The Brigadier's Daughter (9 page)

‘What!'

‘Be quiet, you are distracting me.' His gaze fell to her chemise, suspecting that she was unaware how her current posture pressed her breasts together and made for a most interesting cleavage, but with an effort he raised his eyes to her face again. ‘The fact remains that I am in need of a wife, you are here, of sound mind and body, reasonably attractive—'

‘I beg your pardon!'

‘And my only option is that I do the honourable thing, and marry you properly.'

Sasha stared at him, bewildered, her senses swimming with a heady mixture of attraction, desire and outrage. ‘I—I don't understand.'

‘As soon as we get into international waters, most probably around midday, I will ask the ship's chaplain to marry us.'

‘But—' she stared at him ‘—is that possible? As far as he knows we are already married.'

‘Don't worry, I will have a quiet word with him.'

‘Can we trust him?'

He shrugged. ‘I hope so. I know Padre Meares from his days in India. I think I can persuade him to be sympathetic and discreet.'

‘What will you say?' Sasha stared at him, and thought how beautiful his blue eyes were, his nose, so straight and perfect, nostrils slightly flared, and his mouth, not too wide, not too thin.

‘Leave it to me, I'll make up a plausible tale, something along the lines that you were too ill for the actual ceremony yesterday, but we couldn't miss the ship sailing, blah, blah, blah.'

Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Will it be legal?'

‘I believe so.'

‘So—' she blushed, her voice and her eyes lowering, choosing her words carefully ‘—so tonight, you will not be wanting to sleep in the top bunk?'

His voice was even softer, huskier, as he shook his head and leaned closer. ‘No, Mrs Bowen, I will not be wanting to sleep in the top bunk. In fact, I suspect that I will not want to sleep at all.'

Sasha gasped, as his shoulders blocked out the cabin and she felt the heat and warmth of his mouth on hers. It had been a long while since anyone had kissed her, and certainly never like this. His mouth moved expertly on her lips, parting them, savouring their soft pink fullness with his lean male lips, tasting her as his tongue slipped inside. She felt her heart drum and her hands pressed against the rough hardness of his chest, holding him back, and yet she melted as his kiss deepened. His lips strayed then, and pressed to the side of her neck, and down across her collarbone, to the soft swell of her breasts. She shivered, her skin absorbing delightful sensations at the feel of him, and she made a small sound, arching her neck, her hands sliding up over the bulk of his solid shoulders, urging him closer.

He groaned, and it took a supreme effort on his part not to get into bed with her, strip her naked and make love to her there and then, but he pulled back, his breath just as short and sharp as hers, to his surprise, as he had not expected to feel this way about a girl like Sasha.

Sasha felt an emotion stir within that she had never felt before. A feeling of such bliss, and contentment, as though this moment put her whole world to rights. And yet, she knew that Reid did not love her, and was unsure if the feelings she herself experienced were indeed love, or merely the physical effects of a handsome man upon her female senses. She pondered on it, innocent but certainly no fool. She realised with a slow seep of
ice through her veins that she could not possibly agree to his suggestion. It hurt, deep inside within her heart, but she drew back and shook her head.

‘No.'

He leaned back, pulling up the covers over her breasts. ‘Don't worry, I will do the honourable thing first.'

Sasha again shook her head. ‘I—I mean, that is, I'm saying no to your proposal. I do not wish to marry you.'

‘What?' He frowned at her.

‘You do not love me.'

‘What's that got to do with it? I didn't particularly love Georgia, either, but we would have dealt well enough together.'

She felt tears prick at the back of her eyes, and crowd into her throat. How could she explain that she did not want to be ‘dealt' with, but that she wanted him to love her?

‘I don't think that's enough. My—my parents love each other, passionately, and I don't want anything less from my own marriage.'

‘Well…' He sat away from her, not looking at her. ‘I can't say I love you, because at the moment I don't.'

‘Very well,' Sasha whispered.

‘Hmm.' He grunted, and then slanted her a sideways look. ‘What do you propose, then?'

She hesitated, uncertain. ‘I don't know.'

‘The ship is putting into Copenhagen tomorrow. Do you wish to go ashore and return to England?'

Sasha considered that for a moment. It was not very much to her liking, but she could see no alternative solution, so she merely nodded, not meeting his gaze.

Reid levered himself up, his tone cool. ‘Very well, then. I will speak to the captain.' After a moment's pause, as he contemplated the floorboards and his future, sans wife, he said in a flat voice, ‘I'm going to find somewhere to get washed and dressed. I suggest you do the same; lunch will be served in an hour.'

He collected his clothes from a travelling case, opened the door and departed. Sasha sagged back against the pillow, quite astonished at this turn of events. She pushed aside the covers of the bed and climbed out, padding over to the bureau and pouring herself a cup of tea. It was hot and fragrant. She drank thirstily and the rumble of her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten for a long while. She ate a cheese sandwich, dunked several biscuits in her tea, and then set about finding her clothes, humming quietly under her breath. She lurched and lost her balance several times, as the ship rolled on the increasing swell. Sasha went to the porthole and peered out, but she could see nothing except the dark cobalt sea and a cloudy grey sky. The weather had turned, the wind whipping up white caps of foam on the water. She could smell the tang of salt, as well as the odour of the ship itself, a mixture of paint and rust and a musty smell she could not quite identify.

A knock on the door brought the steward with a bowl of steaming hot water. Sasha avoided his eye, murmuring her thanks as he set the bowl down on the bureau and then he departed. It was quite difficult keeping her balance, most disconcerting, as she stripped off her chemise and drawers and washed. Then she struggled into clean clothes, a neat dark blue skirt and a white blouse, with a tortoiseshell belt to draw in her waist, as she had no desire to restrict herself in the confines of a corset. She slipped on warm woollen stockings, fastened them with plain garters, and then put on her shoes. For a moment she pressed a hand to her mouth as a most peculiar feeling wafted up from her stomach. It must be because she had not eaten for so long, and then bolted down food too quickly. A brisk walk on the deck was what she needed, to clear away all the cobwebs before lunch.

She managed to find her way through the warren of corridors and up steel flights of steps to the deck. The smell of salt was even stronger as she emerged, the wind tearing at her hair that she had braided and fastened in a loop at the nape of her neck.
She should have put on her coat, but was loath to return to the cabin, stepping out smartly and taking in deep gulps of air, clutching at the railings now and then as the ship lurched and rolled.

It wasn't long before she became aware of someone calling her name; turning about, she saw Captain Bowen striding towards her.

‘What on earth are you doing?' he shouted, his voice snatched away by the wind.

‘I'm taking a walk,' she shouted back.

She couldn't hear his words, but she gathered they were not complimentary, even rude, as he grasped her arm and dragged her back inside. In the corridor below he stooped over her, his face marred by a frown.

‘You idiot! Are you trying to get yourself killed?'

‘What?'

‘Not even the sailors are out in this wind!'

‘Oh.' Now that she thought about it, the deck had seemed rather deserted.

‘You could have been swept overboard.'

‘Well, I wasn't. I'm still here.' She tidied her hair. ‘Did you speak to the captain?'

‘Yes, I did.' He frowned, and taking her arm he led her down the corridor. ‘He's agreed to set you ashore in Copenhagen. He wasn't too happy about it, I must say, and I'm not sure that I am, either. But I will take you to the British Embassy and you can stay there until a passage can be secured for you back to England.'

She said nothing in response, and fell into step with him as he led her to the main salon, where several officers in crisp white naval uniforms sat in lounge chairs reading the paper or writing in journals. They stood up as she entered the room, and introductions were made. Then Reid showed her to a tub chair in the corner, leaning over her as he whispered, ‘Sit there and don't move. I have a few things to attend to.' He nodded his
head at the glass-fronted bookcases. ‘Find something to read and stay put.'

Sasha gave him an aggrieved glare, but then he leaned down and kissed her hard and swiftly upon her disconsolate mouth, causing her to gasp.

‘I know what you Packard girls are like, up to mischief given half a chance.' He smiled then. ‘And that kiss was for the benefit of our audience. Be good now.'

He straightened up and took himself off, leaving Sasha to sit and stare out of the row of small wooden windows, from the corner of her eye noticing the curious glances that came her way. Stay out of mischief, indeed!

A
t noon sharp a gong clanged in the hands of an orderly, echoing along the corridors and rousing the officers in the library to converge on the dining room for luncheon. Sasha sat down at a long table, between the Navy men, and across the width of the snowy-white tablecloth set with cut crystal and silver sat Reid. She glanced at him, and he smiled back, with a perusing thoughtful look in his eyes that puzzled her.

A bowl of steaming tomato soup was set in front of her. For a moment she felt the room sway in dizzy circles, a wave of nausea rising from her stomach and choking in her throat. A dew of sweat filmed her forehead, but she breathed in slowly, one hand clenched in a fist beneath the table. It was an ordeal to swallow even one mouthful of soup, and yet she managed to almost finish the bowl before it was taken away. The next course of plump chicken breast in a white wine and mushroom sauce was quickly served. The Captain made approving noises, grasping his knife and fork and attacking his plate with gusto. Sasha hid a shudder as she watched him swallow a mouthful, poked and prodded at her meal, toying with it, gingerly cutting up tiny morsels and placing one in her mouth. The stewards were swift and efficient, the Navy used to eating quickly, and with relief
she surrendered her half-finished plate. Next, there was dessert, and Sasha sighed as she eyed a bowl of steamed rum-and-raisin pudding swimming in custard. One of her favourites, and she succumbed to temptation, but was soon to regret it.

Without the presence of a lady the gentlemen would normally pass the port round and light cigars, taking time out for congenial talk. Sasha became aware that Reid was looking at her, with a frown upon his brows. She did not think this unusual, as he quite often seemed to have a look of thunder when gazing at her. But he kept directing his eyes to the door and Sasha realised that he was hinting that she should retire. A great wave of nausea washed over her then, much worse than before, and she prayed that she would make it back to the cabin without disgracing herself.

Reid leaned towards her as he escorted her to the door. ‘Are you all right, Sasha? Your face is white as a sheet.'

‘Yes, thank you.' But then her stomach rebelled, as the ship heaved and plunged on a steep wave, forcing her body to mimic the action. No matter how hard she tried to prevent it, a dreadful noise erupted from her throat, followed swiftly by the contents of her stomach.

‘Good God!' Reid jumped back.

Sasha retched again, clinging weakly but ineffectively to the wall, moaning, wondering if there was any likelihood the ship might sink and save her the embarrassment of having to face anyone, especially Reid, ever again.

The Captain advised, ‘Best get your wife down below.'

‘You wouldn't think such a tiny thing could throw up that much,' one of the ship's officers commented, as several of them peered with curiosity from the doorway of the salon.

Someone elbowed him into silence, and Reid swung Sasha up into his arms, carrying her down to their cabin. There he closed the door and set her on the chair in the corner, squatting on his heels in front of her as he peered with concern at her pale, sweat-dewed face, and then quickly reaching for a bowl of
water on the bureau as she started heaving again. He chucked the water out through the porthole and thrust the bowl under her nose. She was sick again. When at last the dreadful retching subsided, tears crowded in her eyes, and she sniffed, her words muffled as she turned her face aside. ‘Oh, please, do go away.'

‘Why?'

‘It's awful—what on earth must you think of me?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' he chided, his voice infinitely gentle as he wiped her face with a towel she had discarded earlier. ‘I'm in the Army, remember? I've seen a lot worse from my soldiers.'

‘But you aren't married to any of your soldiers.'

‘Well, apparently I'm not married to you, either.'

She smiled weakly at his words, and raised her tear-spiked lashes to glance at him with an apologetic wrinkle of her brows. ‘I'm sorry.'

With one hand he poured her a cup of cold black tea. ‘Here, sip this. It might help.' He watched as she complied, and murmured, ‘No doubt we will both survive.'

As another wave of nausea gripped her stomach and she leaned over the bowl, retching painfully yet producing little, she wondered what he meant—whether they would survive her sickness, or this so-called marriage?

 

It was a very long and uncomfortable night for Sasha. Reid stayed with her, helping her to change her clothes and put on a clean cotton nightgown. He sponged her face with a cool cloth and tried to encourage her to eat a few ginger biscuits, the steward swearing that it would help to ease her discomfort. But she could not hold them down and it was only as the first flush of dawn touched the horizon that Sasha at last fell asleep, exhausted and drained.

 

The weather did not improve at all that day, the iron-clad ship bucking on the steep waves, creaking and groaning in a manner that gave even Reid pause for thought, and to take a
turn on deck to discreetly check out the lifeboats. The Captain announced apologetically to Reid that it would be impossible to make harbour in Copenhagen and they were going to carry on. He assured his passengers that, once they were out of the rough waters of the North Sea and into the calmer Baltic, things would settle down. Reid, who had been so preoccupied with caring for Sasha through her illness that he'd forgotten he had asked that she be set ashore in the Danish capital, sincerely hoped so. He watched grimly as Sasha stirred and reached blindly for the bowl.

 

Towards evening of the third day, the waters suddenly calmed and there was a strange peace in the air. The rosy amber hues of sunset flooded a pale blue sky, and seagulls wheeled and screamed overhead. Reid rose from where he had been dozing in the chair and peered out of the porthole, but he couldn't see anything of significance.

‘Are we there?' Sasha asked, her voice weak and rough from the abrasion and violence of her seasickness.

Reid turned and knelt beside her bed, looking at her pale face as she lay back on the pillow, her sweat-dampened lank hair twisted into a loop at one side of her neck, soft tendrils curling about the curves of her face.

‘I don't think so.' His voice was soft, concerned and wary. ‘How are you feeling?'

She smiled weakly. ‘Not so bad.'

‘Good.' His fingers stroked her forearm in a comforting gesture. ‘Here, take this and try to sleep.'

He held a teaspoon of liquid to her lips, urging her to swallow it down. The ship's doctor had prescribed the only medicine he thought would help—laudanum. He commented that he had never seen anyone quite so bad as Sasha and the best thing to do was to remove her from the world, so to speak. Reid had been reluctant, knowing how addictive and dangerous such a drug was. Too much could do more harm than good, but the doctor
assured him that the dosage was mild, but enough to keep her unconscious for a good twelve hours, during which time, it was hoped, her system would adjust and they would sail into calmer waters.

It worked like a charm, and Sasha slept soundly all that night, as did he, but he swung down from the upper bunk several times to check on her. His fingers held her slender, smooth-skinned wrist and felt for the flutter of her pulse in the delicate blue veins. He listened carefully to her breathing, recalling to mind the horror of one of his company sergeant majors who had taken his own life by using laudanum, tormented by debt and the loss of his own woman in childbirth. Satisfied that Sasha was safe and well, he watched her sleeping, his gaze roaming over her face, thinking of how she had behaved with the officers of the ship at luncheon, with grace and a quiet, intelligent charm. He wondered how Georgia would have been, his brow furrowing as he imagined her flirting and seeking attention. Was it fate that had taken a hand and delivered Sasha to him? Sweet, innocent, clever Sasha. With a sigh he stroked back tendrils of hair from her forehead, and then climbed up into his bed, and tried to sleep. Yet a barrage of thoughts hammered at his mind and kept him awake.

What of the future? He had some doubts about his post working as military attaché in the British Embassy, preferring to be in the field with his soldiers, but the offer of promotion had been tempting and it would only be for two years. Then they would return to England; his expectations had been that he would leave his wife and children at home and continue with his soldiering, going wherever the Crown chose to send him. But now there was a fly in the ointment—he had no wife. And what on earth was he to do with Sasha? He feared for her reputation and the scandal that no doubt had already broken in London. How long would it be before the discovery was made that the woman posing as his wife was indeed not his wife? The simple solution would be for Sasha to marry him post-haste, but she had refused. He
was at first puzzled, and his ego certainly irked, at her refusal, for there was no doubt that there was an element of attraction between them, and she had already conspired to marry him. He was sure that Sasha did not fully understand that people would naturally assume that if she was not his wife then she must be his mistress. With a sigh, he turned on his side, shrugging off his thoughts until at last he, too, fell into a deep sleep. By dawn they were sailing into the Gulf of Finland.

 

On the sixth day Reid decided that enough was enough, and insisted that Sasha rise from her nest of tangled sheets. The air in the cabin was stale and fetid, the porthole shut against the bitter wind that blew across the sea, the temperature well below freezing and the sapphire-blue waters caked with floating layers of ice, like sugar icing that had come adrift from a wedding cake.

‘Come on,' he said firmly, pulling Sasha's limp body from the bunk bed, holding her with one arm while he snatched up his own thick brocade dressing-robe and wrapped it around her, tying the cord sash securely. ‘The fresh air will do you some good.'

‘Oh, please, Reid, let me lie down,' Sasha begged, brown doe-eyes huge in her wan face, her slender frame swamped by the voluminous folds of his robe.

‘No.' He reached for his Army great cloak and fastened it about her, then sat her down on the chair while he rummaged in her bags and found a pair of thick warm stockings. ‘You'll feel much better, believe me.'

‘I'll be sick.'

‘No, you won't.'

‘I will.'

‘No,' he said with a note of weary patience, ‘you will not. There's nothing left in you to bring up.' His large hands pushed up the layers of linen nightgown, brocade robe and his cloak, and then picked up her foot, a frown of concentration on his
handsome face as he wrestled her stockings on. ‘And you can stop pouting at me like that.'

Sasha gave up then, rendered dumb as she sat there and watched him, all her attention drawn to his strong lean hands, tanned golden-brown, the fingernails short and neat, very clean, his touch impersonal yet gentle as he pulled the stockings up over her legs and fastened them with a plain garter just above her knees. Then he reached for her boots, his blond head bent down as he tied the laces and she could not see his face, her glance straying instead to the broad width of his shoulders.

‘There.' He sat back on his heels with a satisfied nod, his hands reaching out for her waist. ‘Up you get.'

He lifted her from the chair, and for a moment she hung limply, her body like a rag doll's in his grasp. Then, with an effort, she straightened, levering herself up by grasping the lapels of his jacket. How tempting it was just to lay her head upon his chest, to surrender, safe in the certain knowledge that Reid would put to rights everything that was wrong. She lifted her eyes to his face, and for a moment they stood there, looking at each other.

‘You have such beautiful eyes,' Sasha murmured, gazing at him. ‘They are blue like the deepest, darkest sea.'

He smiled, his voice just as soft, his smile rueful. ‘Don't you know that it's the man who is supposed to pay compliments?'

‘Why?'

He shrugged, and then took her by the elbow and manoeuvred her to the door. ‘Come on, while the wind has died down.'

Out in the corridor Sasha swayed and moaned, but he was unrelenting as he propelled her towards the gangway and up a flight of brass-and-wood steps to the closed sliding door that led out to the deck. Sasha gasped as the cold air hit them when Reid slid it back an inch, and he was forced to admit that it was indeed far too cold and windy to take her out to the deck. She sagged with relief as he closed it, not realising how near he was until her back came into contact with his warm, solid chest.

His arms folded around her, as he steadied her swaying form. ‘We'll just stand here for a bit. Try to stare at the horizon for as long as possible. I'm told by the sailors that it's the best way to orientate the brain and stop the motion sickness.'

‘Is that so?' Sasha replied drily, anxiously waiting for the surge of nausea that had plagued her for days to come rushing at her, with all the force and vengeance of an alien monster that had invaded her being.

‘Yes, Miss Packard, that is so.' He leaned down, the better to see her face. ‘I do believe you have some colour in your cheeks. How are you feeling now? Has it worked?'

Sasha hesitated for a moment, waiting, squinting at the far-off cobalt line of dark blue sea, above it the paler band of the sky. With a note of surprise in her voice, she confessed, ‘I don't feel anything.' Half turning in his arms, she smiled up at him. ‘Goodness, I feel…completely better! Isn't that wonderful?'

‘Excellent.' He smiled, too, and then asked, ‘Are you hungry?'

‘Starving!'

‘I'll get the steward to bring you some tea. What would you like?'

‘Hmm.' Sasha thought for a moment, holding thumb and forefinger to her chin. ‘A ham-and-tomato sandwich, please.'

He laughed. ‘Is that all?'