Louise Allen Historical Collection (9 page)

‘This
lady
is my wife.’ For the first time, Meg saw Ross smile. And then wished she hadn’t. ‘I believe she expressed the desire to be left alone. Are you hard of hearing, perhaps?’ His sword ripped out of its scabbard as the men backed away. ‘Are you as attached to your ears as your friend is to his balls?’ He had them trapped now, pressed back against the rail with nowhere to go. It was time to intervene.

‘Major Brandon.’

‘My dear?’ It was hard not to be distracted by the warmth in those two drawled words.

‘The captain would dislike blood on his deck.’

‘So he would.’ There was a thoughtful silence while the sword point remained unwavering. ‘And the men work so hard holystoning it. Did these scum touch you?’

She knew what he meant and shook her head. ‘No, they were merely offensive.’

Ross kept the sword up while Meg and the two men eyed it like rabbits in front of a stoat. ‘Very well. You two—undress.’

‘What?’ Bates’s voice wavered between fear and incredulity.

‘You heard me. Every stitch. Avert your eyes, my dear. This will not be a pretty sight.’

Meg hastily turned her back. Amid sounds of spluttering indignation it was apparent that Bates and Whittier were obeying Ross. She could hardly blame them for giving in, not once they had seen his smile and looked into his eyes.

‘Now throw it all over the side. Good. And now, walk back to the companionway and down the stairs.’

‘But that’s the public saloon! And we’re stark naked!’

‘Yes, indeed. And hardly a vision to inspire an artist, I fear. Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.’

As he passed her, Ross murmured, ‘I thought I told you to avert your eyes, wife.’

Meg dragged her gaze from two pairs of pale, goose-pimpled buttocks retreating towards the companionway and laughed. ‘And, as always, husband, your judgement is entirely correct. I have never seen a more revolting sight.’

M
eg stayed where she was, listening as the outraged shrieks from below died down. Her knees felt wobbly now as her amusement ebbed away. That had been a nasty little incident and it had left her more shaken than she expected. Uneven, limping footsteps on the deck made her look up. ‘What happened?’

‘They snatched up platters from the serving table to cover their modesty so most people were spared the worst of it. But they won’t dare show their faces for the rest of the voyage.’ Ross stood close, looking down at her. ‘Johnny saw them follow you and came to me. Are you all right, Meg?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Meg began, then found her voice cracking. ‘No…not really. It is very foolish, I just feel rather…’

And then he stepped forwards, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. It was rather like being hugged by the bear she had compared him to, one smelling of river-soaked, badly dried cloth with a lingering whiff of gunpowder and smoke, but it was marvellously comforting. And utterly improper. Meg wrapped her arms around Ross’s waist and clung, her cheek pressed against the dark green broadcloth of his jacket, her toes bumping his boots. How long had it been since she had been hugged?

He was big and strong and beautifully male. Appropriate female parts of her tingled disconcertingly at the realisation of just how good he felt.

His chin was resting on the top of her head. He was certainly a very thorough hugger, but that was all this seemed to be, thank goodness.
Thank goodness
, she repeated rather desperately to herself as her body soaked up his warmth and the strength of his arms stirred the feelings that were nothing at all to do with relief and entirely to do with the effect of being held close by a very masculine man.

She really should step away, now, before his thoughts began to run along the same path. Meg wriggled and said, muffled, into his chest, ‘I’m all right now, thank you.’

‘Mmm?’ Ross opened his arms a little, enough for her to lean back against his embrace and look up. It was hard to see in the light of the swaying lantern and she frowned, trying to make out his expression. It did not occur to her that this position, or the length of time she held it, was an invitation—not until he lowered his head and kissed her.

It was not a subtle kiss, but it was a satisfying one, tingling right down to her toes. And it was a surprising kiss, not least because she was hazily aware that Ross was as taken aback as she was by what was happening. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in return and he seemed to emerge from his shock and put his mind to what he was doing.

And at that point the movement of his mouth over hers became subtle, intimate and far more assured and arousing than Meg could deal with. She much preferred him confused. And besides, she was not used to kissing like this. James had not been much given to preliminaries. ‘No.’ She pulled back. ‘Ross, we should not be doing this.’

He did not release her abruptly as he might have done, finding himself rejected, but opened his hands and his arms so they still supported her. ‘No?’

Meg found she could not reply. It was difficult, just at this moment, to remember why falling into bed with a troubled near-stranger she did not understand was not a perfectly rational thing to be doing. Then the ship rolled and she was back in his embrace, her hands reaching up to slide into the thick hair at the sides of his head. Oh, but this was good, this closeness, this heat.

This time it was Ross who stopped. ‘Downstairs.’ He strode towards the companionway, one hand clasped firmly around her wrist. She allowed herself to be pulled along, half-excited, half-afraid, wholly incapable of resisting him.

The buzz of conversation that rose to greet them as they emerged into the public stateroom showed that the scandalous entertainment Ross had provided earlier was still exercising the passengers.

‘Mrs Brandon!’ Meg turned, with the flustered realisation that she was beginning to answer rather too readily to that name, and found the large woman from dinner at her side. ‘Did you see that outrageous sight just now! Two men, stark—I mean, in a state of nature!’

‘My goodness! How utterly shocking. They must have been drunk, don’t you think?’

‘Or insane,’ the other woman said darkly. ‘Oh, and here is dear Major Brandon, young José’s brave rescuer. The
signora
told us all about it. How are you now, Major?’

‘Quite recovered, ma’am.’ Ross sounded as though he was facing a court-martial. ‘But if you will excuse us—’ He guided Meg through the stateroom and away towards their cabin, his hand firm on her arm.

When the door closed behind them they stood looking at each other. The cold realisation that they had acted very imprudently was beginning to creep over Meg. Ross looked as though the court-martial had resulted in a death sentence.

‘Bed,’ he snapped.

‘I don’t think—’ she began, aware as never before of the size and the strength of the man. She had provoked him—inflamed him—and now she had no idea how to stop him from taking what she had so rashly offered. Did she even want to stop him?
No
, was the honest truth, but what happened afterwards?

‘Neither of us thought. Go to bed.’ Ross reached for the blankets she had folded on the trunk. ‘I will sleep on the floor.’

Meg sat down on the edge of the bunk, her knees giving way. He did not intend to finish what they had begun on deck—either by force or persuasion. She supposed it was relief that was making her feel so light-headed. Now she did not have to make a decision.

‘You will not sleep on the floor.’ Guilt overcame the relief. ‘We will both sleep in the bunk. If you lie on the deck, it will hurt your leg and I will not sleep for worrying. If I take the deck, then you will not sleep fretting about that.’

The sound Ross made in response could only be described as a snort. ‘You expect me to sleep easily next to a woman I have just kissed? Held in my arms? You have been married, have you not, Meg? You know what happens.’ He found the pillow and tossed that down too.

Well, that was certainly frank, Meg thought, knowing she was blushing. Of course she knew the effect that kissing a woman had on a man and if that was followed by both of them getting into bed together and doing nothing about it she was sure it would be downright uncomfortable for him.

She could trust the promise that he had given her the other night; she would be safe with him even if he did spend the night in discomfort both from his wound and his body’s own reactions. Now she felt guilty. And embarrassed. And more than a little frustrated herself.

‘And if we both get into that bunk we will be lying like planks, one on each side,’ Ross added. He stood, hands on hips, regarding the mattress with disfavour.

‘I don’t believe either of us would be any less uncomfortable with you on the floor. I apologise; I hugged and kissed you out of sheer relief. It was too much like that time before Peter rescued me.’

‘I kissed you first,’ Ross said with the air of a man who was going to be fair if it killed him.

‘And it was not just relief,’ Meg admitted. ‘Let that be a lesson to us not to give way to our, er, animal passions, as you called them,’ she added briskly, with more resolution than she felt. ‘We are adults, with the will-power God gave us, I trust, not undisciplined adolescents.’ That sounded very fine, but it did not stop her feeling seventeen again, before experience taught her that romantic daydreams dissolved in real life.

Look at him. He isn’t handsome in the slightest, he’s dour, dark and mysterious and thoroughly out of temper, so what is the matter with you?
But it was no good—the fact remained that Ross Brandon was overwhelmingly masculine, he excited her unbearably and she wanted him. She, Margaret Shelley, who had sworn never to allow her emotions to lead her into trouble again.

‘Animal passions,’ he repeated, looking even more saturnine than before. ‘Will-power. Right. You undress behind that curtain and I will get into bed. If you extinguish the lantern before you emerge you may pretend I am that large dame we have just met and I will pretend that
you
are.’

‘That might work,’ Meg conceded. She retreated to wrestle with hooks and eyes behind the screen. She could not decide whether Ross had a sense of humour or was being deadly serious. She pulled the gown over her head. ‘This is a momentary awkwardness, after all,’ she observed to the unresponsive silence in the cabin. ‘In the morning, after a good night’s sleep, we will hardly regard it.’

Ross lay in the gloom deliberately flexing his thigh muscles so the pain would provide a distraction from the ache in his groin. He shifted on to his side to ensure the evidence of the effect of that kiss was not visible through the thin sheet. What was the matter with him? He’d kissed the woman when she needed comfort and she had responded, that was all. He had not thought for a moment of it leading anywhere and he was certain Meg had not.

But it was easier to tell his mind that than it was for his body to understand. He was not an undisciplined adolescent, according to Meg. It was a good thing she could not see the proof that he was responding to her like a randy seventeen year old. He did not even have the excuse of a long period of abstinence; up to the eve of the battle he had kept any frustration at bay with the willing camp followers who were the army’s constant companions and sources of comfort. It occurred to him that he had been aroused by her since he met her.

The curtain flapped and the light went out. Even Meg’s soft
huff
of breath as she breathed on the wick was provocative. Her lips, soft and pink, would have formed a circle as she blew, pouting…

Stop it.
Ross conjured up the fat woman’s round, rather foolish, features, her thin lips and her nondescript brown eyes, her inconsequential chatter. That was better. The sheet was tugged as Meg wriggled up from the bottom of the bunk into the space between his back and the wall. The
narrow
space.
Wriggling.
The image of the other woman vanished as the scent of warm female and plain soap reached him.

Ross controlled his breathing and resigned himself to a long night. He had lain still and endured silently when the surgeon dug the bullet out of his leg—once the shouting match over the man’s intention to cut the limb off had been won—he could endure this torture now.

But this was a stimulating kind of agony, he had to admit that, he thought as he resisted the urge to get out of bed and pace about on the deck. Meg Halgate was a frustrating, opinionated, infuriatingly commonsensical thorn in his side, but she was giving him something to think about besides his own woes. Eyes open in the darkness, Ross admitted that he had thought about little other than himself from the moment he had been carried off the field and into the surgeon’s tent, with the battle and his men entirely out of his hands and the future he had been trying to ignore inescapable in front of him.