them into the cabin—had effectively banished any of the Earl's fond reminiscences of his exploits in his salad days, and Samantha's latest, purely feminine argument did not cause his conscience one single qualm. Clothing could be replaced. This red-haired termagant could not be, and he had a most particular reason for making sure not one hair of her head—or one pillow of that inviting bed behind her—was so much as slightly singed.
Grabbing the soft flesh of Samantha's upper arm in a viselike grip, St. John leaned over and snatched up a huge-brimmed poke bonnet, profusely trimmed in blue grosgrain ribbon and several long, curling feathers, and jammed it down tightly on her untidy head.
"There," he proclaimed wickedly. "Unless I'm in error, a possibility so remote it fairly boggles the mind as I am considered to be well versed in such things as feminine fripperies—having over the years found myself paying down the blunt for so many of the overpriced things—this particular creation is a cap ala Charlotte Corday. She, poor unfortunate thing, so favored this particular style that she chose to wear it in the tumbril on her way through the streets of Paris to her fatal rendezvous with Madame Guillotine. Just the right touch, my dear, for your sojourn in the boat that awaits you now."
As he was finishing his sentence he bent over, grabbed Samantha around the back of her knees, and hauled her up and over his shoulder, from where she rained down ineffectual punches onto his broad back and mouthed blistering—if somewhat muddled—curses that only made her husband laugh out loud.
Samantha was unceremoniously dumped into the small jolly boat, and the crewman saddled with the task of keeping milady out of the fracas immediately rowed off until a good thirty feet of water separated the two crafts. Once Samantha regained her breath she sat ramrod stiff on the plank seat, her breast rising and falling mightily in righteous indignation, her hands knitted together tightly in her lap, and her eyes engaged in trying to pierce the moonless dark night for some sign of how things now stood on the Sea Devil.
For a moment she felt a pang of guilt over her headstrong behavior, for it had kept Zachary away from the scene of the fire for precious minutes when his leadership abilities could have been well employed. But, she soothed herself, shrugging, it had been after all just for a small moment. Mostly she was making rapid mental plans as to how she could threaten, cajole, bribe or even flirtatiously maneuver the loyal crewman into returning to the yacht. Finally— although it was really only a matter of some five or ten minutes later—Samantha got what she believed to be a near divine inspiration.
First she pried the misshapen Corday off her head and tossed that particular piece of ill judgment as far out into the sea as she could. She would never have bought the dratted thing if she had known the ridiculous woman it was named for had actually had the poor taste to wear a straw hat on a head destined, in the very near future, to be plunked entirely into yet another straw container. Yet, she thought upon reflection, it would have been a rare sight to see a disembodied head all rigged out in ribbons and feathers and fancy tuck bows.
Samantha giggled, but quickly sobered and began sliding open the dozen or so buttons of her dressing gown. With the absence of the moon, all the bemused crewman actually saw was a hint of white silk and the glimpse of one well-turned slim bare ankle as Samantha abruptly shed the dressing gown, stood, and dived neatly over the side.
Her tomboy ways had come to her aid, for Samantha swam like the proverbial fish—even with the folds of her nightgown tangling slightly about her legs. She was quickly situated alongside the yacht and, locating the rope ladder she had seen earlier when she first came aboard, she made short work of her climb to the deck.
Once aboard it was a simple matter to dash to the cabin
Grabbing the soft flesh of Samantha's upper arm in a viselike grip, St. John leaned over and snatched up a huge-brimmed poke bonnet, profusely trimmed in blue grosgrain ribbon and several long, curling feathers, and jammed it down tightly on her untidy head.
"There," he proclaimed wickedly. "Unless I'm in error, a possibility so remote it fairly boggles the mind as I am considered to be well versed in such things as feminine fripperies—having over the years found myself paying down the blunt for so many of the overpriced things—this particular creation is a cap ala Charlotte Corday. She, poor unfortunate thing, so favored this particular style that she chose to wear it in the tumbril on her way through the streets of Paris to her fatal rendezvous with Madame Guillotine. Just the right touch, my dear, for your sojourn in the boat that awaits you now."
As he was finishing his sentence he bent over, grabbed Samantha around the back of her knees, and hauled her up and over his shoulder, from where she rained down ineffectual punches onto his broad back and mouthed blistering—if somewhat muddled—curses that only made her husband laugh out loud.
Samantha was unceremoniously dumped into the small jolly boat, and the crewman saddled with the task of keeping milady out of the fracas immediately rowed off until a good thirty feet of water separated the two crafts. Once Samantha regained her breath she sat ramrod stiff on the plank seat, her breast rising and falling mightily in righteous indignation, her hands knitted together tightly in her lap, and her eyes engaged in trying to pierce the moonless dark night for some sign of how things now stood on the Sea Devil.
For a moment she felt a pang of guilt over her headstrong behavior, for it had kept Zachary away from the scene of the fire for precious minutes when his leadership abilities could have been well employed. But, she soothed herself, shrugging, it had been after all just for a small moment. Mostly she was making rapid mental plans as to how she could threaten, cajole, bribe or even flirtatiously maneuver the loyal crewman into returning to the yacht. Finally— although it was really only a matter of some five or ten minutes later—Samantha got what she believed to be a near divine inspiration.
First she pried the misshapen Corday off her head and tossed that particular piece of ill judgment as far out into the sea as she could. She would never have bought the dratted thing if she had known the ridiculous woman it was named for had actually had the poor taste to wear a straw hat on a head destined, in the very near future, to be plunked entirely into yet another straw container. Yet, she thought upon reflection, it would have been a rare sight to see a disembodied head all rigged out in ribbons and feathers and fancy tuck bows.
Samantha giggled, but quickly sobered and began sliding open the dozen or so buttons of her dressing gown. With the absence of the moon, all the bemused crewman actually saw was a hint of white silk and the glimpse of one well-turned slim bare ankle as Samantha abruptly shed the dressing gown, stood, and dived neatly over the side.
Her tomboy ways had come to her aid, for Samantha swam like the proverbial fish—even with the folds of her nightgown tangling slightly about her legs. She was quickly situated alongside the yacht and, locating the rope ladder she had seen earlier when she first came aboard, she made short work of her climb to the deck.
Once aboard it was a simple matter to dash to the cabin
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