Seven Years to Sin(19)
Sensing the change in her bearing, Alistair queried, “Jessica?”
A sailor shouted directly to her right, jolting her. His coarse voice echoed through her one good ear, making her intensely aware of the chaos around them. Every yell and cry, every thud and crash reverberated through her.
Another boom followed by the splash of a too-near cannonball.
Panic welled. She struggled against Alistair’s restraining grip. “Release me.”
His grip slackened immediately.
She ran.
“Jessica!”
Her chest heaved as she darted around the industrious crew and protruding capstans. Not since before she’d wed Tarley had she been plagued with an attack of panic of such magnitude. She was bombarded with memories of her father shouting … her mother’s cries … shattered glass … the whistle of a switch … the report of a gun … her own whimpers of distress … Her recollections blended with the bustle around her into a barrage of sound and sensation she couldn’t absorb. The commotion pounded against the one ear that could process sound, leaving her unbalanced. Off-kilter.
Reckless in her haste, Jess stumbled through the seamen in her way and increased her pace, desperate to return to the safety of her cabin.
Alistair slept fitfully and rose before the sun. He went on deck to work with the crew, needing an outlet for the aggravated energy that made him so restless.
Jessica had declined to take her evening meal in the great cabin the night before. And as the sun set on the new day, she had yet to appear.
What had possessed him to grab her as he had? What little progress he’d made since setting sail had been ruined in a few brash moments.
He knew the fault lay entirely at his feet. With the wind in his face and excitement all around, his blood had been hot before she appeared, and once she had, everything had coalesced into the irresistible urge to wrap himself around her and hang on.
He’d wanted to pursue her when she fled, but he couldn’t leave the helm. His disappointment in not seeing her at supper had been fierce. She enlivened the table with her skilled deportment and quick wit. Her forthrightness was a delight, and he relished watching how easily she enchanted the other men at the table.
He was debating the merits of seeking her out when her maid appeared on deck. The abigail’s dark hair was covered by a frilly cap, and a sturdy woolen shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. She waved at Miller, who gawked in the manner of besotted youth, then moved to the gunwale to gaze at the sea.
Alistair crossed the distance between them and greeted her.
She gave a quick curtsy in reply. “Sir?”
“I pray your mistress is well. She was sorely missed last night. If there is anything she requires, please do not hesitate to ask.”
She offered a reassuring smile. “There’s no ’elp for her, I’m afraid. ’Tis a year to the day since ’is lordship ’urried on to ’is reward.”
“Tarley’s death is what ails her?” He frowned. Jessica had left the deck so abruptly the afternoon before … surely he’d had some part in that distress?
“She just needs some time alone, I think, sir. She dismissed me and means to retire early. Everything will look brighter on another day.”
Giving a brief nod, he turned away. His jaw was clenched tight enough to pain him.
Bloody hell, he was jealous of a dead man. Had been envious for many years. Ever since he’d followed Jessica out of the Pennington woods and watched her seduce the very proper Viscount Tarley into satisfying the craving he’d roused in her. He had woken her passions, but Tarley had the right to sate them. The thought that history might have repeated itself yesterday …
Had the lush melting of her body against his made her hunger for Tarley?
Growling softly, he moved to the companionway and descended the stairs. He reached her door, ensured there were no witnesses, and then walked straight in.
He came to an abrupt halt. His brain processes stopped altogether. The sight greeting him stunned him to the point that it took a long moment to remember to close the door. But when the realization came to him, he did so quickly. One last look in the passageway before the portal swung closed assured him no one else had been granted the view shredding his innards to ribbons.
“Mr. Caulfield,” the object of his obsession purred. “Did no one teach you to knock?”
One long, slender, very bare leg stretched out over the rim of a copper slipper tub. Jessica was flushed from the heat of the bathwater and too much claret … if her slurred words, lack of modesty, and the bottle on the stool beside her were any indication. Her hair was piled haphazardly atop her head, giving her a disheveled, recently tumbled look embodying every carnal imagining he’d ever had about her. He was more than satisfied with the lush figure on display for him. She had lovely peaches-and-cream skin, breasts fuller than he’d pictured, and legs longer than he’d dreamed.
Bloody hell, his decision to indulge her by storing extra barrels of water for bathing had been a stroke of genius.
As his inability to speak drew out, Jessica arched one brow and asked, “Would you care for a glass?”
Alistair walked over to the stool with as much aplomb as he could muster with a raging cockstand. He collected the bottle, then drank straight from it. There was little remaining. And as excellent a vintage as it was, it failed to dull the sharp edge of his hunger, which was aggravated by his new vantage—he could see every inch of the front side of her.