another. "I sent Mackenzie to stow her dunnage, Nick. I told him not to tarry, but he seems to have been a mite hasty."
"Hasty!" Rose held out the torn lace as testimony. "This is careless, not hasty, and now it's quite ruined, and I hadn't yet worn this—this—"
"Shift?" supplied Nick automatically. Besides his growing up among three sisters, his firsthand experience with a wide assortment of friendly barmaids and lonely widows had made him familiar enough with all the layers women wore beneath their gowns. "Underskirt? Petticoat? Or was it a nightrail?"
But Rose had had the disadvantage of neither brothers nor lovers, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Never before had she heard a man say such words to her, and certainly not a dark, devilish man like this one, who could make the mildest nothingness seem indecent. Quickly she wadded the torn strip into her fist where Nick could no longer see it or comment on its nature.
The modest little gesture unsettled Nick. Before this he had thought of the girl only as a shrewish, inconvenient female, but to see her this way, crouched before that ridiculous monstrosity of a trunk with her cheeks on fire and her eyes wide with misery, changed everything. She seemed small and pitifully young, and shamefully innocent, too, if the mere mention of her shift could cause her such mortification. It wasn't as if he'd seen her wearing the wretched thing. Damnation, how
were
genteel females raised in England, anyway?
"You tell me the cost of the damage, miss," he said gruffly, "and I'll make it up to you."
"Oh, no!" Rose gasped again and shook her head violently. "I couldn't let you do that!"
"Of course you can. My man caused the damage, didn't he?"
"The damage isn't the question," she said, struggling to explain. "That is to say, I mean, that because you are a man, for me to let you pay for—for such personal effects would be most improper. I could not possibly accept such an offer from you without acknowledging a familiarity between us that certainly does not exist."
Nor ever would, thought Nick as he clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back. How could such an undersize chit of a girl have so blessed much to say for herself? She spoke in such overbred circles around him that he had to concentrate, really concentrate and not just listen, to understand what the hell she was trying to say.
Blast Lily for doing this to him!
"If you won't clear my reckoning, then will you accept my apology?" he said with more care than gallantry. "Lieutenant Cole should have let your maid look after your things, instead of having a ham-fisted oaf like Mackenzie—"
"He couldn't," she said abruptly. "He couldn't ask my maid for assistance because I don't have one."
"You're traveling alone?" Nick's surprise was genuine. No woman with any pretensions to being a lady would dream of doing such a thing. "Why'd that father of yours pack you off without a maidservant?"
"He didn't." Her dark head bent over her lap and her voice grew so muted that Nick had to strain to hear it. "My maid perished a fortnight after we'd left Portsmouth."
There was little else to say of the maid that Aunt Lucretia had chosen. She'd been mean-tempered even before she'd fallen ill, and though Rose knew it was unchristian of her, she'd been almost relieved when the woman died.
"But you're well enough yourself, Miss Everard?" he was asking. "Your own illness is past?"
Rose's head jerked up at the new gentleness in his voice. The galley stores on board the
Commerce
had dwindled during the overlong crossing and there hadn't been enough to eat, but he assumed instead that she'd been ill, too, because she was sallow and too thin. She didn't want his pity, wanted it even less than she wanted his contempt. She was what she was. Swiftly she rose to her feet, the length of torn lace from her shift fluttering from her fingers.
"I am perfectly well, Captain Sparhawk, thank you," she said, meeting his gaze as levelly as she
"Hasty!" Rose held out the torn lace as testimony. "This is careless, not hasty, and now it's quite ruined, and I hadn't yet worn this—this—"
"Shift?" supplied Nick automatically. Besides his growing up among three sisters, his firsthand experience with a wide assortment of friendly barmaids and lonely widows had made him familiar enough with all the layers women wore beneath their gowns. "Underskirt? Petticoat? Or was it a nightrail?"
But Rose had had the disadvantage of neither brothers nor lovers, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Never before had she heard a man say such words to her, and certainly not a dark, devilish man like this one, who could make the mildest nothingness seem indecent. Quickly she wadded the torn strip into her fist where Nick could no longer see it or comment on its nature.
The modest little gesture unsettled Nick. Before this he had thought of the girl only as a shrewish, inconvenient female, but to see her this way, crouched before that ridiculous monstrosity of a trunk with her cheeks on fire and her eyes wide with misery, changed everything. She seemed small and pitifully young, and shamefully innocent, too, if the mere mention of her shift could cause her such mortification. It wasn't as if he'd seen her wearing the wretched thing. Damnation, how
were
genteel females raised in England, anyway?
"You tell me the cost of the damage, miss," he said gruffly, "and I'll make it up to you."
"Oh, no!" Rose gasped again and shook her head violently. "I couldn't let you do that!"
"Of course you can. My man caused the damage, didn't he?"
"The damage isn't the question," she said, struggling to explain. "That is to say, I mean, that because you are a man, for me to let you pay for—for such personal effects would be most improper. I could not possibly accept such an offer from you without acknowledging a familiarity between us that certainly does not exist."
Nor ever would, thought Nick as he clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back. How could such an undersize chit of a girl have so blessed much to say for herself? She spoke in such overbred circles around him that he had to concentrate, really concentrate and not just listen, to understand what the hell she was trying to say.
Blast Lily for doing this to him!
"If you won't clear my reckoning, then will you accept my apology?" he said with more care than gallantry. "Lieutenant Cole should have let your maid look after your things, instead of having a ham-fisted oaf like Mackenzie—"
"He couldn't," she said abruptly. "He couldn't ask my maid for assistance because I don't have one."
"You're traveling alone?" Nick's surprise was genuine. No woman with any pretensions to being a lady would dream of doing such a thing. "Why'd that father of yours pack you off without a maidservant?"
"He didn't." Her dark head bent over her lap and her voice grew so muted that Nick had to strain to hear it. "My maid perished a fortnight after we'd left Portsmouth."
There was little else to say of the maid that Aunt Lucretia had chosen. She'd been mean-tempered even before she'd fallen ill, and though Rose knew it was unchristian of her, she'd been almost relieved when the woman died.
"But you're well enough yourself, Miss Everard?" he was asking. "Your own illness is past?"
Rose's head jerked up at the new gentleness in his voice. The galley stores on board the
Commerce
had dwindled during the overlong crossing and there hadn't been enough to eat, but he assumed instead that she'd been ill, too, because she was sallow and too thin. She didn't want his pity, wanted it even less than she wanted his contempt. She was what she was. Swiftly she rose to her feet, the length of torn lace from her shift fluttering from her fingers.
"I am perfectly well, Captain Sparhawk, thank you," she said, meeting his gaze as levelly as she
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