Chapter Twelve

The jarring clang of a bell drove Lily from a heavy sleep. She sprang up with a cry of pain. Her head pounded. Then she saw him and fright spiked in her chest.

“Ohhh, no.”

Griffin lay asleep next to her in bed. His naked shoulder, stunning for its beautifully contoured lines, stuck out from beneath a tangled sheet. The fingers of his left hand dangled over the edge of the bed. His rhythmic breathing sluiced, in and out.

Dear God? What had they done? A vague memory of a kiss last night excited a deep shudder. She’d been touched deeply by his chivalrous rescue from the pirate. Yet he stirred unsettling emotions she didn’t want to confront. Sleeping together was very dangerous.

In spite of yesterday’s trying circumstances, she was angry with herself for drinking too much wine. She tossed aside the few covers he’d left her, determined to crawl away. A stabbing pain in her skull put a quick stop to her plan. Moaning softly, she massaged her aching temple.

Griffin chose the moment to roll onto his back. Plop went a limp, heavy arm over her lap. She gasped and held still for fear of waking him. His bare chest expanded on a deep inhalation. A smattering of curled, fine hair feathered his curved pectoral muscles. Last night she’d been curious about what lay beneath his shirt. Now she knew.

The shocking novelty of a naked man in her bed flamed her cheeks. She licked her dry lips. However legitimate, the husband in her bed gave her scarce comfort.

His eyelids fluttered open and when he noticed her by his side, his head shot up from the pillow. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, I’m awake.” It pleased her not to be the only one shocked by this new development.

“Good, good,” he muttered, blinking as he took a moment to fully gain his bearings.

For the life of her, she saw little good to this arrangement. Mad perhaps? Definitely.

As he lowered his head to the pillow, his eyes smoldered with unmasked desire. It turned her insides to slush. Shy all of a sudden, she studied the sheet bunched in her clenched fingers. “May I ask what you’re doing in my bed?”

“You mean my bed, don’t you?” He grinned with that playful manner she’d come to adore.

She groaned and wondered how he found this predicament amusing.

“Headache?” he asked.

“Massive. A cudgel to the brain.”

He grimaced in sympathy. “Stay in bed today. I’ll see to breakfast.”

“Remind me never to drink so much.” Queasy, she settled a hand on her stomach and cringed at the wrinkled gown coiled about her hips. “Rather unseemly to sleep in the same dress in which you were married.” A silk stocking bunched around an ankle. He must judge her so ill mannered.

He rolled onto his side and much too close for comfort in the narrow bed. Heat radiated from his body like a brazier. Head propped on an upraised palm, he watched her, appearing rested and relaxed. Perhaps waking next to a woman was commonplace and didn’t shock him. The notion didn’t please her.

“What do you remember about last night?” he asked.

“Last night?” A cold wind seemed to flitter across her shoulders and neck though it was warm next to him in the bed. “The wedding and celebratory supper.” A drunken debauch she had feared might never end. “We came back here. Played chess.”

“And me winning?”

“You didn’t win,” she shot back.

He laughed.

“You’re teasing me.” How easily she fell under his charm.

“And after chess?” Naughty innuendo infused his husky words. A quick flare of his pupils gave her an unexpected jolt.

“Must you make me spell it out?” Pride prevented her from admitting she remembered nothing except his kiss—a kiss she would never forget.

He nudged her leg playfully. “Come on, tell me.” The languorous purr in his voice tickled like a feather drawn across her febrile skin. She closed her eyes in aroused agony.

The harder she tried to remember the more her brain ached. Quite frankly, she feared the truth. “I must have fallen asleep?”

“You did.” He delivered the news in the same tone used to speak of balmy weather. Her drunken behavior last night didn’t seem to bother him. Abruptly, he sat up. His sudden energy joggled her already overtaxed system. She massaged her throbbing forehead and expected him to jump from the bed, eager to tear into the day. All she desired was an uninterrupted day, lost beneath the covers, oblivious in dreamland.

“I removed your shoes and tucked you under the covers.” He produced a sheepish grin. “Sleeping on the floor near broke my back. Since you were dead to the world and I a practical man, I joined you in bed.”

So they hadn’t…He wouldn’t, not while she slept. Relief gushed like a spring of water. She stifled an urge to chortle.

He brushed the covers aside and stood. Buff colored breeches clung tenuously to his slender hips. Yawning noisily, he stretched toned arms upward and touched the ceiling. The dreamy dance of sinuous muscles and tendons in his upper body made her body quicken. Barefooted, he padded to the washstand and checked for water in the ewer. “You can relax. Your virtue is intact.”

Not knowing what to say to such a bizarre admission, she fell back on manners. “Thank you.”

“I hope it gives you peace of mind.”

“It does. Certainly.” A convenient knock at the door saved her from further embarrassing discussion.

“Yes?” Griffin said.

“Sloane, sir. With hot water.”

“One moment.”

Griffin ambled to the door while she snatched the sheet and tucked it beneath her chin. Dismayed by her disarrayed hair and wrinkled dress, she imagined she resembled a strumpet who, for efficiency sake, merely hiked her skirts and got on with her business.

Griffin relieved the folded linen and water bucket from the kitchen assistant. The lad bobbed his head in a vain attempt to peek at her beyond Griffin’s obscuring hulk in the doorway. “That’ll be all, Sloane.”

“I’ll return with coffee and food, sir.”

“Thank you.” Griffin closed the door in his face.

“You do have your admirers,” he remarked and set the items near the washstand. Without another word, he pulled on a shirt, tucked the ends into his breeches, stuffed his feet, sockless, into his black leather shoes and grabbed a coat from a hook alongside the door. Before stepping out, he turned and said, “I’ll give you some privacy.”

No, don’t go, she wanted to say, but her lips wouldn’t move.

****

Dressed in a fresh lavender and cream striped gown an hour later, Lily wiggled the hasp of Griffin’s chest, frustrated to find it still locked after so many days out to sea. She wondered what could be so important and secretive he kept it under lock and key. Startled by a knock at the door, she snatched her hand away. “Come in.”

Sloane stuck his strawberry blond head inside the gaping doorway, a grayed linen apron tied around his thin waist.

“More hot water, ma’am.” A lad about sixteen or seventeen years of age toted a wooden bucket, the seams blackened with tar to prevent leaking. Steam from the liquid made his skin dewy.

She gestured to the washstand. “Thank you, Sloane.”

“It’s Andrew. Andrew Sloane.” His freckled face reddened.

“Perhaps you might answer a question for me, Mr. Sloane.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“Is it customary for a French frigate to come alongside?”

“It happens more often than you might think,” he answered with a proud air.

“I had no idea ships did such a thing. What sort of cargo is exchanged at sea?”

“It can be anything. Wine, cloth, brandy, sometimes just passengers.” He tossed water from the cleansing bowl out the window.

“And what did the French frigate transfer?”

He made to respond with a ready reply and paused as if the answer required great delicacy. “Ah, lace, madam.”

And I’m Aphrodite. Even Sloane wouldn’t tell the truth. Clearly, the entire crew saw her as an idiot easily pacified by evasive answers. They hadn’t taken into account her status as the daughter of an eminent scientist. Empirical evidence mattered.

“And Monsieur Laurent? What of him?”

Sloane rubbed his hands down his apron and glanced aside. “What about him?”

She narrowed her lips, determined not to let the question alone.

“He’s a lace merchant, ma’am.”

“I see.” Wondering if she’d ever hear the truth, she thanked him.

After he’d gone, she searched the desk again, frustrated when she uncovered only the notes of a fanciful story about a boy lost in a magical kingdom. Did she honestly think a spy would be careless enough to leave incriminating evidence in his desk? There must be a better way to learn the facts.

She sank down at the table and dropped her chin in an upraised hand. Even if Cecil Jones didn’t expect a confirmation about Griffin’s secret activities, the suspicious events on ship and the men’s caginess left her ill at ease. Something troublesome was going on, and to appease her ceaseless curiosity, she had to find the answer.

Another knock, this time a soft brush of knuckles, heightened her expectation. “Come in.”

Griffin swept inside. His face brightened when he saw her. “All the men use one particular word to describe you—lovely. I have to agree with them.”

A hand fluttered over the simple bodice of the gown. “A morning dress. Nothing fancy.” The notion this selfless, generous man was a spy began to seem more and more ridiculous.

“Is that coffee?” He stepped toward the table.

“Yes. Breakfast, too. Mr. Sloane has been busy this morning seeing to our comfort. There’s hot water in the ewer and bucket.” She squeezed her hands together. “If you care to freshen up.”

“Excellent.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it across the bed she’d straightened earlier. “Don’t wait for me. Go ahead and eat.”

He grabbed his shirt by the back of the collar and effortlessly tugged it over his head. A slight undulation of muscle rippled his flat stomach. His upper body tapered to a narrow waist and the breeches hung low at his lean hips as if suspended by magic. She swallowed a flustered breath. “I’ll step outside…to give you some privacy.”

“Stay.” He dropped his shirt alongside his coat on the bed. “Keep me company while I shave.”

Her heart pushed against her ribs, urgent with a need to flee. She’d never witnessed such a private act. “All right,” an unfamiliar voice replied, sounding much too calm.

At the washstand, he swung a towel over his bare shoulder and poured water into the basin. After stirring a sudsy lather in a cup, he brushed the foam over his chin and cheeks. He glanced in the mirror, catching her reflection. “You seem uncomfortable.”

She cleared her throat, not certain how to explain what she didn’t understand herself. “I’ve never watched a man shave.”

The razor, grasped in his fingers, paused over his chin. “It’s not such a strange phenomenon. Had you brothers, you would have seen a lot more than a man’s soapy face.” He flicked the blade expertly beneath his nose and wiped the suds on the towel.

She poured a cup of coffee, annoyed to see her hand quiver. “I would have loved brothers—one to chase away the bullies and a baby brother to fuss over.”

“Have you experience with bullies?” Razor at his cheek, he watched her in the mirror.

She shrugged, unwilling to share stories of gossipy girls and the taunts of cruel boys.

“Brothers can be a trial, yet I wouldn’t trade them for gold.”

The notion of siblings and family settled heavily upon her shoulders. Envy for the family she never possessed always weighted her mood.

After giving a final wipe to the blade, he smiled into the mirror. “Good as new.” Tapping his cheeks, he rinsed away the last of the soap. Face towel-dried, he selected a fresh shirt and dragged it over his head, his hands popping free at the cuffs. As he stuffed the fine linen into the front of his breeches, she dropped her gaze.

“Is there something fascinating on the floor?”

Her head snapped up.

Affable and fresh-faced, he shone with a sunny disposition irresistible as a dewy morn. “You might as well get used to me.” He grinned with confidence. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

She cursed the heat creeping up her neck. The man recognized his appeal to women.

Pleased and easygoing, he slid into his seat at the table and peeked beneath the pewter covers. “Ah, eggs.” Appearing delighted, he offered her a dish of fried ham. At her refusal, he doled food on his plate and tucked in—a veritable god at a feast.

“How strange to say you are my wife, and I am your beloved husband.” White teeth sparkled as he grinned. “Once we go our separate ways, you’re free to marry whomever you choose.”

“For your considerate permission, I thank you,” she mocked, stung with hurt. Why should she care when dissolution and separation from him was what she desired? “Since you’re so eager to be rid of me, I’ll compile a list of potential suitors as soon as breakfast is complete.”

The man had the greatest of laughs, uninhibited and natural. Bright with amusement, he eased back into the chair and crossed one knee over the other. “No need to rush. The ink is barely dry on the document. We have weeks to go before we reach New York.” He propped an elbow on the table. With his chin on his knuckles, he studied her with a singular focus. She shifted with discomfort. “For the time being, we are well and truly married.”

The underlying message that she was his to love and to hold, at least for a while, conjured an agreeable feeling. It shot a glow in all the right places. Too often, as a lonely girl, living with Uncle Percy, and even living with a widowed Papa, she yearned for love. A simple show of affection was all she required. Even as a grown woman, she yearned for acceptance, which was why playacting at love was a dangerous game. If he knew what drove her to New York, if he knew how much she hungered for the reassurance of Papa’s love, Griffin wouldn’t be so cavalier about his teasing.

“We must play our parts,” he added.

“Play at being loving newlyweds?” A vigorous shake of her head set off another jab of pain. “The Black Dog is long gone, and along with it, the threat. Since Mulworthy has yet to toss me in the ocean, I doubt he ever will.”

Across the table, his strong jaw assumed a resolute set, reminding her again of the stubbornness of his character. “Mulworthy must never suspect I played him false when I told him of our love.”

“What does it matter what he thinks?”

“It matters.” He scrubbed a hand over the top of his head, pushing the loose strands away from his forehead. “The stage is set. It would be foolish not to act out our roles.”

“What hold does Mulworthy have over you?”

“None except for my loyalty. In spite of his many faults, I won’t break trust with him. I keep my word. You and I said our vows before witnesses. For better or worse, we are married.”

He tossed a piece of crust on his plate and pushed it away with an affable smile. “What shall we lovebirds do today? Perhaps a walk around the deck?”

The rapid change in his mood threw her off balance. How was she to negotiate the next few hours, much less weeks, with this whirlwind?

A short while later, after they’d completed one complete loop of the ship, he asked, “What will you do when you reunite with your father?” A temperate breeze fluttered a loose strand of his hair. Unable to abide anything not in its proper place, she tucked it behind his ear and earned his smile.

“Assist Papa in his work.” The notion made her smile.

“Like you did when you were younger?”

“More in the way of a full-fledged partner.”

“You see yourself as an inventor?”

“I’ve studied mathematics and physics, disciplines which will further his work.”

“Your uncle approved of such study?” He rested his elbows on the ship’s railing and stared at the water glinting in the sunlight. “I’d imagined the art of threading a needle or the proper sequence in which to serve a fat goose—before or after the oysters—was his idea of a woman’s education.”

“Sssh.” She held a finger to her lips. “He mustn’t ever discover I bribed my tutor with a bit of coin so he might teach me. Uncle would have a fit.”

“A unique gambit to secure a proper education.”

“It was necessary.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

She smirked. Blocking the sun with a hand to her brow, she caught his quizzical look. Oh, blast. He would persist until he had an explanation. “In truth, I seldom get what I want.”

When his expression gentled, as though he understood, the brittle shell around her heart cracked. “I don’t want your pity.” The man had a sure way of breaking down her barriers. It left her exposed and vulnerable.

“Everyone has their share of disappointments and heartache. Why should I be exempt from misfortune?” She carried the deaths of Mama and Aunt Charlotte, and the absence of her father with her every day. “It’s all in the past.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s too lovely a day to speak of gloomy things.” How she wished the tree-lined shore of New York was on the visible horizon, anything to hasten their journey and lessen their time together.

“Lily.”

The tenderness in his voice wrenched at her heart.

“Lily, anything you ask of me, I will try my best to see it complete.”

A lump formed in her throat. Why was he so nice to her? People were seldom solicitous of her except when they wanted something. “You’re too kind.”

She cursed the sudden urge to cry along with the irritating confusion. After being selfish, rude and even calling him a prick, she didn’t deserve his friendship. Yet, despite being a burden to him, he treated her with respect and kindness.

“When you marry,” she asked. “Will it be for advantage or love?”

“Love, of course.” The words sprang forth without the slightest hesitation.

“A romantic,” she said and smiled.

He grunted.

“You don’t wish to be a romantic?”

“My brothers and friends contend I fall in love too easily—a drooling puppy they call me where women are concerned.”

She lifted a brow. “Do you fall in love easily?”

He cocked his head, his gaze steady, almost disarming in its boldness. “Not anymore.”