under his feet.
Deception, thy name is Noirot.
Manipulative and elusive and not to be trusted.
If he had trusted her, he wouldn’t have set a spy on her, he wouldn’t have pursued her from Paris, and he wouldn’t be on this curst vessel in this hellish storm.
Yet not trusting was no excuse for his deranged behavior. He had no excuse. She wasn’t even beautiful, especially not now. In the murky light, she looked like a ghost. He found it hard to believe that this was the same vibrant, passionate creature who’d straddled him in the carriage and kissed him witless.
He smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead.
Dreadful, dreadful woman.
Marcelline awoke to a watery light.
At first she thought she’d died and was floating in another realm.
By degrees she realized that the ship was rocking, but not in the deranged way it had done before. The clamor had quieted.
It was over.
The storm had passed.
They’d survived.
Then she became aware of the weight and warmth pressing against her back. Her eyes flew open. In front of her was only blank wood. She remembered: her desperate visit to Clevedon’s cabin, the vicious seasickness that seized her…brandy…laudanum…his hands.
This wasn’t her cabin, her bed.
She was in his bed.
And judging by the size of the body squeezed alongside her in the narrow bunk, Clevedon was in it with her.
Oh, perfect.
She tried to turn over, but he was lying on the skirt of her dress, pinning her down.
“Clevedon,” she said.
He mumbled and moved, flinging his arm over her.
“Your grace.”
His arm tightened, pulling her closer.
How she wished she might snuggle there, her back curved against the front of his hard, warm body, his strong arm holding her safe.
But she wasn’t safe. When he woke up, he’d be in the state men usually were in when they woke, and she had no confidence in her powers to resist so much temptation.
She shoved her elbow into his ribs.
“What?” His voice was low, thick with sleep.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Yes,” he said. He nuzzled her neck.
She was desperately aware of his arousal, the great ducal phallus awake well before his brain was.
“Get off,” she said. “Get off. Now.”
Before it’s too late, and I decide to celebrate a narrow escape from death in the traditional manner of our species.
“Noirot?”
“Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t a dream.”
“No. Get off.”
He muttered something too low for her to hear, but he moved away. She turned over. Her head spun. She had to struggle to focus.
He stood at the side of the bunk, looking down at her. The shadow of a beard darkened his face, and he was scowling.
She started up from the bed.
Then fell back onto it, clutching her head.
“That wasn’t wise,” he said. “You’ve been sick. All you’ve had to eat was cold gruel and a little wine.”
“I ate?”
“You don’t remember.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t,” she said. “I’m having trouble sorting out what I dreamed and what happened. I dreamed I was in London. Then I wasn’t. I was at the bottom of the sea, looking up at the bottom of the boat.” For a moment she saw the dream clearly in her mind’s eye, and for that moment she felt the despair she’d felt then. I’ve drowned. I’ll never see Lucie again. Why did I leave London? “People hung over the rail, looking down at me. They were gesturing and seemed to be saying something, but I couldn’t make out what it was. You were there. You were very angry.” And that, strangely enough, had been the most reassuring part of the dream.
“That much was real enough,” he said. “You’ve tried my patience past all endurance. I’m not accustomed to playing nursemaid, and you didn’t make it easy, thrashing about like a lunatic.”
“Was that why you were lying on top of me?”
“I was not lying on top of you,” he said. “Not on purpose. I fell asleep. I was tired. I’d had very little sleep before the storm broke. Then you burst in and decided to be sick in my cabin.”
“I didn’t decide to be sick—though now I consider, it was a good idea,” she said. “I wish I had thought of it. But I didn’t. I came for help—for Jeffreys. I was only a bit queasy—but then…something happened.” She shook her head. “I’m never sick. I should not have been sick.”
“You’re very lucky I was here,” he said. “You’re very lucky I’m a patient man. You’re a deuced difficult patient. I would have thrown you overboard, but the crew had closed the hatches.”
She made herself sit up, but more slowly and carefully this time. Her head pounded. She clutched it.
“You’d better not get up,” he said.
She remembered his patience, his gentle touch. She remembered the feeling, so rare that she’d had trouble recognizing it: the feeling of being sheltered and protected and being looked after. When last had anybody looked after her? Not her parents, certainly. They’d never hesitated to abandon their children when the children became inconvenient. Then they’d turn up, months and months later, expecting those children to run into their open arms.
And we did, Marcelline thought. Naïve fools that we were, we did. Whether Mama and Papa were about or not, it was always Marcelline, the eldest, who looked after everybody, because one couldn’t rely on anyone else. Even after she was wed. But what could she expect when she wed her own kind? Poor, feckless Charlie!
Clevedon wasn’t her kind. He was another species altogether. She remembered his hand at her back, guiding her to the shelter of his well-appointed carriage. A woman could be spoiled so easily by a rich, privileged man. So many women were.
She couldn’t afford it.
“I…truly, I thank you for enduring the ghastliness of nursing
