Part 20 (1/2)
”Poor little creatures,” crooned Francesca, reaching out to brush a wayward curl from the forehead of one of the sleeping children. ”You cannot imagine how pitifully ill they both were, retching and heaving so much that all their mother could do was pray to heaven for their innocent souls. It would have broken your heart to see how they suffered, Edward.”
What broke Edward's heart was seeing two recently retching little girls asleep in his cot, their golden blond heads resting on his favorite down-filled pillows, where they could very well waken and retch again.
”Surely they'd be better in their own quarters, wouldn't they?” he asked cautiously, not wis.h.i.+ng to disturb either the children or Francesca. ”With their mother and their nurse?”
”Santo cialo, but they are useless-useless!” she sniffed. ”Even while she was retching herself, the marchesa was much more concerned with guarding her jewel chests from the thieving English sailors than with tending her own daughters.”
Edward's expression turned black. ”My men are not thieves, Francesca.”
”I know that, Edward, and so I told the marchese and marchesa, not that they'd believe me,” said Francesca. ”But that is why I brought the girls here, where they wouldn't have to hear their dreadful parents wailing and cursing. And when I saw this clever swinging cradle you'd had contrived for them, why, I put them to bed directly, and we all fell fast asleep.”
”Francesca, la.s.s,” he began, unable to be quite as selfless as she. ”Francesca. This is not a cleverly contrived cradle for seasick brats. This is my own personal cot, where I had hoped to rest myself.”
”Oooh.” Her eyes widened, and she looked at the cot with new interest. Her mistake wasn't unusual. While most landsmen had heard of common sailors' net hammocks slung from the beams between decks, few had seen the counterparts for the senior officers, tucked away in their private cabins.
Edward's cot was typical, a high-sided box frame with a featherbed that was suspended from hooks in the beams overhead, designed to swing gently with the motion of the sea. Linen curtains, brightly embroidered with swirling flowers, draped down on either side like a tent to keep out the drafts, the same as they would on a landlocked bedstead. A cot also had the extra advantage of being quickly dismantled and stowed away in the hold when the s.h.i.+p cleared for action, and then a gun crew would come take charge of the great black gun in the corner.
Francesca ran her fingers along the edge of the cot's polished mahogany frame, a sensuous little caress that put Edward to mind of things better left unthought, especially with the girls as innocent chaperones.
”Veramente, but it is a most curious furnis.h.i.+ng, and a large one, too,” she murmured, glancing impishly across the sleeping girls at him. Gently she gave the cot a push to set it rocking toward him. ”Though you say it is for you alone, I would guess it's quite large enough for two, Edward, isn't it?”
He nearly choked at that. d.a.m.nation, this wasn't fair. How could she be as angelic as any Madonna with those two little girls one moment, then be teasing him the next as if she were the greatest coquette in the Mediterranean?
”I'm a large man, Francesca,” he said as evenly as he could. ”I need a large cot.”
”Naturalmente.” She grinned wickedly, and gave the cot another gentle push. ”Back and forth, back and forth. Do you never lie here at night and consider the possibilities?”
Of course he had. He was a Ramsden; he couldn't deny that, no matter how much he resolved to the contrary. And there was nothing like an exclusively male s.h.i.+p to make a man think more of women, and sailors from the lowest powder monkey to the admiral himself dreamed endlessly of beautiful and accommodating females of every sort and in every position.
But now he thought only of one woman, and that woman was his wife.
”How my papa would have loved such a contrivance!” she mused. ”If only he'd seen this flying bedstead of yours, I do believe there would have been a sea captain and his cot among the figures in the Oculus, whether it was proper for ancient times or not.”
And with that, Edward's beleaguered patience snapped.
”Enough,” he said sharply, stepping around the cot to seize her hand. ”Come.”
Startled, she tried to wriggle free. ” 'Come'? Come? You would order me about so curtly, like a wayward pet? I am not your dog, Edward!”
”No, not my dog,” he said grimly as he pulled her after him, ”but d.a.m.nation, you are my wife.”
He threw open the door to where Peart was standing, waiting in perfect impa.s.sive readiness with Edward's red kerseymere dressing gown in his hands, the way he must have been stationed for the last half hour.
”Watch over the two young ladies, Peart,” he said as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the offered dressing gown from the servant's hands. ”If they cry, send for their nursemaid directly, and G.o.d help you if they foul my cot.”
Peart bowed, unfazed. ”Very well, my lord. The galley fires have been relit, my lord. Would you and her ladys.h.i.+p be requiring a hot breakfast?”
”We shall not,” said Edward, anger clipping each word with uncharacteristic precision. ”What we require is to be undisturbed.”
With the dressing gown fluttering behind him like a scarlet banner, Edward stormed into the great cabin with Francesca in tow. He flipped the latch closed, making sure they would be alone, and released her hand.