Page 8 of The Storybook Hero
“I don’t wish to discuss it, especially with a stranger,” she said curtly. “As if you aren’t acquainted with the ways menmay force what they wish upon females.” His simple inquiry, however, had suddenly stirred up all the anger of the last few months that was pent up inside her. Giving vent to her feelings, she went on. “Really, what an incredibly stupid question. Are all of you men so thick that you don’t see what little choice a female has in life? What rights do I have? I can own no property, I have no voice in what laws govern me, I can seek no interesting employment. And,” she added for good measure, “if I were leg-shackled it would be even worse!”
He looked at her with interest. “Ah, a sympathizer with the ideas of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, no doubt.”
“What halfway intelligent female wouldn’t be? There are any number of sensible ideas in her writings.” As she spoke, it struck her that, given the circumstances, this was turning into a most peculiar conversation.
“You have an interesting point. Have you considered?—”
At that moment, a monstrous wave crashed into the side of the ship, sending a strong tremor through the oaken timbers. The man winced, and his gaze searched wildly for his lost bottle. “The devil take it! My brandy,” he croaked thickly. “Where’s my brandy.”
Octavia was about to answer with a scathing reply when she caught sight of the rigid set of his jaw and the haunted look that had suddenly dulled the unusual blue of his eyes. Another shudder of the hull caused his face to spasm and he cringed, as if in anticipation of a physical blow.
It was the storm, she suddenly realized with a start. Its effect on him was wrenching—she could almost feel the terrible tension stiffening his limbs. In the flickering shadows she saw him blink, and in that instant, a wrenching look of raw need replaced the studied nonchalance of a hardened wastrel. Then the shadows moved once again, casting the plane of his chiseled profile in darkness.
She sensed the fleeting emotion she had just witnessed had nothing to do with physical fear. It was something infinitely more complex than that made him seem very vulnerable and very alone. For some reason, she felt a twinge of sympathy in her breast.
“This storm is truly upsetting you, is it not?”
Another resounding crash tore a wild oath from his lips. The lamp swung wildly, then went out, leaving them in pitch blackness.
“Sir, let me help you to your cabin. Perhaps you would feel better there.” Octavia felt her way over to him and touched his arm.
He gave a low groan and clutched at the collar of his coat. “For God’s sake, don’t let go of me,” he said thickly.
Octavia wedged herself in beside him and slipped her arm around his shoulders. “Very well, I won’t let go.” His head fell against her breast. Through the thick wool of her coat she could feel the racing of his pulse and hear the raggedness of his breathing. She raised a hand and threaded her fingers through his tangled locks, brushing them off his forehead. Beads of sweat clung to his temples, despite the chill air. “
“It will pass,” she whispered.
He made some incoherent mutter in return, stirring in some agitation, but only to settle himself closer. One of his legs came over hers while his arms crept back around her waist. If anyone were to come along and see such a scandalous sight … She was thankful that the lamp had been doused and that the only sound of movement was the muffled tramping on the deck above.
Octavia had no idea how long she sat in such a compromising position, but her presence seemed to bring a modicum of comfort to her companion, so she made no effort to move. Neither did she attempt to converse. Only when the force of the storm gave signs of abating did she give a gentle shake to theman’s shoulder. “Sir, I believe the worst is over. We cannot sit here all night. You must get up and let me help you to your cabin.”
Her words finally seemed to roust him from his stupor. He groped for a handhold and slowly pulled himself to his feet, her arm still steadying his progress.
“Which way?” she demanded.
“I … I’m not sure,” came the vague reply.
“Well,think!”
He swayed slightly. “Ah … left.”
“Then move, sir! I cannot carry you there.”
He stumbled forward, leaning heavily on Octavia’s shoulder. Somehow, she kept him upright, despite the constant pitch and roll.
“It’s this one,” he said, a bit uncertainly as he lurched to a stop before one of the tiny cabins. “At least, I think it is.”
She opened the door a crack, praying that he was right. The last thing she needed was to be observed with a thoroughly foxed man hanging around her neck. Thankfully, the tiny space was indeed empty. She shoved him inside, then quickly pulled the door shut behind them. Only then did it occur to her that matters would be even worse if she was seen leaving his cabin.
“Oh, damnation,” she muttered to herself. At least it was dark in the narrow passageway so the chances of being caught were slim. In any case, there was little to do about it now. “Will you be all right? Do you need some assistance in removing your coat?”
He appeared to have regained control of his emotions, for the half-mocking, sensuous smile had returned. “It is a tempting offer, my dear, but I do not relish another encounter with a certain part of your anatomy.” He grabbed hold of the side of his narrow berth to steady himself. “However there are other parts I would dearly love to feel,” he couldn’t resist adding.
Her face flamed. “Let me out of here.”
He made no attempt to stop her. “Before you go, would you be so kind as to pass me a bottle of brandy from the chest behind you?”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
