The reason was simple. She did not detest him. For certain she did not like him. But where she expected to find loathing for him, all she discovered was frustration for their current situation.
Perhaps Godford was correct,
emotions truly were best when concealed. She could not begin to have sympathy for her abductor.
It was, well it was simply... uncivilized.
But so was her current predicament.
Exactly when had the world gone mad? Or maybe she was the one balanced on the edge of
insanity. She reached for her dress and let it slip down her body. A faint scent of lavender rose from the fabric, telling her someone had tried to use soap on the stains. Such attention to a dress didn't fit with her ideas of abductors.
He didn't ravish you either...
Her imagination was going to get her into trouble. Lorena scolded herself, attempting to banish such wild ideas, but the image of Captain Rawlins filled her thoughts instead.
He was everything she'd never encountered in a man before. The sedate dinners held by her
stepfather had been formal affairs, but she could not recall any guest being so.. .well,
attractive. Maybe that was why Godford had forbidden her and her sisters any dances. A man
like Captain Rawlins was distracting. Even now she found it hard to resist the memory of him.
His hair was lighter than hers, streaked by the sun. He kept it tied at the base of his neck in a small tail. His features were not what drew her fascination, it was his body. Honed and packed with hard muscle, it was what fashion called common.
It was a fact she found it pleasing.
A knock landed on the door, breaking through her thoughts. Lorena turned to face her company with her stomach churning. Truly, she did not need another confrontation with Captain Rawlins.
Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and she was sure the man would be able to read her improper
thoughts from her expression.
It would certainly fit with her recent run of luck.
"Good morning, ma'am. I'm Ronan Cobarris, ship's surgeon." He held the cabin door open for a lanky youth who nodded his head while carrying in a tray. Lady Holly gave a loud squawk.
Ronan Cobarris pointed at the parrot. "That mango is not for you, Holly."
The bird flapped her wings, clearly annoyed. The surgeon turned with a sheepish look on his face.
"Lady Holly has a taste for sweets."
The young sailor placed the tray on the table. He removed a small pewter pitcher from it and poured water into a beautiful glass goblet. She hadn't seen such finery since the last dinner her stepfather had hosted for one of his endless business connections.
"If you would permit me, Miss St. John, I would like to examine your stitches every morning and evening. The climate here promotes infection if one isn't diligent."
"Of course.. .um... Thank you." She stumbled over the polite words that normally passed her lips freely.
Ronan hesitated for a moment before approaching her. He pointed toward the chair the young
sailor was holding out for her. Although she'd practiced such decorum her entire life, it felt oddly misplaced in the middle of the ocean.
She sat and the surgeon gently tipped her head up. She stiffened when her eyes caught a look at the surgeon's thumb. A dark purple wound marked it, right in the center where his nail should have been. It was a deep wound and she could not decide just how such a thing might have
happened. Her stitches paled in comparison.
He touched her neck gently, almost hesitantly. His eyes focused on the line of stitches for a moment before he ran a single fingertip over the top of them. A tiny shiver raced down her body, but it wasn't true pain just the discomfort of healing skin.
Ronan straightened. "They're doing well."
"A few stitches are little compared to your thumb." She was trying to remain poised but the water drew her attention. It was practically hypnotic in the clear glass. The food was common ship's fare but her mouth began watering, her stomach aching.
The surgeon offered her a stiff bow. "I should leave you to your meal." His voice sound oddly gruff but she was too hungry to really think about why.
"Thank you."
The youth opened the cabin door and followed his superior out. The moment it closed, she
reached for the largest thing on the tray. It was a square tray, divided into four sections by raised strips of wood. A bowel sat in one area. Cupping it in her hands, she peered into it. A thick porridge of some sort was gently releasing steam. She really didn't recognize it, but her stomach was too empty to care. Picking up a spoon, she dipped it into the bowl. While the flavor was different from anything she'd ever tasted, it was satisfyingly filling. She forced herself to slow down and scrape the last few bites. Her hand slipped down to pat her belly in an unpolished gesture.
Sipping the water, she studied what the other three areas offered. The tray was a standard searation one. Sailors expected three "square" meals a day, and each section needed to be filled unless they were on cut rations. The tray was an invention which served to keep order with its fairness. She held a new understanding of that today. Hunger truly did hurt, and it broke down her normal way of thinking until all that mattered was getting food. In another day, she might have been willing to do things no civilized woman would have considered.
Another loud squawk startled her. Lady Holly's yellow eyes were focused on the slice of fruit sitting on the tray. The parrot wiggled, clearly trying to think of a way to get to the table. With its wings clipped, there was no way for the animal to do as it wished.
Well, that was something Lorena understood, a desire burning in her belly and no way to help herself make it become a reality.
"I don't mind sharing, Holly." Lorena picked up a knife and sliced off a corner.
The bird flapped some more as she carried the fruit closer. Holly lifted one foot up and grasped the food as expertly as anyone with a hand. The parrot lifted it to its mouth and licked it with a dark tongue. It let out a happy purr which surprised Lorena.
She laughed on her way back to the table. "You're welcome."
Well at least she was not eating alone.
At least she was eating.
Her mood turned pensive. She would like to think she would not have bent to Mordaunt's
commands, but the truth was not so noble. Her small amount of pilfered water would have only lengthened the amount of time she held out against the man.
She could not call him a gentleman.
That idea was stunning because her entire life had been set into a mold of regulations set down by the society around her. Even Godford claimed to be a victim of those same expectations. Was he? Indeed, if that was so, she had spent many an hour angry at the wrong person. But how did she accept loathing her own society?
More importantly, how did she willingly return to Adam Mordaunt? Clearly life as his wife
would be far more restrictive than Godford on his worst day. And there was also the rather grim fact of intimacy. She tried to imagine Mordaunt as close as Captain Rawlins had been
when he held her. A shudder shook her, revulsion rising up to sour her meal.
She would detest it.
Horror clutched at her and it brought along desolation. She suddenly felt so lost, so alone.
Slapping her hands down on the tabletop, the loud sound helped clear the self-pity from her mind.
She would find some way to move forward. Perhaps return to Britain and simply address the
matter of her engagement with Godford. If the man had been truthful, then he was not an
unreasonable man after all.
She might hope anyway. It was surely better than wallowing in pity. Holly squawked and lifted her talon to show it was empty. Looking over the tray, Lorena selected a bit of bread and handed it to the bird. It purred once more, placing a smile on her lips.
There. Happiness was sometimes far easier to achieve than you first believed.
At least she would tell herself so.
"She's feeding the parrot."
"No way, you're pulling me leg."
Warren placed his boot directly on the spot his two youngest sailors had been scrubbing for the past half hour. On their hands and knees, the boys were peeking in the windows of his cabin.
"Spying on a lady would be grounds for a pair of lads to find themselves on third watch for a week in the hope all the lonely time on deck would help you recall those manners your mothers taught you."
Young George tugged on his home-knitted cap. "Me mother was a strict one, Captain. Swear it."
He looked at his brush and began moving it along the planks away from the small windows.
"Me mum was right particular about manners, sir. Taught me well." Peter followed his comrade, the boys focused on their work now.
Warren wished it was that easy for him to dismiss Miss Lorena St. John.
It wasn't.
His cabin was beneath the wheel deck. Small foot-tall windows were set into the raised portion of the wall above the door to his cabin. They allowed light in, which was handy when he was reading charts. Today, he was noticing the downside of the windows. Peter and George had
scrubbed their way a good distance from him in an effort to escape his notice. Not a bad bet today, considering his mind was occupied with his guest.
Or hostage.
He found the word as repulsive as Lorena did. Scanning the horizon, he didn't find the peace he normally did. There was too large a distraction beneath his boots.
"You let Lady Holly into your cabin?" Garrick appeared on the command deck. "I'm touched."
"I almost had her roasted." Warren cast a somber look at his brother. "Twice."
Garrick chuckled. "She'd make poor eating. No meat on her."
"Our guest seems bent on changing that."
Garrick lifted an eyebrow. Warren couldn't help but grin. "Seems Miss St. John shared her breakfast with your pet."
"That girl is too good for the likes of Mordaunt. I think I should try out my charms on her. All in the interest of giving her a comparison of course."
"Don't."
Garrick offered him a smirk. "You're a might touchy. What's wrong, didn't you sleep well?"
Warren growled. "Did I just risk my neck to save your skin?"
His brother sobered. "You did and I won't forget it." He smiled once more. "Especially the part about you keeping my sweet little Holly in your own cabin. It's touching. Very touching."
"It was painful." Warren shot a stern look at him. "For me. That blasted parrot squawks at first light."
Garrick shrugged. "You're welcome to the hammock I used last night. Not that I'm complaining.
The open deck looks good compared to that stone bunker."
His brother looked out to sea, fury burning in his eyes. Warren let the conversation die. No captain took defeat well, but it was a risk they all shouldered every time they sailed out of their home port. Knowing that didn't make it easier to bear. There was a change in his brother, a harder edge to him. The parrot he used to tease had gone unvisited since Garrick had boarded the Huntress. His brother Harrison was quiet, almost silent. He hadn't shaved his beard either and his entire face was covered in dark hair. The changes cast a bitter mood over his successful rescue.
As far back as his memory recalled, Harrison had always been the sunny one. This pensive man wasn't the brother he remembered.
Miss St. John was keeping their spirits low. At least his anyway. She was a contradiction. He'd spent his years on the sea looking over the rail for the British. No man on his vessel held any kind feelings toward the royal navy. Defeat on the open water translated into unconditional surrender. What the victor wanted, he took. Mercy was something only found on land.
He'd spent his entire adult life cursing that Union Jack flag and anyone who flew it proudly.
Lorena St. John was a cold slap across his opinions. She was neither arrogant nor pompous,
which made it damn hard to ignore how sweet her face was. Or how courageous her spirit. That blonde-streaked hair looked as soft as a cloud, perfect for a man to run his hands through before he cradled the back of her head in his grasp. Her eyes were dark like the ocean but still blue. The woman had courage which fascinated him.
Warren tightened his grip on his emotions, ordering himself to dispense with recalling the
delicate blush that had appeared on her cheeks.
Women on board were trouble. That was something every seafaring man could agree on, maybe
the only thing. Young Peter and George wouldn't be the only members of his crew who'd tried their hand at getting a look at his guest. The fools didn't know what a blessing their ignorance was. Facing her had placed him in the position to notice the kind of spirit he admired. Not a single tear had dropped down her cheek yet. If she'd cried, he could shut her out of his mind. His mother was forever dangling some new daughter-in-law prospect under his nose. The current
fashion of delicate ladies with fragile emotions left him longing to return to sea where strength was what got a man attention.
Lorena St. John with her insistence she be put back into a dingey in the dead of night drew his attention in a manner he'd never encountered. Already he was itching to go below and check on her, his mind crafting reasons to cut his deck duty short in favor of seeking her company.
Warren held on to the wheel, denying his impulses. She was a siren. If he planned to survive, he'd best remain on deck ignoring her calls.
Shame crept across his thoughts and it stung. He was truly a scoundrel. Somehow, every scrap of discipline he'd prided himself on was vanishing in the tropical heat. Honor demanded he stop thinking about her long silky hair, but his mind wandered back to it again and again.
Aye, scoundrel was correct, and it was going to be one damned long trip home.
Land.
Lorena stared out of the windows at it. Her belly tightened with nervousness, but at the same time her skin tingled with anticipation. Five long days had tormented her as miles of ocean were crossed. She did long to go ashore. But her last experience had been so poor she chewed on her lower lip while the Huntress glided closer and closer toward the gleaming stretch of beach.