Authors: Anne Gracie

To Catch a Bride (24 page)

BOOK: To Catch a Bride

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She yawned. “Don’t let’s ruin this beautiful night talking about her. Tell me about the first time you went on a ship—a proper ship, not on a river or a lake—like this one, going to sea, to another country.”

“That would be when we shipped off to Portugal.”

“We?” she asked, moving closer.

“All of us: Gabe, Harry, Luke, Michael, and me. My friends,” he explained. “My closest friends. The finest friends a man could have.”

“Will I meet them in England?” The wind blew the skirt of her dress against his leg. It wrapped around his thigh, softly.

“You’ll meet Harry and Luke. Not Gabe. Gabe married the Princess of Zindaria, so he lives there.” He would take her to Zindaria one day, he thought. And then caught himself up on the notion. His insides lurched as he realized where his thoughts, his desires, were taking him.

He’d come to Egypt to escape a bride, not to catch one. He looked at her and swallowed.

There was a small pause. “And Michael?” she prompted.

“Michael was killed. It happens in war. Good men dying unnecessarily . . .”

She slipped a hand through his arm and pressed against him lightly, not in any flirtatious sense, he was certain, just in a comforting way. Still, his body leapt to attention.

“How old were you, then? On that ship to Portugal?”

“Eighteen.”

She sighed. “Just a boy.”

He said ruefully, “We didn’t think so at the time. We thought we were men, heading for a glorious adventure.”

It wasn’t completely true. He’d had a coil of anxiety down deep in his gut that he did his best to keep hidden, wondering if he had “the right stuff,” whether he’d turn out to be brave or a coward. He hoped he would be brave, but until you’d faced fire, they’d all agreed, you couldn’t be sure what you were made of.

God, how young he’d been then. As if anything was ever that simple. A drift of cigar smoke and a deep murmur of voices told him they had company on deck. He withdrew his arm and stepped away. She gave him an odd look.

“I think it’s best if we didn’t spend very much time together on this voyage,” he found himself saying.

“Why?”

“Because you are unchaperoned and I don’t want people to gossip.”

She was silent a moment. “What would it matter if they did gossip?”

He recalled her view of gossips: that they would anyway.

He cleared his throat, searching for the right words to explain. “In England, if a man—a gentleman, that is, an unmarried gentleman—is said to have compromised a young woman, he is considered to be under an obligation to marry her.”

“What if she didn’t want to marry him?” she said after a moment.

“She would come under the same pressure.”

“And if they didn’t marry?”

“She would lose her reputation as a virtuous woman, and he would lose his as a man of honor.”

“That’s not very fair, is it?”

“No.”

“But I suppose it is the rule in England.”

“Yes.” And then, because the answer seemed thin, he added, “It is.”

There was another short silence, broken only by the sounds of the sea and the sails. “Then it is no different than Egypt. I thought it would be different. Very well,” she said briskly. “We shall see as little as possible of each other. Occasional polite chats in passing, but only if someone else is present—that’s the sort of thing you mean, isn’t it? Should it be with a man present or a woman?”

“A woman is best,” Rafe said. She was taking it very well. It was a little disconcerting how well she’d taken it, in fact. Almost . . . enthusiastically. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course,” she said, sounding surprised that he could ask such a thing. “I’ll still have everything I need.”

“You won’t be lonely?”

“Of course not. There are plenty of interesting people on this ship to talk to. And I have Cleo, who will always be my friend. Don’t worry, I will obey the rule. It would be terrible indeed if we were forced to marry.”

The murmur of masculine voices grew louder and she glanced behind her. “Those soldiers are getting closer, so I’d better go. We wouldn’t want them to see us together, alone up here in the dark together, would we? They might oblige us to marry, and that would be unthinkable. Good night.” And she vanished.

Rafe blinked. That had been very abrupt. Almost as if she was angry.

He thought about it, going over the explanation he’d given her. There was nothing to offend her in what he’d said, he decided. It had been clear and reasonable, and he’d made it obvious he was only protecting her from the unwanted consequences of a little thoughtless friendliness. She’d grown up in a different culture, a culture where men and women didn’t mix socially. She needed to be given a hint.

In any case, he’d seen her temper in action; it was hot and direct and sometimes physical. He bore the scars to prove it, he thought, touching the place on his neck where her scratches had long since faded.

No, if Ayisha was displeased, she made it clear. She was a bit like her cat in that way.

There must be some other reason why he felt uneasy about the way she’d walked off so abruptly.

He was tempted to join the young officers, blow a cloud with them, and enjoy some purely masculine company for a change. But he wasn’t in the mood, he decided. Perhaps tomorrow.

F
or the next three days he hardly saw Ayisha at all. The likelihood of that on such a small ship—it was almost as if she were avoiding him. She certainly took rules seriously. He supposed you would, given the rules she’d grown up with. The pasha’s rules were serious indeed.

As were those of England, he reflected. Perhaps they didn’t cut people’s hands off, but they did hang them, or transport them to the other side of the world. She’d just confused the difference between the rules of polite society and the laws of the land, that’s all. And he’d explain that to her, if she ever let him get close enough.

She seemed to have glued herself to the young vicar and his wife. And when she wasn’t with them, she was with the three witches. Who were actually being quite friendly to her, he admitted when he saw one of them sitting with her on deck, teaching her to knit.

Even the sailors had taken to her. Normally they wouldn’t have anything to do with passengers, but the kitten broke down barriers.

Ayisha took Cleo on deck each morning and afternoon to give the kitten some fresh air, and soon sailors and passengers found reasons to be in the vicinity as the tiny creature explored and played.

First she’d simply sniffed her way around, staying close to Ayisha, hiding under her skirts when anyone approached . . . only to leap out and attack their shoes and ankles. But slowly, as Cleo became accustomed to the place, she got bolder.

One day she tried to climb the mast and got stuck six feet up it, and wailed in fury to be rescued. Another time she had a fight almost to the death with the hanging end of a coil of rope.

At first it was funny, but as the kitten grew bolder and more adventurous, Ayisha became anxious. The kitten would disappear down any hole she found, wriggle into any dark corner, leap up onto any looming surface.

The day Ayisha had turned to see Cleo, her head sticking out through one of the drainage holes in the gunwales, peering down into the sea, was the day she stopped the deck excursions forever. “She’s got no sense,” she explained the next day when people asked her where the kitten was. “I wouldn’t put it past her not to try to pounce on a wave or a passing dolphin.”

The next day one of the sailors presented her with a kitten-sized rope harness attached to a long thin lead. “That’ll stop ’er falling overboard, miss,” the sailor said.

For the rest of the day the entertainment was in watching Cleo fight her harness. She fought it, rolling and growling and getting mightily tangled. She tried to run away from it and turned around, spitting furiously when it followed. She resisted it, planting paws and bottom firmly on the deck and refusing to budge when Ayisha tried to lead her. “It’s like taking a loaf of bread for a walk.” Ayisha laughed.

So she talked to everyone, and everyone talked to her. Except Rafe. Each time she’d seen him coming, she’d picked up the kitten and hurried away.

When the kitten first appeared with the harness, he’d seized the excuse to talk to her for the first time in days—it was unexceptional, being under the eyes of a dozen impartial witnesses—and yet she’d scooped up the kitten and disappeared back to her cabin.

She had got the wrong end of the blasted stick, as he’d thought; it wasn’t that they weren’t allowed to talk at all, just be . . . discreet. Dammit, he missed her.

But she was as slippery as an eel, using all the other passengers to keep him at bay.

The two young officers, Green and Dickinson, gallantly squired her around the deck several times a day, and even escorted her and Mrs. Ferris to meals. Several times Rafe had knocked on the door of her cabin, only to be told by Woods that Lieutenants Green and Dickinson had already called for the ladies.

Tonight it had happened for the third night in a row.

No wonder Mrs. Ferris was being nice to her, Rafe thought sourly. It must be years since she’d had a handsome young officer escorting her to dinner—if ever. He decided not to go to dinner; he was feeling a little off-color anyway, as if something he’d eaten had disagreed with him.

R
afe slept in late next morning, and when Higgins came with hot water for his ablutions, he stared at Rafe with a concerned expression. “Sir, I don’t think you should get up. You look terrible, and you’re still sick.”

“Nonsense, Higgins, it’s just a touch of dysentery. Army can’t stop for a bit of dysentery.” Rafe struggled out of bed and dashed cold water over his face. He rinsed his mouth out and spat. He’d thrown up a couple of times in the night, but he was determined not to give in to whatever it was. As soon as it had passed through his system he would be all right.

“You’re not in the army any longer, sir,” Higgins argued. “And you’d be better off resting in bed for a day or two. These tropical fevers, sir, you can’t be too careful.”

“Nonsense. Just shave me, will you? Blasted hand’s shaking for some reason.”

He sat on the bunk and, for once, let Higgins shave him. His head felt thick and achy. He did feel a bit feverish and unwell, he admitted to himself, but lying around in a stuffy little cabin would not do him any good. Better to go up on deck and get a bit of fresh air into him.

Besides, he was damned if he was going to let her avoid him another day. He’d drag her off by main force if he had to and explain that she’d got the rule wrong. She was allowed to talk to him—dammit, he needed her to talk to him.

With Higgins’s help he got dressed and staggered to the door.

“You shouldn’t be up, sir,” Higgins said.

“Nonsense, ship’s rolling, that’s all.” He started up the corridor and espied the object of his desire standing in the companionway, about to ascend the stairs. “Ayisha!” he called.

She stopped and whirled around.

“Need to speak to you,” he told her, hurrying toward her, but the rolling ship kept tipping him off balance and he kept having to grab the walls.

She came running toward him. “What is it? What’s the matter?” She caught him around the waist and put her shoulder under his.

“He’s ill, miss,” Higgins told her, “He was ill in the night, and I told him he shouldn’t get up, but would he listen?”

She pressed a hand to his forehead. Rafe closed his eyes as he felt it. Lovely cool, soft hand. Cool.

“He’s burning up,” she said.

“Aaarrggh!” a scream came from behind her.

Rafe clapped his hands over his ears. “Shockin’ noise,” he said, glaring at her. “Mrs. . . .” He couldn’t remember the name. Woman with no lips. “Should be shot, making noise like tha . . .” And he started sliding down the wall.

“He’s got the plague!” the woman screeched. “He’s brought it on board with him! Oh my God, we’ll all die if we don’t get rid of him!” And she ran up the corridor screaming, “Plague! Plague! Plague!”

Twelve

A
yisha struggled to get Rafe standing again. Higgins helped.

“What’s she talking about, miss? It can’t be plague, surely?”

“Of course it can. In Egypt, plague is always with us.” She steered Rafe toward his cabin. “Come on, help me—walk,” she urged him. He staggered a few steps, mumbling. He was burning up and shivering at the same time.

Higgins stared at her. “You mean plague?
The
plague. The bubonic plague?”

“Yes, it’s nearly always around, but it’s worst in summer. Help me to get him through the door. You go first, and I’ll try to hold him up.”

“But the plague’s a killer, miss. A terrible killer.”

BOOK: To Catch a Bride

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