quite well that you are most certainly not obliged to squire me around.”
“And you are not obliged to accept my squiring.” He felt a twinge of exasperation. He caught a warning glance from his mother. “But there is no law on land or sea that outlaws an evening stroll.”
She looked outside again, her yearning palpable. The woman was as easy to read as an amateur card cheat. “No, there is not.”
Lily murmured a good-night and went to her quarters.
Resigned, he cocked his arm out at the elbow. “Shall we?”
She nodded but didn’t take his arm, preceding him up the companion ladder. Her crinolines and tight laced-up boots made the going chancey. She hesitated midway up the ladder. It was too dark to see what the trouble was; then Ryan heard a quiet ripping sound and an “Oh, dear.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I seem to have stepped on the hem of my petticoat. I’ll just…just…oh, dear! ”
She fell backward, slamming into Ryan. He reeled against an upright stanchion. The air left him in a whoosh and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. Reflexively he’d flung his arms around her midsection when they’d collided. He hung on, marveling at the taut, hard shell of her corsets. Christ, how did the woman breathe?
“Oh heavens,” she said in a small, mortified whisper. “I’ve squashed you flat.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, setting her on her feet.
She tottered a little, then grabbed the side of the ladder. “Captain Calhoun, I am terribly sorry.”
She was so meek, so humble. This was the perfect opportunity to swath himself in the mantle of righteous anger, to declare her entirely unsuited to her duties and send her ashore. She’d offer no argument now.
But he studied the downward angle of her head, the shoulders sloping in defeat, and he thought of her in the garden that day, a dark weed amid the flowers of Beacon Hill, the spinster pining for a shipping heir, and realized that, with a word, he could squash her flat.
“Try holding your skirts up out of the way,” he suggested brusquely. “And tomorrow, wear fewer petticoats. And do lose the iron maiden.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Iron maiden. That damned corset.”
She took hold of the ladder again. Ryan stood on alert, ready to catch her in case she came crashing down. She didn’t. She scrambled up and waited topside for him to follow.
When they emerged onto the deck, a brilliant night greeted them. The southerly breeze sang lightly through the shrouds.
“Everything’s battened down and shipshape,” Gerald Craven said, his bald head gleaming in the starlight as he made his way toward the galley. “I took care of that stowage problem.”
“Excellent, Mr. Craven.”
“I understand badly stowed cargo and ballast can create a problem of balance,” Isadora said as Craven left.
Ryan was amazed she knew even the first thing about ballast. “You’ve been reading again.”
“Charles Dana. He explains why it’s so hazardous to have the cargo poorly stowed. In heavy seas, anything left out on deck could come loose and damage the ship—or the crew. In the hold, cargo rolling around could unbalance her.”
When she spoke of things she’d learned in books, she shed some of her awkwardness. As she stood holding the rail, he could see the strength of her grip on the varnished wood, the set of her shoulders as she faced outward from the darkened harbor. She wanted this voyage, wanted it badly. He didn’t have to ask her why. He knew. Thinking of her parents and siblings and the way the Peabody family functioned, he knew.
He wished she’d find another ship to make her escape on.
She pushed her glasses down her nose and lifted her gaze to the sky. “I love the autumn constellations,” she said. “Is it the cold, do you think, that gives them such clarity?”
“Perhaps. Why do you wear the spectacles if you’re always having to peer over them in order to see?” Ryan asked, impertinent and not
“And you are not obliged to accept my squiring.” He felt a twinge of exasperation. He caught a warning glance from his mother. “But there is no law on land or sea that outlaws an evening stroll.”
She looked outside again, her yearning palpable. The woman was as easy to read as an amateur card cheat. “No, there is not.”
Lily murmured a good-night and went to her quarters.
Resigned, he cocked his arm out at the elbow. “Shall we?”
She nodded but didn’t take his arm, preceding him up the companion ladder. Her crinolines and tight laced-up boots made the going chancey. She hesitated midway up the ladder. It was too dark to see what the trouble was; then Ryan heard a quiet ripping sound and an “Oh, dear.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I seem to have stepped on the hem of my petticoat. I’ll just…just…oh, dear! ”
She fell backward, slamming into Ryan. He reeled against an upright stanchion. The air left him in a whoosh and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. Reflexively he’d flung his arms around her midsection when they’d collided. He hung on, marveling at the taut, hard shell of her corsets. Christ, how did the woman breathe?
“Oh heavens,” she said in a small, mortified whisper. “I’ve squashed you flat.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, setting her on her feet.
She tottered a little, then grabbed the side of the ladder. “Captain Calhoun, I am terribly sorry.”
She was so meek, so humble. This was the perfect opportunity to swath himself in the mantle of righteous anger, to declare her entirely unsuited to her duties and send her ashore. She’d offer no argument now.
But he studied the downward angle of her head, the shoulders sloping in defeat, and he thought of her in the garden that day, a dark weed amid the flowers of Beacon Hill, the spinster pining for a shipping heir, and realized that, with a word, he could squash her flat.
“Try holding your skirts up out of the way,” he suggested brusquely. “And tomorrow, wear fewer petticoats. And do lose the iron maiden.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Iron maiden. That damned corset.”
She took hold of the ladder again. Ryan stood on alert, ready to catch her in case she came crashing down. She didn’t. She scrambled up and waited topside for him to follow.
When they emerged onto the deck, a brilliant night greeted them. The southerly breeze sang lightly through the shrouds.
“Everything’s battened down and shipshape,” Gerald Craven said, his bald head gleaming in the starlight as he made his way toward the galley. “I took care of that stowage problem.”
“Excellent, Mr. Craven.”
“I understand badly stowed cargo and ballast can create a problem of balance,” Isadora said as Craven left.
Ryan was amazed she knew even the first thing about ballast. “You’ve been reading again.”
“Charles Dana. He explains why it’s so hazardous to have the cargo poorly stowed. In heavy seas, anything left out on deck could come loose and damage the ship—or the crew. In the hold, cargo rolling around could unbalance her.”
When she spoke of things she’d learned in books, she shed some of her awkwardness. As she stood holding the rail, he could see the strength of her grip on the varnished wood, the set of her shoulders as she faced outward from the darkened harbor. She wanted this voyage, wanted it badly. He didn’t have to ask her why. He knew. Thinking of her parents and siblings and the way the Peabody family functioned, he knew.
He wished she’d find another ship to make her escape on.
She pushed her glasses down her nose and lifted her gaze to the sky. “I love the autumn constellations,” she said. “Is it the cold, do you think, that gives them such clarity?”
“Perhaps. Why do you wear the spectacles if you’re always having to peer over them in order to see?” Ryan asked, impertinent and not
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