But something beyond that had happened. Something momentous. Something life changing. The secret wantonness inside herself that she had been struggling against ever since she had discovered its existence had been most thoroughly awakened. She had loved his kisses, had loved learning to kiss him back. The feel of his body on hers had made her tremble. His hand on her breast had made her melt. She had wanted him to lie with her, to perform the most intimate of acts….
"Drink your tea," Hugh said brusquely, bringing her back to the present with a start. Standing next to the bunk now, with one arm resting against the upper berth, he fixed her with a look that warned her that he meant what he said. She didn't want the tea, but she didn't feel like arguing either. Taking a sip, she made a face at the heavily sugared brew and thrust the mug back at him. Apparently taken by surprise, Hugh took it from her. With an eye on James, Claire straightened her shirt, then pulled the blanket around her shoulders again until she was decent. Hugh watched her broodingly all the while.
"I think you'll find the clothes dry enough to wear, however," James said, glancing over his shoulder at her as he arranged the last of the garments over the chair. Hugh, mug in hand, moved away from the bunk.
"She doesn't have much choice, unless she wishes to appear abroad in your clothes— or mine," Hugh put in dryly. Having taken the cup away, he set it down on the table and seated himself on the opposite side. From the supplies laid out for him, it seemed obvious that he meant to write a letter. He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and set the point to paper. Watching him, Claire noticed for the first time that he was clean-shaven, and that his black hair was tied neatly at his nape in the French fashion. He was wearing, in addition to his shirt and breeches, a somewhat crumpled cravat, a well-fitting black frock coat, and a pair of tall black boots. The severeness of the color, the cut of the coat, and even the slightly old-fashioned hairstyle became him admirably.
Had she ever not thought him a handsome man? She must have been mad. Tall and well-built, with that black hair and bronze skin, those cool gray eyes and lean cheeks and that long, thin, intoxicating mouth, he was breathtakingly attractive.
At least, he took her breath.
Just looking at him brought her to a state of shivery excitement that would have shamed her to the core twenty-four hours before. In the days leading up to her wedding, she had secretly fantasized about what it would be like to have David come to her bed. Her daydreams had both warmed and embarrassed her, but the upshot was that she had looked forward to her wedding night with no small degree of anticipation. Her budding interest in what went on between a husband and wife when they were private had been all but killed by the disappointing reality of the marriage act. Now, most unexpectedly, that interest had been brought to full, throbbing life again— by Hugh.
Whatever was she going to do about it? About him? To lie with a man who was not one's husband was wrong….
Hugh glanced at her. Had she been staring? It seemed she had. Caught unaware, she hastily redirected her energy into clambering off the bunk and making sure the blanket was wrapped around her well enough to render her decent. Even as she recovered her composure— the man was not a mind-reader, after all, so she had no reason to feel embarrassed by her thoughts— she hoped, fervently, that he would not see and correctly interpret the color she felt creeping up her cheeks.
"James has outdone himself on our behalf. Behold my boots, and he has, it seems, even managed to acquire slippers for you."
"Thank you," Claire said politely to James, glad to find that her voice sounded almost normal. Holding on to the upper berth with one hand, clutching the blanket closed with the other, she waited to make sure her rubbery knees would support her before she took a step. In the meantime, she looked around. With a glance at the chair where a pair of black satin slippers now took pride of place on the seat, she saw that James had indeed achieved the near impossible: come up with ladies' shoes on a ship filled exclusively, saving, as far as she knew, her own presence, with men.
"'Tis a smugglers' vessel. Most things may be had for a price."
From his tone, James was clearly less than happy, and Claire recalled that he and Hugh had engaged in some pretty sharp exchanges while she had been drifting in and out of sleep. What had been the subject of their arguments? She hadn't been awake enough to tell. But it was easy to guess that at least one topic under discussion had been herself. Whatever had been decided, James was obviously disgruntled by it.
Having laid out her garments, James moved away toward the cupboards. The stiffness of his back, to say nothing of the looks he shot at an oblivious Hugh, conveyed disapproval as clearly as if he'd shouted the sentiment aloud. Claire frowned. Only the meanest intelligence could fail to guess that his disapproval was connected with, if not completely directed at, herself.
Of course, she realized, James believed her to be Sophy Towbridge, lightskirt/spy. With her senses still so disordered, she'd almost forgotten about that. Almost forgotten most of the unpleasant circumstances that had brought her to this point, as a matter of fact.
Almost forgotten everything but what it felt like to be kissed by Hugh.
Now, suddenly, she remembered.
"When you said land, did you mean France?" she gasped, her gaze flying to Hugh.
He nodded absently without looking up.
Claire despaired. Any hopes of fetching up in England had been fragile at best, as she had known all along. Once she had realized that the pistol she held on Hugh was unloaded, she had felt quite certain that Hugh's orders that the ship be turned around had not gone any further than James. But still, to be faced with the reality of having been carried off to France— it was unbelievable. No, it was horrifying.
At home, they must all be frightened to death for her, she realized. She'd been missing now for— what? A glance at the clock made her eyes widen: it was half-past six.
"Is it morning or evening?" Her voice was little more than a croak. In truth, she couldn't tell. No outside light reached the cabin, and she could have been asleep for any length of time, short or long.
"Evening." Hugh glanced up then. The merest hint of a smile touched his mouth. "You've slept the day away."
She'd been missing, then, for well over twenty-four hours.
Gabby would have been informed by now, and Beth. They would be frantic with worry— and Gabby was already ill from her pregnancy. Claire could not bear that she should be the cause of more anxiety for Gabby. And poor Alice and the coachman— what had become of them?
"I must go home," she said. "My family will be frantic with worry by now."
Having apparently finished his missive, Hugh was now engaged in sprinkling sand over it. He nodded without looking at her.
"You shall go home. When I'm certain you are who you claim to be. Until then, you will remain my prisoner."
"We weren't sent to bring back no prisoners." James shot Hugh a speaking look, which Hugh, now folding and sealing his letter, either didn't see or ignored.
"I tell you I must and will go home." Claire's fists clenched, and she glared at Hugh. During the previous night's lengthy and increasingly sleepy conversation, he had denied any knowledge of the attack on her coach, and had even had the gall to question whether it had, in fact, really happened. The knowledge that, after all that had passed between them, he still doubted her story and questioned her identity was maddening. The notion that he considered her his prisoner was infuriating. The idea that, for whatever reason, he might be lying to her about his involvement in the attack was frightening. "You are surely intelligent enough to have figured out by now that I am not the woman you seek."
"Possibly, puss, possibly." To her annoyance, Hugh grinned indulgently at her and stood up, pocketing his letter. "I will say that of all things, your communion with the chamber pot was— um, perhaps the most convincing."
"Even traitors may get travel sick," James said sourly with another of those pointed glances at Hugh.
"I, however, am no traitor." Claire's indignant gaze swung around to James, who, turning his shoulder and busying himself with pulling saddlebags from the cupboard, seemed to close himself off from her like a turtle retreating inside its shell. Thwarted, she fixed Hugh with a fulminating look instead. "I am Claire, Lady Claire Lynes, just as I have told you and
told
you."
James made a sound that was part grunt, part snort, and all skepticism. "Aye, but what I would like to know is just how you told him, missy. Mighty convincing you were, apparently."
Claire misliked the tone of that, which, even though it was muttered under James's breath, reached her ears with perfect clarity. Her eyes shot sparks at him. The implication was insulting, and so she meant to tell him in no uncertain terms— at least until she remembered that, to some degree at least, the implication was correct. She
had
kissed Hugh, and more than kissed him. Had that influenced him to change his mind? Flustered, she felt her words of indignant protest withering in her throat.
James gave her a look that said as plainly as words,
I thought so.
Claire stiffened with indignation, and opened her mouth to give voice to a pretty pithy reply.
"Enough, the both of you."
Hugh held up a silencing hand before Claire could get the words out. She and James exchanged mutually withering glances, but in the face of Hugh's prohibition, neither of them cared to engage in the open warfare that had been clearly imminent.
Hugh was looking at her. "If you are indeed Sophy Towbridge and are playing me for a fool— yes, James, you've made your views on that quite clear, so you have no need to repeat them— then I make you my compliments on a job masterfully done. On the whole, though, I am inclined to believe you are… Claire."
James shook his head in despair. "Master Hugh, I never thought to see you so gulled."
Claire glared at James.
"Whether you believe it or not, I
am
Claire." Her gaze switched to Hugh. "And I must go home, or at least send word. My sisters will be worried."
"But not your husband?" Hugh's question was soft. He was standing now, beside the table, pocketing his letter and frowning at her. She realized suddenly that she felt supremely comfortable with him— had she really first set eyes on him less than twenty-four hours before? Now he knew her in many ways better than her closest kin. He knew all about her husband and sisters and, basically, her entire life, since last night. She had told him things— about her marriage, about her childhood— that she had never before told a living soul.
Strange, until he questioned it she had not even considered how David might be reacting to word of her disappearance. Would he be upset? The truth was easier to face this time: probably not. Certainly not nearly as upset as Gabby and Beth.
She'd been so fearful of marriage, so careful to choose what she'd thought was a good, kind, gentle man who genuinely cared about her. How could she have gotten it so unbelievably wrong?
"No, not my husband," she admitted, and her eyes were filled with the pain of a hurtful truth finally realized and accepted as they met Hugh's. He said nothing, but his expression told her that he understood how difficult coming to terms with the reality of the situation was for her. Last night he had listened with every indication of sympathy when she had talked about her marriage. Smiling a little, nestled in Hugh's arms, she had described David's courtship of her, which had been distinguished by poetry dedicated to her fine eyes and the most charming of posies delivered daily and gentle kisses on the back of her hand and, finally, the culmination: his proposal, accompanied by a promise of everlasting love. Except for a single derisive snort when she had mentioned the poetry— Hugh had quickly turned the sound into a cough but Claire had known it for what it was— Hugh had been a largely silent but comforting audience as she had talked about the first few months of what she had taken for a delicate but growing friendship within marriage and then David's increasingly blatant lack of interest in her and his subsequent near abandonment. Just telling the truth about her marriage, had eased her sore heart enormously. Not wanting to burden her sisters with her unhappiness, and considering such a subject far too intimate to discuss with anyone else, she had kept everything to herself even as her marriage, begun with so much hope on her part at least, had withered away like a flower left too long without rain.
Now she had finally told someone the truth, and unlikely as her confidant was, she was glad. She felt far lighter in spirit for having unburdened herself, even to Hugh.
Or maybe, especially to Hugh.
"My husband won't be unduly worried about me. Or at least I don't think he will be. As I told you, our relationship is not— close."
"He's a bloody idiot." Hugh's tone was brusque.
Claire said nothing, but she smiled at him. To hear him express such sentiments assuaged, just a little, the once truly enormous hurt that had taken possession of her heart when, some months ago, she had begun to face the truth that she was unloved by her husband. But fortunately, that hurt, like a healing wound, had grown less painful with every passing day, and now was feeling better with every passing hour.
Because of Hugh? Of course because of Hugh.
Claire's heart began to pound as she considered the ramifications of that. Watching her, Hugh smiled, a slow and intimate smile that warmed her all over. And suddenly Claire was not so sure she wanted to go home after all.
"Chapter 16
"God's teeth, Master Hugh, to see you smelling of April and May over another man's ladybird is more than a body can bear."
James was muttering to himself again, his voice pitched just loud enough to be "accidentally" overheard. Claire shot him an evil look. Hugh, roused from his warm exchange of glances with Claire, looked suddenly self-conscious, and rounded on his henchman.