Cleo managed to make a one-shouldered shrug into something almost graceful as she turned, towing Delilah behind her. ‘So you’re intending to marry her father, in effect. Very romantic.’
‘Who said anything about romance?’ Quin demanded, nettled, as his calming morning turned sour. ‘And who did you marry? The French army for a bodyguard?’
Cleo stopped and regarded him down her nose, every inch royalty confronted by a peasant. ‘Oh, you man,’ she said and swept on past towards the boat.
‘I damn well hope so,’ Quin said to her retreating back and received no acknowledgement beyond a toss of her head. Curse the entire female sex, he thought as he strode back to the boat in time to heave the goat back on board. And whose foolish notion was it to bring a goat of all things? Smelly, stubborn, needs feeding and watering and cleaning up after.
And I’m in a foul mood, he realised with sense of shock. Years of training and self-discipline had knocked that sort of futile fuming out of him. Or so he’d thought. All it took to rattle the composure of a man quite capable of dealing with seductive foreign widows, scheming, spying diplomats and apoplectic ministers was one gauche young woman with neither experience, education nor sophistication.
Quin settled his expression into one of bland courtesy and turned to Cleo, who was apparently admiring a large spider on the rushes. ‘May I help you into the boat?’
‘You may pass me the sickle, if you please,’ she replied. ‘We need to cut fodder for Delilah.’
‘I will help you into the felucca and you can give me the sickle.’
‘I would welcome the exercise.’
‘You should not be performing manual labour.’ Quin vaulted over the side of the boat, found the sickle, climbed back and surveyed the patches of scrubby foliage.
‘I had better not milk the goat or prepare the food in that case.’ Cleo sat down, spread her skirts around her in a flurry of blue cotton and began to unplait her hair with the air of a woman prepared to spend all day primping in the shade.
Quin slashed at the undergrowth for a few moments of blissfully violent activity, gathered up an armful of greenery and turned back, a well-crafted retort about suitable occupations for women on his lips. And promptly forgot every syllable.
He had wondered what Cleo’s hair looked like loose and now he knew. It looked like liquid molasses flowing in sunlight. It looked like silk, woven by a master weaver, it looked... He shut his mouth with a snap and walked past her to throw the fodder into the boat, making Delilah snort and stamp.
‘The men are stirring,’ he said, nodding towards the huddle of boatmen and, beyond them, the soldiers.
As he hoped, Cleo got to her feet, swept her hair over one shoulder and paddled out to the side of the boat. ‘If you please, Mr Bredon.’
So, I’m back to Mr, am I? Quin thought as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge. As she swivelled round her hair swung, brushed across his hands, sending a shudder of desire through him. He closed his eyes, his hands still lightly resting on the curve of her hips, and searched for some sort of control.
Cleo put her hands on his shoulders and bent down, making it a hundred times worse as her breath brushed his cheek and her hair spilled around them. ‘Quin?’
‘I felt suddenly dizzy. I’m sorry.’ Better to sacrifice his pride by admitting weakness than tell her the truth: I want you so much it hurts. He pushed away from the side of the felucca. ‘I’ll go and see where Laurent is aiming for today.’
He walked away without looking back. Was she watching him as he went, as unsettled by that moment as he had been? More likely she was thinking what a poor specimen he was, with his nightmares and irregular birth and apparent weakness.
* * *
He wants me. There had been no mistaking that intense stillness. Dizzy, indeed! That had been lust, rigorously controlled because, of course, what use would Quin Bredon have with her, beside the comfort of her body? He had his sights set on Caroline, the woman of influence he hardly knew. She could only hope that Caroline would not be disturbed by his nightmares because she could not imagine some well-bred lady hugging her husband out of his bad dreams.
Cleo eyed the minor chaos of the boat, considered what to do about breakfast, shrugged, sat down and braided her hair. That, loose, had been what had set Quin off, she was sure of it. Men were strange creatures.
* * *
The felucca was tidy when Quin returned. Cleo had given her father his breakfast and had done her best with the mess he had created since the day before.
‘Here.’ She pushed a plate towards Quin when he climbed on board, his face relaxed into something close to a smile. ‘The men brought me duck eggs, eat yours before it gets cold.’