Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
My eyes widened, tapered, and glared.
“Don’t give me that look, Goldilocks.”
“You’re attracted to me.”
So was my wretched, cheating husband, and look what that got me.
Remember the pain, Bennett? You still feel it.
But Ashley was different. He wouldn’t betray me like that.
“Apples…” He plucked one off the breakfast tray. “They’re a rare treat during long voyages at sea. When I see one, it attracts me, makes me crave that which I don’t need. If there are several available, I always select the prettiest one. I can eat it. Or I can simply appreciate its beauty and toss it back.” He dropped the fruit onto the platter. “Because I know I can live without it.”
My nostrils widened with the seething rush of my anger. “You’re comparing me to a goddamn apple?”
“Was it not an apple that influenced Adam’s fall and introduced evil into human nature? Adam’s apple is…” He pulled down his cravat and ran a finger over the bulge in the front of his throat. “Man’s swelling.”
Forbidden fruit and temptation led to sin. And erections. Understood.
“Point made.” My cheeks rose mischievously. “Challenge accepted.”
After we shared a breakfast of fried hasty pudding, molasses, apples, and tea, Ashley strode aft toward the sleeping chamber. With a sigh, I admired the muscles flexing in his thighs beneath the hem of his blue frock.
My attraction to him was a ball and chain. There was no shaking it. His head-to-toe prettiness made seducing him a palatable plan. But what if this became more than a ruse? What if I lost my grip on what was real and what wasn’t?
I needed to remember that I had a violently possessive husband coming for me, and he would rip apart every man who touched me. Ashley could die on Priest’s sword. Or vice versa.
My stupid heart constricted at the thought of either man perishing. How did that make sense? They were both my enemies!
Ashley returned, carrying a comb for dressing hair. Where had that been hiding?
Rather than offering it to me, he stood behind my chair and arranged my curls to hang down my back.
Frozen, I sat upon the cushion he’d provided for my sore backside, bracing for the impending pain from his ruthless hands. But it didn’t come.
He started at the ends, gently working at knots and moving his way upward. Each gentle drag of the comb sent tingling comfort across my skull and down my neck.
Peculiar. He doted upon my hair every night when he thought I was asleep. Like a secret compulsion. But showing tenderness in broad daylight? And combing with a finesse that rivaled a female hand?
“You’ve done this before.” I relaxed beneath his touch and closed my eyes. “Who is she?”
Not his betrothed. A lady of virtue would require a chaperon. And absolutely no touching.
He glided the tool rhythmically through a section of my locks for several minutes before responding.
“My sister.” He divided another portion of curls and crouched to comb the ends. “She had hair like yours. Tight, coiling curls that bounced around her waist. Except hers were black.”
“The same color as yours.”
“Quite so. She used to cry when the lady’s maid took a comb to it. I was many years younger than her, always clinging to her skirts. Very much the annoying little brother.” Affection softened his voice. “I hated when she cried. So I took over the task and learned how to smooth the stubborn knots without causing her pain.”
I felt my eyebrows shifting from squished disbelief to raised surprise. I was probably the only soul on this ship who’d heard this story. Perhaps I was the only one who knew he had a sister.
He was opening up to me.
But my brief victory didn’t taste sweet, for I detected tragedy in his tone and verb tense. “You speak of her as if she’s in the past.”
He set the comb on the table and proceeded to gather my untangled tresses into a long pleated rope down my back. Deft fingers braided mindlessly and tied the end with a leather thong.
That done, he didn’t move, holding his unnerving stance behind me, depriving me a view of his expression.
“There were complications during the birth of her first child.” His hand clamped onto my shoulder as if to prevent me from turning. “Neither she nor my nephew survived.”
Death. An incurable disease.
I breathed out slowly, achingly. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, my lord.” My chest squeezed. “What was her name?”
“Arabella.”
“Do your parents have other children?”
“Just me.”
My feelings toward this cruel-hearted man loosened, just a little. I owed him nothing, but my hand moved anyway, reaching back to wrap around the stiff fingers on my shoulder.
He didn’t reject me. Instead, he took my hand in his and pulled me to stand. By the time I turned, he’d erased any sentiment that might have leaked into his countenance.