Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew Read online

  Some claim those who keep secrets are wise, but ’tis far more prudent to have

  no secrets worth keeping, much less confidences one dreads having revealed.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  “There’s little chance of that, you codpated buffoon,” Blaike retorted.

  Going all stubborn and bullish now, was Oliver?

  Did he think to intimidate her?

  Compared to Madame Beaulieu, he was nothing but a scratching, hissing kitten.

  One of his raven brows vaulted ceilingward as he gingerly lifted the reddened square and examined his wound. He gave a contemptuous snort. “I’ve seen worse flea bites.”

  Bent on being uncooperative, hmm?

  Upon spying a small brown bottle in the basket, she tilted her mouth upward into a tiny half-smile.

  Laudanum.

  Lovely, lovely laudanum.

  That changed things a mite, indeed it did. She had just the means to keep him in his surprisingly big bed if he wanted to act the obstinate boor.

  “This ship needs a captain, as you yourself reminded me not five minutes ago.” She rummaged in the basket a bit more.

  Tweezers. Scissors. Needles.

  She shuddered the merest bit as trepidation scampered across her shoulders.

  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

  “If you injure yourself further, how are we to depart?” Giving him an acrid gaze, she looped the basket onto her arm and marched to the bed.

  His expression bordered on exasperated as he snapped, “My crew is perfectly capable of sailing the Sea Gypsy.”

  Ah, good to know. Just in case the laudanum was required after all. To subdue a certain mulish captain.

  “I don’t doubt that in the least. Remember, I’ve voyaged with you before.” And had covertly watched him like the smitten school girl she was the entire voyage. Head tilted and mouth pursed, Blaike cupped a hip with one hand.

  She sent Mr. Grover a sidelong glance. “Is he usually this cantankerous when indisposed?”

  “No, Miss. He’s always this belligerent.” Mr. Grover chuckled, his sage green eyes lighting with humor.

  “Stow it, Grover,” Oliver practically growled.

  Mr. Grover, his eyes twinkling, winked at Blaike. “I should think he’d spare you some leeway since you threw yourself atop him to protect him after he’d been shot.”

  He’d seen that, had he?

  She could feel Oliver’s intense scrutiny, drat Mr. Grover.

  Blaike busied herself with the medicines to hide the flush sweeping her face.

  Oliver turned an annoyed gaze to his man. “It’s just a flesh wound. Get yourself topside and help Hawkins. I don’t need another nursemaid hovering over me blathering nonsense. Keep a sharp eye out for any sign of trouble.”

  After delivering a two-fingered salute, Mr. Grover took his leave, still grinning.

  He must’ve concluded the same thing Blaike had.

  Anyone as pigheaded and sour-tempered as Oliver wasn’t going to cock up his toes any time soon.

  She plopped the basket beside his black leather clad thighs.

  “I for one don’t wish to tempt Fate any further. We’re fortunate Abraham and Meunier were detained by the authorities, but I’d rather not linger in port.” She lifted the cloths for bandages, then set them aside.

  “They were?” That news brought a bit of color to Oliver’s pale cheeks, and he straightened. “’Bout time.”

  A rolled bandage in one hand, she nodded.

  “Yes, and those three fierce buffoons with him, too. I hate to think what would’ve happened if they hadn’t already been unarmed. As it was, it took four men to subdue each of them. I’m quite certain one soldier had a broken arm and another a shattered nose before the kerfuffle was over.”

  “Most likely Abraham will bribe his way out, if not within hours, then days.” Disgust riddled Oliver’s voice, and his expression turned rather fierce. He slapped his left knee. “Blast, but I loathe corrupt officials and those in influential positions abusing their power.”

  He searched her face, his anger replaced by concern. “I truly regret that you and your sister endured any of this.”

  Blaike set the bandage aside, still shaken by the recollection of the violence she’d witnessed but an hour ago. More so by the gun pointed at Oliver’s head. If he hadn’t ducked and hit Meunier’s hand when he spun around . . .

  “Did you really protect me?” Voice husky, it almost seemed like he was asking something more. “Is that why your gown is stained with blood? You’re not injured?”

  “Yes, to the first two questions, and no to the latter.”

  Instinct.

  That was all it had been.

  She’d have done the same for anyone.

  Wouldn’t she have?

  As she’d shielded Oliver, trying to stop the bleeding, she had looked on in renewed terror as Abraham and his crew fought the soldiers and Oliver’s men. Never had she witnessed such ferocity and savagery.

  “One of your hands tackled Meunier as he tried to run from the fray. I think his name is Melville. He showed great restraint, given Meunier had just attempted to murder you. I believe there are others in your crew who would’ve killed him without a qualm.”

  She’d rather have liked to club the port master upside his pasty head.

  “I deserved to be shot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Tweezers in hand, Blaike blinked in disbelief.

  “Why would you say such a ludicrous thing? Of course you didn’t. You, Oliver, rescued us from a fate so utterly vile, I can scarce think on it without trembling. He would’ve let Blaire and I be sold into slavery. I have little compassion for the worm of a man.”

  “Yes, he’s a maggot. A contemptuous blot on humanity. But I humiliated him.” Oliver starred across the stateroom, his jaw tense. “I know too well what it’s like to be belittled. I should’ve handled it differently.”

  Blaike didn’t know what to say.

  She didn’t agree in the least, but suspected something more than his threatening Meunier was at work here.

  Holding his right arm against his torso, he sighed and closed his eyes, the lashes dark fans upon his high cheekbones.

  “I’m no better than Abraham.”

  “Now that’s absolute rubbish. You’d never have sold my sister and me, would you have?”

  Icy fear zipped from her neck to her waist when he didn’t respond. She touched his face. “Oliver?”

  He opened those incredibly dark eyes, and for an instant, she was lost in their depths—a connection she couldn’t put words to holding her fast and quickening her pulse.

  It had been thus since they’d first met.

  Did he feel it too?

  “Blaike.” He grazed his fingertips along her jaw, his voice velvety and deep. “Why are you in Lyon?”

  The warmth that held her entranced evaporated, replaced by shame and disquiet. She couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t bear to see either pity or accusation in his eyes because of her stupidity.

  “Come, Oliver. We must see your shirt off you before the blood dries any more than it already has. Lift your good arm, and I think I can manage to work it down your other. The shirt is beyond saving, I fear.”

  Not a minute passed before she regretted her decision. If she thought it was hard to be this close to him, touching him with his blood-soaked shirt, seeing him shirtless, all manly bulges and sculpted muscles . . .

  If she were the sort to swoon, she’d feel faint, for certain. Only, the feelings cavorting inside her assuredly didn’t make her feel weak. No, tingly and excited and eager to see more of him. To trail her fingers over those same fascinating contours.

  Mayhap hunger had her a trifle addled.

  Except she’d felt these curious, disturbing, and wholly delicious sensations before.

  Blaike had ignored the stirrings he’d roused when they met that night she was intro
duced to London society, and she’d danced with him: a quivery, jelly-kneed twit. She’d overlooked the peculiar flutters the many times he’d come across her path at assemblies and gatherings. Disregarded the flushes and pattering pulse at Bristledale Court where he was a house guest of her brother-in-law, and her dashed pulse had ran amuck whenever she saw him. Resolutely smothered every nuance of attraction on the voyage to France those many months ago, knowing full well nothing could come of her school-girl infatuation.

  But now . . .?

  Those suppressed feelings burst forth, much like a shaken bottle of Champagne, once uncorked. And there wasn’t a blasted way in all of Christendom to harness them, much less force them back into quiet submission.

  Glancing at the umber liquid in the bottle atop his desk, she cleared her throat. Maybe a tot of brandy was a good idea after all.

  No, she needed steady hands and a mind not befuddled by spirits.

  A distraction.

  That was what they both needed.

  Something mundane and harmless.

  “Did you draw all of these sketches?” Arcing her hand, Blaike indicated the detailed illustrations displayed about the great cabin. “If so, you’re incredibly talented.”

  She chattered on, not giving him a chance to answer, while studiously avoiding looking into his eyes. For when she did, she forgot what she was about, forgot all else except how much she wanted to kiss him.

  “I have no skill for either drawing or painting. In fact, I’m abysmal at both.” Which Madame Beaulieu pointed out with annoying regularity. “Have you ever considered turning your interests to shipbuilding?”

  “Yes, I drew them. But no, I’ve never given it serious consideration. My grandfather taught me the skill before he died. He was a shipbuilder in Italy, but when his wife died, he moved my mother to England. I’ve always assumed he’d been presented an opportunity too good to refuse.” Oliver made a waving motion. “I’ve many more rolled up and stored in that chest at the foot of my bed.”

  “How fascinating.” She brushed the back of her hand over her forehead, and stared across the cabin, racking her memory. “I cannot remember her name, dash it all. But I do recall a discussion over supper one evening about an acquaintance of Heath’s—a shipping heiress.”

  Blaike squinted her eyes, searching her memory. “Lady somebody. She lives in Scotland, I believe. If you ever decide to pursue designing vessels or need additional suppliers, she might be a good person to contact.”

  Listen to her, nattering on like a lonely tabby.

  Or a nervous woman much too attracted to a man she shouldn’t be.

  “You didn’t answer my question about why you and your sister are not at school.” Oliver grasped a curl she’d missed pinning back into place and gave it a slight yank.

  “And I’m not going to. Now, lie back so I can tend to your injury.”

  How hard could it be to clean and bandage the wound?

  Instead of laying down, Oliver grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and tenderly turned her face upward.

  “Are you in some sort of trouble, Blaike?”

  The more respectable or powerful a person is, the more

  certain you may be that they have secrets they don’t wish exposed.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  “You are. I can see it in your eyes and in the way you hold yourself, cara.”

  Oliver endeavored to disregard the cannon thunder in his head and the fire poker tormenting his shoulder. Good thing he was left-handed, else his recovery would be even more of a nuisance.

  Winged brows drawn taut, Blaike searched his face, hers a bevy of clashing emotions.

  Mindful he’d breached decorum by touching her so intimately, he lowered his hand to his lap. He had few close friends, and he didn’t need Ravensdale or Leventhorpe calling him out for overstepping the bounds.

  Though for her, it might be worth the blasted risk.

  The contour of Blaike’s satiny skin pulsed in Oliver’s palm, and he balled his fist as much to preserve the sensation as to prevent himself from caressing the petal softness again. Or embracing her with his uninjured arm and soothing the tension from her shoulders and worry from her usually smooth forehead.

  A faint fragrance, floral soap and the merest hint of vanilla, surrounded her.

  Fresh and light, yet subtly tempting. It both aroused and soothed at once.

  Much like her.

  Skepticism or perhaps leeriness hovered around the fringes of her striking eyes as they roved his face. Those eyes that previously had been so vibrant and teeming with keen intelligence.

  Abraham might’ve caused some of the distrust, but Oliver recognized a damaged soul.

  Didn’t he face one in the looking glass every day?

  He coiled his hand tighter to keep from brushing her arm in a comforting gesture. If he had the right, he’d do so for the rest of his life, but their stations were too far apart to even consider something so beyond the pale.

  So utterly wonderful.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No.”

  Curt. Final.

  She didn’t attempt to offer an explanation.

  Whatever had occurred had caused her to retreat into herself, and anger at whoever or whatever had made her suspicious, kicked angrily behind his ribs.

  Oliver wasn’t quite ready to quit the field just yet

  She’d been so excited about continuing her education, and something had happened to change that as well as to steal her joie de vivre. The joy of life that used to put the rosy hue on her high cheeks, the radiant glow on her face, and the blue-violet glimmer in her eyes had faded into distrust. And he’d be bound, a degree of chagrin lingered there, too.

  “May I presume the academy proved a disappointment?”

  He leaned against the pillows and crossed his ankles, silently cursing the pain and weakness that forced him to do so.

  Blaike’s expression grew shuttered, snuffing out the vulnerability she’d exposed, and she dropped her focus to the whisky bottle in one hand and the cloth in her other.

  “Let’s just say Les Dames de l’Académie de Grâce wasn’t at all what Blaire and I had anticipated. We’re well rid of the place and a few of the people there, too.”

  He made an affirming sound in his throat.

  Much more to that story he’d vow, but it was hers to tell in her own time.

  Finished sanitizing her hands with the whisky, she’d wiped each instrument down with the spirit too, then laid them on a clean cloth atop the small storage chest turned bedside table.

  “I heard you say you’ve never dressed a wound. You don’t’ have to do this.” Oliver flicked his fingers toward his shoulder. “I can easily have one of the men tend me.”

  Hurt and confusion flitted across her features before she shrugged. “If you’d prefer—”

  “No, I do not prefer, cara.”

  He almost caught her hand in his before he stopped himself. Not only wasn’t it wise, to do so would betray the secret he’d guarded these many months. Besides her hands were sterile; at least as much as they could be in this environment. “I just don’t want you to feel pressed into doing something you don’t want to.”

  Her eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, and something akin to anger glinted there.

  “I’ve vowed never to let that happen again, so you are safe in that regard, Oliver. But you are correct. I’ve never doctored a wound before. I shall understand if you want someone with more knowledge to treat you. Except, I’ve been given to believe your new cook has no experience treating anyone aboard ship either. Perhaps Mr. Hawkins? He seems most capable.”

  Though her speech was strong, and she met his gaze head-on, he detected more susceptibility beneath her admission. Perhaps he even detected a reluctance to leave him to another’s care?

  Oliver’s manly pride swelled at the notion, no matter how misplaced.

&nbs
p; Not that he blamed her in her hesitancy to leave him in Fairnly’s incapable hands. The cook was an unfriendly, unbathed cawker, and within a week he’d alienated almost every crew member with his superior attitude. Given a choice, he’d be Oliver’s last pick for a nursemaid. Fairnly was superstitious, as well, and Oliver would be bound, he hadn’t been pleased to learn two women now traveled with them.

  “Fairnly was hired for his cooking skills and naught else.”

  And only until Oliver could replace him. It had either been Fairnly or no cook until they reached London. As capable and loyal as Oliver’s crew were, even they wouldn’t have taken kindly to a diet of hardtack for a month or more.

  “If you’re certain . . .?”

  Was that a pleased smile playing around the edges of her pink mouth?

  “I’d far prefer your presence to his. You smell much nicer. He reeks of sour ale, garlic and onions, and it’s not only because he’s the cook. I think there’s something foul in the bag he wears around his neck.” After winking, Oliver closed his eyes and folded his hands across his abdomen. “I shan’t move or even flinch until you’re done.”

  Cloth in hand, she dabbed at his shoulder, and he nearly choked on his swiftly indrawn breath. From the hell-fired burning, he’d vow whisky dampened the piece she applied to his flesh.

  “Well, you’ll have to move. Else I shan’t be able to wrap the bandage around your back, unless someone helps me,” she teased lightly.

  He’d gargle freshly-cast bullets before uttering a sound of distress, even if the very devil himself stabbed Oliver’s shoulder unmercifully this moment.

  “Oliver?”

  “Hmm?” He couldn’t manage much more without gasping or cursing.

  “Thank you for coming to our aid. You wouldn’t be hurt if you’d not been so chivalrous. I realized on the way to the Sea Gypsy that you weren’t asked to provide passage for us to London, else I presume Lieutenant Drake would’ve been with you. I had assumed—” She gently daubed at his shoulder. “Well, never mind.”

  He cracked an eye open, his imbecilic heart leaping within his chest at the breathtaking smile she bestowed on him.

  To be able to claim a woman such as her for a life-time.