Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 4 - The Sparhawk Bride / The Rogue's Seduction / Sparhawk's Angel / The Proper Wife

It was, she thought, less a cabin than a closet, and a tiny one at that. A single bunk like a wooden shelf, a lumpy mattress stuffed with wool, a row of blunt pegs along one bulkhead and an earthenware chamber pot were all the furnishings. Not that the cabin had space for more; by comparison, their room at the inn belonged in a palace. But how could the two of them possibly spend an entire voyage in such close quarters?

Michel dropped the saddlebag onto the bunk and pulled a small sea chest from beneath it. As he did, the brig suddenly lurched as her sails filled with wind, and Jerusa staggered and barely caught herself against the bulkhead. Awkwardly she braced herself against the motion of the ship, feeling stiff and clumsy without the sea legs that every male in her family claimed to have been born with.

And so, of course, had Michel, or so it seemed to her from the effortless way he’d adjusted to the brig’s uneven roll. It was always that way with him, she thought grudgingly, just as he would have a sea chest waiting for him on board with only an hour’s notice, just as he could magically produce horses and calimanco gowns and baths in country inns. Nothing like that surprised her anymore.

Unlocking the chest with a key from his pocket, he glanced back over his shoulder at Jerusa.

“It’s a little late to turn overnice now, ma chérie,” he said as he began to transfer the contents of the bag into the chest. “This or the Seabrook gaol—those were your choices.”

Slowly she entered, closing the door behind her. “It’s only that I didn’t expect anything quite this small.”

“Believe me, Miss Sparhawk, there’s plenty worse,” he said without turning. “Or do all the berths on your papa’s ships come with feather beds and looking glasses?”

She looked at his back, feeling the sting of that “Miss Sparhawk” far more than his offhanded scorn. He hadn’t called her that since before the fire. Why, she wondered miserably, had he begun again?

“I’m glad we’re going to Barbados,” she began, hoping to set things to rights between them. “Though I’m sorry that I tricked Mr. Hay into telling me.”

“The Swan is going to Barbados,” he said curtly. “You and I are not. We’ll stay in Bridgetown only until I can find us passage to St-Pierre.”

“But that’s Martinique,” she said with dismay. “That’s French.”

“And so, Miss Sparhawk, am I.”

She didn’t need reminding, any more than she needed to be told she was English. Martinique was his home, not hers. She would have no friends there, no one to turn to except for Michel himself. Was this the reason he was being so cold to her? Because he no longer had to pretend otherwise?

Morbleu, why didn’t she speak? Michel hated it when she fell silent like this, keeping herself away from him. But then, maybe he’d already heard enough in the way she’d said “French” or the fact that she hadn’t bothered to hide her disappointment that they were headed for Martinique instead of Barbados. And worst of all was how she’d simpered before Hay, fluttering her lashes at the Englishman as bold as any light skirt in a tavern.

He’d let himself believe that things had changed between them, that she’d turned to him from affection, not just need. But in her blood she was still a Sparhawk, and in her eyes he would never be more than a baseborn Frenchman. It was his own fault to dream otherwise. Fool that he was, he’d come to care too much.

And sacristi, it hurt, more than he’d ever dreamed it would, to learn she didn’t feel the same. It hurt.

He thumped the lid on the chest shut and turned to face her, leaning with his back against the edge of the bunk and his arms folded across his chest, studied nonchalance that was totally feigned. “Tell me, Miss Sparhawk. When you searched through my belongings at the inn, was it only from idle curiosity, or did you simply find nothing worth your time to steal?”

She gasped, shamed by what she’d done and that he’d noticed. “I didn’t take a thing!”

“Then your purpose was idle amusement, not theft. How charming, ma chère.” He didn’t give a damn that she’d searched through his saddlebag. He’d certainly done worse himself. But the pain of seeing her smile for another man was making him look for ways to lash out at her, and though he hated himself for sinking so low, he couldn’t help it.

“As long as we must share these quarters, Miss Sparhawk, I’ll thank you to find other ways to entertain yourself. Just as I advise you not to look to our fair English mate for amusement, either.”

“Is that what this is about, then? Your own inexplicable, unfounded, ridiculous jealousy?” She stared at him with furious disbelief. Because of the cabin’s size, they stood no more than an arm’s length apart, close enough that she could feel the force of their emotions roiling like a physical presence between them.

“I’d call it caution, not jealousy. I’ve no wish to have to kill any more men on your behalf.” As if to make his point, he pulled the pistol from his belt and tossed it onto the bunk.

Jerusa gasped again, this time from outrage, not shame. “There is absolutely no reason why I should not speak with Mr. Hay if I wish to.”

“Hay smiles too much, ma mie,” said Michel softly. “He smiles too much at you.”

By the shifting light of the lantern his eyes had narrowed to slits of glittering blue, and if she hadn’t been so angry herself she would have seen the warning of what would come next.

“Dear Almighty, is that all?” she cried. “Because he smiles? At least he is a gentleman who knows how to address a lady with respect!”

“Is that what you wanted from me, Rusa? Respect and decency?”

“It’s what a lady expects from any gentleman.” Her heart was pounding, her whole body tensed, yet still she held her head high. She knew his quiet was deceptive. The danger was there. “Not that you would understand.”

“Oh, I understand, Rusa. I know what you want better than you do yourself.” He pulled her into his arms, instantly dissolving the distance between them. “And what you want, chérie, ah, there’s nothing decent about it.”

Michel’s mouth closed down on hers before Jerusa could protest. With a smothered cry that was lost between them she struggled to break free, her hands pressing hard against his chest, but his arms were stronger and he held her fast, until he wasn’t sure he could have surrendered her then even if he’d tried. This was the one way he could prove that he was worthy of her, that she needed him as much as he did her.

And God help her, she did. She couldn’t help it. The more his lips moved over hers, teasing her, coaxing her, tasting her, the less she fought against him. The slow fire that had been lit between them the first time they’d kissed had had days and nights to smolder and build, until now, when they touched again, it burned white-hot, hot enough to melt away their differences and leave only what they shared.

Her palms on his chest relaxed, sliding across the hard muscles and planes of his arms and shoulders until they linked behind his neck. His hair was silky across her skin, curling around her wrists like another caress.

Confident now that she would stay, he broke away long enough to tear himself free of his coat and waistcoat and finally his shirt. In his haste a button popped off the waistcoat, rolling in a crazy circle across the deck, and Jerusa laughed, deep yet giddy, and wholly captivating. When he reached for her again, she came willingly, her eyes widening as her hands explored the different textures of his skin and the dark gold whorls of hair that patterned it. He whispered her name as his lips grazed the sensitive place behind her ear, words he’d never said to another.