Marrying Christopher by Michele Paige Holmes Page A

she’d first removed the cloak from her face. She had a delicate stature, aristocratic features in her high cheekbones and brows, and full lips. He found the combination of her fair skin and dark hair stunning and had not been surprised to learn that she was French.
    But the last thing he wished or needed was to feel attracted to or interested in a woman— even one as sensible and pleasant as she.
    After a few minutes, more instruments joined the first, and the tune turned from melancholy and soulful to a vibrant jig. The sounds of stomping feet soon accompanied this, along with joyful singing and the occasional shout. Christopher almost imagined he could see the larger ship swaying with the rhythm of the dozens of stomping feet inside her.
    “Are they—?”
    “Dancing,” he confirmed. “See the light coming from the windows below deck? That’ll be where their quarters are— one big open area. No private cabins like we have, but plenty of room for dancing.”
    “My sister sailed on a packet like that. She said it was dreadful.”
    “It likely is a good deal of the time,” Christopher said. “But for tonight, at least, all is merriment. They’ve left their homeland behind and are about to sail toward the hope of a better life.”
    “Ooh, listen. They’ve a piper, too.” Miss Abbott’s face lit as the sound of bagpipes carried over the water. Her toe began tapping in time with the fiddles.
    “I don’t see why they should be the only ones having a jolly good time of it tonight,” Christopher said, having difficulty keeping his own feet still. He wasn’t usually one for dancing, but this wasn’t a crowded ballroom filled with a bunch of gossipy, giggling women.
    “Would you care to dance, Miss Abbott?” He asked the question almost before he’d considered it fully.
    “Here?” She glanced about, her eyes darting to and fro over the deck.
    “Why not?” He shrugged. “We’ve got to have a bit of shipboard entertainment— aside from Miss Cosgrove, that is.” Christopher looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to dance with the lady,” he called to Murphy. “Join us if you care to.”
    Murphy grunted acknowledgment and continued cleaning his nails— toenails now— confirming his lack of interest.
    Christopher bowed to Miss Abbott. “May I have this reel?”
    “ Is it a reel?” She angled her head, listening carefully.
    “A reel, a jig, a step dance— a waltz . Does it matter?” Christopher said, finding the idea of dancing with her more appealing by the minute.
    “Indeed it does.” She laughed at his ignorance. “I should like to see you try waltzing to such a tune.”
    “We shall see who is laughing and who is fastest on their feet and still standing at the end of the night,” he challenged, holding his hand out.
    Miss Abbott took it at once as her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together.
    She is not one to deny a challenge ,he remembered, recalling her earlier conversation with the medical inspector.
    She gave a slight curtsey. His fingers curved over hers. He would never have been so bold back in Yorkshire or London. But England was behind them now, or nearly so— no matter that her shore was still but a stone’s throw away. Aboard the ship for these few weeks, the rules were different. He knew it, and he sensed Miss Abbott did too.
    “I haven’t danced in years. I’m not sure I remember how.” She cast her eyes down and suddenly tried to pull away. He wouldn’t allow it.
    “I’ve avoided dancing for years.” Christopher grinned. “In England I employed every tactic to avoid the gentlemanly pursuits of balls and dancing. So this ought to be good.” He captured her other hand so that they stood facing one another. “Ready?”
    After a brief hesitation she nodded, and their eyes met as they listened for the right point to enter with the music.
    “Now,” Miss Abbott declared, and by some unspoken communication, they began skipping sideways down the deck, out of the