encouraging.
The seas were still dark and a bit frothy, but the last of the storm had passed. It took a moment for her legs to adjust to the pitch and roll; she steadied herself against a deck box that held wet-weather gear. Around her, sailors in duck pants and homespun shirts mended line, or scrubbed the deck, or hauled away on the great white sails that snapped in the wind above her head. They glanced at her only briefly; obviously the major had warned them against stepping out of line.
Morgan Trask stood near the bow, looking out to sea. He seemed even taller out here among the crew, his shoulders far broader, his legs long and lean. The sun gleamed brightly on his wavy dark blond hair, a pleasant accompaniment to the golden brown color of his skin. When he turned in her direction, she caught his look of concentration and then the flash of a smile.
It took her breath away.
Morgan strode the deck toward her, reaching her side almost too soon. She needed time to steel herself, to calm her rapid heartbeat and restore her mask of control.
“Good morning, Miss Jones.”
“Good morning, Major.”
“Feeling better?”
The wind whipped strands of her hair. She caught them and shoved them behind an ear. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be at sea.”
“Then you like to sail.”
“Not in steerage, the way I left Katonga, but on a ship like this one, yes.”
Morgan’s green eyes turned dark. “You traveled to Georgia belowdecks?”
Silver shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of nonchalance. “I had no choice.”
But Morgan’s look said he knew exactly what she had suffered traveling that way. Passengers were jammed four or five to a two-berth room; what little food existed was almost inedible; and modesty, even for the most intimate functions, was nearly impossible. Steerage passengers weren’t allowed on deck. When the seas grew rough, the smell of vomit had stifled the air until she could barely breathe.
Unconsciously Silver shivered.
“Are you cold?” Morgan stepped closer. “I can get you a coat from below.”
“I’m fine. It’s really very nice out here.” Besides, she’d found a warm black knit shawl on the table in the salon that someone had set out for her. She pulled it closer around her shoulders. “Thank you for the shawl.”
“One of the men had purchased it as a gift. He brought it to me this morning for you to use instead.”
“Thank him for me, will you?”
“Of course.” They walked the deck in silence. When the ship pitched harder than she expected, Silver stumbled against Morgan and his arm went around her protectively.
“I guess I haven’t got my sea legs yet.”
“You will. You’re probably still a little bit weak.”
Morgan led her to the wheelhouse, where the young lieutenant she had threatened at gunpoint stood beside a brawny dark-haired sailor Trask called Gordon, who gripped the huge teak wheel with beefy, calloused hands. The lieutenant moved away from the man and walked toward them.
“This is Lieutenant Hamilton Riley,” Morgan said by way of introduction, as if they had never set eyes on each other before. A smile of amusement played on finely carved lips she knew could look cruel but now appeared sensuous. “I believe you remember Miss Jones,” he said to Riley, whose boyish face turned crimson.
He knew her all right, and he obviously hadn’t forgotten what a fool she had made of him.
Silver’s chin came up, and she straightened her spine. “How do you do,” she greeted him as if this were truly the proper introduction Morgan’s words implied.
“Miss Jones.” Riley’s finger touched his forehead, where his hat might have been if the wind had permitted. He was dressed in the same dark blue uniform he had worn the day before, while Morgan looked casual, and far more attractive, in his snug brown breeches and snowy linen shirt.
Morgan spoke briefly to Riley, then escorted Silver down the ladder in the forecastle that led down to the
The seas were still dark and a bit frothy, but the last of the storm had passed. It took a moment for her legs to adjust to the pitch and roll; she steadied herself against a deck box that held wet-weather gear. Around her, sailors in duck pants and homespun shirts mended line, or scrubbed the deck, or hauled away on the great white sails that snapped in the wind above her head. They glanced at her only briefly; obviously the major had warned them against stepping out of line.
Morgan Trask stood near the bow, looking out to sea. He seemed even taller out here among the crew, his shoulders far broader, his legs long and lean. The sun gleamed brightly on his wavy dark blond hair, a pleasant accompaniment to the golden brown color of his skin. When he turned in her direction, she caught his look of concentration and then the flash of a smile.
It took her breath away.
Morgan strode the deck toward her, reaching her side almost too soon. She needed time to steel herself, to calm her rapid heartbeat and restore her mask of control.
“Good morning, Miss Jones.”
“Good morning, Major.”
“Feeling better?”
The wind whipped strands of her hair. She caught them and shoved them behind an ear. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be at sea.”
“Then you like to sail.”
“Not in steerage, the way I left Katonga, but on a ship like this one, yes.”
Morgan’s green eyes turned dark. “You traveled to Georgia belowdecks?”
Silver shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of nonchalance. “I had no choice.”
But Morgan’s look said he knew exactly what she had suffered traveling that way. Passengers were jammed four or five to a two-berth room; what little food existed was almost inedible; and modesty, even for the most intimate functions, was nearly impossible. Steerage passengers weren’t allowed on deck. When the seas grew rough, the smell of vomit had stifled the air until she could barely breathe.
Unconsciously Silver shivered.
“Are you cold?” Morgan stepped closer. “I can get you a coat from below.”
“I’m fine. It’s really very nice out here.” Besides, she’d found a warm black knit shawl on the table in the salon that someone had set out for her. She pulled it closer around her shoulders. “Thank you for the shawl.”
“One of the men had purchased it as a gift. He brought it to me this morning for you to use instead.”
“Thank him for me, will you?”
“Of course.” They walked the deck in silence. When the ship pitched harder than she expected, Silver stumbled against Morgan and his arm went around her protectively.
“I guess I haven’t got my sea legs yet.”
“You will. You’re probably still a little bit weak.”
Morgan led her to the wheelhouse, where the young lieutenant she had threatened at gunpoint stood beside a brawny dark-haired sailor Trask called Gordon, who gripped the huge teak wheel with beefy, calloused hands. The lieutenant moved away from the man and walked toward them.
“This is Lieutenant Hamilton Riley,” Morgan said by way of introduction, as if they had never set eyes on each other before. A smile of amusement played on finely carved lips she knew could look cruel but now appeared sensuous. “I believe you remember Miss Jones,” he said to Riley, whose boyish face turned crimson.
He knew her all right, and he obviously hadn’t forgotten what a fool she had made of him.
Silver’s chin came up, and she straightened her spine. “How do you do,” she greeted him as if this were truly the proper introduction Morgan’s words implied.
“Miss Jones.” Riley’s finger touched his forehead, where his hat might have been if the wind had permitted. He was dressed in the same dark blue uniform he had worn the day before, while Morgan looked casual, and far more attractive, in his snug brown breeches and snowy linen shirt.
Morgan spoke briefly to Riley, then escorted Silver down the ladder in the forecastle that led down to the
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