Rebecca by Jo Ann Ferguson

agony as she clutched her midsection. In two long steps, he had crossed the room. “Sweetheart, what is wrong?”
    At the sound of his voice, her anguished eyes turned to him. “I’m so sick, Nicholas. Help me, please.” In her desperation, her antipathy had dissolved. He was the only one she had to depend on.
    â€œLet me take off your jacket, so you will be more comfortable.” He slipped his arm under her shoulders to help her sit.
    While she was pulling her coat off, her trembling fingers paused. She moaned as her face turned the same green-grey as the sea. He took one glance at her face and reached for a bucket holding water. Tossing the water out of the window, he placed the wooden pail on the floor. He held her head while she was ill. When her retching ceased, he rolled her gently so she rested on the pillows once more. He placed a dampened cloth on her forehead, and she groaned.
    â€œFeeling any better, Rebecca?”
    â€œNo,” she whispered. “Take me home. Tell them to turn around and take me back to shore. I shall die if this continues.”
    He chuckled lightly. “Seasick?”
    â€œWhat else could it be?” she snapped with sudden heat. His humor irritated her so much that she would have slapped his face if her hands had had the strength.
    With a shrug, he said reasonably, “It could be several things. Morning sickness, for example. You have been looking very pale since morning.”
    â€œIt can’t be morning sickness!” She put the back of her hand on her forehead as she fought to breathe without irritating the pain in her stomach. She struggled to keep from moaning in the unrelenting distress of her middle. “I cannot be pregnant!”
    â€œNo?” His eyes glowed with the fire she knew was smouldering directly behind his courteous exterior. He had never made any efforts to hide it. “So your wonderful Keith Bennett never bedded you to be sure that you were worth what your brother owed him?” He caressed her cheek. “I’m surprised, but delighted that you are as untouched as the day we wed.”
    She started to retort but only groaned as her stomach revolted again. As he had before, Nicholas held her while she was sick and aided her back onto the bunk. She shook with the strength of the nausea ravaging her. For that reason alone, she clung to him. “Don’t be cruel to me now, Nicholas,” she murmured. “I can’t fight both you and this sickness inside me. If you must be mean to me, do it later.”
    He replaced the damp cloth on her forehead. “I don’t want to be cruel to you ever. I would far rather be kind to you, but you make it impossible.”
    Her eyes creaked open as she looked up into his blurred features. “Damn you, Nicholas Wythe. All you care about is the fact that you can be the first to bed me. You don’t care one bit that I am so miserable I wish I was dead. I wish I had not come out to the barn to discover you that day until you were beyond help.”
    â€œRebecca, that’s enough!” he retorted sternly.
    â€œWhat?” she asked in a sharp voice that cracked on the single word. “Does his high and mighty lordship dislike hearing the truth?” Her words faded into a moan of torment. She turned her back on him to face the wall.
    He did not dare to touch her to bring her to face him so that he could force her to see the reality she continued to disbelieve. If she was moved, she could become ill again. He hoped she would recover quickly. Although he had never suffered from seasickness, he had seen its debilitating effects. Such a long voyage as the one ahead could be fatal to someone who was ill before they had left behind them the land visible on the horizon as a low, grey cloud.
    As he saw her shoulders shake, he knew that in the weakness of her tortured body she had lost the strong will to hide her tears from him. Except for the one time she had cried