Gentle Rogue
Page 17

"I hope I'm not that unskilled."
"I sincerely share that hope."
He shed his uncertainty, which had been comical, it was so unsuited to the man, and sauntered toward the table where she had set the basin of water. His razors were spread out on a towel, next to which more towels were stacked, and she had already whipped up a lather in the cup she found for that use. He had been gone much longer than ten minutes, so she had also set the room to rights, making his bed, stowing her own, picking up his discarded clothes to wash later. The only thing she hadn't done was fetch his breakfast, but Shawn O'Shawn was cooking that now.
Looking over the setup, he remarked, "So you have done this before?"
"No, I've watched my brothers do it."
"Better than total ignorance, I suppose. Well, have at it then."
He peeled his shirt off and tossed it farther down the table, then turned his chair sideways and sat down facing her. Georgina just stared. She hadn't expected to work on him while he was half dressed. It wasn't necessary. She had extra towels, big ones, to wrap around his shoulders to protect his shirt. Devil take him, she'd use them anyway.
But when she tried to, he pushed them away. "If I want you to smother me, George, I'll let you know."
The idea of cutting his throat appealed to her more and more. If it wouldn't be so messy, and if she wouldn't have to clean up the blood, she'd give in to the impulse. With all that skin to distract her, it just might happen anyway—accidentally, of course.
She could shave him. She had to do it. And best do it quickly, before that wretched nausea flared up to make it an even more difficult task. Just don't look down, Georgie, or up, or anywhere but at his very ordinary whiskers. How disturbing can whiskers be?
At arm's length, she spread the lather on thickly, but she had to get closer to do the actual scraping. She was looking at his cheeks, concentrating on her task, or trying to. He was staring up at her eyes. When her gaze happened to collide with his, her pulse picked up its beat. And he didn't look away. She did, but she could still feel his eyes on her, and the sudden heat they were causing.
"Stop those blushes, now," he chided. "What's a little bare arse between men?"
She hadn't even been thinking of that, curse and rot him. But now her face was twice as hot, and got hotter, for he wasn't going to let the subject pass.
"I don't know why I should, since it's my cabin," he said testily, "but I'm going to apologize, George, for what happened earlier. You'd think I walked in on a bloody girl, the way you carried on."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Never mind that. Just put a damned sign on the door next time if your privacy means so much to you.
I'll honor the bloody thing, and no one else comes in here without permission."
A lock on the door would be even better, but she didn't suggest it. She hadn't expected this much, was amazed that the man could be so considerate, generous even, when he didn't have to be. She might even
be able to take a real bath now, instead of a quick sponge-off down in the hold.
"Blister it, George, I'm rather fond of this face. Leave me some skin on it, will you?"
He startled her so, she thoughtlessly snapped, "Then do it yourself!" and threw the razor down on the table.
She was stalking away from him when his dry tone hit her in the back. "Oh, my. The brat has a temper, does he?"
She stopped, her eyes widening with the realization of what she'd just done. Her groan was quite loud, and when she turned about, she looked as apprehensive as she felt.
"I'm sorry, Captain. I don't know what came over me. A bit of everything, maybe, but honestly, I don't have a temper. You can ask Mac."
"But I asked you. Now, you aren't afraid to be truthful with me, are you, George?"
Thatwas worth another groan, though she kept this one to herself. "Not at all. Should I be?"
"I don't see why. Your size gives you an advantage, you know. You're too small to cuff or flog, and I wouldn't inconvenience myself by assigning you extra duty as punishment, now would I? So you can feel free to speak your mind to me, George. Ours is a close relationship, after all."
"And if I should cross the line into being disrespectful?" she couldn't resist asking.
"Why, I'd blister your backside, of course. That is about the only recourse I have for a lad your age. But that isn't going to be necessary, is it, George?"
"No, sir, it most certainly isn't," she gritted out, horrified and enraged at once.
"Then come along and finish my shave. And do try and be a little more careful this time."
"If you would . . . not talk, I might be able to concentrate better." She couched it as a suggestion. Her tone was utterly respectful. But his despised brow still shot upward. "Well, you said I could speak my mind," she mumbled angrily as she stepped forward and picked up the razor again. "And as long as I'm at it, I hate it when you do that."
The other brow rose to join the first, but now in surprise. "Do what?"
She waved the hand that held the razor toward his face. "That supercilious lifting of the eyebrows."
"Good God, brat, you bowl me over with your diction, indeed you do."
"So now you think it's funny?"
"What I think, dear boy, is that you took me much too literally. When I said you could speak your mind, it was not with the thought that you would be foolish enough to criticize your captain. In that you cross the line, as I believe you well know."
She did know it, and had only been combing the waters, so to speak, to see just how far she would sink before drowning. Not far at all, obviously.
"I'm sorry, Captain."
"I thought we agreed yesterday that you'd look me in the eye if you were going to apologize. That's better. So you hate it, d'you?"
Devil take it, now he was amused. And she hated that even more than his brow raising, especially since he never bothered to share the joke with her.
"I feel it's in my best interests not to answer that, Captain."
He burst into laughter at that. "Well said, George! You're learning, indeed you are."
His pleasure with her included a clap on the shoulder. Unfortunately, this sent her careening into his open thigh, which precipitated his having to grab her to keep her from tumbling over his leg. She'd grabbed him, too, to stop the fall herself. When they both realized they were holding on to each other, the ship could have sunk and they wouldn't have noticed. But the electrifying moment was come and gone in a matter of seconds, for he released her as fast as she did him.
As if fire hadn't leaped between them in that brief span of time, the captain said, albeit unsteadily, "My whiskers have likely grown an inch since you got started, George. I do hope you'll get the hang of this before we reach Jamaica."
Georgina was too flustered to answer, so she just brought the razor up to his face and began working on the side she'd yet to scrape. Her heart was fluttering wildly, but why shouldn't it? She'd thought she was going over his leg headfirst. It had nothing to do with touching him.
But when she turned his face to finish up the other side, she saw the dots of blood where she'd nicked him. Without thinking about it, her fingers gently wiped the spots.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
If her voice had been soft in saying it, his was much, much softer in his reply. "I know."
Oh, God, here comes the nausea, she thought.
Chapter Nineteen
"Are ye ailing, Georgie lad?"
"Just Georgie will do, Mac."
"Nae, it willna." He glanced around the poopdeck to make sure they were alone before adding, "I've caught myself nearly calling ye lass when I shouldna. I need the reminding."
"Suit yourself."
Georgina reached listlessly into the basket sitting between them for another rope to splice to the one in her lap, which she'd already joined to three others by interweaving the rope ends together. She'd offered to help Mac with the mundane chore just to pass the time, but wasn't paying much attention to what she was doing. Already he'd had to open one of her splices with a marlinespike and have her start over. She hadn't said a word or noticed the mistake herself.
Mac, watching her, shook his head. "Och, ye are ailing. Ye're being much too agreeable."
That got a rise out of her, but only just barely. "I'm always agreeable."
"No' since ye got it into yer wee head tae sail off tae England, ye havena been. Ye've been a prime pain in the arse since that notion took ye."
He had her full attention now. "Well, I like that," she huffed. "You didn't have to come along, youknow. I could have reached England perfectly well without you."
"Ye knew verra well I'd never let ye sail alone. Short of locking ye up, I had nae choice. But I'm thinking I should've locked ye up."
"Maybe you should have."
He heard her sigh and snorted. "There ye go agreeing wi' me again. And ye've been acting passing strange all week. Is the mon working ye tae hard?"
Hard? She couldn't say that he was. In fact, half the things the captain had told her she'd have to do, she'd never gotten around to doing.
He was usually up and partially dressed before her in the morning. The one time she beat him out of bed, he behaved as if she'd done something wrong rather than right. She was learning to distinguish his moods, from his customary drollery to his really nasty taunts when he was annoyed about something, and that morning he'd been seriously annoyed. He'd made it seem like a punishment, her having to dress him that day. His comments, his manner, everything made it seem so, and had her swearing she'd be a slugabed the rest of the voyage.
She hoped she'd never have to experience anything so nerve-racking again. Having to get close to him was bad enough, but to do it when she knew him to be angry . . . Well, so far it hadn't happened again.
Nor had he ever asked her to help him undress for his bath in the evening.
Even that hadn't turned out to be an everyday occurrence as he had implied it would. He still wanted his back scrubbed when he did bathe, but two nights out of the last seven he'd told her not to bother with the bath at all, had even offered her the use of his tub instead. She declined, of course. She hadn't been ready to risk a total strip-down yet, even if he had been honoring the sign she set outside his door several times each day.
Then there was the shaving of him. That first time, she didn't know why she hadn't been sick. It had felt like all hell had broken loose in her belly. If she had had to stand there much longer, the morning would likely have had a different ending. Instead, she'd finished his chin with a few strokes, tossed a towel at him, and run out of the cabin before he could stop her, yelling that she'd be back in a trice with his breakfast.
He'd only asked her to shave him once more, and that time she'd nicked him in so many places, he'd told her sarcastically that he'd be wise to grow a beard. But he didn't. Most of the crew did, including the first mate, but the captain continued to shave each day, either in the morning or in the late afternoon. He just did it himself now.
Not once had she had to play footman for him. He either ate right from the tray she brought in or waved her away when she tried to place the dishes before him. And not once had he disturbed her sleep to ask for something in the middle of the night, as he'd assured her he would.
All in all, she had very little to do and a lot of free time on her hands. This she spent in the cabin when it was vacant, or on deck with Mac when it wasn't, trying to limit her times with the captain to only what was necessary. But if she was acting strange, enough for Mac to notice, it was entirely James Malory's fault.
The scant week she had been on his ship seemed more like forever. She was constantly tense, had lost her appetite, was losing sleep, too. And she still got nauseous if he came too close to her, when he looked at her in a certain way, sometimes even when she stared at him too long, and every time she was treated to the flagrant flaunting of his na**d body, which was every blasted night. It was no wonder she wasn't sleeping well, no wonder she was a bundle of nerves. And it was no wonder Mac noticed.
She would have preferred not to discuss it at all, she was so confused over what she was feeling. But Mac was sitting there staring at her, awaiting some kind of answer. Maybe some common-sense advice from him was just what she needed to put a new perspective on what was bothering her.
"The work isn't hard physically," Georgina allowed, staring down at the rope in her lap. "What's hard is having to serve an Englishman. If he were anyone else . . ."
"Aye, I ken yer meaning. Here ye were in a snit tae leave—"
Her head snapped up. "A snit? A snit!"
"Practicing impatience then, but the point is ye were in a hurry tae leave England and all things English behind, and it was that verra impatience that has ye stuck now wi' just what ye were trying tae get away
from. Him being a laird only makes it worse."
"He acts like one, I agree," she said disdainfully. "But I doubt he actually is. Don't they have some cardinal rule about aristocrats and trade not mixing?"
"Something of the like, but they dinna all follow it. Besides, there's nae cargo, if ye'U recall, sae he isna in trade, at least no' this voyage. But he is a laird, a viscount as I heard it."
"How splendid for him," she sneered, then sighed heavily. "You were right. That actually does make it worse. A blasted aristocrat. I don't know why I doubted it."