"What do you want?"
The man looked pointedly behind Derek. "I had hoped Miss Lassiter would be with you, since the weather's turned so fair."
"She's not." Derek made his way in the opposite direction.
Bigsby followed. "Oh. How has she been feeling? Any headaches?"
Derek's brows drew together. She had obviously been lying about the headaches. Hadn't she? Of course. She was a pitiful actress. Still..."Why do you ask about headaches?"
"I have always expressed worry about the blow to the head she sustained."
"No headaches."
"Oh, very well. Would you tell her I'm very pleased she's feeling better?"
Bigsby's overweening kindness almost made Derek regret his harsh manner with her. At the time, he'd thought her underhanded lying should be expected from a woman devious by nature. Yet after considering her situation, he admitted that he probably would've been driven to do the same thing.
Contrary to what most people thought, he wasn't a cruel man by nature. He turned to go to his cabin to check on her.
"Cap'n! Ship ahoy. Looks to be a homeward-bound English ship. Mail packet. They're signaling to 'speak us.' "
Derek hesitated. He was anxious to get information about the race and barter for supplies, and reasoned Nicole would be fine in the cabin for a few hours more. When they sailed in closer, he accepted the captain's invitation to row over and visit with him and his wife.
Once he was on board, the jovial, loquacious couple broke out a bottle of fine French claret and insisted repeatedly that he join them for dinner. He agreed, because the breeze that evening was light, and they wouldn't lose any time. More important, he would grasp at anything to get his mind off the woman he had locked up in his cabin.
Even so, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. After several hours, he'd finally managed politely to leave the neighboring ship. The claret he'd hoped would numb some of his guilt and anger toward her had only served to get him semidrunk.
He stood at the rail hoping the chill winds would clear his mind. He wanted to be in control when he faced her. Surely Nicole would be scratching at the walls by this time.
Nicole. As he gazed up at the inky sky, he thought he'd finally found the color of her eyes: the blue of a night sky at the bottom of the world. He quickly flushed at how sentimental his thoughts were. Christ, he needed to quit drinking. He was glad when Jimmy interrupted his driveling musings.
"Cap'n, you told me to tell you if anything was wrong with the girl. I'm 'ere to tell you that she ain't eaten nothin' all day."
If this was her plan to make him feel guilty, she was doing a splendid job. "Did she appear ill to you?" he said, trying to sound steady.
Jimmy shuffled his feet nervously at that question, then muttered, "I ain't seen 'er, Cap'n."
"What's that, boy?"
"She sent me away at midday and dinner saying that she wasn't dressed and couldn't let me in. So I just left the trays outside the door."
Derek guessed that Jimmy didn't give a damn about her any more than the rest of the crew and wouldn't have cared if she ate or not.
"She didn't take any of the food, but she did take the pitchers of water," the boy added, probably hoping that information would erase the hard look on his captain's face.
Although Nicole had eaten like a bird, she'd at least eaten steadily since he'd assured her of the food. Something really had to be wrong.
He stalked to his cabin, sweat lightly beading his forehead even with the freezing winds blowing. He didn't understand why he cared at all. But his crew had recovered from the poisoning now, and he found it difficult to continue wanting to hurt her.
He tamped down his visible concern as he opened the door.
She was on his bunk, bundled in his warm blankets, which was wise because his port window was open to the night air. Still, an odor like mineral spirits assailed him. He could only just make her out in the bed since her own lamp was down low, but something dark dotted her face and hair. He turned up the lantern near the door, and inhaled a whistle as he surveyed his cabin.
Which was newly decorated.
Nicole--the little witch--had painted his walls. She'd produced a pastoral scene, a landscape that was...remarkable.
Unfortunately, her canvas encompassed his whole cabin. If his shirt hung on the wall in an integral spot, she'd simply painted over it. The spines of his books, so neatly lined up, were now green and grassy. His mirror had been turned into a glassy pond surrounded by reeds. She had somehow integrated every inch of every wall panel into the scene.
He moved closer to look at the water pitchers she'd taken from her tray. Paintbrushes filled them. The gilded silver handles were engraved with the words "To Nicole, Happy Birthday, E. B." Who the devil was E. B.? More luxuries--and not from her father.
Someone, probably another man, had thought highly enough of her to give her these expensive gifts. Purposely ignoring the thought of her responding gratitude, he continued to scan the room. She'd used every drop of ink out of his wells and every ounce of bootblack. Still, she would have had to have a good supply of her own paint.
The chests. Derek inwardly berated himself for not investigating her sea chests, which were evidently filled with paint supplies.
The landscapes on her own cabin wall...they were hers. She was the artist he'd thought so talented. His breath whistled out as he surveyed her work. She'd done an exceptional job, but how could she have accomplished this so swiftly?
Again he felt a flush of guilt. She'd been alone in the cabin for eight or maybe nine hours. Even so, as he peered closer at the intricate details in every image, he thought she must have worked in a frenzy to get it all done in one day. Because she had painted everything.
She had violated all his possessions--why wasn't he feeling the familiar ire? He should be. But a part of him believed he'd gotten exactly what he deserved.
As if reading his mind, she spoke. "You told me you 'didn't bloody well care' what I did." His gaze flew from the wall to her face. Her eyes were open, watching him without interest.
"So I did," he admitted. Light purple smudges just under her eyes showed him that she'd worn herself down. What if she relapsed? Guilt twisted in his chest, surprising him with its strength, and he was about to apologize to lessen it. Instead, stupidly, he said, "You know, I should feel angry."
A moment passed. "I don't bloody well care how you feel," she said in a deadened voice, and closed her eyes.
As sleep claimed her, Derek was left to his own heavy thoughts as he lost himself in the scene surrounding him.
Chapter 17
N icole was sitting by the window working on her knots when a loud rap on the door surprised her. Knocking? Well, this was unprecedented with this philistine crew. She took a cursory glance down to make sure everything was covered.
Since Bigsby had been barred from her company, the door opened and closed freely without any concession to her. Luckily, growing up at sea had drilled out any hint of modesty that might once have been present in her.
Sutherland strolled in smelling of sea, salt, and freezing, crisp air. God, how badly she longed to be free of this cabin! It was so painful to her that he might as well be teasing a beggar at the kitchen window.
She'd struggled with the temptation to make up a story about the poisoning just so she could get out. But she knew next to nothing about poison and couldn't even begin to fabricate a convi
ncing tale.
The thought of having to lie to gain her freedom galled her. If Sutherland stood there waiting for her to talk, he'd be disappointed. All she felt capable of doing was glaring hatefully at him. He in turn looked as if he wanted to shuffle his feet.
"I thought that since you've run out of canvas," he said with a pointed look around his cabin, "you might be in need of some." He laid a pile of large canvas squares on his desk as if he were placating some wild animal. Which she supposed she was fast becoming.
Then, from a small crate, he pulled out three tins. "Thought you might need some paint, also." He looked eminently pleased with himself when he presented her with the paint, as if this burst of generosity was somehow noteworthy.
Instead of responding with kind words or even a little fawning, which he seemed to expect, she simply stared at him and fingered the squares with precise, edgy movements. She stopped when her cheek twitched.
"I thought this would please you and possibly make up for yesterday..." His words died as she rose and marched up to him. Before he even had a clue what she intended, she'd drawn back her arm.
And punched his face.
"What the bloody hell! Why'd you do that?" Sutherland's bellow was skewed as he grasped his jaw to work it back and forth.
Her fury was so strong she shook from it. "If you think that some cut-up sail and some old paint will make me forget that you have me confined to this damned cabin"--she paused to take a deep breath--"then you are sadly mistaken. I am not some little nitwit who'll be happy with whatever diversion you throw at me! When I paint, I usually do it after a hard day's work!"
She'd punched Sutherland! She couldn't quite believe it, but her hand throbbed from the impact with his rock-solid face. There was a flutter of movement outside; Jimmy had been standing outside the door. For how long, she didn't know, but she did know that the boy had seen Sutherland holding his jaw, muttering a blistering curse.
She couldn't seem to dim the lazy grin that surfaced once she'd unleashed the worst of her pique. It wouldn't fade even when Sutherland made a menacing sound toward her before stalking out the door.
In fact, she grew even more pleased--the news would be all over the ship in minutes.