Anabelle Bryant - Return to the House of Sin

Ferris was to blame. His nonstop lament over the lack of female companionship aboard the ship must have instigated Crispin’s wayward thinking, because even embarrassed and the worse for wear, at the peak of a serious bout of seasickness, Amanda remained delightfully attractive.

‘I must look and smell repellant.’

Her raspy admission broke him from his mental reverie. Heaving a breath more to cleanse his thinking than to clear his lungs, he lifted her into his arms, stalking cautiously across the floorboards to the bed, mindful in case the ocean should attempt a pitch of tomfoolery for good measure.

‘You’d do well to stay put.’ Her sorrowful green eyes beseeched him as he spoke, apparently still dazed by his sudden effort as he placed her on the narrow mattress. ‘I believe we may have battled the worst of the storm, but there’s no way to know and I’m certainly not going to investigate at the moment. Why don’t you lie quietly? Try to rest. Close your eyes if you can bear it.’

‘What will you do?’

Did she worry on his behalf? He leaned in to offer reassurance. ‘I’ll sit in this chair and—’

The ship asserted a portside roll and he stumbled forward, catching himself from a teetering collapse at the last opportunity lest he’d have tumbled atop her on the mattress. The situation as it was, was highly improper; a bachelor’s private quarters, a naïve, unchaperoned miss who believed herself in love, more be it the most foolish notion as she hurried home to England , a disillusioned rogue who considered affection akin to the plague. He remained nose to nose, eyebrows to eyebrows, perched above the narrow mattress, a scarce hair’s breadth apart.

He drew a long, unsteady breath that had nothing to do with his precarious position and the ocean’s continual turbulence and everything to do with her startled green gaze.

Very pretty eyes, at that.

Her lashes lowered and he wondered at her thoughts. Had they wandered towards avenues other than the complications of storm and stowaway? The moment ended as abruptly as it had begun and he righted himself, taking extreme care not to touch, though the temptation insisted like a fever in his blood.

The very devil.

‘Pardon.’ He didn’t say more and pivoted on his heel, no longer surefooted. ‘I’ve just the thing.’

He walked to the stacked trunks in the corner, shoved the first aside and straightened the second. Removing a key from his trouser pocket he unlocked the trunk and unbuckled the leather straps, to at last open the lid with caution should the ship conspire to foil his efforts. Rummaging through the assorted contents, he withdrew an embossed leather case, unbuttoned the closure and recovered a tin of tooth powder, along with a tortoiseshell comb, cake of soap and square of clean linen.

‘I realize this is highly irregular.’ He returned his attention to the bed, prepared to offer her use of his personal toiletries, but his words died away, arrested as her peaceful repose.

She’d fallen asleep. He would have doubted it possible considering the erratic rhythm of his heart and considerable upheaval of prevailing stormy weather, but from exhaustion or escape she slept soundly now. He placed the items on the table, a bit more disappointed than he anticipated, before he closed the trunk and attempted to find rest in the hard, spindle-backed chair.

Amanda feigned sleep, willing her soul to quiet, convinced the unusual circumstances were to blame for the unrelenting conflicted emotion she experienced. When Crispin had stumbled and almost fallen atop her on the bed, she’d anticipated the contact rather than prepared to ward him off. When he’d caught himself, a misplaced pang of disappointment riddled through her. Clearly her disastrous bout of seasickness wreaked havoc on her sensibilities. It posed the only intelligent explanation.

This muddle of disputed logic carried her into a fitful sleep and when she awoke, the ship had quieted significantly, on course with her pulse. She rolled to her side and peered across the murky interior, the single flame from the lantern on the table the only source of light. The hour remained late.

Crispin sprawled in an unforgiving chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded atop his chest. With regret, the pose promised aches and pains come morning and the realization pierced her as sharply as a well-aimed arrow.

How selfish of her to claim his bed. How chivalrous of him to sacrifice on her behalf. She smiled with the knowledge he’d showed her the consideration. With her grin in place she lay back onto the pillow and drifted softly into sleep once more.

When next she woke, he was gone, the lamp extinguished. Muted daylight leaked into the room via the open corridor. A new day dawned. She sat up, tested her stomach’s resilience with the motion and found her constitution returned and intact. Her eyes fell to the table and his proffered kindness. Tender appreciation drenched her at the sight.

He was a good man.

A tortoiseshell comb waited beside soap, clean linen, a glass of water and small tin of tooth powder. Her fingers shot to her braid, at work immediately to unravel the matted strands.

Crispin rocked on his boot-heels, his eyes on the horizon. A lazy glimmer, not unlike his mood, seamed the precipice where sky and ocean became one. As was his habit, he waited for the new day, only this time he didn’t so much contemplate his personal situation as much as the woman locked away in his private quarters. They were only two days into a three-week voyage. How long would he be able to perpetuate the charade?

And more importantly, why should he risk his reputation, freedom and future for a stranger who fancied herself in love, anxious to return to her beau in London? He was not that man, the noble-hearted hero of whom poets composed ballads or taverngoers created bawdy songs. When he’d fled London, his pride in tatters, he’d had but one thought: to recoup his losses and return to England to restore his good name. Redemption and vindication. He wouldn’t only repay his debt. He’d return to the Underworld, nothing more than a disreputable house of sin, and reclaim his reputation.

Vivienne and Maxwell Sinclair, be damned.

If the lady chose a bastard over pristine heritage, he could do little more than wall his heart and refuse emotion to penetrate. He’d accomplished each of these goals.

Still, his family deserved better. First, he would clear his enormous debt at the gaming hell with the wealth he’d accumulated in Venice.

As of a few days prior, all seemed neat and as intended. Even Ferris’s unexpected accompaniment hadn’t disrupted his plans. Therefore, he would not allow Amanda to rearrange a homecoming ten months in the making.

Some uninvited, niggling voice chided he should enquire as to her intentions once the voyage ended. A young woman could not hie into the streets of London without escort or security.

‘She reminds me of Sophie. Led by the romantic notion of love and powered by impetuous energy.’

‘Of whom do you speak?’ Ferris’s rich baritone sounded overly intrusive in the stillness of the dawn.

‘I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.’ Crispin turned and eyed his friend.

Ferris joined him at the rail, a curious expression on his face, though his eyes were clear and his face shaven aside from the dark scurf on his chin.

‘My sister.’ Crispin purposely confused the question. ‘Sophie thinks with her heart not her head.’

‘ Si . The improved version of you, with a much more appealing figure.’ Ferris moved his hands in a shapely silhouette of luscious feminine curves, his brows a-waggle.

‘Sophie is slim, intelligent and forthright.’ Crispin stifled a laugh. ‘Not your type at all.’