‘Perhaps she flees him and climbs into the rigging?’ Alistair suggested. ‘And he climbs after her and forces her down to the deck before pressing his foul attentions upon her in the cuddy.’
‘It sounds highly improbable,’ Dita said frigidly. ‘Although the foul attentions sound … characteristic.’
‘No, it’s brilliant,’ Callum contradicted. ‘It will make a perfect cliffhanger. She hits him with the soup ladle and escapes to barricade herself in her cabin.’
‘I was thinking of a carving knife,’ Dita said with a tight smile at Alistair, who smiled back in a way that had the hair standing up on the back of her neck. A hunting smile …
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Averil said, breathless with laughter as she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin she was working on. ‘You must write it, Lady Perdita.’
‘In instalments,’ Daniel added. ‘And read one every evening. We will all contribute plot ideas as the story develops and take on roles. The hero is, of course, so perfect that none of us can approach him, but I see myself as the flawed, but ultimately noble first lieutenant of the ship, Trueheart. He loves the heroine from afar, knowing he is unworthy, but will redeem himself by the sacrifice of his life for her in about episode sixty-three.’
‘Very well,’ Dita agreed. ‘I will do it. It will be a three-volume epic, I can see.’
The novel proved to be an absorbing occupation. Averil patiently embroidered the corners of innumerable handkerchiefs and table napkins and Dita wrote while they sat under their awning in the heat.
By the time they crossed the Equator Averil had moved on to pillow cases, the passengers, sustained by turtle soup, began to think hopefully of home and Dita had filled pages of her notebook.
Every afternoon after dinner the passengers retreated to their cabins out of the sun to recruit their strength before supper. Dita found that a difficult routine to settle to, despite having followed it for a year in India. Here, on the ship, she was too restless to lie dozing in her canvas box. And for some reason the restlessness increased the longer she was on board.
She was not afraid of her family’s reaction when she got home, she decided—that was not what was disturbing her. Papa would still be angry with her—that was only to be expected, for he had taken her elopement hard—but Mama and her brothers and sisters would welcome her with open arms. Nor was it apprehension about her reception in society; she was ready to do battle over that.
No, something else was making her feel edgy and restless and faintly apprehensive in a not unpleasant kind of way, and she very much feared it was Alistair. The memory of their lovemaking on Christmas Eve should have served as a constant warning, she told herself. Instead it simply reminded her how much she wanted his kisses and his caresses. And Alistair, maddening man, had not tried to lay a finger on her, so she could not even make herself feel better by spurning him.
Had he turned over a new leaf and decided on celibacy? He was not flirting with anyone else; she knew that because she watched him covertly. Or was he deliberately tantalising her by apparent indifference? If so, he was most certainly succeeding.
Her only outlet had become the novel. The plot became more and more fantastical, the perils of Angelica, the fragile yet spirited heroine, became more extreme, the impossibly noble, handsome and courageous hero suffered countless trials to protect her and the saturnine villain became more sinister, more amorous, and, unfortunately, more exciting.
Three days after they crossed the Equator, with the Cape Verde Islands their next landfall, Dita found herself alone in the canvas shelter on deck. A sailor adjusted the sailcloth to create a shady cave and she settled back on the daybed the ship’s carpenter had made and looked out between the wings of the shelter to the rail and then open, empty sea.
She lay for a while, lulled by the motion of the ship, the blue, unending water, the warmth on her body. Then, insidiously, the warmth became heat and the familiar ache and need and she shifted restlessly and reached for her notebook and pencil.
The roll of the ship sent the little book sliding away and she sat up and scrambled to the end of the daybed to reach for it. ‘Bother the thing!’
A shadow fell over the book as Alistair appeared and stooped to pick it up. ‘Ah, the Adventures of Angelica.’ When she tried to twitch it from his fingers he sat down on the end of the daybed, held it just out of her reach and opened it.
‘Give it back, if you please.’ It was hard to sound dignified when she was curled up with her slippers kicked off, her petticoats rumpled about her calves and no hat on. Dita scrambled back towards the head of the daybed, pulled her skirts down and held out one hand.
‘But I want to read it.’ He flipped to the end and read while Dita pressed her lips together and folded her hands in her lap. She was not going to tussle for it. ‘Now, let’s see. So, Angelica has escaped on to the desert island and Baron Blackstone is pursuing her, so close that she can hear his panting breaths behind her as she flees across the sand towards the scanty shelter of the palm trees. How is she going to escape this time?’
‘The gallant de Blancheville has sawn his way through the latest lot of shackles and is rushing to her rescue,’ Dita said with as much dignity as the ludicrous plot would allow her.
‘I cannot imagine why Blackstone hasn’t thrown him overboard to the sharks,’ Alistair commented. He leaned back, one hand on the far edge of the daybed, his body turned towards her, the picture of elegant indolence. ‘I would have done so about ten chapters back. Think of the saving in shackles.’
‘Villains never do the sensible thing,’ Dita retorted. ‘And if I kill off the hero, that’s the end of the book. With you as captain of this ship the drama would be over on page three; de Blancheville would have walked the plank and poor Angelina would have thrown herself overboard in despair.’
He curled a lip. ‘The man’s prosy and disposable. Have her falling for Blackstone. Think of the fun they could have on a desert island.’
‘I really wouldn’t—Alistair! That is my ankle!’
‘And a very pretty one it is, too. Has your chaperon never told you it is fast to shed your shoes in public?’ He ran his hand over the arch of her foot, then curled his fingers round it and held tight when she jerked it back. ‘Relax.’
‘Relax—with your hand under my skirts?’
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‘Don’t you like this?’ His thumb was stroking the top of the arch of her foot while his fingers brushed tickling caresses underneath. It was disturbingly reminiscent of the way he had caressed her more intimately.
‘I’ll scream.’