A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...

      God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.

      Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.

      You love me to distraction.

      He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine making love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.

      Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.

      He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...

      He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?

      A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled. Deep breaths, deep breaths...a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.

      Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”

      “Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.

      Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”

      * * *

      IF THE MOON hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.

      His sleeping form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.

      There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.

      A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—

      “Whatever you’re searching for, Lady India,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, “you won’t find it.”

      Damn, damn, damn! She inhaled sharply, and her head whipped around, even as her fingers touched cold metal. He hadn’t moved, and it was too dark to see that his eyes were open, but clearly they were. She felt the length of the metal—a pistol! She closed her fingers around it and smiled.

      “Perhaps not, but you will find it for me.” She stood quickly, taking the pistol with her and pointing it at the bed.

      “I don’t think I will.”

      “I suppose you’ll tell me no ball has been loaded, but I am convinced I could find your powder and load one before you could lurch over here to stop me.”

      He groaned and rolled to his back. “You threaten nothing but blessed relief.”

      She crouched down, still facing him, and groped for the powder and shot. “That’s twice in our brief acquaintance that you’ve expressed a desire to see your life end. Hardly a noble sentiment.”

      He inched toward the edge of the bed. “I’ve long since dispensed...with being noble.”

      First one of his legs swung out of the bed, then the other. She still hadn’t found the shot and powder. “Stay where you are,” she warned.

      “Hardly an effective threat under the circumstances.”

      “I shall hit you if I have to.”

      “Will you.”

      “Yes.”

      “With the pistol, I suppose.”

      That hadn’t occurred to her, but, “Yes.”

      He was standing now. Blast it all, where was the shot and—powder horn! Her hand closed around it and she whipped it from the trunk, plunging her hand back in for the shot. This time she found it immediately.

      “Aha!” she said, scooting farther away from him to the dressing table, while he steadied himself against the edge of the bed. “I have them now. If you would prefer to save us time and trouble, you may simply tell me where the contract is and I will retrieve it.”

      “Ah. The contract.”

      Loading a pistol was one thing she could do in her sleep. He took a step forward. She loaded a ball. “Yes. The contract.”

      “You do realize, of course, that destroying it would change nothing.”

      She tipped the powder horn and jammed the ramrod hard. He was halfway across the cabin. “That remains to be seen.” She hoped. At the very least, if he had no copy of the contract, he could not prove he had her father’s consent for the marriage. She leveled the loaded pistol at him. “Find the contract and give it to me.”

      He reached the dressing table. “Very well. But you’ll have to move so I can open the drawer.”

      She stepped back. In the faint moonlight she watched him reach inside, careful not to get close enough for him to grab the pistol from her hand. He held a document up—but not out.

      “Here,” he said. “You may have it.”

      “Hand it to me.”

      “Come and take it.”

      “Ha.” He thought she was stupid. “I’ll not fall for your trap.”

      “Nor I for your threats. Which leaves us...where? You’ll shoot me, I suppose, then tear up the contract and mop up my blood with the pieces.”

      “If I shot you, there would be no need to tear up the contract.”

      He gripped the dressing table and pressed his other hand to his stomach. “Devil take these waves.”

      Was he going to be sick right here? Now? “Give me the contract and return to your bed.”

      “I don’t think I can—”

      Oh, God. He was. “Quickly!”

      He doubled over. “Christ—”

      “No!”

      He lurched forward, but all that projected toward her was his arm, snatching the pistol from her hand. He grabbed her with his other hand and held fast, standing upright now, and plunked the pistol on the dressing table.

      “Pillock!”

      “I believe that has already been established.”

      “Release me.”

      “I’m not a complete fool.”

      He did not smell sick. He smelled of the candied ginger Millie had been giving him to settle his stomach. His grip was warm and tight around her arms.