Page 8 of The Pirate's Stolen Bride
God, she missed being still. Her lungs ached. Every once in a while she would emit a hacking, burning, cough. She jerked half-upright at the sound of creaking hinges.
“It is me, your ladyship. We are nearly through the storm, now.” He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged the iron pot from her weak grip. “I see you found the sick bucket. Well done. Here. Drink this.”
Harriet sipped cold, clear water with a soft moan.
“I will make you tea,” he said. He was being so nice all of a sudden. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “After I change clothes,” he added.
Maybe not so nice, after all. “Can you do that elsewhere?”
“No. This is the only dry place on the ship.”
“Fine. I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
She did. Mostly. She had never seen a man naked before. Curiosity was only natural. She didn’t want to think about the damage his kidnapping was doing to her reputation. There was a very good chance that Lord Lucarran wouldn’t want to marry her after all of this.
A queasy part of her wondered if Uncle Monty would get his dander up and insist Rémy marry her himself.
Was this kidnapping ultimately an extortion scheme? While her dowry had barely been sufficient to attract one aged earl, it was probably more than enough to tempt a pirate.
Her roiling stomach sank, which was odd. It wasn’t as if she wanted the pirate’s affections. She didn’t want him at all.
Rémy bent over. Harriet spread her fingers slightly. Fine. Maybe she did want him a tiny bit. Her wallowing cost her the sight of him discarding his old trousers, though she got a decent peek at his bottom as he pulled on fresh ones. Facing away from her, he fastened his pants and reached for a fresh shirt. The flickering light from a hanging lantern lovingly traced the play of his muscles as he tugged it over his head and stuffed it into the waistband. A sigh escaped her.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked without turning.
“I was not…you utter beast!” she seethed, her face burning. Harriet yanked the pillow over her head, but this was no improvement, for it smelled of him. A squirmy feeling between her thighs made her wish he would go away so she could attend to herself in private.
“You like it.” He smiled knowingly over his shoulder as he exited the room, as if he could sense her unwanted physical reaction.
“I assure you, I do not,” she insisted as loftily as she could manage from beneath cotton and feathers. His parting chuckle prompted her to toss the pillow at his retreating back.
A wordless noise of frustration burst out of her.
“What am I doing?” she asked the lamp, her only company. “When we left Polperro this morning, I did not expect to find myself stolen by a pirate, dunked into the ocean, fished out like an unlucky mackerel, slapped awake and forced to wear nothing but a man’s shirt while lying in his bed. I did not plan for any of these calamities, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to get out of this mess.” She sighed. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t tried to help him, none of this would have happened. I would be on my way to marry Lord Lucarran and Rémy would be where he belongs. In irons, behind bars.”
Except that part of her couldn’t imagine a vital, vibrant man like him in chains. Rémy was a scoundrel and, if not actually a pirate, then very close to it, but she had never met anyone who faced life’s adversities with a glint of mischief in his eye. Like it was all a grand joke.
He was a stark contrast to her husband-to-be. The one time she’d met him, Lord Lucarran hadn’t cracked a smile the entire time. He’d stated his expectations for her behavior—meek obedience and the production of many children, as if she were a mare he’d bought at auction for breeding—while unsubtly leering at her breasts. Not that Harriet could claim much in the way of bosoms. Her frame was slight and straight, like a dressmaker’s mannequin.
Lucarran had commented witheringly on her looks, too. She’d been so ashamed, but he was one to talk. Fifty if he was a day, with several teeth missing and rancid breath to show why. Lack of dental care or poor luck was one thing, but to simply neglect his personal hygiene? What else did he fail to clean regularly?
Harriet shuddered. She shouldn’t have said yes to his proposal. Uncle Monty had made it very clear that he’d gone out of his way to find a match for her, and if this one wasn’t to her liking, she would not get another opportunity.
She’d weighed the choice of being a spinster, forever dependent upon her family’s largesse, against the prospect of having children of her own, and despite her misgivings, chose the latter.
Then, along came Rémy, with his crinkling eyes and impulsiveness, who stirred feelings in her Harriet had no idea what to do with.
A knock at the door had her scrambling to yank the blanket off the bed. She wrapped it around herself and wedged her body into the bench seat, shivering.
Rémy ducked into the room carrying a tray with a pot, two mismatched teacups, and a small bowl.
“No milk.” He placed it on the table. “You’ll have to do without.”
“I don’t mind.” She unwound her arms from her blanket cocoon and poured, spilling slightly when the boat rolled unexpectedly and the tray slid a few inches. Wordlessly, Rémy pushed it back into place. The built-in table and bench were so small that his knees kept bumping hers.
Was it on purpose?
She kicked his shin. His eyes flared wide with surprise, then narrowed at her. “What was that for?”
