witnessed.
She nodded, her brow knotted. Why that severe reaction? What had she said?
She preceded Mr. Rufford across the deck to the Captain’s cabin, his bulk and his emotion a dark force almost palpable behind her, his cinnamon scent dissipated by theocean air. The mystery of the man was not lessened by her conversation. She doubted that a dinner in the very public company of the ship’s officers was likely to shed any light on that mystery. But the voyage was long and suddenly very much more interesting than she had thought it would be.
Four
Damn her eyes! Why did he have to be confined on a ship with one of the few English people who knew anything at all about the legends of an evil in the desert?
Ian stood at the rail again watching the lights on the merchantmen, now drifting farther away, now nearing in the wee hours as the convoy cruised slowly on at the speed of the most sluggish of her members. The boys heaving the log sang out four knots at most.
Supper with the officers stopped any prying questions. And it had allowed him to take his gauge of her more fully. She spoke fluent Turkish. He had not let on that he understood her as she complimented the Turkish sailing master on the science of navigation his ancestors had defined. Only the Captain or the passengers could initiate conversation, and Tindly was a blockish man who indulged in avaricious anecdotes. So she made it her job to knit conversation together across the table of officers with practical questions. She dealt with the crew’s attention good-naturedly, not mistaking it for real regard. She did have social graces. They were simply different from those practiced in London drawing rooms.
She was not conventionally pretty and she definitely thought she had no beauty. She might be wrong. Her tawnygreen eyes were certainly a shock in the light. They made her look exotic. And there was something about her . . . Just what it was eluded him. Was it that she was an original? What woman did he know who could give him a game of chess and spoke Turkish? Or was it the way she moved, with unconscious . . . freedom? Whatever it was, her particular charms would not be valued in parochial England. He gazed out over the waters. The fact that she was intelligent and even knew Kivala by name meant his secrets were not safe. She was a woman, too, and therefore untrustworthy. An image darted into his brain of lithe white limbs, billowing silk curtains, compulsion overwhelming even pain with lust. . . .
“Jib and topsails!” Bare feet hurried unseen and a triangular sheet flapped into place.
He jerked himself from the rail and lurched across the waist to climb the forward stairs to the bow. Let the wind wash his thoughts clean. White water coursed out from the ship’s side.
He would never allow a woman to overcome him again.
He thought of his brother Henry and his Mary. If only you could keep that first tenuous promise of happiness and interlocking sympathies throughout the years. How many marriages had he seen where the woman strove in subtle ways to make her husband feel smaller, more mean-spirited, than he was and in consequence behave that way? Would his father have been the absent wastrel if his mother had not been the oppressive saint? They lived only to torment each other and gain the upper hand. No, women were not for him.
He steeled his emotions. When he got to Stanbridge Court he would find Mary grown into a fat shrew and Henry looking for more temporary and convenient comforts elsewhere while taking solace in the fact that he was immortal through his children.
Immortality . . .
The caravan gathered at the edge of the desert. Braying camels settled in the sand, their packs piled beside them, their brightly colored rope halters fitted with dangling tassels to keep the flies from their eyes. Still their ears twitched almost constantly. Flies were everywhere. Men in striped burnooses and plain walked among the beasts. Others bargained with merchant
She nodded, her brow knotted. Why that severe reaction? What had she said?
She preceded Mr. Rufford across the deck to the Captain’s cabin, his bulk and his emotion a dark force almost palpable behind her, his cinnamon scent dissipated by theocean air. The mystery of the man was not lessened by her conversation. She doubted that a dinner in the very public company of the ship’s officers was likely to shed any light on that mystery. But the voyage was long and suddenly very much more interesting than she had thought it would be.
Four
Damn her eyes! Why did he have to be confined on a ship with one of the few English people who knew anything at all about the legends of an evil in the desert?
Ian stood at the rail again watching the lights on the merchantmen, now drifting farther away, now nearing in the wee hours as the convoy cruised slowly on at the speed of the most sluggish of her members. The boys heaving the log sang out four knots at most.
Supper with the officers stopped any prying questions. And it had allowed him to take his gauge of her more fully. She spoke fluent Turkish. He had not let on that he understood her as she complimented the Turkish sailing master on the science of navigation his ancestors had defined. Only the Captain or the passengers could initiate conversation, and Tindly was a blockish man who indulged in avaricious anecdotes. So she made it her job to knit conversation together across the table of officers with practical questions. She dealt with the crew’s attention good-naturedly, not mistaking it for real regard. She did have social graces. They were simply different from those practiced in London drawing rooms.
She was not conventionally pretty and she definitely thought she had no beauty. She might be wrong. Her tawnygreen eyes were certainly a shock in the light. They made her look exotic. And there was something about her . . . Just what it was eluded him. Was it that she was an original? What woman did he know who could give him a game of chess and spoke Turkish? Or was it the way she moved, with unconscious . . . freedom? Whatever it was, her particular charms would not be valued in parochial England. He gazed out over the waters. The fact that she was intelligent and even knew Kivala by name meant his secrets were not safe. She was a woman, too, and therefore untrustworthy. An image darted into his brain of lithe white limbs, billowing silk curtains, compulsion overwhelming even pain with lust. . . .
“Jib and topsails!” Bare feet hurried unseen and a triangular sheet flapped into place.
He jerked himself from the rail and lurched across the waist to climb the forward stairs to the bow. Let the wind wash his thoughts clean. White water coursed out from the ship’s side.
He would never allow a woman to overcome him again.
He thought of his brother Henry and his Mary. If only you could keep that first tenuous promise of happiness and interlocking sympathies throughout the years. How many marriages had he seen where the woman strove in subtle ways to make her husband feel smaller, more mean-spirited, than he was and in consequence behave that way? Would his father have been the absent wastrel if his mother had not been the oppressive saint? They lived only to torment each other and gain the upper hand. No, women were not for him.
He steeled his emotions. When he got to Stanbridge Court he would find Mary grown into a fat shrew and Henry looking for more temporary and convenient comforts elsewhere while taking solace in the fact that he was immortal through his children.
Immortality . . .
The caravan gathered at the edge of the desert. Braying camels settled in the sand, their packs piled beside them, their brightly colored rope halters fitted with dangling tassels to keep the flies from their eyes. Still their ears twitched almost constantly. Flies were everywhere. Men in striped burnooses and plain walked among the beasts. Others bargained with merchant
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