“I don’t give a bloody damn what nationality you are,” he said against her lips. “I wasn’t involved in that ridiculous war, didn’t support it or the policies that led to it. I was, in fact, living in the West indies at the time.”
“You’re still English,” she said, but with very little heat now.
“Quite true. But we’re not going to let that matter, are we, love?”
Because he asked while he was nibbling on her lips, she couldn’t think of a single reason that it should matter. She gave him a whispered no, and began some nibbling of her own. She’d felt the change in his body when it occurred, and had an idea now what it meant. And in the back of her mind came the thought that the questioning might end if they made love again. Of course, the fact that those marvelous feelings were stirring inside her again had nothing to do with it.
But a while later, after the bedsheets were a bit more rumpled and she was once again rolled on top of him, though only partially this time, he said, “Now, shall we discuss how I felt upon discovering that you’re a wench rather than the lad I took under my wing? My mortification in recalling the times you’d assisted me at my bath, the times that I…disrobed in your presence?”
With it put that way, Georgina felt absolutely terrible. Her deception alone was bad enough, but much worse was allowing the captain to put himself unknowingly into positions that he now found embarrassing. She should have confessed the truth that very first day when he called her into the area of his bath. Instead, she had foolishly thought she could make it through the whole voyage without being found out.
He had every right to be furious with her, and so it was with a good deal of hesitancy that she asked, “Are you very angry?”
“Not very, not anymore. I’d say I’ve been adequately compensated for all embarrassments. In fact, you’ve just paid for your passage and anything else you’d like.”
Georgina drew in her breath sharply in disbelief. How could he say something like that after the intimacy they’d just shared?Easily, you ninny. He’s an Englishman, isn’t he; an arrogant, blasted lord? And what did he call you? A wench, which says plain enough how lowly he thinks you.
She sat up slowly. By the time she looked down at him, her features set in lines of fury, there wasn’t a single doubt in James’s mind that she felt insulted.
“You could have waited until morning before you got nasty again, you son of a bitch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As well you should!”
James reached for her, but she bounded off the bed. He tried to explain, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, George.”
She whirled around to glare down at him. “Don’t call me that!”
He was beginning to see the absurdity in what was happening, which kept his voice calm as he pointed out. “Well, you haven’t given me your name yet, you know.”
“It’s Georgina.”
“Good Lord, you’ve my utter sympathy. I’ll stick with George, thank you.”
Was that supposed to coax a smile from her? With the expression of feigned horror that accompanied it, it almost did. But not quite. That crack about having paid for her passage hurt.
“I’m going to bed, Captain.Mybed,” she said with stiff hauteur, and she pulled it off superbly, even standing there naked. “I would appreciate it if you would arrange other quarters for me in the morning.”
“So we’re seeing the true George at last, are we, complete with a formidable temper?”
“Go to the devil,” she mumbled as she came around the bed, swiping up her clothes as she went.
“All this huffiness, and all I did was pay you a compliment…in my fashion.”
“Well, yourfashionstinks,” she said, then added as an afterthought that was laced with contempt, “sir.”
James sighed, but after a moment, as he watched her march across the room, her dark brown hair swishing about that cute little backside of hers, he was grinning, almost laughing. What a delightful surprise she was turning out to be.
“However did you manage a full week of meekness, George?”
“By biting holes in my tongue, how else!” she called back at him.
He did laugh this time, but softly, so she wouldn’t hear. He turned on his side to watch her antics as she threw her clothes down in her corner in a demonstration of feminine pique. But almost immediately she realized what she’d done and retrieved her shirt to put on. That done, she started to get into her hammock, but hesitated, and after a moment, retrieved her breeches and yanked them on, too. Apparently satisfied that she was properly covered for the moment, she rolled into her hammock. Her ease with which she did so, however, recalled to James’s mind that she’d never really had any difficulty with that precarious bed.
“You’ve sailed before, haven’t you, George, in addition to your jaunt to England?”
“I think I have proven, quite adequately, as you put it, that I’m not a George.”
