agreement was you would help me find her and return us to England along with that ship you were hunting. Immediately.”

Now Jaxbury’s expression hardened. “Helped you find her, and I don’t care to do anything more. Damned unpleasant business, Warre. Ought to leave you here to find your own way, but I’ve got to get those two away from the
Possession.
After that—” He shrugged. “Got a mind to stay here awhile and do a bit of trading.”

“That was not the agreement!”

“Ought to be plenty of priests in Marseille to do your job for you.”

France was absolutely, positively out of the question. “You know bloody well a trip through France will present a thousand opportunities for her to run off and get into God knows what kind of trouble.” And would require passage through Paris.

“Not my problem, Warre.”

He’d spent fourteen years avoiding Paris and the man who lived there—a man he never cared to meet. Whose existence he tried to forget, but couldn’t.

“What about Miss Germain?”

“Miss Germain is
my
problem. Not yours. We require passage directly to England,” he bit out, knowing there wasn’t a damned thing he could do if Jaxbury refused. “As agreed.”

“Then I suggest you return to shore and find another ship.”

Jaxbury knew bloody well that wasn’t an option. On Jaxbury’s ship Lady India was safely locked away; if he arranged for passage aboard a different ship, he would have to try to control her without being noticed. He couldn’t hold a pistol on her from the folds of his greatcoat for an entire voyage—especially not when he would likely be bedridden the entire time.

It would be no different in France, riding in jolting coaches from one inn to the next while those devious blue eyes plotted death and destruction at every stop, where she would have plenty of opportunity to beg, cajole, win support...even divest herself of her virtue.

Hell.

* * *

I
T
WAS
W
ILLIAM
who brought their breakfast the next morning. And William again, an hour later, who came with other news.

“Warre is sick. Had to set sail without my surgeon, thanks to you two, and I need
you—
” he pointed at Millie “—to tend to him.”

“Is he going to die?” India asked hopefully from the hammock.

“Not going to die.” William looked at her pointedly. “Not by your hand, either.”

That remained to be seen. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She pushed the hammock idly with her toe. “The thought of killing someone never crossed my mind. I’m quite content. I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed a voyage more, if you must know—”

“Devil that,” Millie said irritably, facing William with her hands clenched. “If Lord Taggart’s ailment isn’t life-threatening, then he can tend to himself.”

“
I
could tend to him,” India offered.

William barked a laugh. “
You
will stay as far away from Warre as the ship allows. And
you—
” he pointed at Millie again “—will tend to Warre, or you’ll not leave this cabin. You’ll find what you need in the infirmary.”

There was a small commotion in the passageway, and two sailors wrestled India’s and Millie’s trunks into the cabin and dropped them on the floor with a thud.

“Don’t get any ideas,” William warned when they left. “Been all through those trunks. Nothing more dangerous in there than—well, might have said a petticoat, but neither of you own one. Best put on something warm,” he said to India. “I’m sending you up the yards.”

“You are?” The promise of freedom got the better of her, and India jumped off the hammock.

“In a merciful mood. And we’re a man short. My boatswain is under strict orders that you’re not to have a moment’s rest.”

India narrowed her eyes at him. “I can’t believe Nicholas Warre approves your releasing us from this cabin.” She studied his expression for any hint that there had been a falling-out, that William might have become an ally.

“Not Warre’s ship,” he said flatly. “You’ll not throw yourselves overboard without somebody seeing it, and if you try, you’ll not see the outside of this cabin until we reach France.”

“France,” Millie said sharply.

“We’re not sailing for England?” India asked. New hope flooded through her so fast she felt light-headed.

“Marseille,” William said. “And once you go ashore, you’ll be Warre’s problem and not mine.”

“You’re going to
leave
me with him? In
France?
”

“Aye. Now hurry up—Warre’s green with mal de mer, a stiff breeze is coming up and we’re about to go full sail.”

CHAPTER SIX

M
AL
DE
MER
. They expected her to spend her life tied to a man who suffered from mal de mer? For the next two days, India watched Nicholas Warre emerge from the cabin for short reprieves on the upper deck, where he would stand with his hands curled around the railing and his elbows locked, staring at the horizon, braced against the ship’s motion—the glorious, magnificent roll and sway that made the wood and ropes creak and splashed sea spray into the air to mist her face.

From the lower deck India watched him emerge again, making his way up the stairs wearing no wig, no hat, no turban. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and glistened in the sunshine. Without a waistcoat, his shirt stood out white like the sails against the sparkling sea. He was remarkably steady despite his affliction. She watched him brace himself at the railing, followed the line of his arm to his shoulder. She already knew he was as strong as any sailor on board.

She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”

If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had
not
done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.

“Got no business on a ship, that one.”

It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.

Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.

In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.

Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.

And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.

A map?

Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.

Betrothed.
The word sliced hotly through her mind.

Husband.
The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.

She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.

As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts.
I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.

He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.

He looked miserable.

He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?

He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.

He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.

Her breath hitched. And then she forced herself into the cabin, because the alternative was running away.

“We’re in the Mediterranean Sea,” she informed him breezily. “South of Sardinia. We’ll be passing along—” It wasn’t a map. It was a giant drawing of some kind of mechanical device—a mill, it looked like.

“
What
do you
want.
” He said it as a statement, not a question, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked at her as though he wanted to murder her—or possibly vomit on her, considering the greenish pallor of his skin.

“Ideally, I would like to be returned to Malta,” she said even though it was obvious he was short on patience and feeling very poorly. “If Malta isn’t possible, then I suppose Italy would do.”

“If you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, then I suggest you return to your duties.”

“Oh, I have many intelligent things to say, Mr. Warre. A
great
many intelligent things. And not to worry—a lifetime together will allow you to hear every last one.” She hopped onto the table and perched there, crinkling the corner of his drawing.

“Get down.”

Instead, she rested her toes on the edge of his chair and studied the drawing. “Surely, if you plan to make your fortune constructing a mill, you don’t need my father’s money.”

He ignored her and took a measurement, jotting the figure on a chart.

She leaned closer. “Three and an eighth.”

His eyes shifted to her, and he stared, expressionless.

“It was three and an eighth,” she said. “You wrote three.”

“It was an estimate.” Oh, yes—there was definitely a spark of irritation just now.

“An estimate. Oh, I see. Do forgive me. One doesn’t
estimate
aboard a ship, or one could end up in Alexandria instead of Athens.” She dove her brows and cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t been merely estimating the size of your debt, have you? Because I would hate to live beneath my standards even after you’ve pocketed my father’s money.”

“Get down,” he repeated. “Now.”

“Such a tremendous effort you’re making to win my hand. Very commendable.”

He waited for her to obey his command.

“I must say it is flattering beyond all description,” she went on, “being pined after with such heartfelt devotion and such puppy-dog eyes. It’s only too obvious that you love me to distraction.”

“Lady India.” He leaned forward. “As much as I burn endlessly for you body and soul, as I suffer in lovesick torment, as I can scarcely keep my wayward mind from composing spontaneous sonnets in your honor—” he pushed to his feet and braced his hands on the table, looming over her “—I must request that you
remove yourself from this table
else I shall do the removing for you.”

“Will you.”

His face was inches from hers. “One.”

One?

His gaze touched on her lips, raked across her breasts, returned to her eyes. “Two.”

“Are you
counting,
Mr. Warre?” Her pulse leaped a little. Those eyes were nothing like a puppy dog’s. They were predatory and on fire with thoughts that would make Frannie sound like someone reading from a ladies’ companion.

“Control yourself, Mr. Warre.” She slid off the table and onto unsteady legs, but refused to break his gaze. “Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve is dreadful unseemly.”

“Were I not overcome by love and adoration,” he said, still much too close to her face, “I would certainly be capable of greater discretion.” The ship banked and lolled with a wave, and he gripped the table, clenching his jaw.

“Overcome by seasickness, rather,” she scoffed. Trapped in the space between his body and the table, the subtle scent of his cologne teased every breath. “If you’re feeling that ill, I can’t imagine why you aren’t in bed instead of sitting in here.”

“For the same reason you study every empty barrel and piece of potential flotsam aboard this ship.” He returned to his chair and seated himself.

“Why, Mr. Warre, if this mill can help me escape an unwanted suitor, you must explain it to me at once.”

He picked up his ruler, silently took another measurement. Wrote it down.

One and three-eighths.

She went to the door. Turned. “Do not insult me by suggesting that we have even a single motive in common,” she said with her hand on the jamb to steady herself. “I merely want my freedom, while
you
are motivated purely by—”

The desire to escape? Escape what?

“—greed.”

She left him, frowning to herself, and returned to the quarterdeck.

* * *

A
FEW
HOURS
later, Nick stood on deck, staring at the horizon as Miss Germain suggested, telling himself it helped when it didn’t, wondering how in God’s name he was going to survive a life wed to Lady India, hating that he had no choice.

This was what it had come to: an arranged marriage—no, forced. Definitely forced. She was right about that much. A
forced
marriage to a young woman who had strayed so far from the usual expectations that she was hardly recognizable as a lady.

A wave of nausea gripped him and he let his head fall. He needed to accept that his life was not going to turn out the way he’d hoped, and that he would be doing well if he managed to save Taggart.

His shipping operation was defunct—destroyed by storms and pirates in the space of two months. All that remained was his debt, and the deadline he’d agreed to with Holliswell was fast closing in on him. Holliswell had “graciously” given Nick enough time to pursue Lady India and collect the dowry—Nick much preferred to think of it that way—from her father. But if Nick didn’t manage it in...God, a few more weeks, Holliswell would take Taggart. That was the agreement: more time to pay off the debt, with Taggart itself as collateral.

There would be little left after that, and he would need to make the most of it. He would not risk another investment on the seas. He needed to have the plans for the new mill works ready by the time they reached London, which meant he needed to prepare drawings for each mill site and lay out projections for how quickly the new corporation—if the other men agreed to form it—might turn a profit.

It wouldn’t be much of a profit. Barely enough to make all the repairs Taggart Hall desperately needed and pay the cost of maintaining Lady India in the standard that the wife of a peer should maintain. He’d already been forced to sell his house in London, which meant he had nowhere to keep Lady India while they were in town, except with James or Honoria.

What kind of man had to lodge his wife with his siblings?

Wife.

The thought made his lungs constrict, a bit like the thought of being locked in prison for the rest of his life. This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...

God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.

Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.

You love me to distraction.

He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine
making
love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.

Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.

He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...

He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?

A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled.
Deep breaths, deep breaths...
a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.

Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”

“Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.

Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”

* * *

I
F
THE
MOON
hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.

His sleeping form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.

There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.

A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—