She retched, gagging, her throat burning, but alas, there was nothing left for her stomach to give.
Gasping, she collapsed, but he continued to hold her until the latest set of spasms seizing her frame had eased, and then he gently lowered her back down.
Coming to his feet, he crossed back over to the door, and she gave no small thanks to God for the captain’s leaving, so that she might be spared this humiliation.
Only he opened the panel, ducked his head out, and exchanged words with someone who’d been stationed outside.
A moment later, Nathaniel shut the door and headed back over to the bed.
Pushing herself upright so that her back rested against the carved headboard, she watched him through wary eyes.
“You probably think I deserve this,” she said tiredly, her shoulders sagging, and the strands that had escaped her plaited hair tickled her face.
Cassia closed her eyes. She couldn’t so much as muster the energy to push them back.
Nathaniel brushed those strands from her cheek, and her eyes went flying open. There was a surprising tenderness to the large hand that now touched her.
Her breath caught in a funny way within her chest.
“I don’t think anyone deserves to be riddled with seasickness,” he countered with such a solemnity that it would be impossible to not believe his sincerity.
“Not even young ladies who stow away?”
“Not the accidental ones,” he said gruffly. “Mayhap the intentional stowaways.”
And for the first time since she’d learned of the grave mistake she’d made, a smile tugged at her lips. His lips, however, as unforgiving as the harsh planes of his face, gave no outward hint of mirth, as if carved of steel and stone. “You’re . . . jesting.”
“I don’t jest.” He paused. “Not usually. But then, this particular situation calls for it.”
She was glad one of them might make light.
KnockKnockKn—
“Enter,” Nathaniel barked in his no-nonsense captain’s voice, instantly returning to the all-powerful, unapproachable leader of this vessel.
The door opened, and a moment later, Timothy entered, carrying a tray. Avoiding the captain’s gaze and Cassia’s as he went, it was a wonder the boy didn’t overturn the items he carried. He set the burden down on the captain’s desk. “Anything else you’ll be needing, Captain?”
“That is all.”
The lad beat a hasty retreat and shut the door quickly behind him.
The moment he’d gone, Nathaniel headed over to that tray.
Food.
“I’m not hungry.” Closing her eyes, Cassia curled tightly into herself. Perhaps this was what he’d landed on to torture her. “I’m never eating again.”
“Oh, you’ll eat again,” he said in a matter-of-fact way that made her believe that she might survive this after all and one day actually look forward to eating. “Not today, and not tomorrow, I suspect. But one day soon.”
What had she done? What mess had she landed herself in?
How could she be such a failure when her younger sister had proven so competent on her own?
The boards groaned again, and the mattress dipped, and this time, she could not bring herself to look at him.
“Here,” he said gruffly, and she forced her heavy lashes up. Nathaniel thrust a white, sturdy-looking cup under her nose, and she immediately inhaled the slight but noticeable aroma of ginger.
“I did not take you for one who kept regular teas,” she said tiredly.
“Undoubtedly, I honor high teas, even in the roughest seas.” His harsh features were even as he spoke.
She studied him with a new interest. “Indeed? I’d have thought you would—”
“I’m being—”
“Sarcastic,” Cassia supplied for him, and then sighed. She really was deuced bad at spotting that. When she returned to London’s shores—if she returned—she expected to have with her a healthy dose of sarcasm-spotting. “Well, I thank you for the offering. I’m not thirsty, Captain . . . ?” She left a question hanging there, searching for his name once more.
“It is just ‘Captain,’” he said curtly.
And yet, he was determined to deny her that intimacy, one that would make him real and less terrifying, and was also no doubt why he insisted upon that formality.
Cassia angled her head back, and held his gaze. “It may be, but I’m not calling you Captain.” No matter how angry it made him, she’d not do it.
I’m not calling you Captain . . .
It was a first in his career or, for that matter, lifetime.
People—and certainly his crew—never defied him.
As such, he rocked back in his seat, flummoxed by the show of obstinance. At that, from a lady who’d sneaked herself on board his ship.
A muscle twitched at the edge of his mouth. She was as proud as she was bullheaded. “Every man aboard this ship calls me—”
“I’m not a man.” Fire flashed in her sea-green eyes, setting them a-sparkle with an unexpected strength, and the passion in those entrancing depths momentarily knocked the rest of the words, and his well-articulated argument, square from his head. He wasn’t a man to note a woman’s eyes. Other parts of her? Decidedly so. But it was . . . those eyes. They were a thousand different shades of blue and green with little flecks of silver and even gold and—
“Did you hear me?” she asked, and then worry flitted through those expressive irises that put true meaning to the idea that eyes were the soul’s windows. “Oh, dear. Have you been hit by seasickness, too? That is why you know so much—”
“I’m not seasick,” he said swiftly, crashing to the present. “I’ve . . .” He opened his mouth to assure her that he’d ceased to be sick long, long ago, before remembering he didn’t share those intimate details about himself—with anyone. He grunted. “I’ve known a number of men who’ve . . . had the ailment. Some . . . for years.” Him. It’d been him.
Horror rounded out those large pools of her eyes. “Never tell me it will take me that long to overcome it, Nathan.”
Nathan. Not Nathaniel. Not even his mother or brothers had been permitted to shorten his name in that way, or any way. The duke would have never permitted anything so informal. “Captain,” he snapped back. “I’ve already told you. You’ll call me Captain.”
“But that makes you the terrifying man in charge of an equally terrifying crew.”
“I don’t understand.” Anything where this one was concerned.
“If I refer to you by your given name, then you’re just a man, and an approachable one, and I . . . I need that.” Fire flared in her eyes once more. “So you can throw me in your brig for defying you, or hang me over your boat like Carlisle intended to do, but I’m not changing my mind.” Just then, the ship pitched right, and she paled once more. She dropped back onto the mattress, and rolled onto her opposite side, giving him her back.
She was . . . refusing to call him Captain.
The lady—Cassia—was miserable.
Forlorn.
And it really didn’t matter to him. Or it certainly shouldn’t.
She was suffering from a misery of her own making.