Wicked (26 page)

******************

When Beau finally walked back into the cabin, all residue of the battle had been cleaned away. He'd showered quickly under the seawater pump, dressed in fresh clothes, had the doctor stitch the cut over his eye. He'd sent his steward down to see that the glass was swept from the cabin floor so when he arrived the only evidence of their fight at sea were the canvas patches on the windows.

"We should be in Minorca in a few hours," he said, entering the room. "Did they bring breakfast down for you?" he asked, shutting the door, thinking her color was much better.

"Yes, thank you." Serena set her book down, although her attempt at reading to pass the time hadn't been too successful, her concentration still distracted by the tumult of recent events. "How are the wounded men?" she inquired. "I was wondering if you needed help, but I ..." Her voice trailed off. The ragged gash over Beau's eye, pulled together with a half dozen stitches, was visible as he moved into the cabin.

"We didn't need any help . . . the men are fine." He sank into the soft cushioned chair near her. "Only two were seriously hurt," he said, his fatigue evident in his sprawled form, "and McGuane tells me they're both going to recover. I was hoping," he went on with a soft sigh, "we'd avoid the French so you wouldn't have to experience this ordeal."

"I knew there was a risk when I decided to sail to Italy." Serena smiled ruefully. "Or at least in theory I did. I hadn't actually considered the reality of battle. I apologize for my lack of courage."

"No one expects you to join in," Beau replied. "And now that you're blooded," he murmured, "the shock should lessen."

"You anticipate more?" She tried to speak casually but her pulse accelerated violently.

"We should be safer now. The run to Palermo from Minorca is short."

"How often does this happen?"

"It depends," he vaguely said.

"On?"

"On where you are, darling. Boney is slipping through the blockade every day."

"Perhaps I should polish my prayers," she said, only half in jest.

He grinned. "No need, the
Sirens
fast. And I'll take care of you."

She experienced not only comfort but joy at his words, although she warned herself not to instill too much meaning into a casual phrase. So she responded with what she hoped was equal casualness. "I like your confidence."

"I have my share of luck," he simply declare
d
—
a
nd vast experience, his crew would attest. "I was thinking," he went on, wishing to talk of less fearful issues, "we might take advantage of our stay in Minorca and spend some time at a small beach villa I know. How does that sound?"

"On the heels of my f
i
rst battle experience, like heaven on earth. I'll even wash your clothes and make your meals," Serena facetiously said, "to express my lively sense of gratitude."

"I was thinking of some other ways you could spend your time," he murmured.

"Like painting your portrait?"

"Not exactly," he said, hushed and low.

"You don't want me to cook or wash for yo
u
—
n
or paint. Unfortunately I don't sing well or recite poetry with any expertise. Surely," she playfully noted, "there's not a pianoforte on a remote beach......."

"Very funny," he drawled. "As if I want any of that from a woman."

"You mean every mother telling her daughter to develop those graces to attract a proper husband is wrong?"

"I can speak only for myself and my friends but I'd say the gulf between the genders is wide on that account. But we still have an hour or so to discuss this before we reach harbor," he mockingly went on, reaching for a bottle of brandy from his cabinet. "Entertain me with your vision."

"My vision has nothing to do with attracting eligible husbands, for which you're grateful, I know," she said lightly. "I intend to paint, my goals are simple, but you should eat first," she added with concern, thinking it unhealthy to begin the day with brandy.

"Are you cooking?" A teasing light shone from his eyes as he pulled the cork from the bottle and lifted it to his mouth.

"I can't now on board ship, but I
could
bring you the remains of my breakfast. Does Re
m
y fire the guns too?" she suddenly asked, wondering how the temperamental young chef responded to sea fights.

"We can't afford to lose him. He stays below in the galley."

"I see," she whispered, her expression abruptly altered.

Sorry he'd spoken so carelessly, he said, "Could I have some of that bread and sliced beef? Does your gratitude extend to serving me?" His smile was warm and intimate.

She struggled to respond, not as familiar with accepting the bloody consequences of naval engagements, her mind still disquieted by recall of the battle.

"You promised to serve me some food," he gently prompted.

"Yes, of course." With effort she refocused her thoughts and her gaze met his. "What would you like?"

"Anything at all as long as you keep me company."

She looked at him across the well-lit cabin, the hushed sound of his voice flooding her mind with memor
y
—
o
f other times and other places, of this small cabin the first time she met him. And she felt a warm glow inundate her senses, an inexplicable joy. He took pleasure in her as she did in him and that happiness could erase by magic all that disturbed her. "You must sit for me like that at Minorca," she softly said, wanting to capture on canvas the essence of his dark beauty, his intense virility, the grace of his smile, the lithe power of his strong, young bod
y
—
t
he love she felt for him.

"I warn you, I intend to drink away a good part of my days while ashore."

"I won't complain," she pleasantly returned. "A resting model will be perfect." And she understood then how he dealt with the aftermath of combat.

Several hours later, after the
Siren's
crew were all settled on shore, after the British commander at Port Mahon had personally been given Damien's dispatches, after orders for the refitting of the
Siren
had been left with a company from the fort, Beau drove Serena in a little gig up the shore road to a secluded hamlet overlooking the sea. A small picturesque villa stood on a hillside above the Mediterranean, its stuccoed exterior a muted ocher framed by the bluest of skies, numerous flower-decked terraces and porticoed alcoves offering a delicate fantasy to the eye, the whole
l
ike a miniature palace built for play. From the coast road, the drive curved gently up the hill between lemon trees and blooming mimosa, the scent of flowers and sea so pungent, Serena drew in a deep breath and thought herself in paradise.

After dismounting in a paved courtyard centered around a moss-covered fountain, Beau took down their valises and ushered Serena into a blue-tiled foyer. "There are no servants to intrude, no official duties requiring our time, only peace and quiet and you and me, and hopefully a well-stocked kitchen," he added with a sunny smile. "I'm starved."

He hadn't eaten since the previous evening save for the scant remnants of Serena's breakfast, and primed as he was by a rather steady consumption of brandy, food was high on his list of basic needs.

"Whose house is this?" Serena asked, entranced by the gem of a villa. The two small parlors on either side of the entrance hall were beautifully furnished with a woman's touch, the stairway leading to the second floor embellished with carved handrails of climbing roses and frolicking putti, the portrait of a lady on the landing, gowned in the Continental fashion of two decades ago, decidedly English in appearance.

"Gillian was a friend of my father's. She died young and left her house to hi
m
—
M
aman says because he was her favorite lover. Papa recalls instead she had no family she cared for."

"How romantic," Serena softly declared, the atmosphere one of enchantment. "How did she die?"

"The locals prefer the story of a broken heart; Papa tells me she was of a melancholy disposition."

"She sounds like a heroine from the
com
me
dia dell'
a
rte."

He looked at her quizzically, pragmatic like his father. "I think she was originally from Sussex."

"Perhaps when you're less hungry," she humorously noted, "you'll appreciate the
ambiance d'
a
mour."
And while she didn't know the Duke of Seth personally, she'd heard enough stories of the Saint in the course of her employment at the Tothams' to regard this villa in a decidedly romantic way.

******************

Within a short time Beau had assembled a meal from the larder. Pouring wine, he waved Serena to a seat at a rustic kitchen table where they proceeded to eat cold ham, chicken, olives, and bread. Their simple collation absolved Serena from cooking and himself from having to eat any tyro food experiments.

"Should I try to make some warm food as well?" she inquired, feeling as though she should offer to make something more substantial. "Perhaps I could find a recipe book."

He raised one brow in mock horror and motioned toward his glass. "Just pour some more wine, darling. That will be quite sufficient. . . . You're not eatin
g
—
w
hat's wrong?"

"I'm in the mood for cake."

"There are two kinds in the pantry," he offered, slicing himself some more ham.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He looked up, startled. "Mostly because I can't read your mind and also because you were too busy exclaiming over the
darling
painted tiles around the windows and I forgot. There's an assortment of other sweets too," he added. The last statement was finished to the back of Serena's head; she was halfway to the pantry. "Bring another bottle of wine," Beau called, "as long as you're up."

The muffled exclamations of pleasure emanating from the adjacent room brought a smile to his face and he reminded himself not to overlook mentioning sweets in future. And when Serena emerged from the cool pantry built into the hillside, she had a bottle of wine under her arm and two cake plates balanced in her hands. "These are absolutely wonderful," she said, beaming.

"I can tell," he indulgently replied, always charmed by her delight in simple pleasures. Such gratification from his society paramours would have required at least a costly piece of jewelry or two. "Here, let me help you," he offered, rising from the rush-seated chair, and taking the cake plates from her, he deposited them on the table.

"I think that's a caramel rum sauce on that one," Serena said, gesturing at a low oval-shaped cake and setting the bottle down. "Look at these darling little cherries made from marzipan," she pointed out, plucking a bright candy fruit from the top of the second cake.

With a startling clarity that would have mystified his jaded friends, he wished to arrest that moment in time, the charm and warmth of Serena's beauty enchanting. She wore one of her simple old-fashioned gowns, which suited Gillian's country home, her tousled hair gleamed gold under the sunlight pouring into the kitchen, and she gazed at him with such buoyant happiness, holding the cherry out to him, he reflected on the possibility of staying in Minorca indefinitely.

"Try it," she coaxed, leaning across the table, offering him the marzipan cherry.

"I'd rather have you."

"But you already do," she said without coyness, slipping the sweet into her mouth instead.

He suddenly couldn't wait, his hunger for food incidental to a more potent need. "I need you
now,"
he softly said, abruptly rising, reaching across the table, sliding his hands under her arms, and lifting her to her feet, the need to possess her flaring through his senses. Moving around the corner of the small table, he swung her into his arms and strode out of the kitchen as though he had only minutes left in the world.

"Dear Glory, I thought you'd never ask," Serena whispered, her face lifted to his, her unquenchable need for him beyond reason or sens
e
—
a
weakness, a craving, an irresistible desire.