Part 17 (1/2)
”Quiet now,” he said in a rough whisper. ”You mind your captain, eh?”
She did, surprised but fascinated, too, by how carefully his large hands moved along hers, focussing all his attention on removing her glove. When the damp leather clung to her chilly skin, he gently eased one finger free at a time, his own fingers warm and sure around hers.
”You wished me to admire the stars, or the candlelight, or whatever other infernal sight you'd spied on sh.o.r.e,” he said as he tugged carefully at the leather, ”yet all I could see was you. Only you, Francesca.”
”No one has ever said such a thing to me,” she whispered uncertainly. ”Not and meant it.”
He smiled, still concentrating on the glove. ”Then we are even. I've never said such a thing to anyone, either. And I wouldn't have said it now if I hadn't meant it.”
”But you don't know me,” she protested weakly. ”You don't know me at all.”
”I know enough,” he said, turning her hand in his so her wrist turned up. ”I'll learn the rest.”
He raised her hand and grazed his lips over the sensitive place on her upturned wrist, there where her blood raced straight to her heart, and she caught her breath with astonishment and wonder, her wicked thoughts racing back to the wanton scenes of the Oculus. What he was doing to her-why had no other man thought to do such a simple thing? So simple, and yet so complicated, more than a kiss, and far, far beyond anything she might have imagined.
”Santo cialo,” she said weakly, her knees so unsteady they felt as if they'd buckle beneath her. ”You-you must not do that, Edward. You-you promised.”
”If you insist upon tormenting me, Francesca, then I must do the same to you.” He glanced up at her, his eyes shaded, still keeping her hand firmly in his possession. ”You said we should see if we suited. How else are we to judge?”
”Through conversation,” she said with quick desperation, fighting against her own weakness as much as his. ”By sharing interests and confidences about our pasts, our families, and-”
”No,” he said sharply, linking his fingers into hers to draw her from the step. ”We shall not speak of families.”
”But you promised that-”
”I know what I promised, Francesca,” he said, ”and I know what you promised, too. Now come. I will not keep Mr. Burdumy waiting.”
He pulled her from the step, his grip so tight that she'd no choice but to follow him down the narrow companionway. He didn't look back, and if he didn't offer more explanation, she didn't ask for any, either.
What in blazes was he doing? Edward had wanted to be gallant, n.o.ble, to do the most honorable thing he could by saving her the one way he could, even making that fool's agreement to win her. But there was nothing n.o.ble or gallant about how he was treating her now. Arrogant and jealous, overbearing and unable to think beyond what his c.o.c.k was ordering him to do-h.e.l.l, his brothers would be proud. He couldn't recall ever feeling more ashamed, more confused, or more aroused by a single woman, a swirling, torturous purgatory of his own making from which there was no honorable escape.
He ignored the guard at his cabin, shoving open the door himself so forcibly it cracked against the bulkhead. Mr. Burdumy was already waiting, along with Lieutenant Connor and Major Harris, the two swiftly recruited witnesses, and as he entered all three stared at him with a happy expectation suitable for a wedding, but absolutely no match for his present mood.
”Proceed, Mr. Burdumy,” he said curtly without looking down at Francesca beside him.
Her bare hand where he'd peeled away her glove was icy in his own, her little fingers twisting into his to seek whatever small comfort he was too d.a.m.ned boorish to give. He knew this hastily arranged ceremony in his day cabin would not be the wedding of any girl's dreams. There were no flowers, no silk gown, no wedding cakes or fancy iced sweets, no well-wis.h.i.+ng friends or teary-eyed parents. Instead of joyful music, the s.h.i.+p's timbers and rigging were creaking and groaning uneasily with the coming weather like unwelcome guests, and the deck rocked back and forth on a queasy swell. With the deadlights in place over the sweeping stern windows to protect the gla.s.s from the rising rough weather, and the only light coming from the whale-oil lamp swinging overhead, even Edward would admit it was a gloomy excuse for a bridal bower.
”The lady's not ill, my lord captain, is she?” asked Mr. Burdumy anxiously as he peered at Francesca's face, his chubby, chilblained fingers fidgeting with his prayer book. As a navy chaplain, his duties were much more given to reading the service for the dead after a battle than performing weddings. ”No maidenly qualms, I trust?”
”None,” said Edward with frosty conviction. She wasn't about to change her mind now, not with so much at stake.
Unless he'd gone too far peeling back her glove like that, breathing deep of her scent as he'd kissed and nipped at her wrist, teasing and testing them both in the name of that wretched promise...
Uneasily the chaplain cleared his throat and pursed his lips, a sure sign of trouble. Mr. Burdumy was the single man on board who did not always respect Edward's absolute rule as captain, the only one who regarded the Archbishop of Canterbury as a higher and more worthy authority than the Admiralty.
”I am most sorry, my lord captain,” he asked hesitantly. ”But might I ask the young lady's name?”
”You might ask me, signor,” said Francesca swiftly, answering before Edward could, ”and I shall answer: Francesca Maria Giovanna Robin.”
”Ah,” said the chaplain, his gaze s.h.i.+fting back to Edward as if Francesca hadn't spoken. ”My lord captain, might I ask if the young lady is, ahem, English?”