He felt the wet of her tears touch his shoulder and brought his hand up to brush them away. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight. “Go to sleep, Cassandra. All will be well, you will see.”
“Damn you to hell, you bastard. If I were a man, I would stick a sword through your gullet.”
“If you were a man, I would be cast in the role of pederast, a thought I find truly appalling. You will have countless hours to upbraid me. I suggest that you sleep now. Your wits will be all the sharper in the morning.”
Countless hours—his words rang like a death knell in her mind. Damn you to hell, she swore silently, pulling herself from despair. I will escape you.
Chapter 8
For an instant, Cassie was at home at Hemphill Hall, in her sunlit bedchamber, waiting to hear Dolly Mintlow’s shuffling steps at her door with her morning cup of chocolate.
Her bed seemed to lurch wildly, and she awoke with a start.
She grabbed at the lattice headboard as the yacht gave a loud creak and heeled sharply to port. She sat up and gazed dumbly about the cabin, eerily gray in the dull morning light cast through the square bow windows. Heavy rain battered the yacht, and thunder sounded like muted gun-shots overhead. Would be that it were, she thought, her throat constricting. She prayed that the earl and his precious yacht would be plummeted by the storm to the bottom of the Channel. At least her nightmare would be over and she would truly be an eternity away from Edward and her family. The yacht creaked and floundered, but the wild lurching lessened, and it held, she imagined, to its course.
“Thank God for the storm,” she whispered. It was in all likelihood the only reason he was not with her. At the thought of the earl returning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared down at herself. She was quite naked. She rose slowly, aware of a dull twinge of tenderness between her thighs. She drew a deep breath to steady herself and made her way carefully to the commode. She poured water from the fat-bellied pitcher into the basin and began methodically to bathe herself. This was to have been my wedding day, she thought blankly, oblivious to the water sloshing over the sides of the basin onto the carpeted floor. She splashed water over her face furiously, for she felt tears welling in her eyes.
She cursed at the sight of her tattered gown tossed in a heap where the earl had left it the night before. As she had no intention of facing him naked, she opened the oak armoire and eyed the row of brightly colored gowns. She thought belatedly of undergarments and jerked open the drawers of the dresser. She ground her teeth at his thoroughness, and quickly shrugged on a set of exquisite lace and silk underclothes. She selected the least colorful gown, a soft dove-gray muslin, but discovered that its neckline wasn’t as high as she’d hoped. The gown fit her perfectly, just as did the undergarments. She pulled an ivory-handled brush through her tangled hair, tied it at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon, and smoothed the muslin skirt.
Once fully clothed, she felt more confident. She walked to the closed cabin door and gingerly turned the knob. It was locked, of course. Her anger rose with her confidence, and she found herself fairly daring him to enter.
She paced in impotent frustration, her steps growing more certain as she discovered the rhythm of the yacht. Her stomach growled for her breakfast, and she cursed him. Was he trying to starve her into submission?
The wild pitching of the yacht became gradually more predictable, and the pounding rain, too, slowly lightened. She turned at the sound of footsteps outside the cabin door and squared her shoulders.
A key grated in the lock and the door swung open. The earl strode in, filling the doorway. He was like a vital, threatening force, and she drew back from him. She saw a black canvas cape, glistening with drops of rain, lying in the companionway outside the door before he shoved it closed.