Return to the House of Sin. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
gone? Her gown was a rumpled mess no iron would ever repair.
‘What shall I talk about?’
‘Anything.’
Her husky voice trickled over him and, for no apparent reason, he too began to perspire. The chamber was cool. There was no way to explain his unexpected reaction. He couldn’t be nervous. ‘With any luck, this weather will pass in a few hours. It poured buckets earlier but now the wind’s pitching—’
‘Not that.’ She gulped a mouthful of air and blew it out through puckered lips.
He watched her profile, mesmerized in the fractured shadows cast by the lamp. ‘Right.’ He exhaled and restarted. ‘Did you eat the biscuits I left? It wasn’t much but the barley stew—’
‘Not food either.’ Her voice squeaked high and she pressed her lips together.
A healthy portion of guilt settled in his stomach at how poorly he’d taken care of the situation through the day. For some unknown reason, he’d wanted to stay away, concerned she might pull him further into her convoluted appearance aboard ship. On another level, an internal and emotional one, he’d warned himself not to get close. He wanted nothing to do with affection of any kind.
‘I brought the bowl.’ Bloody hell, he sounded like an ass. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t touched her and, despite the ship’s acrobatics, he’d managed to keep at least eight inches between their shoulders. He’d placed the bowl on the floor in that space. It seemed the logical thing to do though he didn’t reckon why exactly. ‘Did you enjoy your visit to Italy?’ It was an innocuous subject. One that would serve his purpose.
‘Yes.’ Her voice brightened a smidgeon and a rush of satisfaction filled his chest. ‘But I’m immensely relieved to travel home. I have an important event to attend. Something I hope will change my life’s status for ever.’
The walls shuddered as the ship took a sudden plummet and, in an ironic trick of the ocean’s majestic force, her answer registered and his heart fell to his stomach right along with the tides.
Lord, but she felt awful. Once the foul weather struck, a heavy wave of queasiness consumed her stomach with no intention of release. How spoiled she’d become by the voyage with Father. Perhaps this storm was a manifestation of conscience in reaction to her foolhardy error. Or worse, a presage of Raelyn’s temper and Father’s wrath once they discovered she’d stowed away instead of speaking to the captain directly.
She hauled in a deep breath. She needed to calm because at the moment she didn’t know whether to cry, scream or retch. Every part of her body seemed oddly disconnected and, while she clenched her eyes and attempted to reassemble herself, too much time spent with her eyes closed caused her stomach to object with a violent quiver in kind to the storm. Thankfully, to this point she hadn’t needed to empty her mostly empty stomach, but the desire to do so was strong and, instead of feeling relief, she struggled, on the verge of tossing up her accounts despite she succeeded in keeping her innards tucked inside.
‘At last a topic that improves your mood.’
Crispin sounded annoyed and she couldn’t blame him. She’d displaced him from his quarters, claimed his bed and now, not only dependent for food and survival, begged for distraction. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to apologize.’
Something in his tone told her that was a lie, but she couldn’t worry over it presently.
Nothing was said for a moment as the ship lurched. The miscellaneous items which had once found their home inside the bowl and now lay on the desk scattered in every direction as the vessel regained balance. Fear caused her to tremble and she couldn’t help but inch closer to Crispin’s warmth. He was broad and strong and, just by being at his side, her nervousness abated and stomach levelled.
‘An engagement with your beau, I presume.’ His words were muttered low.
‘Is courtship always the automatic assumption when discussing a woman’s agenda?’
‘Aren’t most women interested in whirlwind romance and a betrothal ring soon after?’
‘I’m not sure about the whirlwind part.’ She blinked several times at the irony. ‘My sister, Raelyn, believes a gentleman needs to know a lady for at least a year before understanding their personality.’
‘Ha!’ His scoff revealed far too much. ‘I propose it takes longer. Women and their frivolous decisions would not be understood in decades, centuries, I’d gamble.’ Then he chuckled and added a low remark filled with chagrin. ‘There’s a poor choice of words.’
She wished more than the single flame lit the interior. How she would have liked to see his face and measure the emotion in his eyes when he’d said the last few sentences. That same note of vulnerability, a combination of wounded pride and broken heart, laced each syllable of his complaint. They hardly knew one another but she could detect Crispin had suffered at the hand of an ill-fated relationship. Just another example of why she avoided romance.
Her stomach shifted, but she clenched her teeth and breathed deep. She couldn’t be sick now. Not when conversation proved so elucidating. The ship heartily agreed with a creaking groan of wood and rigging, the exclamation clank of some abandoned article thrust against the railing. She wrapped her arms around her middle and darted a look in his direction.
‘What of your family?’ A yowling protest of wind underscored his enquiry.
‘My mother passed from a spiteful, wasting disease when I was a young child.’ She paused, but then hurried to finish. ‘Oh, and there’s Enid, our maid. She’s served Raelyn and me since the nursery. And with Father, that’s my entire family.’ Amanda swallowed and turned to stare into the blackness across the room. As much as she wanted to face Crispin at her side and converse properly, the vigorous ebb and flow of the ship combined with her distressing nausea made for a poor combination. She all but whispered these words.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He relaxed against the wall, settling into the conversation until he turned and leaned closer. ‘It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Your appearance on this ship in my quarters.’
She matched his intense stare.
‘Now that I examine things more closely, I have dozens of questions for you. How does one board a ship incorrectly? Were you travelling alone? Are you running from a problem you believe unfixable? Have you done something wrong, Amanda?’
A comfortable little silence fell between them and, for several long minutes, only the wind and water could be heard. Her mind fixated on the uncomfortable discovery of how she liked the way he enunciated her name, drawing on each syllable as if reluctant to let each one go.
His last question held a complex note of dubious distrust, as if he’d perpetrated the same oversight himself and judged it as disreputable. But then, by his own tongue, he boasted of his poor character.
‘Not on purpose,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘One would wonder.’
Somehow, through the process of the conversation or mayhap the pitch and fall of the ship’s motion, they’d become closer. The wooden bowl still remained between them, but their bodies angled, almost touched, and in an odd, confusing urge she had no way to explain, she yearned to lay her head upon his shoulder and draw from his steady support and relax into his strength. Anything to quiet the clamouring churn of her stomach.
‘Running from things hardly solves the problem.’
His voice dropped an octave and a tremor coursed through her to settle deep and remind of her cashmere blanket, a gift from her father when he’d travelled to India several years ago. She treasured that blanket, not just for its warmth and sentimental value, but its unique comfort. Whenever she missed her