you great ignor—"
"I meant the expression didn't flatter you," he said. Her jaw clamped shut and the full line of her lips compressed. "There, I see I've made my point. Now take that petticoat off or I swear I'll strip it off myself."
This time she didn't argue. Standing, holding her dress up modestly, Mercedes wriggled out of the petticoat and threw it at him.
"Have a care, Miss Leyden," he said. "Or I might think your thanks was all form and no substance."
"Go to—"
He did not interrupt her with words, but with a single arched eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked when she didn't finish.
Mercedes's gray eyes flashed. "Hell," she said forcefully. "Go to hell!" She dropped back on the bed hard, stunned by her outburst.
"Good for you, Miss Leyden," Colin said. He crossed the room to the chair behind her, moving out of her vision so she couldn't see the narrow, satisfied smile that raised the corners of his mouth. When she was angry her eyes were like a lightning storm. It was a sight worth seeing again. "Perhaps the fly is really a wasp," he mused aloud. "I swear that was a little sting I felt."
His observation gave her a start. The dagger between her breasts suddenly felt as big and as obtrusive as a jousting lance. Did he know it was there? Was his comment a veiled reference to it? How could—
"No riposte?" he asked casually.
"Must you even interrupt my thoughts, Captain Thorne?"
That narrow smile became a little wider. Colin bent his head and opened his sewing box. When his silence drove Mercedes to near distraction and she finally turned around, he was blithely threading a needle.
Anything she had planned to say was gone from her mind. "Why do you carry a sewing kit?" she asked.
"Every seaman does, leastways if he wants to look presentable on shore."
"Are they all so good with their handiwork as you?"
Colin tacked the flounce with large, even stitches to hold it in place. "Some are better, some worse," he said matter-of-factly.
"How did you learn?"
"The usual way a sailor learns. Mending sail." He threaded the needle again, this time with finer thread, and began repairing the hem with tiny stitches. Mercedes moved to the other side of the bed to watch him more closely. "Aren't you going to put that on?" he asked.
"What?" Then she realized he was speaking of her gown. She was still holding it in front of her, although with less concern for her modesty now. "Oh, yes... yes, of course."
Colin's head cocked to one side, but he didn't raise his eyes in her direction. "It was only a question," he said. "Not a command."
A small shiver slipped along Mercedes's skin. What was he saying? That he approved of her state of dishabille? This was the trickiest part of her plan. Mercedes had no clear idea how to go about seducing any man, let alone one as seemingly indifferent as Colin Thorne. Perhaps she had made a good start after all. "Then I'll wait until you've finished with my petticoat," she said softly. His shrug was not all that she could have hoped for. She allowed the gown to fall a fraction. Her camisole strap slid over one shoulder and she let it remain.
He glanced up, his eyes alighting on her bruised jaw. "How did that happen?" he asked.
Mercedes almost grimaced in frustration. It was knowing the unattractiveness of that expression that kept it in check. He hadn't noticed the smoothness of her bare shoulder or the curve of her breasts. No, his dark eyes had narrowed on the blemish. Mercedes lifted her hand to it self-consciously. "He hit me."
"Who?"
The question confused her. He asked it quickly, as if he suspected some lie and could surprise the truth out of her. "I'm sure I don't know."
"How did you get away?"
She was tempted to say she fought her fictional attacker off. Instead she stuck with a more plausible answer. "There was a noise in the brush—an animal probably—but he didn't know that. It frightened him and his grip loosened."
"And that's when you were able to get away?"
"That's right."
"Then
"I meant the expression didn't flatter you," he said. Her jaw clamped shut and the full line of her lips compressed. "There, I see I've made my point. Now take that petticoat off or I swear I'll strip it off myself."
This time she didn't argue. Standing, holding her dress up modestly, Mercedes wriggled out of the petticoat and threw it at him.
"Have a care, Miss Leyden," he said. "Or I might think your thanks was all form and no substance."
"Go to—"
He did not interrupt her with words, but with a single arched eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked when she didn't finish.
Mercedes's gray eyes flashed. "Hell," she said forcefully. "Go to hell!" She dropped back on the bed hard, stunned by her outburst.
"Good for you, Miss Leyden," Colin said. He crossed the room to the chair behind her, moving out of her vision so she couldn't see the narrow, satisfied smile that raised the corners of his mouth. When she was angry her eyes were like a lightning storm. It was a sight worth seeing again. "Perhaps the fly is really a wasp," he mused aloud. "I swear that was a little sting I felt."
His observation gave her a start. The dagger between her breasts suddenly felt as big and as obtrusive as a jousting lance. Did he know it was there? Was his comment a veiled reference to it? How could—
"No riposte?" he asked casually.
"Must you even interrupt my thoughts, Captain Thorne?"
That narrow smile became a little wider. Colin bent his head and opened his sewing box. When his silence drove Mercedes to near distraction and she finally turned around, he was blithely threading a needle.
Anything she had planned to say was gone from her mind. "Why do you carry a sewing kit?" she asked.
"Every seaman does, leastways if he wants to look presentable on shore."
"Are they all so good with their handiwork as you?"
Colin tacked the flounce with large, even stitches to hold it in place. "Some are better, some worse," he said matter-of-factly.
"How did you learn?"
"The usual way a sailor learns. Mending sail." He threaded the needle again, this time with finer thread, and began repairing the hem with tiny stitches. Mercedes moved to the other side of the bed to watch him more closely. "Aren't you going to put that on?" he asked.
"What?" Then she realized he was speaking of her gown. She was still holding it in front of her, although with less concern for her modesty now. "Oh, yes... yes, of course."
Colin's head cocked to one side, but he didn't raise his eyes in her direction. "It was only a question," he said. "Not a command."
A small shiver slipped along Mercedes's skin. What was he saying? That he approved of her state of dishabille? This was the trickiest part of her plan. Mercedes had no clear idea how to go about seducing any man, let alone one as seemingly indifferent as Colin Thorne. Perhaps she had made a good start after all. "Then I'll wait until you've finished with my petticoat," she said softly. His shrug was not all that she could have hoped for. She allowed the gown to fall a fraction. Her camisole strap slid over one shoulder and she let it remain.
He glanced up, his eyes alighting on her bruised jaw. "How did that happen?" he asked.
Mercedes almost grimaced in frustration. It was knowing the unattractiveness of that expression that kept it in check. He hadn't noticed the smoothness of her bare shoulder or the curve of her breasts. No, his dark eyes had narrowed on the blemish. Mercedes lifted her hand to it self-consciously. "He hit me."
"Who?"
The question confused her. He asked it quickly, as if he suspected some lie and could surprise the truth out of her. "I'm sure I don't know."
"How did you get away?"
She was tempted to say she fought her fictional attacker off. Instead she stuck with a more plausible answer. "There was a noise in the brush—an animal probably—but he didn't know that. It frightened him and his grip loosened."
"And that's when you were able to get away?"
"That's right."
"Then
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