Not Quite Married (19 page)

Some interesting but puzzling things by Jonathan Swift. And Voltaire’s
Essay on the General History . . .
shelved right next to John and Charles Wesley’s family hymnals.”

“I’ve always felt it prudent to make friends on both sides of an argument.”

“Interesting.” She studied him openly. “I wouldn’t have expected it of you.”

He chuckled, seeming more surprised than affronted. “Nor would I of you, frankly. And what degenerate taught you about the precious heretics of the Enlightenment?”

“I had an unconventional tutor for several years. My father paid him too much and asked him too few questions. My sister ignored his wayward rants and discourses, but they found fertile ground in my young mind.”

“Your father educated you uncommonly well.”

“A fact he was quite appalled to learn. He set out immediately to remedy my independent thinking and ways with a marriage that—” She realized with a start that he had crossed the cabin and now stood barely a foot away, looking down at her.

“That would what? Keep you in line? Make you more docile?

Render you witless with domestic bliss?” His words were sardonic, but his gaze was breathtakingly gentle.

“That would make me a
mother.
”

He thought for a moment, then smiled in a way that made her knees weaken. Whatever he said next didn’t matter. Her anger and indignation toward him were already melting like snow on a black slate roof, and it was probably only going to get worse.

“Ahhh. Motherhood. A bit drastic, I’ll grant you. But a proven mind-duller if ever there was one.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Nasty little buggers, babies. All that crying and spitting and wetting. And talk about the
smell.
” He pinched his nose with a pained expression.

She was taken so aback that she laughed out of pure shock. But as her laugh escaped, it dragged a whole string of others behind it. Her face flushed hot and she was instantly aware of every square inch of skin the neckline of her gown exposed. The vivid memory of his mouth pressed to the side of her throat flashed through her, and she sobered instantly and shivered. He noticed.

“You’re horrible,” she declared without much force, trying to step around him to head for the door.

“No, I’m not.” He took a step to the right and cut off her retreat.

“I’m curious. And stubborn. And I’m not always able to say the prudent thing rather than the reckless or irreverent thing. That, my lady, is
my
father’s great burden. A son who has no reverence for empty tradition and loves to watch well-born idiots learn just how absurd they truly are. And who loves the smell of newly cut wood and freshly stitched canvas, and craves the chance to play with boats until he ripens into pruneful dotage . . . forty or fifty years hence.”

Her heart was skipping frantically and her lips felt naked and prominent. He was so close and he was so utterly irresistible to her right now. That coppery hair that was slipping a bit from the cord at the nape of his neck. Those intense golden eyes that could somehow caress her skin across distances. His warm and wicked smiles that could raise gooseflesh on an anvil . . .

She was in trouble. The last thing she needed or wanted was this sort of attraction undercutting her determination. He was, after all, the man who had extorted thousands of pounds from her while pretending to marry her. A forbidden doubt bloomed defiantly in her mind. Was it possible that he had been duped as well? That perhaps he truly had believed he was marrying her?

Then he touched her.

His hand sliding down the side of her face seemed to draw her attention, her blood, her very will to meet it. Desire erupted from the core of her . . . effervescent with memories that burst against the underside of her skin . . . preparing the way for more and shocking her enough to make her grapple for self-control. A moment later, she managed to regain power over her feet.

“Really, Captain.” She stepped shakily around him and headed for the door, praying all the while that he wouldn’t try to stop her.

She went straight down the passage to Jeannie’s cabin and sat under the little maid’s puzzled gaze, pretending to immerse herself in Jonathan Swift’s
A Modest Proposal.
Her eyes widened as she forced herself to read. Babies. Again. Inescapably her thoughts went back to Aaron Durham’s sardonic words and realized how much he and Swift had in common. Interesting.

Much too interesting. Against her better judgment, she found herself smiling.

THE NEXT DAY Brien was able to take Jeannie up on deck for fresh air and sunshine. Brien hoped the little maid’s presence would help her forestall contact with Aaron Durham, but that was not to be. Clever man, he sent First Officer Hicks to distract Jeannie and then sidled up to Brien with a satisfied smile.

“You look happy,” she said, making it sound a hanging offense.

“We’re making even better time than I had hoped. You may be on the first ship to make an Atlantic crossing in under three weeks.”

She looked up, heartened by that news, and was captured momentarily by the way the wind was tugging at his hair.

“Excellent news.”

“It’s an excellent ship,” he responded archly.

“And I suppose favorable winds have had nothing to do with it,”

she chided.

“Oh, they help.” He smiled. “I’m always willing to give credit where it is due. Especially for good weather. But there has been good weather before, Brien, and the crossing still took a month.”

She stiffened at his use of her given name and looked away, scrambling for more neutral ground between them. “So. What improvements does
The Lady’s Secret
contain that make this miracle of transportation possible?”

He seemed to have been waiting for just such a question, for he immediately planted himself beside her at the quarterdeck railing and began to point out improvements. Beginning overhead, he pointed to changes in the number, design, and deployment of sails; the rigging tackle, achieving better trim; and a new mechanism for hoisting and lowering the mainsails and moving the mizzens to take advantage of changes in wind. Each improvement had something of a story behind it and, told in Aaron’s dry, sardonic manner, those sidelights drew her deeper into his thinking.

Then he went on to explain changes in the ship’s proportions . . .

longer forward and aft, narrower abeam, with more freeboard and less draft, and a more balanced space for cargo. Refinements to the rudder resulted in more efficient steering, enabling them to employ shifting winds to better advantage. Mr. Hicks was soon drawn into the lecture, prompting him to recall things. Then they took her to the cargo hatch, where he and Hicks climbed down into the hold to point out baffles between bays filled with cargo.

Brien watched and listened, knowing as she did that her resistance to him was eroding like a beach under a storm tide. He was devoted to a very potent dream of develop-ing linkages across the Atlantic that could help shape the fate of both Britain and the former colonies. He was intelligent and inventive, determined and resourceful, competent and—she was loath to admit it—probably dependable.

She tried to rally her resistance by reminding herself that men’s behavior in professional and public life often had nothing in common with the way they conducted their private lives. Too often men saw their obligations and promises to women as optional or nonbinding. Even marriage vows—
especially
marriage vows—created a sense of duty that flowed toward men, not from them. She would do well to remember that when tempted to lose herself in Aaron Durham’s all-too-appealing maleness.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON Jeannie entered her cabin with news that Mr. Hicks had announced that they would have a special dinner that evening to celebrate approaching the halfway point well ahead of schedule. Apologizing profusely for having neglected her duties, she insisted on putting Brien’s hair up in a full coiffure for the evening meal in the commons.

“Shipboard is hardly the place for elegant dining,” Brien protested.

“I just thought it might be nice to pin your hair up for a change.

You know, you haven’t worn jewelry or been out of drab traveling clothes since we started.”

If Jeannie had noticed her lack of adornment, Aaron Durham probably had, too. No doubt he thought she did it to escape his notice . . . probably believed she was shrinking, cowering in fear at the thought of his irresistible manliness.

“Very well. Do it up for once.” She flourished a hand. “We won’t be at sea forever. And we can’t have either of us getting out of practice, can we?”

When she and Jeannie entered the commons that evening, the sun was setting. Mr. Hicks had already gone topside to check the evening watch and Aaron stood by the stern windows, dressed in his customary shirt, breeches, and boots, staring at the gold-kissed waves in the ship’s wake. He turned when he heard them enter and his eyes lighted at the sight of her.

She smoothed the long waist of her emerald green cotton and allowed him to help her to the table, which had been draped with cloth and was set with a fine service.

“You are lovely this evening, Lady Brien. I hope you enjoy this special dinner to honor the maiden voyage of
The Lady’s Secret
.

The food may not be what you are accustomed to, but should provide a welcome change from our usual fare.” He smiled broadly at Brien, produced a bottle of wine from a cabinet along the wall, and snatched four pewter cups from nearby pegs before returning to the table to pour.

“To
The Lady’s Secret.
” He raised his cup. “As fine a lady as I have ever sailed.”

Brien scowled at the thought of how many
human
ladies he had probably “sailed.” Then he sought her gaze and proposed a still more pointed toast. “To maiden voyages.”

She blushed beet-red at the reminder that he had been present for her “maiden voyage” and had launched her into realms of sensation that she would rather not have experienced. She raised her own cup in retaliation.

“May
The Lady’s Secret
ply the seas without fear of pirates or privateers,” she declared archly, “or others who would constrain or molest her.”

“You seem uncommonly preoccupied with freedom, my lady,”

Aaron said, weighing her words. “Can it be that you hold dangerous Whig views; or is your interest in freedom of a more personal nature?” She shifted in her chair to avoid his probing look.

“Both, I think. If I wish freedom for myself, can I wish less for others?”

“A lot of people do just that,” he responded. “It’s interesting to hear that you are not among them.
Liberty. Equality.
” He wagged his head. “Interesting talk coming from the widow of a French nobleman. You do know that such sentiments could get you arrested and executed in France just now, don’t you?”

“Fortunately we are headed
west,
not east.”

“Captain,” Jeannie broke in. “Would you mind if I took a cup to Mr. Hicks?”

“By all means.” Aaron nodded without taking his eyes from Brien.

She felt a sudden panic at being left alone with him, but had no pretext for requiring Jeannie to stay. When the maid was gone, his voice lowered and softened.

“What an interesting woman you are, Brien. You read widely, you harbor dangerous republican tendencies, and you strain your father’s patience at every turn. We have a great deal in common, you and I.” He pulled out a chair beside hers, but before he could sit she rose and headed for the stern windows.

“Not really, Captain.” She clasped her hands tightly and straightened her spine. “We are really quite different.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I should think that was obvious. I am a woman and you are a man.”

He chuckled and strolled toward her at a leisurely pace. “A state of affairs that shouldn’t keep us from coming to some sort of understanding.”

“By which you mean: you do what you want and I
understand.
”

“Ouch.” He paused an arm’s length away, lapped his arms over his ribs, and studied her. “You have a rather sad opinion of men, don’t you?”

“A sadly realistic one. Experience has taught me that men insist on morality when it benefits
them.
Men want their marriage vows to be binding, but only on their wives. Men strive for honesty and integrity with one another, but think that a bit of deception in dealing with wives and lovers only proves their cleverness and ingenuity. How can there be understanding between men and women if men don’t consider women worth the same basic honesty they give to a stranger who sits down with them for a game of cards?”

“Surely experience has taught you more than that.” A spark ignited his eyes. “Be honest yourself, my lady. Haven’t you also experienced some of the companionship that men and women can bring to each other? Some of the pleasure?”

“I-If I have . . . I-I cannot recall it.” She pressed back against the window seat.

“Well, I can. I remember every moment, every breath, every heartbeat of it.” The low, sensual roll of his voice set her fingertips tingling. “Shall I remind you?”

He set hands to her waist and drew her closer. She wanted desperately to push him away, to deny him the opportunity to prove his wretched point at her expense. But every part of her was busy responding to him, growing warm and pliant, opening, remembering. He pulled her against him and his head lowered.

His lips were just as hard, just as gentle, just as compelling as she recalled. It was like sliding into a warm down comforter on a cold winter night and finding comfort, security, and release.

Then he pulled away and she opened her eyes to find him looking at her with a hunger that she was surprised to find echoed what was happening in her. She knew that need because it was so like her own. She understood that desire for intimacy and completion, because it was just what she was feeling.

She knew such things because she had a sense of knowing
him.

Not just his good looks, fluid movement, and arresting eyes. Not just his intelligence, arrogance, determination, or worldly accomplishments. Not just his books and charts and his fascination with the colonies. For she hadn’t known those things about him that first night, standing in the gloomy Church of St.