The Companion by Susan Squires Page A

weigh the balance in her favor. The flurry of taken pieces might distract him. She reached for the crenellated ivory.
    Play accelerated. Both collected their downed opponents. The rush of play unfolded as each pursued a strategy that must collide, Beth knew.
    There! He had allowed her queen the avenue required.
    She moved.
    He sucked in a breath, stopped. Seconds stretched. The climax loomed. One possibility . . .
    He moved his king.
    “Stalemate,” she said, letting go her pent-up breath. “You have robbed me.”
    “But I could not win.”
    “No,” she agreed, letting it be known she had expected that.
    “So . . .” He pushed back from the table, glancing one final time at the board as if to retrieve some other outcome. “This voyage will allow scope for a rematch?”
    “If you like.” She let her tone say, “If you dare.”
    Behind him, Redding, the loblolly boy who had served her tea, looked in on them. “Miss Rochewell, Mr. Rufford, may I get you some lemon scrub, perhaps, before dinner?”
    “Wine for me, I think, and Madeira for the lady,” Mr. Rufford responded.
    Redding ducked his head and disappeared.
    “I am surprised you did not order ratafia for me,” Beth observed, too sweetly.
    He looked surprised. “You wanted wine? Madeira survives shipping in far better countenance than any claret.”
    “Perhaps I wanted to choose for myself.” She scooped the pieces into their box.
    He lounged back in his chair. “You are a strange creature, Miss Rochewell.”
    “I have no doubt of that.” She was very well aware that she was not attractive. Was that what he meant by strange ? She felt herself flushing as she put the box away. Behind her there was silence. But she could feel the physical presence of him. She glanced behind her and saw him flushing in return.
    “My apologies,” he said in that sensuous baritone of his as he looked away. “I, of all people, have no right to call another strange.”
    What could he mean? “Well,” she managed. “Perhaps we have our strangeness in common as well as our humanity.”
    He looked up at her with a longing she found painful. “Perhaps not,” he whispered. He rose, as though he might flee.
    Luckily or unluckily, Redding returned with the wine.“Sorry, miss, Mr. Rufford, these particul’r bottles wa’n’t easy to come by, if you get my meaning.”
    Rufford’s scruples apparently would not allow him to abandon her publicly. He sat on the edge of his chair while Redding poured. By the time Redding bowed out, Rufford had recovered his composure and Beth had decided that the mystery of Mr. Rufford was deeper than she had supposed.
    He raised his glass. “To England, Miss Rochewell, and a quick voyage.”
    “To England,” she returned, with rather less enthusiasm. She sat opposite him.
    “Where do you call home in England?”
    Beth watched his valiant effort at nonchalance, fascinated. Light from the swinging lamp moved across his form. What was it about him that was so . . . attractive? It was the way his body moved inside his clothes, perhaps. Or the thick column of his throat. The cleft chin? Maybe. The eyes, of course, the curling hair. She felt his presence almost viscerally, somewhere deep inside her. He seemed more physical than anyone she had ever known and . . . male, as Monsieur L’Bareaux or the camel drivers never had.
    He raised his brows and she realized that he was waiting for some answer. What had he asked? Oh yes. “I . . . I don’t call anywhere in England home. I am bound for my aunt’s house in London. And that will surprise her immensely, so I can only hope my letter arrives before I do, so she may pretend a welcome.”
    He did not press her but looked out on the dark sea through the great stern windows to where the lanterns of other ships bobbed on the swell.
    “And you, sir? Where do you go?” Suddenly she wanted to keep him talking.
    “Perhaps to Suffolk. My brother will be surprised as well. Henry inherited a couple of