“Excellent. I appreciate the inconvenience this must cost you, Captain . . .”
“Winscott, my lord. Charlotte Winscott.” She offered her hand.
Alastair accepted the handshake. “Thank you, Captain Winscott. I won’t forget your assistance.”
She smiled. “You’re not the first Warden my girl’s had aboard, sir. I doubt you’ll be the last, but you are welcome all the same. Your cabin is just at the end of this corridor. Perhaps you and your companion would care to dine at my table tonight?”
“I’m certain we would enjoy that very much.”
Captain Winscott led him to a set of double doors of polished mahogany. “This is the only acceptable suite we had unoccupied for the journey. It’s usually taken by newlyweds on their wedding trip, so I think you’ll find it comfortable, though I apologize if it’s perhaps not quite the image you wish to convey.”
Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, and Alastair gave her a smile. “That’s perfect; I assure you.”
“My lord,” she said, hesitating at opening the doors, “forgive my impertinence, but is the lady with you Claire Clarke?”
Alastair blinked. “Why, yes.”
“I saw her onstage in Boston two years ago. She was magnificent.” She turned the handle and opened the door for him. “Here you are. Your baggage will be along directly. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable. I will see you tonight at eight for dinner.”
He thanked her again and entered the suite, shaking his head. Claire was the only agent he knew of whose talent for acting had actually garnered her admirers. No doubt he would have an excellent seat for tonight’s performance once they were amongst the other passengers.
The captain hadn’t been joking—the suite was indeed lavish and suited for honeymooning couples. It was papered in soft cream with a delicate damask print. Rich ebony furniture and ivory carpets promised plush comfort. A bottle of champagne chilled in a Cardice-lined bucket sat near the bed—a large four-poster affair that looked as though it could sleep six adults and a couple of dogs quite comfortably.
Claire stood at one of the many windows that overlooked the bow of the ship and the ocean beyond. There was nothing but teal water ahead of them as far as the eye could see.
“Feel better now that you can see wide-open space?”
“Much, thank you.” She turned toward him. Her gown was wrinkled and her hair mussed, but she was still one of the most glorious women he and {wom you.’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sorry for my behavior earlier. I despise irrationality.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know of anyone who likes it. Don’t give it another thought. You need to put all of your attention to finding Howard tonight. I doubt he’s traveling with his own face, though there’s always a chance.”
“I’ll know his eyes,” she promised. “They were so empty. They reminded me of . . .”
“What?”
She shook her head. “It’s not important.”
He didn’t believe that. “Whom did he remind you of, Claire?”
She waved a hand at him. “Just someone I used to know. It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Alastair was prevented from questioning her further by the arrival of their luggage. Claire immediately began unpacking and sent for a maid to come collect the gown she wished to wear later, and Alastair’s evening clothes as well, so they might be pressed and readied for that evening.
He didn’t push her further on the subject of Howard. She hadn’t pried when he hadn’t wanted to discuss the past, so he would give her the same courtesy.
She wasn’t cold toward him, but there was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t completely without insight where she was concerned, and he knew the reason. He’d seen her vulnerable, out of control, and she didn’t like that. He also suspected she was putting a wall between them so it would make it easier to betray his trust and go after Howard on her own.
He wasn’t going to let her throw herself away on a bastard like Howard. It didn’t matter how many walls she tried to build. He’d tear them down—every last one.
Even if it meant she ended up hating him.
She wanted to throw something in his face.
Claire sat across the captain’s table from Alastair and wished it wouldn’t be immature of her to break her wineglass over his gorgeous head.
He laughed at some insipid comment made by the old gal sitting next to him. Claire smiled so they wouldn’t see her grind her teeth.
First of all, he wasn’t the least bit sorry for rendering her unconscious at the docks. Second, he’d been insufferably kind to her when she lost her mind on the submersible, and third, he looked at her as though he knew exactly what she was all about and had her all figured out.
Well, if he could truly see inside her, why the hell was he being so nice? What was wrong with him? If he suspected she was going to betray him, if he thought he understood her at all, why was he being so damn pleasant about it? Or did he enjoy letting people abuse his trust? Did it fulfill some perverse need inside him? Had he no pride? What sort of man was he?
A good one, a voice in her head whispered, and Claire snarled silently at it to shut up. She wasn’t so self-ignorant that she didn’t know some of these thoughts were fueled by a {e f Cla guilty conscience. But it wouldn’t say much for her character, either, if she gave up avenging her brother just because it might hurt Alastair’s feelings.
To make matters worse, they were forced to share a suite. Of course, she hadn’t expected they would have separate cabins, but separate bedrooms would have been nice. Instead, she was forced to share a horribly romantic setting with the one man to have ever made her stop and wish her life had been different.
Because he seemed to be the one man who liked her despite knowing exactly what she was. Granted, Luke had liked her well enough, but at the time, they had been two cogs in the same machine. Alastair started off seeing her as his enemy. Even so, he had been willing to trust her, and she took full advantage of it.
Either he was very gullible or he didn’t see her as much of a threat. Since she knew of his reputation and had seen him dangle the Doctor as if he were nothing more than a rag doll, she was inclined to believe the latter.
She’d known him a matter of days, and he was under her skin like a splinter.
But worse than all that was the fact that he hadn’t even commented on how good she looked this evening. She was pretty—she knew this because she’d been told as much her entire life. Men often made idiots of themselves for her attention, and that proved a useful thing many times in her career. Tonight she had sat at a proper vanity table and artfully arranged her hair into a crown of twists and curls, secured with pins that dug into her scalp. She’d painted her face with a subtle blend of cosmetics that brightened her skin, emphasized her eyes and gave a rosy tint to her lips and cheeks. She wore a fashionable gown that was understated and elegant, in a rich chocolate velvet that made her skin look like ivory and darkened the green of her eyes. She’d even laced herself into a tight corset that diminished her waist and made her hips and breasts seem impossibly full and inviting.
Alastair Payne had looked at her, smiled and offered his arm. He hadn’t said a damn word except to ask if she was ready. He wasn’t her suitor and there was no reason for him to comment on her appearance, but would it have killed him to tell her she looked nice?