Chapter 3
Kit grimaced as he listened to the conversation outside his door. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to be left alone to give Alex the dressing down the boy deserved. The boy had attacked an earl! Yes, Michael had richly deserved a beating and more, but it wasn’t Alex’s place to deliver it. And worse, Kit knew that the fury hadn’t come from any sense of justice, but from a raw place of pain that simply struck out whenever the boy lost control. The pain was understandable. The lack of control, however, could not be tolerated. And so he had to tell the boy. But not if they sat there listening to yet another earl’s evil manipulations.
Kit tried to shut out the sound, but no thin scrap of a door could silence the conversation on the other side. What did he care if some girl was forced into becoming her uncle’s mistress? It happened all the time, even to the angel with the beautiful voice.
He didn’t care. And yet, despite everything, he sat on the bed and listened. He heard everything, from Uncle Frank’s solicitation to his implied threat. He caught—or his imagination filled in—his angel’s soft gasp of shock when she finally understood her choices. And he even listened to her soft sobs after the bastard left her alone.
He heard it, but he didn’t move. And neither did Alex, though the boy was like a taut bow string ready to snap. And damn if Kit weren’t considering the same thing. Another rescue, another lost lamb.
He forced himself to lean back on the bed, trying to ease the agony in his leg as he closed his eyes. It was a cruel world, and Kit already had a charge in Alex. He couldn’t afford another.
“Sir—” Alex said, but Kit cut him off before the boy could say more.
“Mistress to an earl is a fine place for a woman and better than most marriages. Neither of us can offer her anything better.”
Alex hesitated, clearly thinking it through. Then he sat back down with a heavy sigh. And in time—an eternity of time—the angel’s sobs quieted. Kit released his breath, stunned by the amount of tension her tiny gasps had created in his body. He heard her move from the salon. Did he imagine the quiet determination he heard in her footsteps? Or did he merely pray that it was true? That somehow, the angel would find a way to rescue herself?
Either way, he reminded himself, he had enough to worry about without her. An entire crew waited at the dock for new orders. Alex needed discipline, and Kit needed money. What did he care about one lost angel? Nothing, he told himself. Nothing at all.
He was still in those terrible clothes, Maddy thought as she checked on them after the musicale. Not the younger one. Mr. Morgan appeared sound asleep in the bed, curled into a tight ball under the covers without even a lock of brown hair peeping out. His clothes were piled neatly in a corner and soft snores drifted up from beneath the sheet.
But Mr. Frazier was fully clothed and sleeping on the floor. Why would a man sleep on the floor? The tray was near his head, meat congealed and ugly on the plate. She frowned, studying the man. His mouth was open slightly, relaxed as he breathed, but that was the only part of him that seemed at rest. She wasn’t sure exactly why she came to that conclusion. After all, he was clearly asleep, resting on his side with his hands in front. They were set in a loose curl, not quite a fist, not quite open. He didn’t even bother to pillow his head as he rested, but seemed to sleep in a state of a half crouch. As if he needed to leap to his feet at any moment.
It made no sense. How could a sleeping man be crouched? But that is what he looked like, and something in Maddy found the idea both unsettling and infinitely interesting.
She waited a moment, debating what to do. She had to get the tray, if only to keep it from the mice. But she would have to step around Mr. Frazier to get it. She sighed. There was no help for it, so she moved forward as silently as possible and bent down for the tray.
There was no warning and no sound. One moment she was leaning forward for the tray, and the next moment he had seized her. He grabbed her wrist and jerked hard, not away from him, but toward him. She toppled forward, but he rolled easily with her fall, pinning her completely in the space between one breath and the next. And then there were no more breaths, she realized, as his free hand gripped her throat and squeezed.
She couldn’t breathe! She flailed at him, banging her fists against anything she could reach. Nothing seemed to affect him. And his eyes seemed so blank in the darkness, as if he wasn’t even aware that he was about to murder her.
Her heart was beating triple-time and the ocean roared through her ears. The pressure against her neck was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Any moment now her throat would give way—crushed beneath his weight—and she’d die.
She switched tactics. Her fists had done nothing, so she dug her nails into his forearm and pulled for all she was worth. It was that sharp pain that brought consciousness into his eyes. Or maybe it had just been long enough. Either way, one moment he was strangling her, his lips pulled back in a growl. Then the next moment, he jerked backward and fell against the wall with a gasp.
She dragged air into her lungs, rasping gulps that burned.
“I’m sorry,” she heard him say. “I’m so sorry.”
She tried to nod, but she hadn’t the strength. She knew what had happened. She’d seen enough animals startled in their sleep. She knew that some—the most wild ones—came awake snarling and fighting first. Obviously, he was one of that sort, but it was an odd thing for a man.
“Please. Is it bad? Can you speak?” Regret trembled through his every word. “I’m so sorry.”
Meanwhile, the boy came awake as well. He jerked out of his sleep, leaping off the bed and landing in an angry crouch on the opposite side of the room. Mr. Frazier reacted immediately, holding up his hand. “It’s fine, Alex. You’re safe. It’s fine.” But his eyes were on her, the question in his expression. Was she all right?
She nodded. She was breathing without issue, but she knew she would sport bruises. She’d have to wear a fichu until they faded. Thankfully, she had many. She rolled onto all fours, then pushed herself upright. As she straightened, she saw his hands hovering near her body as if to help her, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her.
“I’m fine,” she said. Or rather she tried to say. It came out as a croak that had him wincing.
“Tea,” he abruptly said. “Would you . . . you should . . .” His gaze jerked to the tray. The wine was gone and there was no tea to be found.
She raised her hand to stop him. This time he flinched away as though he expected to be cuffed. But he stilled a moment later, clearly bracing for a blow. She moved slowly, her hand open and relaxed. She touched his face gently, feeling the scratch of beard beneath her fingertips. Internally, her mind fled to the last man’s beard she had touched like this: her father’s just before he’d died. Ever since she was a small child, she’d liked touching his unshaven jaw and squeaking in mock horror at the roughness.
Mr. Frazier’s was just as rough, just as abrasive on her fingertips, and so she left her hand there, stroking softly in memory. He remained absolutely still as she did it. His eyes were wide with confusion, but he didn’t move. He allowed her to touch him, his whole body apparently frozen in shock.
Then the moment passed. She came back to the present, realizing abruptly that she sat on her knees stroking a strange man’s beard. She pulled back, curling her fingers into her palm.
“My apologies,” she rasped, then cringed as the sound abraded her throat.
“I will make you tea,” he said as he pushed to his feet. “If there is lemon, it will soothe you even more.” He glanced behind him. “Alex, you stay here. Guard our bags.”
The boy nodded solemnly, and Maddy saw that his stance had eased out of his crouch. He now stood quietly, his expression carefully emptied. It was frightening really. What had happened to these men that they would wake from a sound sleep into an attack? The Barbary pirates, obviously, but she had not realized how very devastating their abduction had been. And even now, she doubted that she understood even a small part of what they had suffered.
With that thought in mind, she straightened to her full height. Once again, Mr. Frazier hovered close enough to catch her if she stumbled but refused to touch her person. Fortunately, she didn’t need his help. Her body was embarrassingly sturdy—Amazonian in proportion—and he had only hurt her throat, not her legs.
“Tea would be capital,” she managed, echoing his words from earlier that day. “But I can make my own. Though, perhaps you would care to join me?” She didn’t know what she was thinking, inviting a half savage to join her for tea in the middle of the night. But he didn’t seem savage right now, and far from discouraging her, this last moment had her more fully
interested
than before.
He didn’t answer except to nod. His eyes were on her neck, presumably at the bruises he’d caused.
“It doesn’t hurt in the least. Truly.” Though her voice was still low and throaty. Then she turned and exited his bedchamber without waiting to see if he would follow. She listened closely for his movements, excruciatingly aware of even his breath. But she heard nothing. In the end, she stopped to check if he planned to hide in his bedchamber.
He stopped less than a foot behind her, the dirty tray held solidly in his hands. How had he managed to even keep the dishes from clattering?
He looked at her calmly, an expectant expression on his face. She didn’t know how to respond so she gestured to the staircase with one hand and offered to take the tray with the other.
He frowned at her, clearly not understanding.
She echoed his expression. Did he really expect to follow her like a servant? Apparently so, because when she tried to take the tray from his grip, he would not surrender it.
“You are carrying the candles,” he said gently. “It hardly makes sense for you to handle both. And”—he cut her off before she could say anything—“you should lead the way because I haven’t an idea where to go.”
She nodded. Of course that made sense. And yet it was bizarre to have him follow her as such, like a butler or a footman when he was decidedly not. The contradiction bothered her all the way into the kitchen.
“Set the tray there. I shall make tea and . . .”
Her voice trailed away. Once they had stepped into the kitchen, he became a blur of activity. He set the tray down, then stoked up the cooking fire. He fumbled a bit with it—as if he had not worked a fire in a very long time—but managed quickly enough. The room would be cheerfully warm very soon.
“Thank you,” she said, secretly delighted that he would think to work the fire for her even though her uncle would call it a huge waste. They did not need the room to be hot when only the stove fire was required. But she said nothing as she turned to set the stove fire burning. The kettle was already on it, so it would heat for tea. But when she straightened from her task, it was to see him grab the large bucket for carrying water.
“We already have water in the kettle,” she began, “but thank you . . .”
“Is there a well or a stream?” he asked.
“A stream just two houses down. But we don’t need . . .”
“Please,” he interrupted. He looked both uncertain and determined. Odd, but that was what she saw: a flash of awkwardness, but a core of certainty beneath. “I should like to take a bath tonight,” he said clearly.
She stared at him. “But I would have to wake the staff to haul the water.”
“I will bring the water. The tub is there,” he said, pointing in the corner, where indeed a cheap wooden tub lay upside down beneath the flour sack. A harsh lye soap rested beside it.
“But surely you cannot mean to fetch and carry your own bathwater. It is a filthy patch of mud, and everything must be filtered through sand.”
He nodded. “It will be the cleanest thing I have done in a very long time, I assure you.”
“But it will take hours.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“But in the morning, there will be—”
“Tonight. Please.” He gaze shifted to a place somewhere over her shoulder. “I have scars, angel, that might be frightening to some.”
Oh! Oh dear. “O-of course,” she stammered.
He disappeared in a flash while she was still biting her lip in mortification. He had scars? Of course he had scars. But where? And how bad? And really, she admonished herself, these were not proper thoughts, but she couldn’t help herself. Mr. Frazier’s face was rugged, handsome even, with an occasional flash of humor that she found especially appealing. She had naturally assumed that his body was equally well formed. But if he had been seriously hurt, then of course he bore scars. Scars ugly enough that he wished to bathe in solitude. The very idea left her feeling deeply sad.
She glanced at the door, wondering what she could do to help. There was little, of course, except help him with his bath. Despite his intentions, she sincerely doubted he would be able to manage on his own. The water would be filthy, as she told him. It would need to be strained and heated. That required two people, which meant she would be up for hours more and would likely soil her best dress.
She glanced down at her white skirt. As with all her gowns, it was a castoff from Rose. Given the difference in their sizes, Maddy had added panels along the seams to accommodate her larger chest, and yet another flounce at the hem for her height. Unlike her other dresses, she had not been the one to stitch this but had paid a seamstress to do the work. With red and blue ribbons, she thought the outfit rather patriotic and marvelously simple in its design. She loved this dress, and now it would likely be ruined unless she changed.
She was about to do that when Mr. Frazier returned with two buckets full of water. She scrambled to help him despite his objections. She quickly pulled the sand buckets down and set them where they were needed. He poured the dirty water into the sand, and beneath it, water started dribbling into a large kettle that would eventually heat over the fire. It was a task she had assisted in countless times, but never dressed in a gown meant for catching a husband.