Anabelle Bryant - Return to the House of Sin

His friend allowed a chuckle and leaned against the well-worn railing as he dismissed the subject. ‘If you say so, amico . You should forget the one who hurt your heart. If Venice didn’t cure you, there’s no use for it. Women are like butterflies, pretty to see and difficult to contain. Set her free. Enjoy the moment.’

Relieved Ferris did not pursue exactitude in clarifying what he’d overheard, Crispin promptly changed the subject. ‘Wicked storm last night. How did you fair?’

‘With a glass of brandy and little discomfort.’ He slanted a glance, another question alive in his eyes. ‘I expected camaraderie. What happened?’

Somehow the conversation had taken an ill-advised roundabout. ‘I was caught portside when the worst of the storm struck and barely managed to find cover in a cofferdam. At least I was protected from the onslaught of ravaging wind.’ Was his embellishment sufficient or overmuch? ‘I hunkered down without a plan and waited it out. Only a fool would venture above deck in that gale.’

‘Perhaps.’ Ferris remained quiet for a long moment, though his gaze was unrelenting. ‘But it’s passed now, eh?’ He wagged his chin at the rising sun. ‘A new day dawns. Who knows what one will discover?’

Crispin didn’t reply, unwilling to fuel Ferris’s imagination, or worse, increase his doubt.

Chapter Six

Amanda strode the length of the room, practising her stride in a pair of ill-fitted purloined breeches. She’d availed the tawny garment from the trunk Crispin left unlocked in the corner, spied after she’d made use of the items he’d left graciously on the table. How heavenly to feel clean, as clean as possible without a bath , breath freshened, hair combed and plaited, her face and hands scrubbed. It was after her makeshift toilette that she’d noticed the ugly stains on her skirt, a reminder of utter mortification when she’d emptied the contents of her stomach in front of a handsome gentleman.

She rolled the waistband of the trousers a third time and took a few more strides before she pivoted to cross the floor on the diagonal. He was handsome, wasn’t he? And exceptionally kind. He’d helped her through her seasickness, his voice a deep, lulling tone, almost tender, as he wiped her brow and held her shoulders firm, yet all the while possessing a gentleness that revealed the greatest fragility in his care.

She tucked in the hem of her chemise and the tails of the white linen shirt she’d also borrowed from the trunk. Crispin’s clothing smelled good, fresh with starch and a hint of bergamot. She buried her nose a little deeper into the cloth at her shoulder and inhaled again. Did his skin smell this wonderful or was it the other way around, his clothing offering the scent? With hope, he would understand her liberties in borrowing the garments in the same fashion as the items he’d left. She’d used the cake of shaving soap and remaining water to scrub her skirts clean, and once they dried she’d redress with little complaint. Perhaps she’d never need explain at all if he kept from the quarters longer than a few hours. Though that reality didn’t sit well. She didn’t rummage further than necessary, but if Crispin had a book or two in his trunks, she would thank him graciously. Boredom and restlessness were a constant battle. Perhaps she could venture above deck if she wore breeches instead of a gown.

A sturdy knock brought her eyes to the door. Two beats and then a pause and two more.

Crispin. They’d decided on the knock as a code in one of the many conversations shared in an attempt to calm her queasy stomach.

Now, she opened the latch and stepped away, anxious to see his reaction.

‘Those are my breeches? Are those my breeches?’

His incredulous questions and startled reaction had her smile inching higher. ‘Yes. They’re yours.’

‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘That’s worse.’

‘I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to wear while my gown dried. It was stained from…well, it was stained.’ She motioned to where her yellow day gown lay draped over the spindle-backed chair.

‘This is highly irregular.’

‘Then you do mind.’ Her voice dipped with disappointment. She hadn’t meant to displease him. At present, her world had become rather small and narrowed down to interaction with one person only.

‘I didn’t say that.’

Funny how his tone suggested the exact opposite. Whatsoever could be the problem? The situation was only temporary and it wasn’t as though she could sit around in her chemise waiting for her gown to dry. ‘Surely the sight of a woman in trousers shouldn’t come as a shock. You claim to be a notorious rakehell. I’d gamble you’ve seen women in all states of undress.’ She couldn’t resist the jibe. The look on his face worth every word.

‘I’ve said no such thing. But I have,’ he added belatedly. His eyes skimmed over her a third time and she wondered at his peculiar reaction. ‘I just didn’t expect you. In more ways than one.’

‘I’ll only wear them a bit longer, then I’ll take them off.’ She placed her hands on her hips for lack of somewhere else to put them. Had she chosen the wrong words? His eyes flashed brilliant and blue against his long lashes.

Crispin swallowed thoughtfully, his tongue thick and mind blank all of a sudden. The last thing he expected when walking into his quarters was to find Amanda dressed in his breeches and shirt, the sheer white linen no disguise for her lacy chemise beneath. If he stared too long he swore he could see the outline of her breasts, the delicate points of her nipples a dangerous lure.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She canted her head to the side, apparently confused at his silence. ‘I don’t have any clothes.’

He groaned and cleared his throat in an effort to evoke vocabulary.

‘Since I have no clothes—’

‘Stop saying that.’ He matched her eyes and then looked towards the far corner, focused on alleviating the growing situation in his smalls.

‘Why do you keep looking away? I didn’t think your breeches looked so terrible on me.’ She strode to the cheval glass and eyed her profile. He told himself not to watch.

‘They don’t.’ He dashed a smile as he watched. ‘This reminds of something my sister, Sophie, would do.’

‘Honestly, men have all the advantages. I rather like breeches. They offer so much unencumbered freedom. I’m always getting tangled in my skirts.’ She bent over and touched her toes. ‘Just look how easily that was accomplished.’

Caught on the lovely curve of her bottom, he was slow to respond. Then, tearing his gaze away, his answer came out too forcefully. ‘Indeed. You’re of Sophie’s mind. Upset with the imbalance.’

‘Men can gamble, drink, stay out late and ride astride.’

She rambled these off, caught up in the subject no matter he couldn’t stop staring at her body in his clothes. Worse yet, the reminder that her skin wore what he might, that her scent would linger, did nothing to tamp down unbidden desire. ‘I didn’t invent the rules. I just break them.’ He offered a devilish smile, determined to recover the upper hand.

‘I very much like breeches. I may try to go above deck in these.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. One look at that pert nose and sassy chin and every man on this ship would be panting after you.’ He swallowed, guilty of the very same accusation.

‘But I’m bored within these walls.’ She tossed her braid over her shoulder and paced a length, then back again.

He didn’t miss the swish of her hips, outlined nicely by the clingy wool. If she continued to parade around in front of him he would be forced to leave…eventually.

‘You might have considered that before you chose to stow away. Did you think you could have run of the ship? Blend in with the passengers and never be questioned?’ He waved his hand for emphasis though it might very well be true. How would anyone know if she was aboard? She could likely take her meals and walk the deck without ever being challenged. It was his own selfishness that kept her locked away. And then, of course, there was the matter of Ferris.