"That's probably very wise." He held out his hand. "Come here anyway."

"No."

"Why must everything be a battle with you? Why can't you merely say yes, Captain, and do as I've asked?"

"I've never been able to behave that way."

"Why am I not surprised?"

He stood and went over to her, and in a quick move, he bent down, scooped her up, and carried her to the bunk. She kicked and hissed, but she was light as a feather, and no match for his greater strength.

He dropped her onto the mattress, then came down after her, so she was wedged into the narrow s.p.a.ce between him and the wall. He pulled her near and draped her across his torso, her cheek pressed to his bare chest.

She raised up on an elbow and glowered at him. "I won't lie in this bed with you."

"You have to. As I already explained, you're my prisoner. I'm simply guaranteeing you stay put. Now be still."

"No."

She started fussing again, but she couldn't escape.

"You're as wiggly as a belly dancer in a harem," he said.

She snorted. "A situation with which I'm sure you're intimately familiar."

"I won't deny it."

"I can be just as captive over there"-she pointed to the corner-"as I can be over here."

"But I have to get some rest, and I can't have you roaming about the cabin while I do it."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid you might find a weapon and kill me in my sleep."

"I wish I'd thought of that."

She slumped down and tried to scoot away from him so their bodies weren't touching, but there was nowhere for her to go. She squirmed and struggled, but his arms were like an iron vice, and eventually, she gave up.

"I'm hungry," she complained.

"It's easy to be fed. Tell me your last name. Tell me why you climbed onto my ship."

She stared, dogged and recalcitrant, as she changed the subject.

"I need to wash, too."

"You certainly do. I can smell you at ten paces."

She jabbed him in the ribs. "We're not all as lucky as you. We can't all bathe whenever we choose."

"No, we can't. Why is that? You seem to me to be a girl who'd wash regular. What's happened to throw you into such a decrepit state?"

"I'm fine," she a.s.serted.

"Suit yourself, but with that att.i.tude of yours, you'll starve."

"Beast."

"Witch."

He shut his eyes, reveling in the unusual circ.u.mstance her arrival had created.

He told her she was too skinny, but on further reflection, he decided she was just about perfect, and it occurred to him that her appearance wasn't the disaster he'd originally deemed it to be.

For a long while, he'd been discontented, and he'd blamed it on his approaching marriage. He didn't really want to wed Miranda. She was like a perky little sister who bored him with her prattling, and he worried about their age difference. In the coming years, what would they talk about?

The answer to that question terrified him.

When they were together-which wasn't often-it was clear they had nothing in common save for the fact that she had a lot of money and he needed it.

The wedding was in four months. Four short, fleet months that were pa.s.sing like the wind.

Why not spend them in a pleasurable fashion? Why not have a fling and purge himself of his disgruntlement?

Harriet was feisty and entertaining, and she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. She could be the cure for what ailed him.

He dozed off, with Harriet beside him and a satisfied smile on his face.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Where-exactly-did you get that dress?"

"I bought it. Where would you suppose?"

Helen told the lie with a straight face. Of course Miranda was dubious. The gown was not an item of clothing that a lady's companion could ever afford to purchase, not if she saved her entire life.

It had been sown by London's most popular seamstress, and it was constructed of a shimmery, greenish-silver fabric that changed hue whenever Helen moved. Although it was modest in design, with a high bodice and long sleeves, it was very beautiful and the finest thing she had ever owned.

Currently, Westwood was hosting a supper, and he'd coaxed her into attending, as well as wearing the dress that had been delivered. She'd understood that it would cause a stir, so she had waited until the last second to come down to the party.

The garment was very fetching, enhancing her skin tone and figure and setting off the color of her hair and eyes. As a result, male guests were glancing at her with more than a pa.s.sing interest, which she hated.

She didn't want Westwood's guests noticing her, didn't want to be singled out or to become the center of attention. But by attiring herself beyond her station, it was impossible to remain anonymous.

"You bought it?" Miranda oozed skepticism. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"In that case, it's obvious James is paying you too much money. I'll have to speak with him."

Helen shrugged, refusing to be drawn into a public quarrel. Miranda was incensed by Helen's presence at the soiree, but Westwood had invited her, so Miranda couldn't overrule his decision.

The meal was finished, and Westwood was across the room, chatting with a group of men. Helen tried not to watch him, but it was difficult to feign indifference. She was growing dangerously enamored, and she didn't know how to quell her burgeoning fascination.

After their kiss on the ride home in the carriage, she'd been panicked about how they'd interact in the future, but she hadn't needed to worry. After the fleet, emotional encounter, he'd vanished, and days had sped by without her laying eyes on him.

She'd been relieved and hurt in equal measure, but she'd pretended his absence didn't matter, and it truly didn't. She had no claims on his schedule or affection, and she'd been managing quite well, but then earlier that morning, she'd b.u.mped into him in an upstairs hall.

He'd given her a red rose and asked her to the fte, and Helen had sighed and said she would come.

Pitiful as it sounded, she was enjoying their heightened relations, and when her existence had been so awful for so many years, she couldn't resist his discreet seduction. She wanted the things he gave her-both the chattels and the personal gestures-and she couldn't muster the fort.i.tude to decline what was offered.

Her sudden lack of will was terrifying. She had no idea where it would lead, but she was certain that it would be to disaster.

Miranda leaned nearer and furiously whispered, "James has arranged for dancing."

"How nice."

"Don't you dare embarra.s.s me by joining in."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Miranda flounced off, headed straight for James. She wedged herself into the crowd surrounding him, and she slipped her hand into his arm as if she belonged with him, as if they were a couple. The sight made Helen unaccountably jealous, which was ridiculous, and she glanced away.

She had no bond with Westwood, and she couldn't let herself be so strongly influenced by whatever he or Miranda chose to do.

As proof that dancing was about to begin, a quartet was tuning their violins in the next parlor. The furniture had been shoved back to clear the floor.

Helen had no doubt that she'd be asked to dance, and while she yearned to take part, her partic.i.p.ation would aggravate Miranda to an unnecessary frenzy.

She worked her way over to the double doors that led out onto the verandah, and she walked outside. The moon was up, the temperature balmy, so she didn't need a shawl. She went to the stairs and down into the yard. The gardeners had placed lanterns on the paths, and she continued on to the far end and sat on a bench.

The windows across the rear of the mansion were open, light from hundreds of candles spilling out. The orchestra's lively melody wafted toward her. The scene was magical, and she should have been ecstatic to be included, but as she observed, she suffered the worst wave of nostalgia.

She missed Harriet. She hadn't seen her sister in weeks, which was always troubling, and for several days, she'd been very anxious, feeling that something had happened to Harriet. They were very close, and as twins, they had a mental connection that others didn't share. But it was more than apprehension over her sibling that had her so wistful.

Her life should have been similar to this, one of ease and parties and wealthy friends. While her grandfather hadn't been a n.o.bleman, he'd been affluent, had owned a prosperous country estate, had fraternized in the highest circles of society.

She should have been a cherished granddaughter, should have had a marvelous childhood, then a fancy debut. There should have been a substantial dowry and marriage to a second or third son from a prominent family.

If matters had progressed as they ought, she might have had children already, and in recent months, the fact that she didn't, the thought of what might have been, was weighing heavily.

Up on the verandah-to her surprise-Westwood stepped outside. He strolled to the bal.u.s.trade and peered across the yard. Helen was far away and hidden by the shadows, but he seemed to be gazing right at her.

Like a silly, besotted girl, her pulse raced as she wondered if he'd come out specifically to find her. What if he had? What did it mean? What would he do? What should she do?

As if he sensed her location, he walked down into the garden and headed directly toward her. Shortly, he appeared on the path.

They stared silently, both knowing it was dangerous for him to be there, but neither wanting to be the one to say so.

"Why are you out here all alone?" he inquired.

"I just needed some time by myself."

"I looked around, and I didn't see you. I was worried."

"I'm fine."

At his statement, her heart pounded again. He shouldn't have been thinking about her at all. He shouldn't have been watching her, shouldn't have noted that she'd sneaked away. But he had, and at having his fondness so blatantly revealed, she couldn't fight the surge of happiness that swept through her.

"The dancing started," he pointed out.

"I can hear the music. It sounds lovely."

"I was going to ask you."

"To dance?"

"Yes.

She scoffed. "You couldn't have."

"Why not?"

"I'm your ward's companion. People would have been scandalized."

"How many times must I tell you that it's my house, and I can act however I please?"

"I believe I've mentioned this before: You are mad."

He grinned. "You wore the dress."

"Yes, I did."

"You're very beautiful in it-as beautiful as I knew you would be when I picked it out."

"Thank you."

It was another indication of his elevated interest, and she couldn't picture him with a seamstress, discussing fabrics and styles. Why had he noticed her? Why had he singled her out?

He was a rich, unwed earl. He could have any woman in the world. Why would he want her? It was too bizarre to be true.