A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels by Kasey Michaels Page B
Authors: Kasey Michaels
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like his father. I'm more hungry for the taste of your mouth than for any food."
Mariah quickly lowered her head. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. We...we were getting along so well there, if just for a moment."
"Just for a moment, yes, we were," Spencer said, turning away from her to look back at the Respite, the painted name of Athena on the bow in order to disguise the ship now covered by a length of draped sail. He'd enjoyed being aboard the sloop, but solid land remained his preferred location. "I imagine that, in a fit of fantasy, I had thought you'd be eager to welcome the sailor home from the sea."
"I have welcomed you," she reminded hira. "I most distinctly remember saying hello, Spencer, welcome home." And then, because the questions had been building in her for over a week and she couldn't hold them back any longer, she asked, "Are the casks of brandy still in the hold or did you off-load them somewhere else along the coast?"
Spencer looked ather owlishly, trying to keep his lips from twitching. God, she was a magnificent creature. And braver—or more foolish—than most. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. Or did you think I would believe that ridiculousness you told me about you traveling to Dover? I may have allowed myself to be convinced once—but not twice, not now that I've had time to sort through your clever lies and evasions. You're smugglers, freetraders, all of you Beckets."
He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Freetraders, are we? And you think I'd take the Respite out on a smuggling run? You'd best read again whatever marble-backed novel it is that put such foolishness into your head, madam. Smugglers do not advertise their presence by sailing willy-nilly across the Channel in well-marked sloops. Not unless they've a strong desire to be hung in chains at Dover Castle."
Mariah winced slightly, acknowledging the hit. But then she rallied. "You weren't in Dover, though, were you? Where did you go?"
Spencer rolled his eyes at her. "Not even wed and the woman has turned into a fishwife. Clovis told me you like to be the one in charge. Our Lady of the Swamp, I believe Anguish christened you. Am I to kowtow to you, too, now, as did my men, list all my comings and goings, ask your permission before I blow my own nose? I think not, madam."
Mariah opened her mouth to protest, then hesitated. "He.. .he called me that? Why?"
"Part angel, part taskmaster. Did you really cock a pistol at one Private Angus MacTavish, telling him either, he took his turn on the watch or you'd add another hole to his head? I remember Angus MacTavish. He probably survived the battle by hiding his fat backside behind a tree."
"They told you I did that?" Mariah felt her cheeks flushing at the memory, even as part of her knew he was once more steering her away from her pointed questions. "Your men tattle like little children."
"And with no end of stories to tell in order to pass the time aboard ship this past week," Spencer told her, pushing back the mass of sunset-red hair that had blown across her cheek. "You were very brave."
"I was very frightened," she admitted, looking up into his face. He'd added another layer of golden tan to his face aboard ship and it suited him. "All I could do was to think, what would Papa do if he were in this position? And then I did it. Except he probably would have shot MacTavish without warning him. In a situation like the one we found ourselves in, every man must pull his weight or pay the price. Besides, MacTavish ate entirely too much of our limited rations."
"I would have liked your father. A pity we never met.''
"He admired you," Mariah told him, their gazes still locked, mostly, she thought, because she was finding it impossible to look away. "For knocking down Proctor. It was long overdue, according to Papa. I cannot help but blame the general for my father's death. For all those deaths."
"It's a guilt Proctor will carry with him, no matter that he's been officially
Mariah quickly lowered her head. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. We...we were getting along so well there, if just for a moment."
"Just for a moment, yes, we were," Spencer said, turning away from her to look back at the Respite, the painted name of Athena on the bow in order to disguise the ship now covered by a length of draped sail. He'd enjoyed being aboard the sloop, but solid land remained his preferred location. "I imagine that, in a fit of fantasy, I had thought you'd be eager to welcome the sailor home from the sea."
"I have welcomed you," she reminded hira. "I most distinctly remember saying hello, Spencer, welcome home." And then, because the questions had been building in her for over a week and she couldn't hold them back any longer, she asked, "Are the casks of brandy still in the hold or did you off-load them somewhere else along the coast?"
Spencer looked ather owlishly, trying to keep his lips from twitching. God, she was a magnificent creature. And braver—or more foolish—than most. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. Or did you think I would believe that ridiculousness you told me about you traveling to Dover? I may have allowed myself to be convinced once—but not twice, not now that I've had time to sort through your clever lies and evasions. You're smugglers, freetraders, all of you Beckets."
He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Freetraders, are we? And you think I'd take the Respite out on a smuggling run? You'd best read again whatever marble-backed novel it is that put such foolishness into your head, madam. Smugglers do not advertise their presence by sailing willy-nilly across the Channel in well-marked sloops. Not unless they've a strong desire to be hung in chains at Dover Castle."
Mariah winced slightly, acknowledging the hit. But then she rallied. "You weren't in Dover, though, were you? Where did you go?"
Spencer rolled his eyes at her. "Not even wed and the woman has turned into a fishwife. Clovis told me you like to be the one in charge. Our Lady of the Swamp, I believe Anguish christened you. Am I to kowtow to you, too, now, as did my men, list all my comings and goings, ask your permission before I blow my own nose? I think not, madam."
Mariah opened her mouth to protest, then hesitated. "He.. .he called me that? Why?"
"Part angel, part taskmaster. Did you really cock a pistol at one Private Angus MacTavish, telling him either, he took his turn on the watch or you'd add another hole to his head? I remember Angus MacTavish. He probably survived the battle by hiding his fat backside behind a tree."
"They told you I did that?" Mariah felt her cheeks flushing at the memory, even as part of her knew he was once more steering her away from her pointed questions. "Your men tattle like little children."
"And with no end of stories to tell in order to pass the time aboard ship this past week," Spencer told her, pushing back the mass of sunset-red hair that had blown across her cheek. "You were very brave."
"I was very frightened," she admitted, looking up into his face. He'd added another layer of golden tan to his face aboard ship and it suited him. "All I could do was to think, what would Papa do if he were in this position? And then I did it. Except he probably would have shot MacTavish without warning him. In a situation like the one we found ourselves in, every man must pull his weight or pay the price. Besides, MacTavish ate entirely too much of our limited rations."
"I would have liked your father. A pity we never met.''
"He admired you," Mariah told him, their gazes still locked, mostly, she thought, because she was finding it impossible to look away. "For knocking down Proctor. It was long overdue, according to Papa. I cannot help but blame the general for my father's death. For all those deaths."
"It's a guilt Proctor will carry with him, no matter that he's been officially
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