She shrugged, then gripped the wooden molding on either side of her as the ship began to pitch once more. She pressed herself even more firmly into the corner, but as best he could see in the limited light, she did not look terrified. He wondered if the claustrophobia was already closing in, but knew that if it was, his mentioning it would only make it worse.
“They weren’t so bad, really,” she assured him. “It’s not as though they attacked the riverboat. They merely lurked. Alligators are experts at lurking.”
“I can only imagine. I’ve never been to the South.”
“It has a certain charm. The Spanish moss in the oak trees, that sort of thing. Very evocative. Although I’m not quite sure of what.”
“Gothic decadence?” he suggested.
“Perhaps. There’s a bit too much of the French feel down that way for me to ever truly relax and enjoy it. Though I didn’t feel quite so fervently about that prior to my last visit there. My lord, I must thank you. I don’t suppose I would survive this tempest if you hadn’t repaired my implants. As it is, I must say I’m not feeling sick in the least.”
My lord, is it now?
Dexter let a smile build slowly across his face, looking her firmly in the eye all the while and hoping she could see him. It didn’t need much urging, that smile. He found he was enjoying himself despite the storm, despite the sheer unlikelihood of the whole situation.
In particular, he liked that the no-longer-ill and suitably clean Charlotte’s night rail was practically transparent. And since it was slightly chilly now that the storm was raging outside and the gas was off, her good health was manifesting itself in the form of excellent circulation. Parts of her, parts he could see even in the dim of the berth, were practically burgeoning with suffusion. And delightfully crimped, although the lawn fabric wasn’t quite transparent enough to reveal that detail. About that, he was making an educated guess.
Her nipples were the approximate size of small, wild raspberries. Not the overlarge farm-grown sort, with their blandly acceptable flavor. No, the little ones you almost overlook, the ones that grow in hidden places all on their own and taste like summertime in heaven.
Jerking his eyes away from Charlotte’s breasts, Dexter tried to remember what they had just been talking about. He wasn’t even sure when his eyes had drifted down.
But one glance told him that she had noted that drift quite clearly.
Curiously, she did not look angry or embarrassed. A little annoyed, perhaps. Exasperated. As if she now had a problem to deal with, and wasn’t quite sure where to begin.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. Would you like a blanket?” Dexter offered.
She sat in my lap. She didn’t move. Her hip felt designed to match the curve of my hand.
“You’re sitting on the counterpane,” she pointed out.
“Oh.” He shifted enough for her to drag the quilted damask out from under him. She pulled it over her lap and arranged it around her waist and torso, high enough to cover her breasts.
“You were saying something about the emergency lights?”
“I was? Oh, yes. The surgeon mentioned they might come on. They run on battery cells, with a radio trigger. The gas lights are shut down in emergencies.”
“I see. So we’re to wait in near darkness until the all clear is sounded, I take it.”
The creak and sway of the huge ship cut through her words and she nestled further down into her corner. Dexter propped himself carefully next to her at the side of the bunk and tried to think about anything but the groan of wood and metal and the pounding of the ocean against the vessel’s frame. He surprised himself with his next words.
“I’ve spent worse nights.”
IT WAS LIKE a fever dream, Charlotte thought. The little glimmers of icy light, the gathering womb-like warmth of the enclosed bunk. Perhaps she had not yet fully recovered from whatever euphoria the doctor’s potion had brought on. If she had, she reasoned, the confines of the bunk would feel stifling to her, not comforting.
Dexter took up far more space than what was occupied by his physical form. The reality of him, the presence of him, might have suffocated her had it not felt so very much like pure oxygen. Heady and rich and elemental.
She had analyzed his scent, because Charlotte liked to analyze things, the better to place them into the tidy compartments of her mind. Dexter Hardison, Baron Hardison, was bay rum and peppermint, copper, a hint of sharp mineral spirit, and sometimes a little musk of perspiration as the day wore on. And also horse, although of course he had lost the horse component since boarding the ship.
None of which explained to her satisfaction why catching his scent made her knees go weak. Or why she had stayed so very much longer on his lap than was appropriate.
Except that it was appropriate in a sense, of course, because he was her husband. Not forever, but for now. Of all times, as the ship tossed them to and fro and screamed into the deluge, now seemed like a handy time to have such a thing as a husband. A bulwark, a helpmeet. Somebody to hold her throughout the storm. Somebody to sit beneath her on a bench, his hand slipping inside her garments as he plundered her mouth with kisses until she was breathless.
They hadn’t discussed that night. Not so much as mentioned it. At times, she wondered if he had actually felt anything. Then she reminded herself that seated as she had been, she had felt more than enough of him to be assured that he was as moved as she was. Physically, at least. Even through all the layers of petticoat, she could feel that quite clearly.
Still, it was only a kiss. A ploy, a necessary bit of subterfuge. A practical measure. They were adults engaged in the business of espionage. All sorts of pretending went on in that business. And men reacted to women they didn’t especially care for all the time.
He moved a little closer to her on the berth, and she pretended not to notice.
“Charlotte? Why did you regress just now, and call me ‘my lord’?” His expression was in shadow where he sat, and she could not quite make out his tone.
“Regress?”
“You were doing so well. You must remember to call me Dexter. I am your husband, after all.”
“Of course. Dexter. Thank you for reminding me.”
“I think . . .” He turned his upper body a little more toward her, and she swallowed, wondering when her mouth had gone so dry. “I think it might be a good idea to practice these little displays of marital familiarity. The French are known for their amorous inclinations, you know. If anybody would be likely to ferret out the secret of our connection, it would be a Frenchman.”
“I see. And what sort of ‘practice’ do you propose, Lord Har—”
“Dexter.”
“Dexter.”
“Charlotte. Must we pretend like this?”
Her heart hammered up into her throat. She didn’t answer, and couldn’t think. It was a small, small space, and he was filling it. Such a little step it seemed, to letting him fill her. Yet she knew it was no little step, and that she must not be quite in possession of her faculties if she was thinking that way.
After a moment of her silence, Dexter rose to all fours and crawled the scant distance left between them, until he was poised with his face a few inches from hers. His legs flanked hers, his hands rested on the quilt alongside her hips. Nowhere did he touch her, but she could feel him everywhere, all the same. She could smell him, his scent minus the horse, assaulting her awareness like an advance guard. His voice when he spoke again was lower, more intense. She wondered that she could hear it over the storm—or was that her own heart roaring so loud? Then she wondered she could hear anything else, as Dexter’s voice was the only sound that registered.