Page 4 of The Pirate’s Stolen Bride (Cavalier Cove)

CHAPTER FOUR

TEA AND NO SYMPATHY

C hanging out of her wet clothes while being tossed about in a cramped ship’s cabin was the hardest thing Harriet had ever done. She could barely get a grip on a tiny button with her frozen fingers before the floor tilted and she was forced to brace herself on whatever surface was handy.

She got her spencer off, then her sodden boots. Her bonnet had been lost to the waves, which was a shame. It coordinated so nicely with her traveling costume.

Your ladyship.

She was going to strangle that pirate. Just as soon as she got her stays and chemise off and put on the clean shirt he’d left for her. What she was not going to do was allow her captor to see her naked.

The boat rolled sharply. Nausea boiled up her esophagus. Her hip connected with the edge of a built-in table. She smacked the surface with her open palm out of sheer frustration.

Sitting on the cramped built-in bench helped a little. She was able to strip off her stockings and fight her way free of her dress. On the back of the close-fitted door were two hooks where she hung up her clothes. There seemed little chance of them drying properly, but it was better than leaving them on the floor.

Another roll tossed her to the opposite side of the room. Harriet found herself clutching an empty iron pot. She retched into it.

This was the worst misadventure ever. She should have thrown those tankards at Rémy’s head, instead of mooning over how attractive he was.

Shivering, she crawled into the bed and tucked the blankets around her, keeping the lidded pot close.

She didn’t sleep. Instead, she dozed fitfully. Each time she almost dropped into blessed unconsciousness, the press of warm lips on hers intruded. Harriet rolled over. Where was Uncle Monty? Surely he was searching for her. Clearly, she had been too hasty in judging the Riders. Perhaps geese weren’t good judges of character after all.

The scent embedded in his shirt and bedclothes was oddly alluring. Comforting, even. Each pitched roll of the boat roiled her stomach.

God, she missed being still. Her lungs ached. Every once in a while she would emit a hacking, burning, cough. She jerked half-upright at the sound of creaking hinges.

“It is me, your ladyship. We are nearly through the storm, now.” He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged the iron pot from her weak grip. “I see you found the sick bucket. Well done. Here. Drink this.”

Harriet sipped cold, clear water with a soft moan.

“I will make you tea,” he said. He was being so nice all of a sudden. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “After I change clothes,” he added.

Maybe not so nice, after all. “Can you do that elsewhere?”

“No. This is the only dry place on the ship.”

“Fine. I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

She did. Mostly. She had never seen a man naked before. Curiosity was only natural. She didn’t want to think about the damage his kidnapping was doing to her reputation. There was a very good chance that Lord Lucarran wouldn’t want to marry her after all of this.

A queasy part of her wondered if Uncle Monty would get his dander up and insist Rémy marry her himself.

Was this kidnapping ultimately an extortion scheme? While her dowry had barely been sufficient to attract one aged earl, it was probably more than enough to tempt a pirate.

Her roiling stomach sank, which was odd. It wasn’t as if she wanted the pirate’s affections. She didn’t want him at all.

Rémy bent over. Harriet spread her fingers slightly. Fine. Maybe she did want him a tiny bit. Her wallowing cost her the sight of him discarding his old trousers, though she got a decent peek at his bottom as he pulled on fresh ones. Facing away from her, he fastened his pants and reached for a fresh shirt. The flickering light from a hanging lantern lovingly traced the play of his muscles as he tugged it over his head and stuffed it into the waistband. A sigh escaped her.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked without turning.

“I was not…you utter beast!” she seethed, her face burning. Harriet yanked the pillow over her head, but this was no improvement, for it smelled of him. A squirmy feeling between her thighs made her wish he would go away so she could attend to herself in private.

“You like it.” He smiled knowingly over his shoulder as he exited the room, as if he could sense her unwanted physical reaction.

“I assure you, I do not,” she insisted as loftily as she could manage from beneath cotton and feathers. His parting chuckle prompted her to toss the pillow at his retreating back.

A wordless noise of frustration burst out of her.

“What am I doing?” she asked the lamp, her only company. “When we left Polperro this morning, I did not expect to find myself stolen by a pirate, dunked into the ocean, fished out like an unlucky mackerel, slapped awake and forced to wear nothing but a man’s shirt while lying in his bed. I did not plan for any of these calamities, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to get out of this mess.” She sighed. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t tried to help him, none of this would have happened. I would be on my way to marry Lord Lucarran and Rémy would be where he belongs. In irons, behind bars.”

Except that part of her couldn’t imagine a vital, vibrant man like him in chains. Rémy was a scoundrel and, if not actually a pirate, then very close to it, but she had never met anyone who faced life’s adversities with a glint of mischief in his eye. Like it was all a grand joke.

He was a stark contrast to her husband-to-be. The one time she’d met him, Lord Lucarran hadn’t cracked a smile the entire time. He’d stated his expectations for her behavior—meek obedience and the production of many children, as if she were a mare he’d bought at auction for breeding—while unsubtly leering at her breasts. Not that Harriet could claim much in the way of bosoms. Her frame was slight and straight, like a dressmaker’s mannequin.

Lucarran had commented witheringly on her looks, too. She’d been so ashamed, but he was one to talk. Fifty if he was a day, with several teeth missing and rancid breath to show why. Lack of dental care or poor luck was one thing, but to simply neglect his personal hygiene? What else did he fail to clean regularly?

Harriet shuddered. She shouldn’t have said yes to his proposal. Uncle Monty had made it very clear that he’d gone out of his way to find a match for her, and if this one wasn’t to her liking, she would not get another opportunity.

She’d weighed the choice of being a spinster, forever dependent upon her family’s largesse, against the prospect of having children of her own, and despite her misgivings, chose the latter.

Then, along came Rémy, with his crinkling eyes and impulsiveness, who stirred feelings in her Harriet had no idea what to do with.

A knock at the door had her scrambling to yank the blanket off the bed. She wrapped it around herself and wedged her body into the bench seat, shivering.

Rémy ducked into the room carrying a tray with a pot, two mismatched teacups, and a small bowl.

“No milk.” He placed it on the table. “You’ll have to do without.”

“I don’t mind.” She unwound her arms from her blanket cocoon and poured, spilling slightly when the boat rolled unexpectedly and the tray slid a few inches. Wordlessly, Rémy pushed it back into place. The built-in table and bench were so small that his knees kept bumping hers.

Was it on purpose?

She kicked his shin. His eyes flared wide with surprise, then narrowed at her. “What was that for?”

“Kidnapping me.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” He chuckled.

“No.”

“Drink your tea, chérie. It will help your lungs.”

“My lungs?” Harriet stared at the dark liquid.

“The water you inhaled might have caused damage. This will help.” He drank his, which encouraged her to sip her own. The tea had a slippery feeling on her tongue. No bitterness. There was, if anything, a slightly sweet aftertaste. She added a lump of sugar anyway.

Her stomach rumbled. Her throat hurt.

“What time is it?” Harriet asked, her sentence punctuated by a painful fit of coughing.

“Around two in the morning.” His shoulder lifted and fell. She registered the weariness etched in his face and limbs. When was the last time this man had rested? “We will reach land by dawn.”

“What happens then?”

Rémy held her eye. “What do you want to happen?”

“I want you to take me back to Cavalier Cove. My uncle must be going out of his mind with worry.”

Something in his expression closed off. The change was subtle. She felt like she had just unceremoniously rejected a lovelorn suitor.

Which was the height of absurdity. He’d kidnapped her! What else was she supposed to want, other than to go home?

But where was her home, now? Certainly not Acton Heath. Definitely not London, either. The question weighed heavily in her mind.

“I will send word to your uncle as soon as I can safely do so.”

“What will you do with me?”

“Leave you at an inn, most likely.” He shrugged.

“This has been very unfair of you, you know.”

“What has?” her captor asked innocently.

“Kidnapping me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you, your ladyship. I rescued you.”

She gaped at him in astonishment. The arrogance of this man!