Authors: Brenda Novak
“I see you are used to swinging a hammer.” His words were sarcastic, but he surprised Jeannette by raising her hand to his mouth and gently kissing her palm.
Jeannette jerked away to avoid a repeat performance of last night’s wanton behavior. What was it about this man? He taunted her, hated her, infuriated her, yet he made her pulse leap at his touch—at less, even the mere thought of his touch.
“That hurts,” she complained, to hide the real reason she’d withdrawn. “And you knew I had no experience with such work.”
“I had to do something to keep you out of trouble. Besides, I was merely perpetuating the lie you created when you enlisted in the first place. You signed on as a boy. Were you not planning to work?”
“I could have stayed in the hold until we reached London.”
“A long stay since we are not going there anymore. And what of the rats?”
Jeannette couldn’t stifle the shudder that made her a liar even as she spoke. “I would take a rat over a rake any day.”
His sonorous laugh filled the cabin. “Truly, madam, I am wounded. I behaved most admirably last night, at no small discomfort to myself, and now you are calling me a rake.”
“Are you denying it?”
“Not necessarily. But I must warn you that the long hours of the night have done little to cool my ardor.” He pulled her to him and tried to kiss her, but Jeannette wiggled away. “I will not succumb to your charms again. I don’t know what got into me last night.”
Jeannette thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but his voice remained light.
“Quite a bit of rum, if I had to guess.”
“Of course. Or I never would have...you know.”
“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy our little encounter?”
His words dared her to contradict him, but the way he watched her seemed to indicate that he was looking for the truth.
“Maybe I didn’t. Is that completely out of the realm of possibility, sir?” she asked, determined not to commit herself on the subject.
“No. Just directly at odds with what I observed myself.”
“Is there a point to this, Lieutenant?”
“If you won’t allow me to make up for what we missed last night, then no. Come back here and let me salve your hands.”
“Do not trouble yourself. I can see to it.” Jeannette took the jar, but regretted it when doing so freed his hands so that they could strip off his shirt. His chest was the most magnificent sight Jeannette had ever seen—golden, square shoulders, a well-toned chest, and a lean, flat stomach.
“I have a surprise coming,” he announced. “Something I believe you will relish.”
“If you are planning to treat me to a view of the rest of you, don't bother.” Jeannette scowled, trying to feign disinterest when she really hoped he’d do exactly that.
“My, you have a waspish tongue this morning.”
Unable to wipe the glower from her face, she said, “Have some modesty, please.”
“But I am a rake.” He stopped disrobing after pulling off his boots, but his breeches fit snugly enough to outline his narrow hips and firm, well-rounded buttocks. The manly bulge that swelled in front left little to Jeannette’s imagination, especially when linked with her vivid recollection of the night before.
Someone knocked and Jeannette climbed into the wardrobe where she could watch what went on through the crack in the door but couldn’t be seen.
Treynor strode to the portal and motioned whoever waited outside to come in.
A lad not much beyond fourteen hauled a large empty barrel that had been cut in half across the floor. Other servants followed, carrying buckets of water to fill it.
When they were gone, Treynor shut and locked the door, and Jeannette stepped out, allowing herself a sigh of intense longing. “Is this your surprise?”
“It is.”
“Is it seawater?”
“No. Sweet and fresh.”
She knew those caskets were inaccessible to most. “Whom did you bribe?”
“Everyone,” Treynor said simply.
“I must say you were right. I would do anything for a bath.”
“Anything?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“
Almost
anything.”
“Then a kiss should not be too much to ask. A kiss for first bathing rights.”
A kiss? Dared she accept? No, he was too dangerous to her peace of mind. “I cannot.”
“Then you don’t want to go first badly enough.” He clucked his tongue and pulled off his breeches, causing Jeannette to flush and turn her face to the wall. She focused on the letters she’d found to keep her mind off what was going on behind her.
“I am curious,” she said. “Who might the marchioness be to you?”
She heard Treynor step into the water, heard him moan as he folded his long legs and sank in. “I thought you weren’t reading my letters.”
Her fingers knotted in the tails of her shirt. “I didn’t read them. I just...happened to see the return address.”
“Hmmm.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I was only curious.”
“Well, we can’t have that."
She heard a smile in his voice. “So?”
“Would you believe she is my mother?”
Jeannette cast a surprised glance over her shoulder, then immediately turned back. “Really? The one who attended my wedding?”
“Yes, but don’t get excited, sweet. I scarcely know her. You will gain no ties to the English aristocracy through me.”
There was that arrogance again.... “Must you make it all so...mercenary?”
“I am certainly not the one who made it that way.”
“What about your father?” She changed the subject before they could argue.
“I know nothing about him.”
The gruffness of Treynor’s voice was a warning, but she persevered. She wanted to know who he was, what had shaped him, where he came from—for memory’s sake, she told herself. Someday her adventure on the frigate would be over, and she would have to go back to living the life she once knew, which did not include the company of handsome lieutenants. As much as she hated to admit it, she would miss him.
“Who raised you?” she asked.
“I was pawned off, so to speak, to a farmer by the name of Cayle Abbott.”
“Do you keep in contact with him?”
“No.”
More bitterness. “You have no love for him.”
Silence.
“Lieutenant?” For a moment, Jeannette thought he’d gone to sleep on her mid-conversation, but when she turned, she found him staring off into the distance, the muscles of his jaw clenched.
“No, I have no love for him,” he said at last. “I was beaten. Often. He showed me no mercy. No kindness.”
Jeannette remembered the scars on Treynor’s back. “I’m sorry.”
He met her gaze and opened his mouth to say something. Jeannette was sure it would be flippant, to mask the hurt in his eyes, but he wound up saying nothing at all. There was simply a moment when something passed between them, when her pain for his wounds somehow registered and he accepted her sympathy.
“How long were you there?” she asked when the silence stretched.
“I ran away at fourteen.”
Fourteen? Had he suffered the whole of that time? Jeannette couldn’t stomach the thought of it. “Those scars on your back, the old ones, they’re not—”
His voice, when he broke in, was ragged. “A couple are burns. Cayle amused himself by touching a hot coal to my back more than once. And he thought it entertaining to beat me with a shovel. The rest are from his belt buckle, most likely. Ugly, aren’t they?”
There was nothing ugly about Lieutenant Treynor except what had happened to him. Jeannette winced at the thought of a young boy being treated so cruelly. “And your mother didn’t know?”
“I once sent word through a country parson, begging her to come and get me. She never did.”
Tears filled Jeannette’s eyes, but she struggled to blink them back. Treynor was a proud man. He wouldn’t respond well to her pity. But at last she understood. She had been raised in luxury and, until the Revolution, had never heard an unkind word. She represented all he could have had but was denied by his mother. Or perhaps it was even simpler than that. Perhaps he viewed all women as uncaring creatures little different from the marchioness.
Treynor closed his eyes and leaned back in the tub, but he looked far from relaxed. Jeannette imagined he was remembering the past and longed to make him forget.
After crossing to stand behind him, she rolled up her sleeves, retrieved the cake of soap, and began to wash his back, careful not to scrape the scabs left over from his flogging.
At first, the soap stung the blisters on her hands but the pain eased quickly.
He tensed as if he might refuse her ministrations, but gave himself over to the pleasure of her fingers when she left off with the washing and began to rub his shoulders where the skin was unmarred.
“What are you doing to me, Jeannette?” he murmured after several minutes.
He wasn’t talking about her massage. Jeannette knew that instinctively. She smiled. The implacable lieutenant didn’t know what to think of her.
“What
could
I do to you?” she said. “You are immune to women like me. You hate us, remember?”
“I wish to God I could hate you,” he muttered, but moaned as her hands rubbed slower, more sensuously.
Jeannette closed her eyes, reveling in the solid feel of Treynor’s body beneath her hands. Surely this was heaven. Surely the world could end right now and she would be content....
“Jeannette?”
She opened her eyes to see that he’d twisted his head to look up at her. “What?” She was wondering what he would do if she kissed him. He’d asked her to, not very long ago.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, only inches away, and she remembered how wonderful his lips felt pressed to her own.
He drew a ragged breath. “What is it you want from me? What are you hoping to gain?”
His doubt and bitterness stabbed her to the heart. Did he think she was using him, trying to manipulate him? Regardless, he didn’t trust her, couldn’t trust her. And deep down, Jeannette knew he had no reason to. His mother had wronged him terribly, and he viewed her in the same light.
Summoning her pride, she pulled back out of reach. “I just wanted to make you forget,” she said.
He watched her warily. “Forget what?”
“The past. The future. Who and what I am, too, I suppose. But that could never happen. You know me too well.”
Treynor regretted his cutting words, especially when he witnessed the hurt they caused. Damn, Jeannette confused him. One minute she was defiant and the next she did something so sweet that he longed to pull her into his arms and hold her forever. He was angry at her for leaving him wanting, angry at himself for not being able to resist her effect on him, and frustrated by the whole situation. He never should have helped her. He should have turned her in to the captain posthaste.