Page 33 of Unforeseen Affairs (The Sedleys #6)

Colin had been asleep for hundreds of years when he was roused by the sound of a closing door.

Christ , but his head was sore.

Slowly his mind caught up to his body, and he squinted his eyes open. The room was dark, lit only by the dim glow of a small lamp. Was it the middle of the night? Nothing seemed familiar. His body instinctively tensed into a state of high alert, a reflex he’d developed as a sailor.

Where in the world was he?

He sat up with a start, and immediately regretted it. The ache in his head turned into a throbbing, stabbing pain, as if his brain were trying to hatch out of his skull.

“Right,” he groaned aloud to himself. “The bloody train.”

“I’ve a cup of tea, if you think you could manage it,” said a low, soothing female voice.

Miss Sedley. Charlotte.

Colin rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if he could scrub away this blasted pressure, this damned soreness.

“Thank you,” he said, his mind suddenly filled with questions. Where had she gone off to earlier? How long ago was that? Had she been alright, wandering about in the village? Where exactly were they, again?

Even with the lamp casting shadows across her face, she appeared placid and relaxed as she rounded the bed and offered him an unadorned cup and saucer with a calming wisp of steam rising from it. Colin took it and asked for what seemed the most pertinent information at the moment.

“How long have I been asleep?”

She watched as he took a blessed sip, a slight furrow in her elegant brows betraying her worry. Worry for him? Colin lowered his gaze to the tea.

“Quite some time,” she finally answered, then turned away, skirts swishing. “When I was downstairs the clock read half past eleven. That must’ve been at least ten minutes ago.”

Colin almost choked on his second sip. “Quite some time?” He set the cup back on its saucer with a clatter. “Why, it’s practically the middle of the night!”

“Does it matter? You’ve improved,” she stated from the other side of the bed.

Colin dared not look at her.

“Besides, I told you to rest.”

She had. And it had done him a world of good. There was no spinning now, no uncertainty about whether his feet were on solid ground. Just the headache, the echo of the episode pulsing in his head.

“I also brought up some food, if you would like.”

“No,” Colin said sadly. “This is all I require, thank you.”

“Very well.”

“We’ll leave at first light. Er… remind me where we are, exactly?”

“Fairhurst. A short distance east of Sheffield.”

The whisper of fabric sliding against something set off a slight panic in his chest. She must be removing a garment. She must mean to sleep. Of course, she would have to. But not here… not with him.

“Right. Sheffield. No doubt we can hire something there. I’ve rested. And now, so shall you.” He cleared his throat as he stared at his own feet, not wishing to turn and leer at her. “I shall sit in the chair while you sleep.”

The rustling paused.

“What? Sit in the chair and keep watch?”

Colin felt his cheeks warm.

“Why not?” he said, knowing full well how ridiculous it sounded.

“The door is in working order. It has a lock.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said, trying not to think of her standing there in her undergarments.

He took another sip of tea. It was of poor quality, but Colin had certainly tasted worse.

Stores sometimes ran empty at the end of a voyage.

If he needed a cup, he’d never turn his nose up at one, regardless of quality.

“So… keep watch for what, pray tell?”

He heard her moving about again, and to his consternation he could not stop imagining her slim, bare arms, wondering how whisper-thin her chemise might be. Heat rushed to his core, hardening his cock. Damn it to hell. He did not need this just now.

“What menace lurks in Fairhurst, I wonder? Footpads? Highwaymen?”

“You’re teasing me.” He frowned at his teacup before taking a generous swallow.

“Of course I am,” she said sternly. “Unless… what about ghosts? Spirits? Perhaps Mr. Bass’s friend, the Frenchman with the halberd in his back, has accompanied us here, seeking to guide us.”

Colin couldn’t help but crack a small smile at the absurd memory.

“I wonder whatever happened to Mr. Trenwith,” she said, pausing to think. “Mr. Bass made him the scapegoat for everything.”

“And removed him from his employ, no doubt,” Colin agreed. “The act of a blackguard.”

He couldn’t imagine ever allowing one of his sailors to be punished for his mistake. Hell, the duty of a commander was to take the blame for their subordinates’ mistakes, for to assume power over someone was to take responsibility for their actions.

“Or… an act of conspiracy,” Charlotte said.

“What?”

“It is possible the entire altercation was another ruse.” She made a slight humming sound as she paused for a moment before adding, “I was not convinced of Mr. Trenwith’s anger. His response felt odd to me.”

“At least, what we saw of it,” Colin muttered before taking another sip. “Are you saying they might have had an arrangement in place? For Mr. Trenwith to take the blame in the event one of their tricks went wrong?”

“I would wager on it. No doubt such an agreement would stipulate that Mr. Bass continue to pay Mr. Trenwith following his apparent dismissal, to prevent his jilted assistant from spilling his secrets.”

Colin considered the idea. It did seem plausible. “I wonder,” he said, feeling more himself with every word, “what ludicrous parlor trick Mr. Bass might have performed next, had you not seized his foot?”

She snorted. He’d never heard that before, and he glanced over his shoulder with a start.

Charlotte stood with her back to him, dressed in a slight chemise and drawers, running a brush through her thick black hair.

His heart nearly stopped.

“Possibly something involving the manipulation of fluid, such as holding wine in space with no bottle or jar… easily achieved and easily believed,” she said, sounding a bit weary now. Whether it was of hucksters like Mr. Bass or the ordeal of the day, Colin could not tell.

In the lamplight, the thin cambric linen of the chemise practically glowed, barely concealing her legs and the curve of her waist and hips. She looked like a seraph painted on a church ceiling in Cartagena or Rome or Constantinople.

Colin tore his gaze away, horrified at himself.

“At any rate,” he stuttered, desperate to push the lurid thoughts from his mind, “I’m glad you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Seized his strange little puppet. From his foot.”

“Is that right?”

He heard her set the brush down. There was a small washstand on the opposite wall, and alongside it a row of pegs on which hung her clothing, as well as his discarded jacket. She must’ve fetched it from the floor , he thought with gratitude.

“Yes. It was brave. And he deserved it.” Colin tilted the teacup back and forth, watching the dregs swish about. “I admire your resolve, Miss Sedley.”

He felt the bed dip from the other side. Quickly he swallowed the remains of the cup in one gulp.

“You do?” she whispered.

“And when you took my hand, on the train…” He set his jaw and squeezed his fist. It was only right to say so, though Colin sometimes wished he wasn’t so honest. “I am in your debt, that you acted so quickly and decisively to help me. Especially with you not knowing what was happening.”

He stood. His heart threatened to burst from his chest.

It was rather ironic, he suddenly realized, that she had come to his rescue when he was ill and unfit, considering the renown and plaudits he’d had to contend with resulted from his actions when his senior officers were ill and unfit to lead.

“I apologize. I ought not have left it all to you. The lodgings, the—”

“Colin,” she interrupted, “you do not need to apologize.”

“And yet, I cannot let it go unmentioned, that—”

“There is nothing to be sorry for. You were unwell.”

He heard her pull back the counterpane and bedsheet.

“Are you still…” she said, her voice wavering as she hesitated on the last word, “unwell?”

Colin swallowed. His throat felt full, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

His head ached, and he walked as if underwater on his way to the cane chair.

It was nothing like the terrifying discombobulation of earlier, but he ought to be honest with her.

Gingerly he bent down, and set the empty teacup and saucer upon the scrubbed floorboards.

“Slightly, yes,” he said, avoiding looking in the direction of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, though. I ought to be able to manage tomorrow.”

The bedlinens crinkled again as she shifted her weight on the mattress.

“Manage what?”

Colin sighed, feeling suddenly far older than he ever had. “We must make it to Manchester.” Before your family realizes you’ve run off and I’ve compromised you.

“Oh, that.”

“What do you mean, that ? Have you forgotten the reason we are here?” Irritated by her nonchalance, Colin whirled around.

He immediately wished he hadn’t. Ogling her from behind had been trying enough.

But now she looked at him from underneath those thick lashes.

Even though she was tucked in, she’d brought her knees up and folded her long, elegant arms atop them, looking so relaxed and intimate that he couldn’t help but feel a stab of longing so intense he had to sit down.

He wanted her. Badly.

Not because she was pretty, not because she was understanding.

Not because she was brave, or curious. Not because she’d handled him with a gentleness he could hardly fathom, when she’d removed his shoes and hung up his jacket.

Charlotte Sedley was all those things, certainly, but in that moment Colin could not single out one particular appealing physical trait, nor one endearing aspect of her character.

It was just that she was Charlotte, and he could think of no young woman more desirable than her. He knew it with a certainty he’d never felt before.

Perhaps it was a trick of the low light, or perhaps he’d simply imagined it, but her cheeks appeared to flush under his intense regard.

When she spoke, her voice was rough.

“I have not forgotten.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and for a minute neither spoke. After a time, Miss Sedley settled back down as if she meant to sleep.

“Er—should I turn the lamp down?” Colin asked.

“This is silly,” she said instead of answering. “You’re unwell; you ought to sleep. The proprietor thinks us married. Who is going to know?”

“I cannot.” Colin folded his arms against his chest.

“Why?”

Colin groaned. “You know as well as I, it would not behoove us to engage in something so… trying.”

She didn’t respond, and he prayed that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t.

“Is my company really so… trying?”

“No! Not in that manner, Miss Sedley, I…” Colin spluttered.

He’d hurt her. “Charlotte. I would…” He paused.

Baring himself any more than he already had at this juncture could be unwise.

“There is no one I would rather accompany to Manchester in a slapdash attempt to ruin a huckster’s reputation than you. ”

“I would say the same,” she said.

He could hear her smile. A strange little hiccup of hope lifted his spirits. It so startled him that he stood up.

“Please, Colin.”

He went to the lamp and turned it down.

“Please rest.”

Suppressing a groan, he placed a hand upon his forehead. He hoped that in the dark she couldn’t see the battle he was fighting, the strain that must be evident on his face.

“If you do not lie down, I will worry. And then I shall not sleep either.”

He was still tired. Exhausted, even.

Just what was he afraid of? Losing his senses with a woman who’d thoroughly enchanted him?

Or was it the chance that she would not have him?

No, she desired him, of that he was certain.

Perhaps he feared that she did not want him beyond satisfying her physical needs?

That she would welcome his advances in this small bed, but reject anything beyond that?

And what if he were to get his child on her? He would sooner maroon himself on a deserted island than so publicly and appallingly dishonor her.

No, he vowed silently. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to keep control.

“Colin.” She sounded so certain, so calm. “Please.”

Unable to debate with himself any longer, he sat down on the empty side of the bed and began tugging off his socks.

“I promise—” he began in a choked voice.

“Don’t,” she said curtly. “Just rest.”

He swallowed all the assurances he wanted to make to her. At least he was still half-dressed, even as he removed his garters. He raised his hand to the placket of his shirt, then decided against taking it off. He’d already slept in it; it would be hopelessly wrinkled tomorrow anyway.

Instead he removed his neckcloth and tossed it aside, then finally lowered his head to the pillow. It felt blessedly cool. For a moment he forgot his headache.

But then he recalled that Charlotte lay behind him.

That he stood no chance of forgetting, even as sleep came for him once again.