She pulled her lips between her teeth and worried the delicate flesh.
Clunk, thunk, clunk…thunk.Her bed continued to beat a rhythmic tattoo between the wall and chest of drawers, while her heart thrummed with anxiety and her stomach swirled with nausea.
CHAPTER 8
Warm wind whipped at the hem of Percy’s ill-fitting blue coat as he adjusted the lines. His feet were braced apart, keeping him balanced as the ship gently rocked on the calmed morning water. He’d scarcely slept after returning Heather to her cabin, his mind racing and his ears filled with his neighbour’s ungodly snoring.
He’d listened for any sign of movement from the woman’s cabin, ready to leap to her aid should she require it. But she’d remained abed. Then his thoughts had drifted to their tryst in the gazebo: how she’d moved, how she’d tasted, and,Christ, the sounds she’d made…
Clearing his throat, he focused on the topman in the rigging above him and adjusted the lines.
“No, damn it,” the earl shouted across theSapphire’s quarterdeck. “I asked forport. This is sodding Madeira!”
The noise drew Percy’s gaze. The Earl of Hanley was flapping a hand at one of the footmen he’d brought aboard, and the man of middling years flushed red to the tips of his ears before bowing and scurrying away. Percy frowned. He could scarcely wait to see the blackguard tossed in the brig.
Speaking of the brig…
Squinting through the sunlight, Percy scanned the quarterdeck for any sign of Heather.Damnation. Mayhap her guard hadn’t believed her plea.
Maybe she’s ill due to pregnancy, his inner fear whispered.
Alarm spread across his chest and down the backs of his legs, and, abruptly, he needed to see her.
With a shout over his shoulder, he called the attention of another man, who approached at a trot.
“Have to piss,” Percy said crassly, and the man nodded, accepting the lines.
Instead of turning toward the head—the seat of easement for the crew—Percy spun on his heel and hurried belowdecks. As he descended the last rung to the gun deck, he noted one of the earl’s maids—whom he’d frequently seen aiding in preparing meals for the crew—leaving Heather’s cabin, her arms laden with a chamber pot and soiled rags.
Holy hell. His stomach all but sank through the frigate and into the ocean below them. He darted toward her open doorway.
“Heather?” he inquired cautiously, his voice rough.
She was sitting sideways upon her bed, resting against the wall with her knees brought up to her chest, her lilac walking dress tucked snugly beneath her. Her pale skin glistened with perspiration, and her red-blonde locks were unruly and sticking to her forehead, cheeks, and neck. But the moment her eyes met his, her nearly colourless lips curved upward in a half smile, and his chest constricted. She beckoned him forward.
“Hell’s teeth, Heather,” he breathed, coming closer. “Are you well? Has the surgeon been to see you?”
Her lips thinned, and her gaze slid past him before meeting his once more. “He has.”
And?His heart constricted.
She patted the space beside her on the bed with one hand, and he sat.
“And what of the salve, or whatever Duncan had said of that remedy for seasickness?”
“I…” Her voice was hoarse, her eyes glistening. “I’m afraid myNepeta cataria—the catnip plant—has perished in the hold while I’ve been…imprisoned. In fact, nearly a third of my plants—” A sob caught in her throat, and Percy’s heart gave a sharp pang. “Never mind. Fresh air, the doctor says, and some buns ought to settle my stomach. But the earl won’t allow it.”
Percy frowned. “Won’tallowit?”
She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand and sniffled. “He thoroughly outlined his displeasure with my appear—” With a twisted grimace, Heather gathered the fresh chamber pot sitting beside her and retched.
Another wave of worry and fear rippled through him. He wanted to put a hand to her back in a comforting gesture, but he’d heard from men at the pugilists’ club that some women—the men’s wives, in particular—despised being touched while being ill. And Percy didn’t wish to impose himself on Heather without her permission. He did, however, accept a clean chamber pot from the maid as the woman returned, and he dampened a cloth for Heather to use for her forehead, neck, or mouth, as she chose.
The small space echoed with the wretched sounds of heaving, and Percy’s gut knotted in sympathy. At last, she rinsed and wiped her mouth, then sat back against the wall.
“Thank you, Berta,” Heather murmured with a half-hearted smile toward the maid.
“O’course, miss.” The maid reached forward and withdrew the used chamber pot with a lingering sideways glance at Percy before she retreated.
