Gentle Rogue
Page 15
the tray and swiped it up, heading for the door. But she didn't quite reach it before the captain's deep voice floated out to her.
"I need my robe, Georgie."
His robe? Where had she put it? Oh, yes, she'd hung it in the cabinet, a thin piece of emerald silk that likely wouldn't fall past his knees. It certainly wouldn't offer any warmth. She'd wondered when she'd seen it earlier what it was even used for. But when she couldn't find any nightshirts in the captain's belongings, she decided he must sleep in it.
She returned the tray to the table, quickly grabbed the robe out of the cabinet, and nearly ran across the room to toss it over the screen. But she'd no sooner pivoted back toward the table when she heard from him again.
"Come around here, lad."
Oh, no. No and no again. She didn't want to see him relaxed. She didn't want to see the glistening skin she had just pictured in her mind.
"I have to fetch my hammock, sir."
"It can wait."
"But I don't want to disturb you setting it up."
"You won't."
"But—"
"Come here , Georgie." She heard the impatience in his voice. "This will only take a minute."
She glanced wistfully at the door, her only escape. Even a knock just then would save her from having to go behind that screen, but there was no knock, no escape. He'd made it an order.
She gave herself a mental shake and stiffened her spine. What was she afraid of, anyway? She'd seen her brothers at their baths, and at all ages, too. She'd fetched towels for them, washed their hair for them, even washed Boyd entirely that time he burned both hands. Of course, he'd only been ten and she six, but it wasn't as if she'd never seen a man unclothed. With five brothers under her roof, it was a wonder she hadn't had more than just one or two embarrassing glimpses in all these years.
"Georgie ..."
"I'm coming, for God's ... I mean—" She came around the screen. "What can I do ... for ... you?"
Oh, God, it just wasn't the same. He wasn't her brother. He was a big, handsome man who was no relation to her at all. And his skin was glistening wet bronze, and stretched so tautly over those bricklike muscles, bulging muscles. His hair hadn't wilted, either. It was too thick to wilt, except for a few strands that curled damply over his forehead. She might think of him as an ox, but only because he was so big and broad. He was indeed broad, but solid. She doubted there was a soft part on his whole body . . .
except maybe one. She flamed at the thought, and prayed fervently he didn't notice.
"What the devil is wrong with you, youngun?"
She'd annoyed him, obviously, in not coming immediately. She lowered her eyes to the floor, a safe place at the moment, and hoped she looked suitably contrite.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'll learn to move quicker."
"See that you do. Here."
The washrag with the soap inside it hit her square in the chest. The soap dropped to the floor. She caught the rag. Her eyes were now huge circles of dread.
"You want a new one?" she asked hopefully.
She heard a snort. "That one will do just fine. Come and wash my back with it."
She'd been afraid he was going to say something like that. She couldn't do it. Get close to that na**d skin? Touch it? How could she? But you're a boy, Georgie, and he's a man. He sees nothing wrong in asking you to wash his back, and there wouldn't be, if you were a boy.
"Getting your ears boxed affected your hearing, did it?"
"Yes ... I mean, no." She sighed. "It's been a long day, Captain."
"And nervous tension can wear a boy out. I understand perfectly, lad. You can turn in early, since I've nothing more for you to do tonight . . . after you do my back."
She stiffened. She'd thought for a second there that she was getting a reprieve, but she should have known better. All right, she'd wash his blasted back. What choice did she have? And maybe she could take some skin off while doing it.
She swiped up the soap and came around the end of the tub. He leaned forward as she did, so when she got there, his entire back was presented to her, so long, so wide, so ... masculine. The water, as much as she'd poured in, still only rose up a few inches above his hips, the tub was so big. And it wasn't murky. The man had nice buttocks.
She caught herself staring, just staring, and wondered for how long. Not long, or he would have said something, impatient devil that he was.
Annoyed with herself, furious with him for making her do this, she slammed the washrag into the water,
then mutilated the soap with it until she had enough suds to wash ten bodies. This she slapped against his back, then began to rub with all her might. He didn't say a word. And she began to feel guilty after a moment, seeing the red marks she was leaving behind.
She eased the pressure, and her anger eased with it. She was staring again, fascinated at the gooseflesh that appeared if she touched a sensitive spot, watching the dark bronze skin disappear under bubbles, then reappear as they popped. The cloth was so thin, it was almost as if it weren't there, as if there was nothing between her hand and his slick skin. Her movements became slower. She was washing areas she'd already washed.
And then it happened. The food she'd gulped down while waiting for the bathwater to boil in the galley was starting to churn in her stomach. It was the weirdest feeling, but she didn't doubt for a moment that it was going to be full-fledged nausea. And she'd be mortified if she threw up again in his presence. Can I help it if it makes me sick to get near you, Captain? That would really go over well, wouldn't it?
"I'm finished, sir." She handed the washrag over his shoulder.
He didn't take it. "Not quite, lad. My lower back."
Her eyes dropped to that area, streaked with suds that had dribbled down. But she couldn't actually remember if she'd washed there or not. She attacked it swiftly, relieved that enough suds floated in the water now that she could no longer see through it. She even plunged the cloth the few inches below the water to the very base of his spine, giving him no excuse to say she hadn't done a thorough job. But she had to bend way down to reach it, bringing her closer to him, so close she could smell his hair. She could smell his clean body, too. And she had no trouble hearing his groan.
She jerked back so fast, she hit the wall behind her.
He jerked around just as fast to stare up at her. The heat in his eyes impaled her where she was.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I didn't."
"Be easy, Georgie." He turned back around, dropping his head onto his raised knees. "It's just a minor .
. . stiffness. Nothing you could have known about. Go on, I can finish easily enough now."
She bit her lip. The man sounded as if he were in pain. She ought to be glad, but for some reason she wasn't. For some reason she had an urge to ... to what? Soothe his hurt? Had she gone absolutely mad?
She got out of there as fast as she could.
Chapter Seventeen
James was on his second glass of brandy by the time Georgie returned to the cabin. He had himself in hand again but was still smarting over how easily the girl's innocent touch had aroused him. Talk about well-laid plans gone down the bloody drain. He'd meant to have her rinse him, to hand him his towel, to help him into his robe. He meant to see those pretty cheeks blush with color. Instead, he would have been the one with the hot cheeks if he'd stood up at that point. He'd never in his life suffered an embarrassment over an honest reaction of his body, and he wouldn't have this time, except that to her mind, his reaction would have been caused by a boy.
Damnation, what a coil, when the game was to have been so simple. The advantage was to be his, while she was between wind and water as they say, which was a vulnerable position. He'd envisioned seducing her with his manly form, until she would be so overcome with lust that she would toss off her cap and implore him to take her. A splendid fantasy, where he would play the innocent, unsuspecting male attacked by his wanton cabin boy. He would protest. She would beg sweetly for his body. He would then do the gentlemanly thing and give in.
But how was any of that to come about if the old John Henry raised his head every time she got near?
And if she happened to notice, the darling chit would think he had a fondness for boys, and that wouldn't inspire anything in her but disgust. Bloody hell, he'd have her confessing who she was just so he wouldn 't get any ideas.
His eyes followed her as she crossed over to the corner he'd assigned her. She carried a canvas bag tucked under her arm, a hammock slung over her shoulder. The bag was fat enough to contain more than a few articles of boy's attire. There was likely a dress or two inside, and maybe something that would
shed some light on the mystery surrounding her.
He'd picked up a few more pieces of the puzzle tonight. Connie had pointed out the very natural way she'd said "fo'c'sle" instead of "forecastle." Only someone familiar with ships would use the abbreviated term, yet she'd claimed an ignorance of all things nautical.
And she called her brother Mac. Now there was a telling little tidbit, leading him to believe the Scot was no relation to her at all. Friends and acquaintances might call MacDonell Mac, but family would use his given name or some other nickname, not one that each family member could equally claim for himself, all being MacDonells. Yet she did have a brother or two. She'd mentioned them without having to think about it. So who was the Scot to her? Friend, lover . . . husband? By God, she'd better not have a lover.
She could have all the bloody husbands she liked, dozens for all he cared, but a lover was serious business, what he intended to be himself.
Georgina could feel his eyes on her as she hooked her hammock to the wall. She'd located him sitting behind his desk when she came in, but as he hadn't said anything to her, she didn't speak either; nor had she looked his way again. But that one glance . . .
He was wearing that emerald robe. She'd never realized what a splendid color emerald could be on the right person. On him it darkened the green of his eyes, highlighted the fairness of his blond locks, mellowed the deep bronze of his skin. And so much skin was visible. The closing V of the robe was so wide and deep, it barely covered his chest. A mat of golden hair sheened in the lamplight, from nipple to nipple, from above his chest to ... below.
Georgina pulled the high neckline of her shirt away from her skin. This blasted cabin seemed awfullyhot this evening. Her clothes felt more weighty, her bindings more uncomfortable. But the most she dared remove for sleeping was her boots. She did that now, sitting on the floor to pull them off and set them neatly up against the wall.
And she could still feel James Malory's eyes, watching her every movement.
Of course, she had to be imagining it. What reason would he have to watch her, unless . . . She glanced at her hammock and grinned. The captain was probably waiting to see her climb into her swinging bed and fall flat on her arse. He probably even had some droll comment ready to toss at her about clumsiness or inexperience, something really nasty and guaranteed to embarrass her. Well, not this time. She'd been in and out of hammocks since she could walk, had played in them as a child, napped in them when she was older and spent whole days on whatever Skylark ship was in port. There was less likelihood of her
falling out of one than out of a normal bed. The captain would just have to swallow his ridicule this time, and she hoped he'd choke doing it.
She settled into her swinging bunk with the ease of an old salt, then glanced quickly toward the desk in the opposite comer of the room, hoping to catch the captain's surprise. He was looking her way, but to her chagrin, his expression gave nothing away.
"You're not actually going to sleep in those clothes, are you, youngun?"
"Actually, Captain, I am."
She must have scored with that, for he was frowning now. "I didn't mean to give the impression you'd be in and out of bed all night long, you know. Did you assume so?"
"I didn't." She did, but everything he knew about her was a lie anyway, so what was one more? "I always sleep with my clothes on. I can't remember why I started doing so, it's been so long, but it's a habit now." And for good measure, just in case he had the audacity to suggest she change her habits, she added, "I doubt I could get to sleep without being fully clothed."
"Suit yourself. I have my sleeping habits, too, though I daresay they're quite the opposite of yours."
What was that supposed to mean? Georgina wondered, but didn't have long to find out. The man stood up, came around his desk heading for his bed, and stripped out of his robe on the way.
Oh, God, oh, God, this isn't happening to me. He's not strutting across the room na**d and giving me a full frontal view of him doing it.
But he was, and her female sensibilities were outraged. Yet she didn't squeeze her eyes shut, not immediately anyway. After all, this was not something she saw every day, not something she would likely have ever seen, for he was truly a splendid specimen of manhood right down to his toes. She couldn't deny it, no matter how much she wished he had some fleshy sides, or a pot belly, or a tiny . . .
Don't blush, you ninny. No one heard you think it but yourself, and you didn't even complete the thought.
So he's extra fine-looking in every respect. It's nothing to you.
Her eyes closed tight finally, but she'd already seen more than was good for her. His na**d image was not something she was likely to forget anytime soon. Devil take him, the man simply had no shame. No, that wasn't fair. She was supposed to be a boy. What was a little na**dness between males? An eye-popping experience for her, that's what.
"I need my robe, Georgie."
His robe? Where had she put it? Oh, yes, she'd hung it in the cabinet, a thin piece of emerald silk that likely wouldn't fall past his knees. It certainly wouldn't offer any warmth. She'd wondered when she'd seen it earlier what it was even used for. But when she couldn't find any nightshirts in the captain's belongings, she decided he must sleep in it.
She returned the tray to the table, quickly grabbed the robe out of the cabinet, and nearly ran across the room to toss it over the screen. But she'd no sooner pivoted back toward the table when she heard from him again.
"Come around here, lad."
Oh, no. No and no again. She didn't want to see him relaxed. She didn't want to see the glistening skin she had just pictured in her mind.
"I have to fetch my hammock, sir."
"It can wait."
"But I don't want to disturb you setting it up."
"You won't."
"But—"
"Come here , Georgie." She heard the impatience in his voice. "This will only take a minute."
She glanced wistfully at the door, her only escape. Even a knock just then would save her from having to go behind that screen, but there was no knock, no escape. He'd made it an order.
She gave herself a mental shake and stiffened her spine. What was she afraid of, anyway? She'd seen her brothers at their baths, and at all ages, too. She'd fetched towels for them, washed their hair for them, even washed Boyd entirely that time he burned both hands. Of course, he'd only been ten and she six, but it wasn't as if she'd never seen a man unclothed. With five brothers under her roof, it was a wonder she hadn't had more than just one or two embarrassing glimpses in all these years.
"Georgie ..."
"I'm coming, for God's ... I mean—" She came around the screen. "What can I do ... for ... you?"
Oh, God, it just wasn't the same. He wasn't her brother. He was a big, handsome man who was no relation to her at all. And his skin was glistening wet bronze, and stretched so tautly over those bricklike muscles, bulging muscles. His hair hadn't wilted, either. It was too thick to wilt, except for a few strands that curled damply over his forehead. She might think of him as an ox, but only because he was so big and broad. He was indeed broad, but solid. She doubted there was a soft part on his whole body . . .
except maybe one. She flamed at the thought, and prayed fervently he didn't notice.
"What the devil is wrong with you, youngun?"
She'd annoyed him, obviously, in not coming immediately. She lowered her eyes to the floor, a safe place at the moment, and hoped she looked suitably contrite.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'll learn to move quicker."
"See that you do. Here."
The washrag with the soap inside it hit her square in the chest. The soap dropped to the floor. She caught the rag. Her eyes were now huge circles of dread.
"You want a new one?" she asked hopefully.
She heard a snort. "That one will do just fine. Come and wash my back with it."
She'd been afraid he was going to say something like that. She couldn't do it. Get close to that na**d skin? Touch it? How could she? But you're a boy, Georgie, and he's a man. He sees nothing wrong in asking you to wash his back, and there wouldn't be, if you were a boy.
"Getting your ears boxed affected your hearing, did it?"
"Yes ... I mean, no." She sighed. "It's been a long day, Captain."
"And nervous tension can wear a boy out. I understand perfectly, lad. You can turn in early, since I've nothing more for you to do tonight . . . after you do my back."
She stiffened. She'd thought for a second there that she was getting a reprieve, but she should have known better. All right, she'd wash his blasted back. What choice did she have? And maybe she could take some skin off while doing it.
She swiped up the soap and came around the end of the tub. He leaned forward as she did, so when she got there, his entire back was presented to her, so long, so wide, so ... masculine. The water, as much as she'd poured in, still only rose up a few inches above his hips, the tub was so big. And it wasn't murky. The man had nice buttocks.
She caught herself staring, just staring, and wondered for how long. Not long, or he would have said something, impatient devil that he was.
Annoyed with herself, furious with him for making her do this, she slammed the washrag into the water,
then mutilated the soap with it until she had enough suds to wash ten bodies. This she slapped against his back, then began to rub with all her might. He didn't say a word. And she began to feel guilty after a moment, seeing the red marks she was leaving behind.
She eased the pressure, and her anger eased with it. She was staring again, fascinated at the gooseflesh that appeared if she touched a sensitive spot, watching the dark bronze skin disappear under bubbles, then reappear as they popped. The cloth was so thin, it was almost as if it weren't there, as if there was nothing between her hand and his slick skin. Her movements became slower. She was washing areas she'd already washed.
And then it happened. The food she'd gulped down while waiting for the bathwater to boil in the galley was starting to churn in her stomach. It was the weirdest feeling, but she didn't doubt for a moment that it was going to be full-fledged nausea. And she'd be mortified if she threw up again in his presence. Can I help it if it makes me sick to get near you, Captain? That would really go over well, wouldn't it?
"I'm finished, sir." She handed the washrag over his shoulder.
He didn't take it. "Not quite, lad. My lower back."
Her eyes dropped to that area, streaked with suds that had dribbled down. But she couldn't actually remember if she'd washed there or not. She attacked it swiftly, relieved that enough suds floated in the water now that she could no longer see through it. She even plunged the cloth the few inches below the water to the very base of his spine, giving him no excuse to say she hadn't done a thorough job. But she had to bend way down to reach it, bringing her closer to him, so close she could smell his hair. She could smell his clean body, too. And she had no trouble hearing his groan.
She jerked back so fast, she hit the wall behind her.
He jerked around just as fast to stare up at her. The heat in his eyes impaled her where she was.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I didn't."
"Be easy, Georgie." He turned back around, dropping his head onto his raised knees. "It's just a minor .
. . stiffness. Nothing you could have known about. Go on, I can finish easily enough now."
She bit her lip. The man sounded as if he were in pain. She ought to be glad, but for some reason she wasn't. For some reason she had an urge to ... to what? Soothe his hurt? Had she gone absolutely mad?
She got out of there as fast as she could.
Chapter Seventeen
James was on his second glass of brandy by the time Georgie returned to the cabin. He had himself in hand again but was still smarting over how easily the girl's innocent touch had aroused him. Talk about well-laid plans gone down the bloody drain. He'd meant to have her rinse him, to hand him his towel, to help him into his robe. He meant to see those pretty cheeks blush with color. Instead, he would have been the one with the hot cheeks if he'd stood up at that point. He'd never in his life suffered an embarrassment over an honest reaction of his body, and he wouldn't have this time, except that to her mind, his reaction would have been caused by a boy.
Damnation, what a coil, when the game was to have been so simple. The advantage was to be his, while she was between wind and water as they say, which was a vulnerable position. He'd envisioned seducing her with his manly form, until she would be so overcome with lust that she would toss off her cap and implore him to take her. A splendid fantasy, where he would play the innocent, unsuspecting male attacked by his wanton cabin boy. He would protest. She would beg sweetly for his body. He would then do the gentlemanly thing and give in.
But how was any of that to come about if the old John Henry raised his head every time she got near?
And if she happened to notice, the darling chit would think he had a fondness for boys, and that wouldn't inspire anything in her but disgust. Bloody hell, he'd have her confessing who she was just so he wouldn 't get any ideas.
His eyes followed her as she crossed over to the corner he'd assigned her. She carried a canvas bag tucked under her arm, a hammock slung over her shoulder. The bag was fat enough to contain more than a few articles of boy's attire. There was likely a dress or two inside, and maybe something that would
shed some light on the mystery surrounding her.
He'd picked up a few more pieces of the puzzle tonight. Connie had pointed out the very natural way she'd said "fo'c'sle" instead of "forecastle." Only someone familiar with ships would use the abbreviated term, yet she'd claimed an ignorance of all things nautical.
And she called her brother Mac. Now there was a telling little tidbit, leading him to believe the Scot was no relation to her at all. Friends and acquaintances might call MacDonell Mac, but family would use his given name or some other nickname, not one that each family member could equally claim for himself, all being MacDonells. Yet she did have a brother or two. She'd mentioned them without having to think about it. So who was the Scot to her? Friend, lover . . . husband? By God, she'd better not have a lover.
She could have all the bloody husbands she liked, dozens for all he cared, but a lover was serious business, what he intended to be himself.
Georgina could feel his eyes on her as she hooked her hammock to the wall. She'd located him sitting behind his desk when she came in, but as he hadn't said anything to her, she didn't speak either; nor had she looked his way again. But that one glance . . .
He was wearing that emerald robe. She'd never realized what a splendid color emerald could be on the right person. On him it darkened the green of his eyes, highlighted the fairness of his blond locks, mellowed the deep bronze of his skin. And so much skin was visible. The closing V of the robe was so wide and deep, it barely covered his chest. A mat of golden hair sheened in the lamplight, from nipple to nipple, from above his chest to ... below.
Georgina pulled the high neckline of her shirt away from her skin. This blasted cabin seemed awfullyhot this evening. Her clothes felt more weighty, her bindings more uncomfortable. But the most she dared remove for sleeping was her boots. She did that now, sitting on the floor to pull them off and set them neatly up against the wall.
And she could still feel James Malory's eyes, watching her every movement.
Of course, she had to be imagining it. What reason would he have to watch her, unless . . . She glanced at her hammock and grinned. The captain was probably waiting to see her climb into her swinging bed and fall flat on her arse. He probably even had some droll comment ready to toss at her about clumsiness or inexperience, something really nasty and guaranteed to embarrass her. Well, not this time. She'd been in and out of hammocks since she could walk, had played in them as a child, napped in them when she was older and spent whole days on whatever Skylark ship was in port. There was less likelihood of her
falling out of one than out of a normal bed. The captain would just have to swallow his ridicule this time, and she hoped he'd choke doing it.
She settled into her swinging bunk with the ease of an old salt, then glanced quickly toward the desk in the opposite comer of the room, hoping to catch the captain's surprise. He was looking her way, but to her chagrin, his expression gave nothing away.
"You're not actually going to sleep in those clothes, are you, youngun?"
"Actually, Captain, I am."
She must have scored with that, for he was frowning now. "I didn't mean to give the impression you'd be in and out of bed all night long, you know. Did you assume so?"
"I didn't." She did, but everything he knew about her was a lie anyway, so what was one more? "I always sleep with my clothes on. I can't remember why I started doing so, it's been so long, but it's a habit now." And for good measure, just in case he had the audacity to suggest she change her habits, she added, "I doubt I could get to sleep without being fully clothed."
"Suit yourself. I have my sleeping habits, too, though I daresay they're quite the opposite of yours."
What was that supposed to mean? Georgina wondered, but didn't have long to find out. The man stood up, came around his desk heading for his bed, and stripped out of his robe on the way.
Oh, God, oh, God, this isn't happening to me. He's not strutting across the room na**d and giving me a full frontal view of him doing it.
But he was, and her female sensibilities were outraged. Yet she didn't squeeze her eyes shut, not immediately anyway. After all, this was not something she saw every day, not something she would likely have ever seen, for he was truly a splendid specimen of manhood right down to his toes. She couldn't deny it, no matter how much she wished he had some fleshy sides, or a pot belly, or a tiny . . .
Don't blush, you ninny. No one heard you think it but yourself, and you didn't even complete the thought.
So he's extra fine-looking in every respect. It's nothing to you.
Her eyes closed tight finally, but she'd already seen more than was good for her. His na**d image was not something she was likely to forget anytime soon. Devil take him, the man simply had no shame. No, that wasn't fair. She was supposed to be a boy. What was a little na**dness between males? An eye-popping experience for her, that's what.
