“Only if you leave damp towels in a heap on his Persiancarpet,” he said, his hand on the door handle. “Well? Yes or no?”
Shyly she came toward him, though the curve of her forehead was skeptical. “You wouldn’t—watch me, would you?”
“Oh, for Christsake. No; I wouldn’t. The way you talk, you’d think I’d never seen a woman stripped, before you.”
Three months ago Merry wouldn’t have called that much of a reassurance. The new Merry Wilding had spent a week on Rand Morgan’s famous pirate ship, lying her scallops off about her identity, and learning the rudiments of how to argue and how to keep her poise in bare feet and a thin nightshirt. It was the new and itchy Merry Wilding who twitched her twisted skirts into place and went with the pirate boy to Morgan’s cabin.
She washed herself and her hair in a baroque brass hip bath behind a mother-of-pearl screen from China.
“Are you getting into your dress or do you want a nightshirt?” Cat’s voice called around the screen.
“Nothing would induce me to borrow another thing from Morgan,” Merry said emphatically, drying between her toes. “Especially since you said he was mad about the torn buttons, which werenotmy fault.”
“This one’s mine. I never wear it.” “It” flew over the top of the screen followed by, of all things, a cranberry-colored man’s robe. She had to laugh as she put on the robe because the arms hung ten inches past her hands and the hem swept the floor. Smiling, she came around the screen dangling the long arms in front of her, and the boy stood up and began to roll the cuffs for her.
“Are you cold?”
“No. How come you know so much about everything?” she asked him curiously. “You couldn’t be much older than I am.”
“How come you know so little? Why do you think we’re the same age? How old are you?”
“Eighteen. How old are you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe eighteen. That’s what Morgan thinks, anyway.” He swept a cushion of crimson brocade from the window bench and tossed it on the floor. “Sit down. I’ll brush your hair.”
She was so tired, and indeed so naïve, that she sank onto the cushion without a second thought. Registering her trust without comment, the young pirate sat behind her and began to put the silver brush through her hair with soft strokes.
The ship rocked them like a great wooden cradle, and the moon smiled through the window, casting latticed shadows over them and mixing drifts of kindly moonbeams in her hair where it lay across his knee. Soon she had half fallen to sleep; her blameless cheek dropped against the inside of his leg. Like a warm hand on the shoulder, her movement woke Cat from his reverie in time to see Morgan come through the door. Cat forced moderation on the muscles that had irrationally tightened and held Morgan’s gaze as the older man crossed the room in his easy stride and let his hand fall, briefly, through Cat’s hair.
“Pretty children,” Morgan observed. He smiled thoughtfully as Merry sat up, knuckling her eyes, looking as though she’d forgotten where she was.
Cat handed Morgan the hairbrush and said to Merry, “Come on—you look ready for sleep now.”
“Do you know, Cat, instead of selling her in Trinidad, why don’t we keep her?” said Morgan suddenly. “Every boy should have a pet.” He encountered a sharp look from Cat, who, except for Devon at his age, was the smartest boy Morgan had ever known. As Cat was putting an arm around Merry and bringing her to her feet to lead her from the room he said, “You’re dreaming, Captain, if you think I can afford a mistress on what you pay me.”
Morgan’s soft laughter followed them from the room.
Chapter 11
Merry was not crying when Cat brought her breakfast the next morning, but he saw as he entered that she stuffed a crumpled handkerchief under her pillow. Damn Morgan and his bloody mania for rebirth by fire.
“Morning.” He set down her breakfast. “Well?”
She dragged herself from the bed, looking indifferently into her bowl, and said, “What a surprise. Oatmeal. Take it and throw it over the side. I’m not going to eat it.”
“Now look,” Cat said, “don’t go back to moping.”
“Who’s moping? Why should I mope? Wouldn’t you mope if someone were going to sell you from an auction block?”
“Iwasauctioned on the block. Guess who bought me? It’s interesting to know what you’re worth in monetary terms.”
She stared at him. “And were you expensive?”
“Extremely. But I was worth it, being young and multifaceted. Of course, you—”
“Are as young but I don’t have as many facets?” she said quickly, indignant on principle.
“Merry, Devon isn’t going to sell you from an auction block.”
