Cassandra stared at him blankly for a good two seconds, until, to her utter mortification, she was forced to check the cover because he’d made her forget the title.
“Autobiography and Letters,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “By Mary Delany.” It bothered her to no end that he had the power to turn her into a blithering idiot.
“Hmm...” Having already removed his boots, he shucked his trousers and padded across the floor, dressed only in his smalls and hose. Cassandra ground her teeth in frustration. “I haven’t read it myself. Perhaps I can borrow it when you’re done?”
“You would be interested in reading a woman’s autobiography?”
“If it is interesting, I see no reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Um. Right. Of course.” She cleared her throat. He got into bed and pulled his blanket over himself. She stared at him. He gave her a questioning look. Eventually she sighed. “Will you not be putting on a nightshirt?”
“No.” Lying on his back, he tucked one arm beneath his head, offering her a direct view of the hair protruding from his armpit.
“No?” Although she tried to use a mild tone as a means by which to convey indifference, she heard the irritation in her voice the moment she spoke.
“I don’t wear nightshirts, Cass.” He reached for the oil lamp. “May I put out the light?”
Cassandra put her book aside. “Yes.” The cabin transformed into infinite blackness. Closing her eyes against it, Cassandra pondered his comment and finally decided to address it by asking, “Have you never worn them?”
“Obviously I did as a child.” He sounded annoyed.
She bit her lip, dissatisfied with his answer. “So one day you simply decided that from now on you would only wear your smalls to bed?”
A rough exhalation preceded his next comment. “I cannot imagine why you’re so interested in my nighttime attire.”
“Because it’s unusual.”
“Not that unusual,” he grumbled.
“Don’t you get cold?” She heard him expel a weary sigh, but he didn’t answer her question. For some bizarre reason, she could not seem to let the subject rest. It had hooked itself in her brain, causing her to say, “It really wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill. Not when you’re the captain and—”
“Cass.” Her name seemed to be forced from somewhere deep in his throat. It sounded raspy. “Would you please stop trying to manage me?”
“Bu—”
“I won’t catch a chill. I never have before. At least not from the lack of a night shirt since I’m used to wearing considerably fewer clothes to bed. So will you please stop worrying and go to sleep?”
Cassandra barely managed a weak, “Good night,” because all she could think of now was a naked Devlin and that was not an image conducive to sleep. It also wasn’t the sort of thing a woman wished to contemplate when she was trying to remain faithful to another man. Add to that the patience and attentiveness he was showing Penelope, and she knew her heart was in trouble. Because when it came to Devlin, there was so much more than a physical attraction.
There was the man himself.
She’d always known him to be a fine person, but watching him work with his men and interact with Penelope really cemented this awareness.
Forcing her thoughts back to Timothy, she whispered her vow to him as she’d done for the last thirteen years. But somehow, the words didn’t feel as honest. They no longer seemed to carry the weight they once had.
And nothing could have terrified her more.
Chapter 9
They droppedanchor in Lisbon on August fifteenth, ten days after leaving London. Having left Cassandra and Penelope to prepare for an outing on land, Devlin helped Monty gather the items, letters mostly, they’d be delivering to some of the Englishmen stationed there. Truthfully, he was glad to have something to keep his mind busy and away from his lovely wife. She was, as it turned out, proving to be an inconvenient distraction. And considering they still had several months left of their voyage, he wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to keep his sanity unless he spent less time in her company.
Which, he had to admit, would not be conducive to his courtship.
What bothered him most was that she didn’t seem to share his need for more than friendship. After being trapped on a ship together for almost two weeks, he would have thought her position on this would have started to change, if even a little. But that did not appear to be the case.
Oh, he knew he was able to affect her – the deep pink tones flooding her cheeks every evening when he undressed and got ready for bed proved it. But she was apparently more determined than he’d imagined to keep a barrier between them, and he was not the sort of man who’d ever resort to forcing a woman against her will. Which put them at a sort of impasse.
“Can you see to it that these are delivered?” he asked Monty once they’d filled a satchel with four letters and two small parcels bound for the British embassy. “I’d like to show my wife and daughter some of the sights since this is their first time travelling abroad.”
