Page 20 of Unearthing the Smuggler's Heart
"Think nothing of it," she managed thinly.
He passed by her, giving her a chummy pat on the shoulder. "Enjoy your bath, Miss Ferris."
She frowned, listening to him make his way out, notably without the stack of his clothes that were still folded neatly next to the towels.
"Mathias," she said, spinning around with a sudden urge to stop him. She brought her fingers to her lips, wondering at her brazen use of his Christian name.
It was no matter. He hadn't heard it anyhow.
She was alone.
She undressed carefully, hesitating at stacking her clothes atop his before deciding to simply place her things on the floor.
She slid into the embrace of the hot water, her hair spiraling out around her in the expanse of the pool, and she sighed, looking up to the boarded ceiling.
She was in the same place he had been only moments ago, she thought. Her bare body occupied the same space his had occupied. Was there an intimacy in that?
She pondered it for the remainder of her time, questions rolling over in her mind as she lathered her hair and dragged the sweet rosemary soap over her limbs. She wondered it still as she sat, soaking in the soapy water at the very tail end of the hour, and when it was time to return to bed, she had still not found her answer.
CHAPTER9
There was grime on the deck.
Mathias wasn't sure what he was feeling.
Was it surprise? Annoyance? Indignation?
It was impossible to label because it was so alien, and because there wasnevergrime on the deck.
TheHarpywas a demanding mistress, and up until this particular moment, her needs had always been dutifully met, at least so far as Mathias was aware.
The last few days had been...well, they'd been a damned annoyance! And he wasn't entirely certain what to do with that annoyance, because he couldn't quite put his finger on its cause, which only exacerbated the thing.
He intended to dump the entire emotional quandary on Isabelle at the first opportunity, but she had been damned hard to track down. As far as he could tell, she had been repeatedly sneaking off to indulge in extra sleep, which was most out of character for a woman who usually brimmed with so much energy that, in previous journeys, she'd learned how to do every job on the ship, from swabbing to steering. She had become a familiar comfort on missions between England and France, an ever enthusiastic partner in Silver Leaf undertakings, which were often mundane smuggling runs.
Instead of Isabelle, it had been Miss Ferris flitting about his decks. Miss Ferris, meddling in operations with her ridiculous mane of hair swirling and lifting in the sea breeze, likely distracting every man on board. The glints of gold that caught at her crown in the sun had gotten brighter, as though the more warmth they absorbed, the more gilded she became. Her skin had even taken on a hue not unlike a chest of treasure, making the green of her eyes all the more startling when she deigned to look his way.
Which she hadn't, really. Not since that day in the cargo hold. She looked at him if he spoke to her, over meals or in passing, but never sought him out herself. The woman herself was an absolute contradiction in Mathias's mind, too many features and facets clashing together, creating a tangle of mystery rather than simply a girl. A girl could be charmed, befriended. Miss Ferris was something else entirely.
If you have questions, I will happily answer them.
Oh, he had questions, all right.
He hadn't gotten around to testing the little miss's brash and challenging statement just yet, and he dearly wanted to. He almost had, in the moment. That night in the cargo hold had changed something. It was a memory that kept creeping up on him, unbidden, at the most inopportune of times. He hadn’t been able to shake it off, and he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to.
He felt that flash of annoyance again, though whether it was due to the direction of his thoughts or the grimy deck, he could not say. Something about the streaks of mildew sitting out in the sunlight for all to see had well and truly sparked his ire.
He was not a man easily rattled. He was not a man rattled at all, truth be told. It had led to more than one person taking a swing at him in his life. Calmness and good humor, apparently, could be most infuriating.
Two years ago, during a rather unpleasant early winter, he had been imprisoned outside of Lisbon during a rather important (and badly failed) military mission for the Silver Leaf. While jailed, he had managed to infuriate a contingent of Portuguese prison guards so badly that, in just over a month, they had kicked him out of the jail and onto the street.
That is how intolerable his sunny outlook could be.
It was more than that, of course. He had been aggressive in his cheerfulness, blatant in his jests, timing them at moments when anyone else might have shattered. They had hurt him before they'd freed him. In the end, it was a matter of perseverance, and freedom had not been the end of his suffering. After all, one could almost call it a death sentence, taking everything from a man, right down to his jacket and shoes, and leaving him to fend for himself in a foreign land at Christmas.
He had survived, though.
He had survived without ever compromising his willingness to smile in the face of enmity. The frustration and befuddlement of those who crossed Mathias had always seemed to him the most enjoyable sort of revenge. Could one even call it antagonism when it was solaissez-faire?
