“I was smoking a cheroot.”
“Well, I have the most thrilling news.”
“What is that?”
“Lord Gladstone has arrived.”
“Gladstone?”
“Yes, you know...the new earl? The privateer everyone is gossiping about.”
“Oh, marvelous.”
“You’ve been wanting to meet him, so I sent him an invitation, and he’s here!”
Westwood steered her to the door, and within seconds, they’d disappeared inside. Though Helen understood that he didn’t dare glance back, she kept waiting for him to peek around, or to give some other sign of encouragement, but he didn’t.
She loitered, experiencing an emotion that was oddly close to betrayal.
Eventually, she ran to the servants’ entrance, not slowing until she was safely sequestered in her bedchamber. She staggered over to the bed, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Sounds from the soiree wafted up the stairs, underscoring how she didn’t belong with the people down in the parlor.
Was Westwood thinking of her? Or had he—once she was out of sight—forgotten her completely?
She felt as if her heart was breaking, as if she’d done something very, very wrong.
“What am I going to do?” she inquired of the empty room, but the walls had no answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Don’t leave this cabin.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Give me your word.”
Harriet held up her palm, as if swearing an oath on a Bible. “I promise I won’t leave.”
Captain Harcourt scoffed. “As if I’d believe anything you say.”
She flashed her most innocent smile. “Where would I go?”
“Who the hell knows, but if I come back and find you’re out wandering the ship, I’ll paddle your bottom.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would, so don’t push me.”
“Why can’t I take a walk up on the deck?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“But I’m getting claustrophobic down here.”
“It can’t be helped. My men aren’t saints. If one of them catches you off by yourself, there’s no predicting what might happen. I won’t hang a member of my crew simply because he couldn’t resist your dubious charms.”
“I’m not afraid of your crew,” she boasted. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“That, my dear, is precisely the problem. You’re too brave for your own damn good.”
He spun and left, off to do whatever it was he did in the long hours he was up top. She, on the other hand, had to putter around in the stifling, small room, and the solitude was driving her batty. She had no one to talk to, no one with whom to break up the monotony.
They’d been at sea for days, and she could tell they were sailing south, because there was a tiny window that let in a bit of air. The temperature was changing, a balmy breeze blowing in. It brought an odor Harriet had never smelled before, but she recognized it as the aroma of warmer climes.
The cabin was growing hot and stuffy, and in order to cool down, she’d started removing her petticoat and unbuttoning the top buttons on her dress, which made her feel scandalously unclad.
She tiptoed to the door, listening to ensure that Harcourt was gone, then she went to the table and gobbled the last of his breakfast. They were engaged in an odd truce. She wouldn’t divulge her surname or why she’d hidden on his ship, so he refused to feed her, but he was too much of a gentleman to let her starve.
When he dined, he always had a hearty meal delivered, but it was much more than he could eat. He’d leave the leftovers on the tray, pretending they were for Riley to cart away, but the instant Harcourt departed, Harriet wolfed them down.
His behavior annoyed and intrigued her. It had her thinking about him too much when she didn’t want to think about him at all. His generosity provided one important clue as to his character. Deep down, he was very kind.
He might bark and snap, but he wasn’t deliberately cruel, and with his true nature revealed, it was easier to bear up through his scolding and warnings. He might threaten flogging and other punishment, but he would never carry them out.
With her breakfast finished, she crept to the door again. Hearing nothing, she hurried to his bookshelf and pulled down the strongbox where he’d secured Bentley’s purse. She sat on the floor, fussing with the lock.
To relieve the tedium, she’d explored every nook and cranny of his cabin, and she’d actually found a woman’s hat pin. As to what it was doing there, she wouldn’t hazard a guess, but she’d concealed it until she might have the opportunity to use it.
She poked and prodded at the lock, and with very little effort, it sprung open. She smirked, amused by how she’d bested him, by how angry he’d be when he realized her money was gone, but her glee was short-lived.
The box contained his personal papers, as well as piles of gold coins and some ornate jewelry, but though she searched and searched, there was no sign of Bentley’s pouch. She took everything out, put it back in, took it out again.
The pouch wasn’t there!
When had Harcourt removed it? How had he done it without her knowing? It had to have transpired while she was sleeping. The rat! The despicable, sneaky rat!
She closed the lid and rose, setting the box on the shelf. Morosely, she gazed at it, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Looking for this?” Harcourt suddenly asked from behind her, having sneaked in without her noticing.
She jumped and whipped around. The oaf was huge as a house. How could he be so light on his feet?
A smug smile curving his lips, he dangled Bentley’s purse at her, taunting her with how the coins clanked together.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
He stuck it inside his coat.
“Give it to me!”
“I will if you tell me where you got it.”
A wave of fury washed over her, and she was stunned by its virulence. If she’d been clutching a pistol, she’d have shot him through the middle of his black heart.
“That money is mine. I earned every bloody penny.”
It was a minor lie, but she wasn’t sorry for uttering it. Hadn’t Bentley tried to rape her? She viewed the money as compensation for the fright she’d suffered.
“You earned it?” he sneered. “How? Flat on your back?”
Being a maiden, it took her a second to understand what he was implying, and once she grasped the insult, she exploded with rage.
“You slimy, contemptible weasel. How dare you say such a thing to me!”
She rushed at him, fists clenched and swinging crazily. He hadn’t expected an assault, so she caught him off guard. He stumbled to the side, which gave her a chance to pummel him.
“Stop it!” he commanded, but she continued hitting him and hitting him.
She felt as if she was striking at every wrong ever committed against her, at every man who’d ever betrayed her. From her grandfather, to her Uncle Richard, to Captain Harcourt and every male in between, they’d never brought her anything but misery.
She kept on and on, and it occurred to her that she wasn’t really hurting him. He let her rail until she began to tire, then he grabbed her wrists and forced them behind her back, but she refused to quit fighting.
She kicked at his shins and tried to butt him with her head, and when she narrowly missed smacking his nose, he grew angry, too.
“That’s enough, you little wildcat!”
He wrapped her in a bear hug and wrestled her onto his bunk. She was pinned beneath him, and though she wanted to carry on the battle, his weight was crushing her, so she had no leverage. They lay still, breathing hard, and he glared down at her, trembling with wrath.
“I am going to release your hands,” he spit out, “and if you swing at me again, I swear to God, I will beat you within an inch of your life.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“I don’t? And why is that?”
“You’d never hit a woman.”
“Well, if you keep pushing me, you may be the first.”
“I only want what’s mine,” she said. “One blasted time, I’d like some justice.”
The high drama of the moment had waned, and to her disgust, tears filled her eyes. On seeing them, he frowned.
“You better not start crying.”
“What if I do? Will you flog me? Will you starve me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“You think you’re so grand—with your fancy ship and your fancy brother. You have no idea what it’s like to be me. My life has been one disaster after the next, and if I want to cry about it, I will.”
He snorted, some of the tension leaving his body, and he eased away, watching her, waiting to learn if she’d lash out again. But the tempest had been spent, and she didn’t have another outburst in her.
She studied his handsome, expressive face, and she observed—with no small amount of consternation—that as his fury abated, something more dangerous took its place.
She recognized the look. It was desire, fueled by his realization that he was a man, and she was a woman, and they’d been crammed into close quarters for over a week.
Every inch of his torso was pressed to hers. Her breasts rubbed his chest, her nipples alert and excited by the sensation. Down below, her thighs were widened, and his legs had dropped between them. The position situated his loins directly against her own, and she could feel his enlarged phallus, which she understood to be an indication of rising lust.