“I'm going to cut these britches off you,” Julian said matter-of-factly. Rational thought told him he was mad to continue along this path, but Tamsyn had so completely relinquished control over herself to him that it seemed natural to complete the task. Both natural, enjoyable, and utterly compelling.
She was as light and fragile as a leaf in the circle of his arms. The vibrant sexuality he found impossible to resist had vanished, but it was replaced with this soft vulnerability that he found equally irresistible.
He eased her onto the cushion beside him and pulled off her boots.
“I can undress myself,” Tamsyn said, sounding stronger. “I've stopped being silly.”
“Good. But you might as well let me do it now I've started. You don't want to jolt the wound.”
A little shudder rippled through her, and she immediately lay still as he stripped off her stockings and sliced through the britches with his dirk, peeling them away from her. She felt very sleepy, on the brink of some warm, dark, beckoning chasm, and his hands on her body were infinitely soothing as he removed the last of her clothes. In the back of her mind swam the half formed thought that she was wasting an opportunity here. For some reason, St. Simon had softened toward her, but she couldn't seem to do anything about it except yield to his ministrations. The dark thought of pregnancy writhed to the forefront of her mind, but she couldn't concentrate on it, and it slithered away.
She lay back in the hot water, her injured thigh propped on the side of the hip bath, while his hands moved over her with a matter-of-fact familiarity more suited to a nursemaid than a lover. She smiled dreamily at the thought, wished again that she could summon the willpower to pursue greater intimacies, then decided she was enjoying this too much to change it even if she could.
“What are you smiling at?” Julian reached for the towel, aware that he'd been fooling himself There was nothing platonic about what he'd been doing to her body, and his own as a result was on fire.
“No reason.” Tamsyn regarded him through half-closed eyes, seeing the tension on his face, the tautness of his mouth. She could think of only one reason, and some of her languor dissipated. “I feel very weak,” she said. “I don't think I can stand.”
Julian swore under his breath, but he'd started this and he had to finish it. He lifted her out of the bath, holding her wet body against him, and she nestled her head into his shoulder with a little murmur of pleasure. Was she doing it deliberately? The suspicion grew.
Firmly, he sat her on the locker again and wrapped the towel around her. “You can dry yourself sitting down. I'll do your legs and feet.”
Oh, well, Tamsyn thought, it had been a good try.
She rubbed herself dry as best she could, and Julian handed her the nightgown, hiding his relief as her body disappeared under the folds of lawn. He handed her the wrapper.
“Put this on too; then you can put your legs up and rest against the cushions,” he directed, in what he hoped was the neutral and efficient tone of a nurse. “I'll see how Samuel's doing with that hot milk.”
Tamsyn made herself comfortable. She felt a lot better, but still rather shaky and slightly queasy. She closed her eyes and suddenly opened them again, holding her breath as she listened to her body. The dull cramping ache in the base of her belly was faint but unmistakable. Had the bad bleeding set off the good? Please don't let the cramp go away! The prayer went round and round in her head, blocking out everything else. Please let it get worse.
Samuel came in with a tray bearing a glass of steaming hot milk. He set it down on the table and laced it liberally with rum from one of the array of bottles the captain kept in a locker. “That'll settle ye, lass,” he declared.
Julian had helped himself to a glass of Hugo's claret and now sat down at the table, watching Tamsyn as she sipped her milk in preoccupied silence. She looked as soft and innocent as a kitten in her white nightgown and wrapper and that silky silver hair. But he knew a damn sight better. He'd allowed himself to be fooled, and his body was letting him know it in no uncertain fashion.
Tamsyn put down her glass and said suddenly, “I need the quarter gallery.” She swung her legs off the locker with a vigor that belied her earlier weakness, then grabbed the side of the table with a muttered, “Ouch,” as her leg throbbed painfully.
With a grim set to his mouth Julian lifted her and carried her into the next-door cabin, setting her down at the door to the privy.
“Thank you. You don't need to wait, Josefa will help me back.” She smiled sweetly.
“I'm going on deck,” he said abruptly. “Stay off that leg.” He left her, going swiftly up to the quarterdeck, hoping the air would cool his brain and his overheated blood.
Tamsyn, when she emerged from the quarter gallery, realized she'd never fully understood what relief was before. Her heart sang with it as she asked Josefa to find the required items in her baggage. Never again… never, ever again would she tempt providence.
Wrapping the robe securely around her, she hobbled back to the Captain's cabin and ensconced herself under the windows again, looking out at the sweeping expanse of sea, stretching to a gray horizon. She allowed her body to relax, welcoming the fierce cramping, honeyed relief dancing in her veins.
Julian came into the cabin after half an hour to fetch his boat cloak. The wind was getting up, and they seemed to have left the warmth of Portugal far behind. “How are you?” It was a distant, politely neutral inquiry.
“Wonderful,” she said with a fervency that startled him. “I have my monthly terms,” she said. “I was late and I was afraid…”
“I've been waiting for you to say something,” he said flatly.
“Well it's all right,” Tamsyn responded with a rueful smile, pushing her hair away from her forehead. “And we won't take any risks in future.”
The colonel's mouth tightened, and his eyes were steel-bright, sword-sharp as he came over to her. “Understand this, Tamsyn. There will be no future. I'll fulfil this damn contract because I must, but that's as far as it goes. Is that clear?”
Tamsyn turned her head away from the piercing blue glare, gazing out of the window at the now gray and heaving sea. “If you say so, milord colonel.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE CARRIER JUST DELIVERED A LETTER, MY DEAR. IT looks like St. Simon's hand?” Sir Gareth Fortescue strolled into the breakfast parlor examining the letter in his hand with unusual interest. “Franked in London, by God! I thought your brother was in the Peninsula for the duration.”
He dropped the letter beside his wife's plate and stared with a jaundiced air at the dishes arrayed on the sideboard. “I don't know how many times I've told that damn cook I like my bacon crisp. Look at this.” He picked up a rasher on the serving fork. “It's as white and soggy as a pig's underbelly.”
Lucy Fortescue flushed and pushed back her chair with a little murmur of dismay. “I'm so sorry, Gareth, I didn't notice. Shall I ring for Webster and tell him to bring some more?”
“No, don't bother.” Her husband flung himself into his chair at the head of the table with an irritable grimace. “I'll make do with the sirloin.”
Lucy hesitated, anxious to read her brother's letter but equally anxious not to neglect her husband at this critical morning juncture. It was clear from his heavy eyes and less than, glowing complexion that Gareth was suffering this morning. She wasn't sure where he'd passed the previous evening, or even the night. It hadn't been in his own bed and certainly not in hers. She didn't enjoy what went on in the marriage bed, but it was essential to a marriage, and it couldn't be right that her husband was so often content to leave her to sleep alone.
She sighed and then flushed again, afraid that he would have heard the little sound. Gareth detested it when she moped. He read into her unhappiness unspoken criticism and dissatisfaction with her lot.