Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress. Louise Allen

was so amused by that she decided to save it up to tell Ross. Perhaps she might tempt that elusive half-smile out again.

      She lingered a little, then went up and out on to the deck to give Ross some more time alone. He was probably thoroughly tired of her company, although if he was up and about tomorrow he would probably find some congenial male passengers and would not need her efforts to entertain him. If he did, then perhaps it would prove her wrong about his dark, fatalistic mood. Perhaps, after all, he had merely been exhausted, in pain and bored.

      She wandered up towards the bows and leaned her elbows on the rail. It was quiet on deck, most of the passengers apparently preferring the stuffy, poorly lit communal stateroom to the stiff breeze and salty air. The sea was liberating after years of heat and dust and danger. Somewhere out there beyond the darkening sea, where the vanished sun still made a glow on the horizon, were Bella and Lina. Would they be happy and well? Would they have found—?

      ‘Still alone, ma’am?’ It was Whittier, his friend Bates smirking behind him. ‘That won’t do, a young lady like yourself. You need some lively company; no wonder you don’t want to go back below to your wounded hero.’

      ‘I am alone, Mr Whittier, because I choose to be. Thank you, but I do not wish for company.’

      ‘Come now, there’s no need to be standoffish.’ They moved in close, far too close for comfort. The rail pressed into her back, no escape that way. Panic began to catch at her breath as she glanced around the deserted deck. Not even a deckhand was in sight. ‘We are much more fun for a lady like you than that cripple of yours below decks.’ Bates put his hand on her arm, his fingers hot through the cotton of the sleeve.

      Where was their cabin? Could they bundle her down there without anyone realising? She looked around for a weapon and saw none. It was up to her; no one was going to save her this time.

      ‘Mr Bates, if you do not remove your arm, I am going to scream—very loudly.’ Someone, surely, would hear? The threat did not appear to alarm them. Still, she must try. Meg dragged down a deep breath, opened her mouth and—

      ‘But not as loudly as you will scream, Mr Bates, when I rip your testicles off and throw them to the sharks,’ said a cold voice from the shadows of the rigging. Ross. And sounding like Death. An hysterical giggle rose in her throat at the sight of the men’s faces as they swung round to confront the threat in the shadows.

      Ross was wearing his stained, filthy uniform, his sword at his side and a pistol pushed into the sash. He looked as if he had just walked out of the swirling smoke and bloody carnage of the battlefield—or straight from hell. He looked, Meg thought, as she sagged back against the rail, big, dangerous and utterly wonderful—provided he was on your side.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ Whittier demanded. ‘This woman is with us.’

      ‘This lady is my wife.’ For the first time, Meg saw Ross smile. And then wished she hadn’t. ‘I believe she expressed the desire to be left alone. Are you hard of hearing, perhaps?’ His sword ripped out of its scabbard as the men backed away. ‘Are you as attached to your ears as your friend is to his balls?’ He had them trapped now, pressed back against the rail with nowhere to go. It was time to intervene.

      ‘Major Brandon.’

      ‘My dear?’ It was hard not to be distracted by the warmth in those two drawled words.

      ‘The captain would dislike blood on his deck.’

      ‘So he would.’ There was a thoughtful silence while the sword point remained unwavering. ‘And the men work so hard holystoning it. Did these scum touch you?’

      She knew what he meant and shook her head. ‘No, they were merely offensive.’

      Ross kept the sword up while Meg and the two men eyed it like rabbits in front of a stoat. ‘Very well. You two—undress.’

      ‘What?’ Bates’s voice wavered between fear and incredulity.

      ‘You heard me. Every stitch. Avert your eyes, my dear. This will not be a pretty sight.’

      Meg hastily turned her back. Amid sounds of spluttering indignation it was apparent that Bates and Whittier were obeying Ross. She could hardly blame them for giving in, not once they had seen his smile and looked into his eyes.

      ‘Now throw it all over the side. Good. And now, walk back to the companionway and down the stairs.’

      ‘But that’s the public saloon! And we’re stark naked!’

      ‘Yes, indeed. And hardly a vision to inspire an artist, I fear. Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.’

      As he passed her, Ross murmured, ‘I thought I told you to avert your eyes, wife.’

      Meg dragged her gaze from two pairs of pale, goose-pimpled buttocks retreating towards the companionway and laughed. ‘And, as always, husband, your judgement is entirely correct. I have never seen a more revolting sight.’

      Chapter Five

      Meg stayed where she was, listening as the outraged shrieks from below died down. Her knees felt wobbly now as her amusement ebbed away. That had been a nasty little incident and it had left her more shaken than she expected. Uneven, limping footsteps on the deck made her look up. ‘What happened?’

      ‘They snatched up platters from the serving table to cover their modesty so most people were spared the worst of it. But they won’t dare show their faces for the rest of the voyage.’ Ross stood close, looking down at her. ‘Johnny saw them follow you and came to me. Are you all right, Meg?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Meg began, then found her voice cracking. ‘No…not really. It is very foolish, I just feel rather…’

      And then he stepped forwards, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. It was rather like being hugged by the bear she had compared him to, one smelling of river-soaked, badly dried cloth with a lingering whiff of gunpowder and smoke, but it was marvellously comforting. And utterly improper. Meg wrapped her arms around Ross’s waist and clung, her cheek pressed against the dark green broadcloth of his jacket, her toes bumping his boots. How long had it been since she had been hugged?