Return to the House of Sin. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
had happened to cause her to believe otherwise. Did he share a romantic relationship? Someone to love and with whom to plan a future?
Howsoever would she pass time within the confines of the quarters without company? Would Crispin spare her time for conversation? Perhaps she could convince him to visit for no other reason than to help the hours pass. She sat at the scarred table and traced the curved lines ingrained in the wood. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. She would go mad.
She stood from the table with resolute determination, only to grapple for the corner as the ship lurched right. Whatever weather preceded their path, it promised to be violent. A tremor of thunder and subsequent flash of lightning confirmed her suspicion as her pulse leapt into a fast rhythm. Storms at sea were things of gothic novels and old tales shared before the hearth, not something to be experienced firsthand. The placid waters during her trip to Italy seemed a distant memory now. Father had shared his wealth of knowledge pertaining to ships and answered her myriad questions, the experience interesting and pleasurable, but this trip seemed in adverse at the moment.
The vessel swayed, rocking her with vertiginous force as an unexpected wave of nausea gripped her stomach. She’d hardly eaten. It couldn’t be the food. Perhaps the combination of her nerves, the unpredictability of her circumstances and the ocean’s upset conspired to wreak havoc with her disposition. Best she located the chamber pot in case the need arose.
Torn with indecision, it was several hours later when Crispin returned to check on Amanda. Lunch had come and gone, followed by supper and, with a lack of finesse he would never claim as his own, he’d left a basket of food on the hook beside the door and knocked before leaving the passenger quarters swiftly. Soon after, the weather had shifted. Intelligent passengers locked themselves away to avoid the onslaught of rain and lashing relentlessness of waves across the deck. Daredevils, scoundrels and those who tempted fate held fast to the railing and watched the angry sea wage war. Crispin was of the latter, but with a recent case of conscience he worried over Amanda locked tight in his former chambers.
All around him crewmen worked to secure the ship and prepare for a night filled with tumultuous weather. That same wiry sailor who’d eyed him earlier scurried by, surefooted on the slippery deck, despite he carried a coil of rope twice his size. In truth, Crispin needed to return to Ferris and take to his own sleeping quarters, but first he’d check on the fetching stowaway. Besides, he needed to collect the basket and discuss the terms of their agreement. He couldn’t imagine delivering food to her door for over a fortnight. Not only would other passengers become wary, but he wasn’t up to the task. Most of his life had been spent in the usual way afforded gentleman with a title. He visited his club, whiled away time riding, shooting and playing billiards, as well as socializing with the best set in London. His home was fully staffed with impeccable servants who provided for his every need.
When he’d settled in Venice, he’d accommodated himself in much the same manner. Ferris was anxious to welcome him into a lifestyle of merriment that obscured the ghosts Crispin evaded, chasing them away and replacing unrest with beautiful women, liquor and senseless abandon.
In regard to Amanda, earlier in the day he’d delivered one basket of food, packed solidly with ample portions of oatmeal, molasses, bread, butter and rice, as well as a bottle of wine and flask of water. He’d remembered the necessary glassware and implements, and wished to avoid frequent visits to the saloon. The awkward image of him carrying a laden bundle through the decks would draw unwanted attention. The direct, unabashed circumspection with which the young crew member had eyed him earlier lingered as a disturbing curiosity. Whether the lad thought of him as an easy mark or watched for some other reason, the observation didn’t sit well.
Of further concern was the increasingly poor weather. What had begun as a light rain had quickly transformed into a nightmarish fury. Shards of violent lightning crackled through the skies in the north and the ocean waters reverberated with turbulence, making for a difficult walk across the boards and even more disagreeable evening if one didn’t have a temperament for sea travel. Luckily, his stomach was reliable. Still, he belonged below deck. Not a passenger could be seen along the narrow corridor and an occasional complaint from the ship’s timber coalesced with foul oaths of fright heard through latched chamber doors.
At last, managing not to stagger though the ship tilted and pitched unexpectedly, he neared the room meant to be his quarters, surprised to see the basket hung in the same position as earlier. Hadn’t Amanda mentioned her hunger? Had she heard his knock? Perhaps she’d confused his signal with the crewmen who fastened the hatches and secured every rope and strap above deck.
Troubled and disappointed in his failure to manage the situation more adeptly, he lifted the basket from the hook and, after a bracing knock, turned the lever and stepped into the dim interior. He noted with a degree of annoyance, the door should be locked. He’d wished to speak to her about the careless gesture, but she’d slept through his earlier visit.
Outside in the passage, the wind yowled, bouncing from wall to wall as the ocean lashed. Here within the chamber, not a sound could be heard. He set the basket to the floorboards and moved to the oil lamp where he turned the key and illuminated the small space in the light of a shallow flame. It was then he heard a pitiful moan.
What the devil?
Amanda sat on the floor in the far corner as if she hid from the world, steeped in darkness, her eyes downcast, arms folded across her knees. She’d removed her boots and her stockinged toes, as white and opalescent as her complexion, peeped out from the billowed hems of her day gown. Her hair had been plaited, pulled back to reveal her pasty complexion, paler than moonlight. Beside her, with a shivery tremble, rested the chamber pot.
He groaned, out of depth and drowning fast.
Bloody hell, was she seasick?
In answer to his mental question the ship pitched upward, suspended as if on marionette strings for what seemed a terrifying instance of weightlessness until it dropped at a sharp angle and returned to the waves, the slide of the basket across the floor tapping against his right boot as it displaced from its resting spot near the wall.
He stepped backwards a few strides to regain his balance, his constitution intact though Amanda’s moan sounded pained. Her eyes lit on him, distant and panicked, as she pushed upward in an attempt to stand.
‘May I help you in any way?’ He took a wary step forward. He wasn’t exactly sure how ill she was feeling and he neither wished to embarrass nor upset her, while common decency demanded he offer assistance.
‘Talk to me. Please. I’ve been locked away for hours.’
Her voice rasped in the near darkness and, despite the ship continued to rock and sway, the words prickled over his skin with alluring awareness. He reacted, his tone defensive. ‘By your own doing.’
With a hollow, metallic clink, the chamber pot slid out of grasp to the far corner.
‘The truth doesn’t make the time pass faster. Please stay, if only a short while.’
She sounded frightened and he told himself as he grabbed the wooden bowl on the desk and emptied its contents, he acted out of kindness and necessary obligation as an older brother would when a family member became sick.
She took an awkward step and he reached her just in time as the tides pummelled the sides of the ship and tossed it across the waves. Amanda landed against his chest with a warm thump before he steadied her, bracing one hand to the wall as together they sank to the floorboards, acutely aware of her nearness and how incredibly soft and pliant she’d felt for the less-than-a-heartbeat moment she’d buffeted his chest with a subtle, unintentional nudge. For want of something to do with his hands, he placed the wooden bowl between them, the lantern on his other side. With great relief, he saw no evidence of her having expelled anything and, with peculiar contrast, noted the faint smell of gardenia. Perhaps she used scented soap or expensive perfume, some unmistakable light musky fragrance that was evident now with her proximity. It stirred him with an unexpected carnal bid for attention. His body throbbed with sudden heat, his chest all at once tight, each breath worse as her scent stole into his lungs and settled.
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