Page 11 of Only By Grace
“How so? Is there going to be a storm?” Her eyes darted to the window and she could see a few clouds forming, but that was not so unusual for an afternoon in England. If they were even near England. She assumed Ireland’s weather was much the same, but perhaps it was different on the sea.
“I’m not certain, but I trust the quartermaster. He can feel it in his bones, ’e says. ’E’s been on a ship his whole life.”
Grace nodded because she was unsure of what to say to that. One of their old retainers back at Halbury Hall had predicted cold weather in much the same way.
“What happens if there is a storm?”
The boy shrugged as he stroked Theodore’s fur. “Depends. Sometimes they make me go below if it’s bad enough.”
The thought of the rough crew caring enough about this young boy to ensure his safety warmed her heart. Perhaps they were not so bad after all, even if the sight of them did scare her.
“Do you like to read a lot?” He pointed to the book she had left on the seat.
“It is one of my favourite things in the world.”
“The Cap’n makes us learn our letters, me and Barry. That and we ’ave—have—to learn to speak English proper.”
Grace smiled as he struggled with his aitches. She assumed Barry was another young boy. She did not know why Carew’s insistence on education should surprise her so much, but it did. It was not common for the lower classes to read or write, but Westwood also did the same with his servants.
“He says it will give us better ’tunities later.”
Grace smiled at the boy’s efforts to use the big word. “Indeed, I believe he is correct in that.”
“I best get back to my duties,” he said with a heavy sigh.
As he turned to leave, Grace remembered something. “Paddy, would you see if you can find me a stick, a piece of string about this long,” she held her arms out wide, “and perhaps a feather?”
The boy looked at her as if she were daft before remembering himself. Then she could see him trying to think of where to find those things. “I think I can. The string will be the easiest,” he remarked, and then seemed to hurry away with excitement.
Grace laughed as she set to her meal of a simple stew with bread. The boy’s exuberance reminded her of Joy.
Ronan watchedthe quickly changing skies and cursed. He’d intended to bring Miss Grace on deck so she could have some fresh air and stretch her legs, and now there was not much time. He turned and hurried towards his cabin, which was odd in and of itself because he never hurried anywhere.
He opened the door without knocking because, well, it was his cabin and he could not imagine Grace Whitford doing anything in there he’d need to knock for.
It took him a moment to find her, but she was sleeping on the narrow window seat, book open on her chest and the kitten in the bend of her legs. It was a rather charming scene if one were in the mood to be charmed. Ronan was not.
“What am I to do with you, Grace Whitford?” he murmured. His normal inclination was to flirt and tease women, which he meant absolutely nothing by. For some reason, Grace did not inspire flirtatious behaviour in him, though he could not say why. Although now that he knew what it was to anger her, the devil in him would very likely stoke that fire within her.
He stroked a finger down her cheek in an attempt to wake her, which was also playing with fire, but that porcelain skin was much too tempting to resist. She started a little, but did not wake. He bent over and began to whisper nonsensical Irish in her ear. Her face turned towards him, bringing their noses within an inch of each other, then her eyes opened wide.
They watched each other for a moment, blue eyes to blue, before she finally asked. “What are you doing?”
“I was trying to wake you.”
She set the book aside, then sat up and, gloriously dishevelled, moved the cat from her lap.
“To what purpose?”
“To escort you above deck before the weather changes.”
Apparently, that was the correct answer, for she smiled at him and slipped her feet into the dainty little slippers that women used as an excuse for footwear.
She stood too quickly and wobbled, then the boat lurched and threw her into the table. He only partially caught her, softening the landing a little. The feel of her in his arms was a bit too tempting for his own comfort. She was certainly more luscious than he would have expected by her slim frame, and the faint scent of lilacs about her was strangely alluring on her.
Thankfully, she seemed unmoved, and wholly unaware of his wayward thoughts, which was a very, very good thing.
Promptly, he helped her stand upright. “It takes a while to find your sea legs.”
