Dangerous Waters by Jane Jackson Page A

small black stove, and on the far side of that another door.
    He released her arm and stepped away. “Take a look,” he gestured toward the window.
    She felt the blood drain from her face. Did he have any idea what he was asking? Of course not. How could he? Then anger as hot and bright as a flame scorched through her. “You have no right to do this.”
    After an instant’s vivid shock, his face closed. “I beg your pardon?”
    Despite a shame so intense she could feel her chemise clinging to damp burning skin she would not apologise. Perhaps his intentions were good and honourable. But how could she be sure of that when people she had known for years – She closed her eyes. Then raising her head she half-turned towards the door.
    â€œWe should not be in here.”
    â€œI thought,” he said quietly, meeting her fury with calm, “if you could bring yourself to look at the water from in here, perhaps even allow me to open one of the windows, you might find the prospect of going up on deck a little less – daunting.”
    She wanted to run away and hide. And if he had responded with sarcasm or impatience or disdain she would have been able to justify doing so. But he hadn’t so she couldn’t. Damn him. Gripped by emotions terrifying in their strength and complexity she wrapped her arms tightly across her body as if this might keep it all inside and under control. Her mouth and throat were dust dry and it hurt when she swallowed.
    She took a step forward, then another. If he said a word – But he didn’t. If she glimpsed the smallest hint of triumph – But she didn’t. He simply stood where he was, his eyes locked on hers. As she reached him he stepped aside so she could see the view he had blocked with his body.
    â€œOh,” Phoebe gasped. She gazed at the ship’s wake spreading in a widening vee of sunlit foam that glittered like diamond-dusted lace on rolling swells of deep blue water.
    Awestruck, she whispered, “It’s beautiful,” and felt the hard tangled knot of grief inside her soften.

Chapter Six
    â€œWe will go just as far as the top stair.”
    â€œThen I can come down again?”
    â€œIf that is what you wish.”
    Sliding a trembling hand through Jowan Crossley’s proffered arm she followed him, one reluctant foot after the other.
    He glanced back at her. “The bosun tells me that Providence is a brigantine.”
    Why was he telling her this, and why now? Did he not realise it was impossible for her to concentrate on what he was saying, let alone respond as good manners required? Of course he did . His conversation was a deliberate attempt to distract her. For though she could not give him her whole attention, nor could she focus exclusively on her terror.
    She recognised the gambit as one she used herself to divert a sick or injured child. It felt strange to be on the receiving end. The very fact that he was even trying to win her confidence surprised her. Most of the doctors she knew were too busy or too impatient to bother with any except wealthy patients who kept a good table and a cellar to match.
    But they were men in their middle years and older. Jowan Crossley was… tall, fair, with wide shoulders and … Flushing to the roots of her hair Phoebe reined in her unruly thoughts. The surgeon appeared to be just short of thirty. His comparative youth was likely to make him less set in his ways, more open to new ways of thinking. That was the reason – the only reason  – she had registered his appearance in such detail.
    â€œApparently that means she has square sails on her foremast and a fore-and-aft gaff sail on her main. She has a crew of twenty-two not counting the bosun, carpenter, sailmaker and gunner. Did you know those four are known as idlers?”
    She strained to detect the smallest hint of impatience that would legitimise retreat, heard none, and was