‘Yes, ma’am,’ he admitted glumly. ‘There’s something wrong, but I can’t see what.’
‘It’s Mr Stills, isn’t it? I’m very interested,’ she offered. ‘Why don’t you work down the page explaining it to me and perhaps you’ll spot the problem?’ She leaned over the notebook. ‘Come along, start at the top.’
She knew exactly when Nathan realised she was there and what she was doing; she felt his gaze on her like a physical weight, but she kept her head bent over the book, her finger tracing slowly along the lines of figures.
‘I don’t understand this,’ she prompted.
‘That’s the angle of the headland to the bows,’ Stills began confidently, ‘and you have to take it away from this one and that—’
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ Clemence finished for him, running her finger back. ‘Where is the error, do you think?’
A moment’s heavy breathing and Stills pointed triumphantly. ‘There, ma’am, I added it twice.’
‘Well done, Mr Stills,’ Clemence praised. ‘I think it all makes sense now, don’t you?’
‘Which is more than it does to me, Miss Ravenhurst,’ Nathan said, coming up to stand between them and placing one hand on each shoulder. Clemence made herself relax and resisted the temptation to sway towards him. ‘You are fortunate, Mr Stills. Miss Ravenhurst is a better mathematician than you, but better yet, she can read your appalling handwriting. It is no wonder you make mistakes. You may write out Thank you, Miss Ravenhurst fifty times in your best hand in your own time.’
‘Sir!’
Clemence smiled at the unfortunate youth. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ She strolled on, feeling the three pairs of masculine eyes resting on her as she unfurled her parasol, raised it and gave it a coquettish twirl. Nathan had not seemed angered by her interruption of his lesson, but it was a very small step towards re-establishing their easy relationship.
Street was at home in the steamy confines of the galley, swapping Creole recipes for Mediterranean specialities with the ship’s cook.
‘Street, may I have a word?’
‘You shouldn’t be down here, Miss Clemence.’ He wiped his hands on his apron and came out on deck with her, slyly passing a bone to the dog as he did so. ‘What can I do, ma’ am?’
‘Have you seen Mr Stanier’s back, Street?’ she asked without preamble. ‘He doesn’t look comfortable to me and it’s more than three weeks.’
‘No, ma’am, not without his shirt, I haven’t. Needs oiling, I’ll be bound—a massage to get the skin supple again.’
‘What with? Goose grease?’
‘There’ll be palm oil in the galley.’ Street went back inside and reappeared with a jug. ‘Thought so.’
‘Then you’d better have a word with him,’ Clemence said. ‘And massage his back tonight.’
‘Me, ma’am? With these hands?’ He spread his great calloused paws out, palm up. ‘I’d take the new skin off, not make it better. You should do it, ma’am.’
‘Me? Street, that would hardly be proper.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘That’s out of the question, then. You won’t want to do anything that wasn’t proper, Miss Clemence, now would you?’
‘You—’ She subsided, knowing full well that Street’s suggestion was exactly what she wanted to do. ‘Thank you, I’ll see what I can think of,’ she temporised, taking the jug and calling One-Eye to heel.
Nathan was sharing watches, although he could have simply sat back and become a passenger. But it was not his nature to be idle and it gave him far too much time for thought. And with Clemence swaying in her hammock by day and gracing the wardroom or the captain’s cabin in the evening, he needed all the distraction he could get.
He had thought her attractive before, despite bruises, cropped hair and with her natural curves lost to grief and poor diet. Now with rest and air and good feeding she was blossoming, her hair growing into waves and curls, her figure becoming what it was meant to be.
She would never be buxom like Julietta with her lushness, but that was part of the problem, how very unlike his late wife she was. There was nothing about Clemence that reminded him of that turmoil of infatuation, love and hate.
A book fell to the floor, knocked by his coat as he eased it off. Damn, but he was feeling clumsy. Nathan untied his stock and began unbuttoning his shirt, conscious of the sensitivity of the skin as the cotton fabric moved across it. It was healed, but stiff and tender, and the continuing nagging discomfort was almost as tiring as the pain had been.
He threw the shirt on a chair and kicked his shoes across the room, followed by his stockings, hearing in his mind Clem’s Tsk! of irritation at his untidiness. She was so close, only a thin bulkhead away. He spread his hand on the wood at the point where he guessed her bunk would be, imagining her lying in a thin nightgown, sheet discarded in the steamy heat, the perspiration dewing her brow and making that thick, short hair curl into sensual disorder.
God, but he missed her. Those brief moments when she had strolled along and helped Stills with his calculations and he had found an excuse to touch her, stand close enough to inhale her unique scent; those stood out like one coloured woodcut amidst a book full of black and white.
He tried to tell himself that, even if there were not the disparity in their fortunes, he was still not the man for her. Clemence needed love, even if she might think she was willing to settle for a marriage of convenience and friendship touched with desire. And he was not at all certain that he even understood what love was any more.