Amanda Rose (32 page)

The sun had sunk below the horizon in a blaze of crimson glory, and a few stars had begun to twinkle in the darkening sky before at last, reluctantly, she decided to go below. She was cold and hungry now. With a start, she remembered that she had eaten nothing all day. At the realization, her stomach growled loudly in pained reproach.

The first thing she saw as she walked through the cabin door was Matt. He was stripped to the waist, turned away from her so that his scarred back was plainly visible. Amanda stared at those marks and felt a pain in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded her that, despite everything, she loved him. How had she, even for a few hours, forgotten that?

“I was about to come fetch you,” he said, turning to look at her as she leaned against the closed door. From the soap that obscured half his face, and the gleaming razor in his hand, Amanda realized that he was shaving. And if the energy he exuded was anything to go by, not to mention the rumpled bed-clothes and the half-filled hip bath.

“I was on the poop deck,” Amanda answered, glad she had learned the name from one of the sailors. The sight of that broad, hair-covered chest awoke sensations in her that she refused to analyze. Best not to dwell on them at all.

He smiled at her. Amanda stared at that smile. It was utterly charming, the sort he hadn’t bestowed on her since her supposed betrayal. Clearly he was up to something—but what?

“I know. I saw you. You don’t suppose you could disappear for the better part of a day without my coming to check on you? When I climbed up on the poop deck, you were happily engaged in conversation with Foster. I went back to work, but never think I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m surprised you bothered.” Amanda couldn’t control the caustic edge to her voice. He turned away from her, apparently no longer minding if she had an unimpeded view of his scars, and continued to shave.

“In that case you must have forgotten what I said about our unfinished business,” he replied softly. Amanda stiffened. She hadn’t forgotten, but she had hoped that he had—or at least that he’d just been tormenting her. But as she looked at the gleaming silver eyes in the small mirror he had hung from the wall, she realized that he was serious. He reminded her of a large dog eyeing a particularly juicy bone, one he had selected for his dinner.

“If that’s what you have in mind, I’ll leave,” she said coldly, and turned to suit the action to the words. But she had forgotten how quick he was. Before she could open the door, he was beside her, his hand on her arm spinning her away from it. Then, smiling at her evilly, he produced a large brass key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. Amanda heard the faint click of the lock and felt both excitement and anger as he withdrew the key and dropped it into his pocket with a mocking smile.

“No, you won’t.” Now that he had her securely trapped, he strolled back to the washstand and resumed shaving. “You’ll have a bath and then we’ll eat dinner. Then . . .” His eyes met hers in the mirror. She glared at him furiously; his eyes taunted and smoldered at the same time. He didn’t have to finish his sentence. His meaning couldn’t have been more obvious.

“I’m not going to … sleep with you,” she announced, the militant sparkle in eyes that had begun to darken to purple daring him.

“Not until much later, anyway,” he agreed smoothly, wiping the remnants of the lather from his face with a towel and turning to look at her. His lips twisted as he added, “What I have in mind has very little to do with sleeping.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do—but I don’t remember asking your permission. You’ll do as I say.”

“I
won’t.
You can’t make me.”

He eyed her lazily. “We both know I can—but I won’t. By the time I make love to you, you’ll be begging for it. And that’s a promise.”

“The hell I will.”

“Oh, you will—and don’t swear, Amanda. I’ve told you before, I don’t like it.”

“Isn’t that too damned bad?” He infuriated her. His mocking smile and air of confidence made her want to hit him over the head with the closest hard object. Unfortunately, if she gave in to that most worthy impulse, she had little doubt that he would retaliate, and that she would not enjoy whatever form his retaliation might take. So instead she chose to hurl words at him—words she knew perfectly well he disliked her to use. She hoped that her language would make him as angry as his arrogance made her.

“Has anyone ever washed your mouth out with soap, Amanda?” He was drawling, always a sure sign that she was ruffling his temper. Her eyes widened as she looked from him to the cake of soap he picked up from the washstand and tossed idly in one hand. He wouldn’t dare—would he? “I suggest you quit talking and get into the bath, Amanda. Otherwise I might be tempted to teach you who’s in charge—in more ways than one.”

There were several points in that speech that Amanda took exception to, but she decided to focus on the most tangible.

“I’m not about to provide a peep show for you. If you want me to bathe, then leave the room.”

His eyes narrowed. “We both know I could strip you in about two minutes flat and put you in that tub whether you liked it or not.” Amanda tilted her chin at him in silent defiance. “But, as it happens, I need to take a compass reading. If you’re quick, you can have your bath in privacy.”

Her muscles relaxed slightly. She had fully expected him to force her obedience. His unexpected concession disarmed her belligerence slightly, although she was still wary. He
had
stated that he meant to make love to her.

“Thank you.” Her words were stiff, and the eyes she ran over him were mistrustful. He was shrugging into a shirt. Perhaps he did mean to leave her alone to bathe.

He did. With a curt nod as his only reply to her muttered courtesy, he left the cabin. Amanda plainly heard the click of the lock as he secured the door after him.

Left alone, Amanda looked longingly at the bath. She felt filthy and, grimacing, realized she had not had a complete bath since the first night she had been brought aboard. And that had been nearly a week ago. More than anything in the world, she wanted to shed her clothes and slide into that warm water.

Matt might be waiting outside the door, waiting until a sound told him she had done just that before reentering, but that was a chance she would have to take. Besides, whatever else Matt might do, she didn’t think he would stoop to such a shabby maneuver. If he had wanted to watch her bathe, he would have stripped her himself and put her in the tub. That was much more his style.

It didn’t matter, anyway, Amanda told herself as she removed her clothes. Matt had seen—and more than seen—every centimeter of her skin. It was pride more than modesty that forbade her to undress in front of him. If he had loved her, it would have been different. But he obviously did not, and she refused to serve as an object for his passing amusement.

She was still wearing Matt’s shirt and breeches, and she had to struggle with the knot in the breeches before she could get them off. But at last she succeeded in working it loose; the breeches, with their too-big waistline, dropped around her feet. Amanda stepped free of them and slipped her chemise over her head. Then she stepped into the tub.

The water was faintly soapy from Matt’s earlier bath, and it had cooled until now it was no more than tepid. But still it felt marvelous. Amanda would have loved to have luxuriated in it, but there wasn’t time. Quickly she scrubbed her face, body, and hair, then rinsed off the soap. She was just stepping from the tub when the lock clicked faintly, and Matt entered the room.

He stopped for a moment on the threshold, his eyes darkening in a way that made her heart speed up. Then he stepped inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. Her hair hung around her like a deep crimson curtain, its water-darkness emphasizing the creamy pallor of her skin. Her eyes were a vivid purple as she stared at him, and her cheeks flooded with rosy color as his eyes traveled the length of her. Naked, she was more than beautiful: she was slender, alluring, graceful as a flower in the breeze. Her shoulders were narrow and fragile-looking above breasts whose girlish tautness caused them to tilt at him with natural provocation. A study in strawberry and cream … Her waist was tiny, and below it her hips curved in a way that was still more girl than woman but that he found utterly irresistible. He caught just a glimpse of the silky dark triangle of hair that hid the very essence of her femaleness before she snatched up a towel and covered herself. But that flimsy cloth did not prevent him from admiring the lines of shapely, slender thighs and calves, and perfectly modeled knees.

Amanda saw the blaze that kindled in his eyes as he stared at her, and swallowed, sure that he meant to catch her up in his arms and carry out his threat to make love to her. To her surprise he did not. Instead, after one final searing look at her legs, he turned away, crossing to the sea chest, where, on one knee, he rummaged through the contents. Eyeing his back warily, she dried herself as well as she could while still holding the towel in front of her, and was just reaching for the protection of her discarded shirt when he closed the lid on the chest, straightened, and turned back to her, moving toward her with quick strides.

“You won’t need that,” he said brusquely, indicating the shirt with one hand. Amanda looked at him doubtfully, clutching the shirt in one hand and holding the towel in front of her like a shield with the other. She mistrusted the look in his eyes. They were a dark gun-metal color, and they seemed to smolder …

“If you think …” she began, backing away. He shook his head, the gesture impatient, then held up his hand so that she could see what he was holding. It was a dressing gown of dark blue silk. From the size of it, it was clearly his. But somehow she had trouble picturing Matt wearing such a luxurious but unfunctional garment.

“I don’t think anything,” he said. “At least, none of the very vivid thoughts that I can see are running through your head at the moment. Put this on. I’m sure you’ll find it more comfortable—and certainly cleaner—than those ridiculous clothes you’ve been wearing for the past three days.”

Looking at him doubtfully, knowing he could read her every thought, she wondered if he had an ulterior motive in offering his dressing gown to her. But for the life of her she could not imagine what—unless it was simply that he found it hard to make love to a woman dressed in his own too-large and not overly clean clothes. She looked from the gleaming blue silk of the dressing gown, which he was holding out invitingly, to the crumpled and spotted linen shirt she still clutched in one hand—and cleanliness won out. She dropped the shirt and reached for the dressing gown.

Turning her back, she shrugged into it, not dropping the towel until she was safely covered. The silk felt cool and slithery against her bare skin. She didn’t notice how the dampness of her skin caused the thin material to cling to her in places, but Matt did. His eyes darkened even more as she turned back to him.

“Blue becomes you,” he said gruffly, eyeing her. She looked back at him, her expression uncertain as he bent suddenly to retrieve the towel from the floor. He was very close, not more than two feet away, and as usual when he was so near his sheer size took her by surprise. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. The breadth of his muscular shoulders and width of his chest dwarfed her. He straightened, towel in hand, and she took an instinctive step back. His other hand came out to grip her upper arm, not roughly but to keep her from moving farther away.

“It’s customary to say thank you for a compliment, Amanda.” His voice was grave. His eyes were grave, too, as he studied her. She was puzzled by his mood. He was no longer angry, no longer hostile, but he wasn’t the charming friend she had come to know and love, either. This man looked suddenly older, remote—except for the tiny flicker in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Amanda whispered. She looked up at him, her eyes searching every plane and angle of that handsome face. He met her eyes, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other silently. He opened his mouth as if to speak—and was interrupted by a quick knock at the door.

“Our dinner,” he said briefly, tossing the towel to her as he turned away to open the door. Amanda caught the towel, her eyes never leaving that broad back. She felt a terrible sense of disappointment, as if he had been on the verge of saying something important. His hand on the latch, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Although she didn’t know it, her eyes gleamed with hope and entreaty as she returned his look.

“Dry your hair,” was what he said, and Amanda could have cried with disappointment. She
knew
that was not what he had been about to say before the interruption. But it was too late; He was opening the door, allowing Timmy, the slight youth who served as cabin boy, into the room with his tray. Amanda stared at Matt helplessly as he exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the boy. Then she bent her head and began obediently to dry her hair.

There seemed nothing else to do.

chapter nineteen

She had had too much to drink. Amanda wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, but it filtered through the golden haze induced by the seemingly innocuous concoction she had been drinking. The realization should have brought shame with it: a lady never allowed herself to become intoxicated. But, she comforted herself, she wasn’t truly drunk. Only a bit—what were the words her father had used?—“on the go.”

It was Matt’s fault, of course. He was sitting across the table from her, idly sipping at a glass of port, his eyes gleaming faintly as he watched her. He had mixed the fruity-tasting beverage she had been consuming, and had said not a word to stop her as she had drunk several glassfuls. Punch, he had called it. She tried to eye Matt sternly, but her eyes now saw two of him. Two Matts. The thought was appalling and, at the same time, so appealing that she giggled.

“You’re drunk,” he said indulgently, his lips crooking into an amused smile as he observed her.

“I am
not.
” Amanda meant to sound dignified and might have succeeded—if not for the wayward hiccup. Matt’s grin broadened while Amanda scowled at him. He was laughing at her. He always seemed to be laughing at her. For a moment her befuddled brain tried to tell her something, to remind her that lately he had not laughed at all, but she could not quite grasp the memory. But it didn’t matter anyway. This was Matt, her Matt. If she had to get drunk—loathsome word—she could have picked no better companion. He would watch out for her.