Chapter 8
Jessica awoke the next morning with what she likened to a megrim. The hard, insistent throbbing in her head and the horrid taste in her mouth made her ill. She fought nausea valiantly but lost. She was also highly aware of the tenderness between her legs. Memories from the day before made her blush, then cringe. How could she have been so undisciplined? And inflamed enough by Alistair’s skillful hands and mouth to make a crude suggestion that led him to leave her bed in anger?
She knew the answer—Alistair Caulfield had always had a unique effect on her. She was not herself with him; she was a woman she did not recognize. And it was difficult to determine whether or not the woman she became with him was one she wanted to be. How could it be appropriate when she felt so conflicted, embarrassed, and guilty?
Beth, as always, was a godsend. The abigail arranged for a pitcher of warmed water for washing and secured a plate of hard biscuits, which eased Jess’s stomach malaise considerably. By evening, she felt well enough to eat more substantial fare and to face Alistair. Too familiar with a man’s anger to seek him out alone, she chose to take the evening meal in the great cabin along with the other gentlemen. As the meal progressed and Alistair studiously avoided looking at or speaking to her whenever it was possible to do so, she felt she’d made the best decision. However, the rift between them pained her.
But, perhaps, it was for the best. If she’d soured his interest, she would be spared the turmoil that had plagued her since their reacquaintance. What he had asked of her—to be her lover—was so far outside the scope of her own acceptance of herself that she could hardly credit it. Yet clearly he was more than capable of piercing her defenses. The restraint she desired would have to originate with him. And although she regretted achieving the aim by wounding him, abstaining from further interaction was better for them both.
Jess excused herself as soon as was seemly. As the men rose to their feet, Alistair said, “Would you grant me the honor of a walk around the deck, Lady Tarley? Perhaps the fresh air will revive you further?”
Nervous, she managed a small smile with her acceptance. They left the cabin along with the first mate, who vacated the passageway quickly, leaving them alone.
She paused beside her cabin door. “Let me fetch a shawl.” “Here.” He unfastened the row of buttons securing his tailcoat.
She protested, averting her gaze from a direct view of his chest. “A gentleman is never seen in his shirtsleeves!”
His answer was delivered in a biting tone. “You are the only individual on board who will take offense, Jessica, and after what transpired yesterday, I find any attempt at modesty tiresome.”
Her heart tripped over the austerity of his features. He had the glint of the devil in his blue eyes and a determined set to his square jaw that warned her he would not be easily deterred. How intimate she was with that look of barely restrained temper! It never portended well. “Perhaps we had best speak some other time.”
“There are issues that need airing. The sooner, the better.”
Despite her misgivings, Jess obliged him and set off toward the companionway. A warm weight settled on her shoulders as he dropped his jacket neatly over her. Immediately the smell of him teased her senses, stronger now, with an underlying unique masculine scent. Alistair was a virile male, and her body stirred with vivid memories of the evening before.
They took the stairs up to the deck. Caulfield paused in a space unshadowed by the masts and rigging. With an impatient and imperious gesture, he waved away the two sailors who worked nearby.
He loomed over her in a manner that made her both aroused and wary. He was flagrantly handsome. His classical bone structure took well to the moonlight that bathed him in silver. He could have been an ancient heroic statue come to life except for the vitality charging the air around him. Alistair Caulfield was alive in a way Jessica had never been.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he growled, raking a hand through his hair.
“Do what?”
“Dance around the truth, pretend things are not what they are, and use formality as a shield.”
“Formality is indeed like dancing,” she agreed softly. “It creates a known pattern of steps to follow that allow two disparate people to spend a length of time together with some purpose. It creates an avenue upon which strangers can travel together.”
“I am not interested in dancing at the moment, or being strangers. Why did you stay?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Don’t be coy. Why did you linger in the woods that night?”
She clung to the lapels of his coat from the inside, holding the two halves tightly together. Not because it was cold, but because she felt too exposed. “You asked me to stay.”
“Oh?” His mouth took on a cruel curve. “Will you obey all my commands?”
“Of course not.”
“Why did you obey that one?”
“Why not?” she rejoined with lifted chin.
Alistair stalked closer. “You were innocent. You should have been horrified. You should have run.”
“What is it you want me to say?”
He caught her by the elbows and lifted her up onto her tiptoes. “Have you thought about that night since then? Did you ever think of it when lying with Tarley? Has the memory haunted you?”
Jess was dismayed by how close to home he struck with his questions. “Why is it important?”
One of his hands lifted and cupped her nape, angling her lips to a position suiting him. His words puffed hot and damp over her mouth. “I remember every second you stood there. The rise and fall of your breasts as you panted. The feverish brightness of your eyes. The sight of your hand at your throat as if you forcibly held back begging little whimpers.”
“There are witnesses around us,” she whispered furiously, trembling with fear and excitement. She was astonished to be responding amorously to his rough handling. She, of all people, should not find such attentions thrilling. It horrified her to think some part of her mind might have been trained to seek such treatment.
“I don’t care.”
Torn by her confusion, she spoke harshly. “Your brutish lack of charm may be sufficient for some women, but I assure you, I am not amused.”
His hands fell away so quickly she stumbled. “Sweetheart, it’s more than sufficient for you. You look as hungry for me now as you did then.”
She winced. Something dark and tormented passed over his features; then he turned away with a smothered curse.
He spoke over his shoulder. “I have attempted to forget that night, but it’s impossible.”
Jess looked away from his rigid back, allowing the crisp misty breeze to blow over her face. “Why does the memory trouble you so? You have had my discretion.”
“For which I have long been grateful.” In the periphery of her vision, she saw him shove his hands into the pockets of his satin breeches. “You have avoided me in the years since. Why, if what transpired was of no importance to you?”
“I know something of you I should not know. It made me uncomfortable.”
“I made you uncomfortable,” he corrected. “I still do.”
Whether consciously or no, a part of Jess recognized the feeling of being hunted. She sensed the turbulence of his desire and was frightened by it. Perhaps not so much because of his appetite, but because of her own.
Alistair rounded her, so that he stood before her and took up the whole of her vision. “The more you hold yourself aloof, the more determined I become to draw you out. Yes, you know something of me that exists only between us. We should be more accessible to one another because of that, not more distant.”
“As accessible as I am now, engaging is such candid conversation?”
“As accessible as you were last night, without the excessive drinking. Although it was not our intention to cross the threshold we did seven years ago, it has been crossed and there is no turning back. I asked you to stay and you did not run. We shared a moment uniquely separate from our lives before or since. You clutch social mores, propriety, and rules of conduct around you as you do the shawls you wear, but we are beyond such barriers. Fate has conspired to bring us together at this time, and I, for one, am weary of fighting against it.”
The possibility that they were fated to be lovers was somehow comforting, as if taking the decision from her hands freed her from responsibility for the inevitable consequences. It was cowardly to view it that way, yet the thought also gave her courage.
She inhaled and spoke in a rush. “I am sorry for what I said to you last night before you left. I-I wanted you to stay—”
“I whored for money,” he interrupted harshly. “I need you to know why.”