“No wonder he thinks I ought to drown you. Wait for me and I’ll be back.” He was already gone before she could come up with an answer, and she heard the lock in the door. What had he said? A storm was coming? If the ship foundered and she was locked in a cabin she would drown with Mr. Quarrells’s help.
She dropped the blanket and took care of things, refusing to even look down at her betraying body as she slid into the steaming water. It wasn’t until she put her hands in that she let out an involuntary shriek of pain, and she drew them up, out of the stinging heat. She’d forgotten what she’d done to her wrists in the struggle against the ropes. They were red, raw bracelets of pain, and she forced herself to put them back into the water. She could hardly wash herself without using her hands, and the water would start the healing. Funny, now that she remembered they hurt like hell. Last night she hadn’t even noticed. Last night in his arms.
She slid all the way under the water, soaking her hair. She’d washed it just a few days ago, in the large copper tub on Water Street, but she couldn’t resist, and she held her breath, letting the water cover her, closing her eyes as she felt her hair drift around her. Maybe drowning wouldn’t be that bad a way to die.
But she could only hold her breath for so long, and she surfaced with a gasp, dragging in the fresh air. All right, drowning wasn’t the answer. And in fact it was just as well her night with Luca had been a singular event, one he had no interest in repeating. One night had almost demolished her will and her common sense—a second one would end her completely, and she’d be pathetic, begging for even a scrap of his attention. No, that would never happen. No matter how much in love with him she was, she would never…
She ducked under the water again. Bad thoughts, dangerous thoughts. She had to concentrate on what she could do. She had to make plans.
She should be happy. Finally she had proof that someone had been out to hurt her father, and now her. No one would have any reason to hurt her, and to have a hired killer show up and almost finish her off meant someone wanted her silenced. It would have made perfect sense if it were Luca.
The memory of Mr. Brown’s limpid gaze came back to her. Luca didn’t believe he was the one who’d hired the killer, but Luca hadn’t looked into Mr. Brown’s flat brown eyes.
Who the hell was he?
She knew she’d never met the man before, and her father had certainly never mentioned him. Then again, if his name was really Brown then she was Queen Victoria.
She needed to get back to London. She could insist on being paid for the days she’d toiled in the captain’s household—she’d certainly earned it under Mrs. Crozier’s direction. She could go to the police and make them listen. If she only knew of some way to get in touch with Bryony, she could ask her if she knew anything about the mystery man.
With enough money she could get back to Somerset and Renwick and figure out what to do next. Nanny Gruen was levelheaded and very wise—between the two of them they could come up with a plan. Even her airheaded younger sister might be able to help.
She climbed out of the tub, reaching for the length of thick Turkish toweling that had been laid out for her use. She was fine, she was perfectly fine. The best cure for a broken heart was to throw yourself into work. Not that she had a broken heart—that was clearly absurd. No, she’d had a setback, there was no denying that. But once away from Luca she would stop thinking about him. It was only natural that her body felt sensitized, attuned to his, that she could close her eyes and still feel him within her, moving, and her breasts would tighten and everything would cramp inside with longing.
She’d be over it in a trice.
The clothes were ridiculous. She stared at them in disbelief. Her petticoats were there, and to her astonishment they had been laundered, as well as her shift. There was no sign of her pantalets, and the only other article of clothing was an oversized white shirt that would doubtless reach to her knees. She shook it out, staring at it, and then brought it to her face. It was clean as well, smelling of soap and a sea breeze. And Luca.
She hadn’t realized he was so much bigger than she was. His lean grace belied his actual size—the shirt was almost as long as her shift.
She dropped it, looking around the small cabin for anything, anything she could wear instead. Nothing. She had no choice. She pulled it over her head and let it drop down, ignoring the way it seemed to caress her body. At least she was decently covered, though the sleeves hung down below her hands. She started to roll them up, then stopped. To do so would expose her wrists, and that was the last thing she wanted.
What she wanted, needed, was to get off this blasted ship and get back to her original goal. So Luca wasn’t guilty of sabotage—he’d merely taken advantage of the carrion left behind. She shouldn’t be surprised—the man had been a pirate.
She heard the knock on the door—Billy must have returned. “I’m ready,” she called out. The doorknob rattled but didn’t open, and she sighed. “You locked it, remember? Don’t you have the key?”
There was no answer. Just the quiet tread of someone moving away. Maybe not Billy—whoever had been at the door was too light, though not as silent as Luca. He had a faint hitch to his step as well—was it perhaps a peg-legged pirate? No, he’d probably clump along the deck. It had to have been Billy. “Can you let me out?” she called through the door, but whoever had been there had vanished.
It was probably close to ten minutes before the door opened, an impassive Billy Quarrells returning. “Why didn’t you just leave the key in the door?” she demanded.
He frowned. “How do you know I didn’t?”
“Because you tried to get in earlier, of course,” she said impatiently.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, someone was rattling the doorknob. Was someone else planning a bath?”
“The bath is for the captain and any guests he might have, not for the able seamen,” Billy said. “And both the captain and I were on deck. I told him you were ready to go.”
That only hurt a little bit, she thought in relief. After all, it was only the truth, and she needed to accept it and move on. “Then who wanted to get in here?”
“Aye, that’s the question. Come along, Miss Russell. Back to your prison.”
For a moment she was afraid he really was going to put her in some kind of jail cell, and then she remembered they called it the brig on board a ship. Another one of those ridiculous terms, when the real words would do well enough.
Back to the captain’s cabin, the wooden deck cool beneath her bare feet, and when she went inside it looked as if someone had cleaned the room. The berth was freshly made—no signs of what they’d done in it would remain. She turned to look at Billy. “I need to talk to Luca,” she said abruptly.
“Anything you need to say to him you can say to me,” Billy said. “He doesn’t have time for you right now.”