Cecilia leaped back as if scorched.
“I’m afraid the window won’t budge,” Ned said as if nothing untoward had just occurred. He tugged on his shirt cuff, which had been displaced by a ribbon on her bodice, but not before Cecilia glimpsed part of the anchor tattoo on his wrist. She fanned herself vigorously with a hand.
“Can I fetch you a glass of water?” he asked.
“No. No thank you. I am perfectly fine and composed.”
“Not hot, then?”
He looked at her impassively, but the slow sweep of his eyelashes fanned her inner flames, making her wonder whether Lady Armitage would mind terribly if she smashed the window in order to get a spot of fresh air.
“It’s only that you seem to be glistening—just here.” He reached out, drew a finger gently down one side of her throat. He watched himself do it, then raised his eyes to hold her gaze without a word, without a breath between either of them.
“Oh my heart,” Cecilia whispered. Then she realized what she’d said and blinked furiously. “I mean myaunt. If I am perspiring somewhat, it is merely because I am worried about my aunt.” This justification strengthened her wits, and she nodded primly. “Besides, I thought I had explained to you that it’s indecorous to mention any condition of a woman’s—a woman’s—”
“Body? I beg your pardon. But I must say”—he leaned close,whispering—“if I was truly to speak indecorously about your body, you’d not be thinking of your aunt afterward.”
His breath brushed her ear, but she felt it in her wrists, her heart, and certain other unmentionable places—hot, flickering, like the memory of his kiss. She tried to summon a response but he stepped back, turning to look out the window. “Don’t fret about Miss Darlington,” he said. “It’s only been one day. Well, and another half day. And a full night. And we won’t be able to go anywhere tonight either. But really, they will be fine. Perhaps uncomfortable in his dungeon, that’s all. There’s no need for panic.”
“A lady should never panic,” Lady Armitage said, sweeping into the room. Her bulging, old-fashioned skirts scraped the edges of the doorway and reverberated with atwangof steel from the crinoline beneath. Although garbed entirely in black, as befitted a widow, she glimmered with crystal sequins like stars, since she was after all a merry widow. A diamond tiara was wedged into her hair. “A lady stays tranquil and poised under all circumstances. Instead of panicking, she squares her jaw, protects her heart, and ensures that she has enough ammunition to gun down everyone in her path. I say, is this glazed ham?”
They sat at the table—pirate matron, evil mastermind’s daughter, and the man hired by the former to murder the latter. “Please pass the beans,” Lady Armitage said.
There being in fact no beans on the table, Ned passed her the asparagus, and she began forking them onto her plate. Cecilia watched her, since it meant looking in the opposite direction from Ned, and as Lady Armitage stabbed asparagus, sawed at ham, and ripped apart artichoke hearts, she felt herself grow calm once more. Captain Lightbourne was a wicked flirt, that was all, and she would ignore him in a perfectly dignified manner.
“Could you pass the salt, please, Cecilia?” he asked.
“Certainly.” She threw it at his head.
“I have been interrogating that Jefferson fellow some more,” Lady Armitage said, mindless of Ned’s grin as he caught the salt canister and Cecilia’s scowl in response. “He agrees with you, Signor, that Morvath roves through the area. But I suspect we are not too far from his current hideout.”
“Interrogating?” Ned asked pointedly. Lady Armitage smiled and shrugged.
“I find myself quite undone lately,” she explained. Ned recollected the hiding place of her house key and almost choked on a potato.
“Why do you think the hideout is near, Aunty?” Cecilia asked.
“There is an inordinate amount of smoke coming from beyond the woods to starboard.”
“A farmer burning rubbish,” Ned suggested.
“Maybe,” Lady Armitage said. “Or a dangerous pirate in an abbey with many chimneys.”
“We should scout tonight, under the cover of darkness,” Cecilia proposed as she cut her ham into tiny, precise squares.
“Certainly not,” Lady Armitage replied. “A Darlington does not go about at night like some cheap footpad.”
Ned frowned. “But you are not a Darlington, Lady Armitage. In fact, you are the sworn enemy of the clan. So how can you tell her—”
Lady Armitage’s look was silencing. “Since Cecilia’s aunt is not present, and her poor mother is bewingèd in heaven, I must take on the responsibility of guiding her at this time.”
“She is an adult,” Ned pointed out. “And while I don’t wish to be repetitive, you did ask me two weeks ago to kill her on your behalf.”
“Ned,” Cecilia murmured. “One does not discuss attempted murder at the dinner table.”
“Cilla would be very proud to know her daughter was up for assassination,” Lady Armitage said, waving an impatient hand to dismiss the topic.
Ned shrugged and ate his dinner without another word while the ladies talked about the weather. When the meal was finished and Lady Armitage retired to drink sherry and smoke a cigar in the drawing room, the younger pirates took the dishes into the kitchen.
