Chapter Fourteen

Griffin scrambled up the stairs and burst onto the deck with a gulp of air. He grasped the railing and bent at the waist, exhaled a noisy, fractured breath.

One kiss? Was he harebrained enough to think one kiss would satisfy? He wagged his head in disbelief.

What right did he have to dally with her affections with asinine kissing games when committed to the military? Besides, her heart belonged to another.

A second headshake failed to purge her from his mind. The tilt of her mouth, the silky texture of her skin and the sound of her quickened breaths remained alive in his senses. He grunted with a pitiful laugh. When it came to women—he was a fool, especially where she was concerned.

How ironic. When he most wanted freedom from females, a captivating woman like Lily burst into his life. The very proximity of their close quarters commanded his time and attention. To ignore her was impossible.

He pinched the bony ridge above his nose. From the start, he knew the shared cabin arrangement would be a trying experience. Never did he expect bloody torture. A cat o’ nine tails spun with sudden appeal. How much fortitude and resilience did she think he possessed?

Elbows planted on the teak rail, he dropped his head into his hands and prayed for gusty winds to hasten a quick end to his journey and struggles. Yet the air seemed uncommonly still.

For his own safety and that of his mission, he would keep her in sight but at arm’s length. Not an easy feat to accomplish when he was a man starved and she a tempting meal.

Nor could he overlook her spying. If she expected him to view reckless and blatant nosiness as simple, innocent curiosity, she was mistaken.

As to his evasiveness? War forced men to vile actions.

Breathing deeply, he hoped the briny smell would override her appealing scent. It didn’t work. To repel her magic hold, he concentrated on his assignment for Washington. It took considerable effort. Time hobbled by like a creaky old man with a cane. Just as he deemed his efforts a success, the first cool drops of rain splattered his face.

Outside Mr. Church’s door, he paused, swiped the moisture from his forehead and dried his hands on his breeches. Perhaps a night with the assistant rather than a temptress would aid his sleep. A cowardly notion, for certain, and the gesture would raise snickers and questions among the men he preferred not to answer. Impetuous and determined, she couldn’t be trusted. Nor could the crew be trusted around her.

He walked on and entered his cabin. A single candle burned on the desk, half its stubby length melted. Quietly, he crossed the room and came to an abrupt stop. A picture of innocence, Lily lay asleep on the floor, covered by a blanket, her cheeks pink and pretty. Her hair fanned over the ivory linen of the pillow like an ink spill over parchment. Oh, Lily. After he’d so callously toyed with her affections, she’d sacrificed her comfort and slept upon the pallet so he might enjoy a decent night’s sleep on the bed. If she meant to sway him by her goodness, this was the way.

A host of conflicting emotions tugged at him, guilt being the most prominent.

He crouched down, slid one arm beneath her knees, the other about her shoulders. As he scooped her from the lumpy mat, she whimpered and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. Once he’d settled her upon the bed, he drew the coverlet up to her shoulders. Behind closed lids, her eyes twitched. He wondered if she dreamt of Warwick. Was it vanity or foolishness to hope she might dream of him?

****

A drumming sound woke Lily from a heavy sleep. Groggy, she pushed up on an elbow and squinted at the window. The noise was not a woodpecker as she’d dreamt, but rain. It hammered against the ship and the glass of the port hole left open last night. Griffin must have closed it.

A shadowy memory emerged. Strong arms carried her to bed. The floor revealed a tangle of blankets heaped upon the empty pallet. A melon-sized depression in the pillow remained where Griffin had laid his head. How ironic. In doing him a kindness and taking the pallet, she found herself in bed. Though why she should have cared about his comfort when he trifled with her affection she couldn’t say. He was a puzzle. A crafty man who reeled her in like a fish only to toss her away just as easily.

She shoved a couple of feather pillows behind her back, aware of the many emotions he evoked. Lust. Joy. Happiness. Then again, was she merely obsessed, as he had accused? Whatever the answer, he roused emotions never before experienced and she yearned for more.

As much as she didn’t understand him, she didn’t understand herself. At times, when they laughed or shared a companionable silence, a fanciful wish they might remain husband and wife stole into her mind. However, when she found herself growing closer to him a wall appeared, and it was as much her construction as his. Adept at hoisting shields, she knew the safety offered by protective barriers. Yet Griffin was by far the greatest master at deflection. With his clever wit and easy conversation, he fooled people with his open friendliness. No one doubted his appeal, but behind the charming demeanor was a man skilled at holding folks at arm’s length.

She twiddled a lock of hair around a finger, recalling the ridiculous kissing game. The daring sport risked the possibility of an aftermath neither of them wanted. She’d seen his hands tremble and heard his ragged breathing. The hardness of his desire had pressed against her, igniting heat. Yet in a show of strength and reason, he’d backed away.

“Bah!” How could a man exert such beastly control over his emotions? Perhaps he feared passion would bind them forever with a child. Maybe he found her lacking, much as Uncle Percy did. “Fool,” she muttered irritably and vowed to see the situation in a more pragmatic light. Ever the gentleman, Griffin noticed her uncertainty and simply refused to take advantage. A good thing he had, too. Passion had no business in their impermanent arrangement.

From now on, she’d maintain a proper distance. Under no circumstances would he ever suspect how much his retreat hurt.

****

Griffin trudged back to his cabin, waterlogged from too much coffee and unable to offer any plausible reasons to linger further at the captain’s table. All morning rain pelted the ship. The relentless storm showed no sign of abating. With nowhere else to go, he was stuck with Lily. Despite all sense, it was in his mind to take her to his bed and while away the remainder of the day.

Silently, he cursed.

Nitwit.

Hadn’t he learned his lesson? He could no more touch her and come away unscathed than if he’d cradled hot coals in his hands.

Paused outside their cabin door, he steeled himself before he rapped lightly. When she responded, he stepped inside, his shield in place.

In position at the far side of the room, she stared out the port hole, her back to him. Dressed in a simple gown of periwinkle with ivory lace at the cuffs, she made a satisfying picture. He liked her even more for her simplicity.

“Good morning, wife.” He couldn’t understand why he insisted on using the term. It was pointless to address her as such. She would never, and could never, be his wife in the full meaning of the word.

As if reluctant, she faced him. She gave him a wary appraisal. “Griffin.”

Consumed with an urge to caress her ivory skin, he strolled toward her, as if bound by an invisible force, each step purposeful yet unhurried. He set the apple beer he carried on the table. “Pray, do tell what fascinates you outside the window?” A nervous tremor vibrated in his voice. After numerous occasions spent with desirable women, it confused him why she, above all others, tested his confidence.

“Sea monsters.” She turned and put her back to him, her focus once again the endless gray skyline. “I’m compelled to search for them.”

“You do realize they’re only myths?” He slid in behind her and stopped when the hem of her dress brushed against his ankle. “Besides, what can you possibly see in the rain?” Lavender and citrus clouded around her. He dipped his head, tracking the subtle odor to the hollow below her ear.

“I may never find one, but I won’t stop the search.” A wistful, almost aching tone lurked in her voice.

“Would you be disappointed if you never saw one?” He wondered if she would always search for things just beyond her grasp, even notions as fanciful as sea dragons.

He rested one hand on either side of the port hole, cocooning her in the center of his arms. She stiffened. Up came her shoulders before she spun around.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” She nudged him away, hands firm against his chest.

He raised his palms in defense, laughing. “All right. If distance is what you seek, distance is what you shall have.”

“Good. As to another matter…about last night with Tubbs.” There was no mistaking her gravity. “I wish to apologize.”

“It’s finished. Consider it our first argument as a married couple.” A reassuring smile did not garner a return pleasantry. Instead, she tugged fretfully at her bottom lip with her teeth. He found it impossible to look away.

“There’s more I need to say.”

Her odd mix of regret and grit gave him pause.

“Any romantic notion, including kissing, seems unwise.” She gave him a firm look as if she intended to hear an argument.

“What you say has merit.” Part of him disliked her single-minded show of reasonableness.

“In view of last night,” she added, “it’s best we continue our roles in public. But when we are alone, we must remain uninvolved.” Firm resolve tarnished her kind smile.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he replied pleasantly despite the petulance curling under his skin.

“Excellent.” Fast as a rabbit, she slipped around him just as someone knocked.

He faced the door, irritated by her quickness to put distance between them. “Enter.”

Sloane hefted a wooden tray loaded with dishes into the room. “Cook outdid himself with an early luncheon today.” Bright with pride, he set the goods upon the table and off-loaded a tureen, bowls, cutlery and a hunk of bread.

“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I’m sure it will be delicious.” Lily smiled prettily, and the man’s expression softened like melted butter. Griffin couldn’t fault Sloane or Church, who acted like love-struck idiots when they gazed upon the lovely woman. On a tedious, lengthy voyage, even a foul-breath hawk-nosed hag would command the crew’s febrile imagination. Lily sparkled as incandescently as a star. Healthy and vibrant, she was a perfect flower with her graceful posture, fine bones and hardy laugh. She smelled wonderful, too.

“That’ll be all,” Griffin remarked harsher than necessary.

Sloane colored and slid the emptied tray under an arm. “Good day to you both.”

When he’d gone, Griffin gestured for her to sit. “Please.” He held a chair and she slid into it. Along with Church and Sloane, his desire for her remained as fundamental as a need for food and water. His standard of behavior would have to rise if he hoped to display more manners and control than the lust-crazed crew.

After she’d ladled the steaming concoction in each of their bowls, she sampled a bite. Her eyes closed, her face beamed in rapture. “Hmmm.” Satisfaction purred in her throat like a petted cat and stirred his wish to stroke her hair and shoulders.

“I’m glad you enjoy it.” His voice sounded raw and for both their sakes, he would not give in to his base urges. As she gleefully gobbled another bite, he joined her in the repast. “It is tasty.” A flavorful burst of thyme and rosemary mingled with the tender meat.

Her light laugh conjured the sweet middle notes of a violin. “You must think I have no manners.” The piece of bread she dipped into the stew disappeared into her mouth.

“No. No. A meal should be a…” He hesitated to state the obvious. “A sensual experience. Enjoy all you like.”

Smiling agreeably, she broke off another crust of bread. “What I enjoyed is your Mr. Picking’s Guinea.”

“Oh?” He’d given her the story to read yesterday morning. “I worried it would bore and put you to sleep.”

“It’s very humorous.”

He cocked a dubious brow. “It’s an essay on virtue.”

“Now that you mention it…” Her eyes danced. “The young boy in the story is quite virtuous. No doubt he was modeled after you.” She compressed her lips, trying not to laugh.

“The child’s a troublemaker.”

A light snort conveyed her disbelief. “Surely you weren’t a bad boy. Who would dare punish you?”

“My father…” He shivered with exaggerated drama. “Brutal, he was.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“And there was Cook. I couldn’t keep my grabbers away from her ginger cookies or her apple pies.”

“Apple pies? I shall make a point to remember.” She hitched her brows, playful and light-hearted, filling him with joy.

“And who could forget the sadistic teachers.” He ripped of a hunk of bread.

“Oh, pooh. You can’t mean my father.”

He took a moment to think on the matter. “You’re right. By the time Henry Fitzhugh agreed to tutor me, I’d figured it was in my best interests to understand my studies.”

“If I recall correctly, familiarity with the material was not always the case.”

He sighed noisily for effect. “Leave it to the little tutor to remind me of my shortcomings.”

“Little tutor?”

“Elliot and I called you Little Tutor. I lived in fear one day you would jump upon the desk and shriek like a rooster. I would have been mortified to cry in front of you.”

“Bosh.” She pouted in a playful manner and triggered another desire to kiss. “Surely I didn’t terrify you?”

Griffin chuckled. “You were so earnest in your duties.”

“I liked helping Papa.”

“And thus earned his approval?”

“You make me sound so desperate and needy. My father is a good man. He loves me.”

In a flash, her gay mood disappeared. Her expression went slack. Shoulders drooping, she stared into space and absently traced the handle of her spoon.

Damn the man who’d caused her such unhappiness. No longer hungry, he pushed away his half-eaten food. Maybe a story would help cheer her. “I remember a rainy day when Elliot and Rebecca were playing in the kitchen. Cook told them to stop but they disobeyed. Rebecca lobbed a rag ball to Elliot, who reached for it and missed. It landed in a golden, crusty pie Cook had just taken from the oven.”

“Oh, no.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

“In one moment of sheer anguish, the pie toppled to the floor. Apples, crumbs and juice mingled with the broken crockery. And who should walk in just then?”

She sat forward in her chair. “Your mother?”

Griffin smiled ruefully. “She could be fierce but it was the big man himself who marched in. ‘Well,’ my father barked. ‘What have you to say?’ Elliott went white, and Rebecca shook like a sapling in a stiff gale.” He smiled, pleased to have her complete attention. “I worried Rebecca would purge her breakfast and Elliot would faint. I couldn’t stand to see it. Before I could stop myself, I’d confessed.” Even after all these years, Griffin still found his action unbelievable.

“You protected them. Why?”

He shrugged. “It was for Rebecca’s sake. She was so young. Elliott, almost five years older, should have realized the risk.”

“What happened next?”

“For the next week, Elliott and I mucked out the stable. It was one of the hottest weeks of the summer. You can imagine the stench and flies.” He made a sour face much to her amusement. “I hated Elliot for being such an idiot.” He grinned. “So you see, even virtue has its pitfalls.”

Her laughter spun notes of heaven. Suddenly his long-ago punishment seemed worthwhile.

“How precious,” she said, all gaiety and light. “You do have the knack for amusing tales. I can see why you’re a writer.”

Any compliment from her was a gift.

She dropped her chin in her hand, suddenly serious. “Do you ever write about the conflict in the Colonies?”

Not this again. For sound reasons, he couldn’t reveal his political commentaries written under the pseudonym of Fairley. “A person foolish enough to pen political opinions is likely to get tarred and feathered.”

“Tarred and feathered,” she scoffed. “What savages these radicals are to treat a man so. David and Uncle Percy often talked of the horrific crimes committed by the rebels—the destruction of property, the treasonous lies. Those so-called patriots have no regard for the law.”

Griffin’s fingers squeezed tighter around the pewter cup as he scrambled for a suitable response to maintain his cover.

“I’ve read pieces in the broadsheets,” she said before he’d found his voice. “One writer wrote so eloquently about the rights of man, even suggesting all men should have equal rights under the law.” She wiped at the glistening remnants of stew with a piece of bread. “I’ve never been treated as an equal. Imagine the day a man sees a woman his equal.” She sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t it be a world to embrace?”

Her grace and sensitivity rendered him speechless. A lover of women, he cherished and respected them. He would do anything to see a woman cared for and protected. Why any woman would want the demanding trappings of a man simply puzzled him.

“There’s a revolutionary slant to this author’s writing.” Her knowledge of political writers surprised him. “He even hinted that the King is a tyrant. Called him a silly popinjay.” She pushed away her bowl and gave him a direct look. “G. A. Fairley is the writer’s name.”

Griffin’s heart stopped. A moment later it kicked in with alarming speed. Could she have guessed he wrote under the name of Fairley? He did his best to assume a bland expression. “No doubt the man is intelligent and amusing.”

“Oh, he is.” A canny smile played at her lips. “Very amusing.”

Her sudden intense scrutiny, as if she might see through his façade made him twitchy. The woman was too clever by half. He held her gaze, determined to have no further cloak and dagger intrigue between them today.