Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 11

"Really? It appears to me that I've already taken it from you."

He shoved her away, not forcefully, but it was a shove just the same, and he turned from her and grabbed a strongbox on the shelf. With horror, she recognized his plan. She lunged at him, leaping on his back and pounding on his shoulders, but to no avail.

He tossed the purse into the box and spun the key in the lock.

As if she weighed nothing at all, he shucked her to the floor and stuck the key in his pocket. When he whirled to face her, he was grinning. At his obvious humor, she was enraged.

He'd stolen all her money! All of it!

At the loss, she was so distraught that she could barely speak, could barely stay on her feet. Could one more thing go wrong?

"What is your name?" he asked.

A thousand calculations flew through her mind. Should she tell him? Should she not?

"What is yours?" she asked in reply.

Anger rippled off him in waves, and it occurred to her that people probably didn't antagonize him as she was.

"I am Captain Tristan Harcourt, younger brother to the Earl of Westwood."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. So let me be perfectly clear: I am captain of this vessel. Everyone on it is under my complete command and control. I can feed you and house you and escort you to an appropriate destination, or I can tie you to the mast and watch as the seagulls pick at your innards. Now I ask you again: What is your name? And don't lie to me. I'll know if you are."

No doubt he'd carry out his threat. She'd learned-to her continual detriment-that men could do anything they wished. A female had no rights, no power. To top it off, he was an aristocrat's brother. She'd met enough of them to grasp that she couldn't fight him and win.

"Harriet."

"Harriet...what?"

"Just Harriet."

"Well, Just Harriet, why are you on my ship?"

"I told you: It was an accident."

"So you've said."

"I was...lost, and I was very tired. I fell asleep, but when I woke up, we were already at sea. I meant to debark before you sailed." He was so incredulous that she felt compelled to add, "I really meant to!"

"What would you suggest I do with you?"

"Where are you headed?"

"To Italy."

"Italy! I can't go to Italy."

She started calculating again. Mightn't it be best to hide out in Italy? Bentley would never think to search for her there, yet she didn't speak the language, and she'd never see Helen again.

"Are you stopping anywhere before then?"

"Why...yes, I am. France, Portugal, and Spain. Could I drop you somewhere on the way? Perhaps you could consider me your personal hackney cab."

"I don't know what to do," she murmured.

"Maybe you'd like to stay aboard until we return to London. You could remain here in my cabin, like a pet. At the next port, I could buy you a collar and a leash."

At the mention of London, she recalled those recent terror-filled days, and she shuddered.

"I can't go back to London either!"

"Trouble waiting for you there, Harriet?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Little lady, I'm predicting that trouble is your middle name. Why am I sure that I'll regret this meeting for a very long time?"

Tristan Harcourt stared at Harriet, wondering what her true story was.

With her big green eyes and honey-blond hair, she looked young and vulnerable and defenseless. He wanted to be furious with her, but she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in ages, and he couldn't muster the necessary outrage.

From her speech and mannerisms, it was apparent that she was highly educated, yet she was attired as if she was a servant in a fancy house. Her dress was dirty and torn though, so she'd been on the run. Why had she been traipsing around the docks on her own? In the dark, no less!

She had to have been scared of something or someone. Who and why? And what was he supposed to do with her?

They were on a ship packed with rough, l.u.s.ty men, so her arrival spelled disaster. He wasn't about to take her back to London-which she obviously didn't want anyway-and he couldn't imagine putting her ash.o.r.e in some foreign coastal town where she wouldn't have any friends or family to a.s.sist her.

Riley knocked on the door and poked his nose in.

"Supper, Captain."

"Set it on the table, then you're excused."

Tristan kept his gaze locked on Harriet, absurdly nervous about what she might do. He'd been serious when he told her she was trouble. With that shapely body and sa.s.sy mouth, there would be no end to the problems she'd cause.

Riley deposited the tray, then scurried out, and Tristan sat down. He'd worked all night, so he was starving, and he was thrilled to see that his cook had provided some of his favorites: a loaf of warm bread, a hearty bowl of stew, red wine and cheese.

He ignored Harriet and began to gobble his food.

"Is it supper time?" she asked. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough to land yourself in a h.e.l.l of a jam."

He continued, pausing when he heard her stomach growl.

He glared over at her. "When did you last eat?"

"I don't remember. Two or three days ago?"

"Tell me your surname, and why you're really hiding on my ship, and I'll order a second tray. You can have all you want."

She was mutinously silent, and he sighed. He loathed contrary women, and his cabin was too d.a.m.ned small to tolerate such mulish behavior. But he wasn't about to fret over her. When she got hungry enough, she'd confide in him.

He finished his meal, as exhaustion struck with a vengeance, and he needed to lie down. He went over to the cupboard and poured water in the bowl, then he grabbed the hem of his shirt and stripped it off.

"What are you doing?" she gasped from behind him, an anxious quiver in her voice.

"What does it look like? I'm washing."

Ignoring her again, he took a cloth and swabbed his skin. When he spun around, she was still standing exactly where she'd been, not having moved an inch.

He knew he should say something to relieve her distress, but he had no idea what it should be. Women simply didn't show up on sailing vessels. They were bad luck, and he was as superst.i.tious as any other sailor who'd ever lived, certain she'd bring devastation down upon them.

Then too, there was the problem of how they should fraternize. With her being a female, he was out of his element and perplexed over how to proceed. His life was a life of men and the sea, so he'd never previously encountered a situation such as the one he was facing with Harriet.

When he'd been naught but a tiny boy, a family acquaintance had taken him out on the water, and he'd fallen in love with sailing. At age twenty-eight, he'd been at it for over two decades.

After their father had died and James had learned the pathetic condition of their inheritance, they'd decided Tristan should start a shipping business. James's initial act as earl had been to cheat at a game of cards, to win Tristan a ship so Tristan could help put the estates back in the black.

Harriet wouldn't be safe on the deck, so she had to stay below, but having her in his cabin was like having an elephant wander in. A very pretty, very alluring elephant. He couldn't breathe without b.u.mping into her, and there seemed to be no solution other than to carry on as usual-as if she wasn't present.

Without a word, he walked by her and flopped down on his bunk. One of his few on-board luxuries was a feather mattress, and as his tired body sank into it, he groaned with pleasure and shut his eyes. Instantly, he drifted off.

"What are you doing now?" she inquired.

He jerked to full consciousness and frowned at her.

"I was trying to sleep. I've been up all night, and there's rough weather coming. I need to rest for a bit, then get up on deck."

"But what about me? What should I do?"

"Whatever you want. Just don't leave the cabin."

"Am I to be your prisoner?"

"Yes. Until I can figure out a plan for you, you'll remain here so I can be sure you're not up to any mischief."

He closed his eyes and drifted off again. He was already dreaming about a tropical beach and a turquoise ocean when she said, "What will happen to me?"

"Harriet! You're talking."

"I'm sorry, but I have to know."

"And I have to take a nap. I can't have you pestering me."

Silence ensued, and he tried to get comfortable, but slumber was growing elusive. She'd interrupted him too many times, and the quiet was more unnerving than her chatter had been.

He heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle, and he peeked over to see that she was in the corner, huddled on the floor and leaned against the bulkhead. She swiped a hand across her cheek, and the most annoying ripple of affection swept through him.

Immediately, he tamped it down. He absolutely would not pity her!

"Are you crying?" he demanded to know.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sad. Why would you suppose?"

"Why would you be sad?"

"Because you stole my money. You're cruel and you're a bully, and I don't like you."

"Well, I can't abide a weepy woman. Pipe down."

She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in the folds of her skirt, but from how her shoulders were shaking, it was obvious she was sobbing.

He tried to ignore her, which was impossible. How was he to act in such a circ.u.mstance? He didn't even know her, yet without warning, she'd been dumped in his lap to become a responsibility he didn't choose to a.s.sume.

He wasn't callous by nature, but he never entangled himself in female troubles. It was the most marvelous thing about being at sea: no women to aggravate him.

Why couldn't Harriet be sweet and merry-like Miranda? That was the sort of feminine temperament he enjoyed. He detested agony and anguish for he hadn't a clue how to deal with melodrama.

Grumbling, he sat up, wondering what to do, and that peculiar wave of affection was back. For some reason, he couldn't bear to see her unhappy.

"Come here, Harriet."

Her trembling ceased, and she was very tense. "What did you say?"

"Come here."

"Will you...you...ravish me now?"

She glanced up, and she looked so lovely that his heart did an odd flip-flop.

"No, I'm not going to ravish you, and I'm insulted that you'd presume so."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You're too skinny. I like my women to have some meat on their bones."

She chuckled miserably. "You're a brute."

"Yes, I am."

"I hate you."