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found her offensive, ordering you about like a child?"
    "No...
well, yes. Yes I do sometimes. Though I'm told by Hanna she doesn't really mean
anything by it."
    "Why
didn't you say something?"
    "I...
I have difficulty speaking to others," she whispered still.
    "You
don't seem to have any difficulty speaking to me."
    "No
I don't but I'm not like this with other people. I don't know why, but well,
with you it's just so easy for me. Maybe because we've never seen each other
before, but there's something about you—the way you are—it's like I know you're
not judging me unkindly." She struggled to say the next words, "I've
never had a friend like you before."
    And
then it began to dawn on him how special he was to her, and after a thoughtful
pause, he replied honestly, "I've known literally hundreds of women and,
Christina, you're by far one of the brightest and certainly the most pleasant
company. And I know you're capable of making friends and passing social
pleasantries. So what seems to be the trouble?"
    "I...
I don't really know," she managed, always affected to the core by his
smallest compliment. She squeezed her handkerchief, and then suddenly rushed
forward with words. "Oh Justin, I've tried to be like others so many
times! How I envy others like Elsie and Hanna their easy manners, idle chatter
and all. My father used to think the characteristic admirable in a girl, I mean
being quiet and all, but as I grow older even he began to see there was
something wrong with me."
    "I
don't understand," he said hesitantly, for needless to say the problem was
alien to his experience. "Is it that you don't know what to say to
people?"
    "That's
the odd thing. I always know what I should or might say to others, but
somehow—as soon as I see them—the words choke inside, and I become all
flustered, embarrassed, my heart races so, and oh, Justin, I'm really just...
so inept and... clumsy."
    Justin
hated her self-deprecation and he felt a sudden urge to draw her into his arms
for comfort while gently scolding her for speaking of herself like that. He was
just about to suggest something when her boot kicked the wall and hard.
    Colonel
Carrington and one of his mates, Stephens, had stepped on deck to enjoy the
only slightly cooler, still night air and a bottle of whiskey. They strolled
leisurely toward her spot and Christina, wearing black and hidden in dark
shadows, pressed herself against the wall in hopes they would pass without
noticing her.
    Carrington
abruptly spotted her hidden against the wall. "Why, Miss Marks." He
bowed politely. "A pleasant good evening to you."
    Christina
cast a quick glance up to the two gazes appraising her through the darkness and
she nodded slightly. Without a word, she rose and disappeared quickly down the
deck.
    Carrington
shook his head in frustration, then pushed his hands through his thick dark
curls. "That one would drive a sober man to drink—haven't got a damn word
from that pretty mouth yet."
    "Aye,
you're not the only one striking out. I don't know anyone who's gotten anywhere
with her. And from the looks of what's beneath that skirt," Stephens
chuckled, "it's a darn shame too."
    "She
is most definitely ripe for the picking. One of the loveliest little creatures
I think I've ever seen— even in those appalling rags of hers."
    "If
she wasn't such a scared mouse, I'd be the first one up those skirts."
    "The
second," Carrington assured him.
    Justin
had certainly heard baser comments in his lifetime but because Christina was
the subject, he felt his muscles tense and his blood rise to a quick boil.
Given any freedom, he would not hesitate to make any man regret the mere
thought of her in that way. And this surprised him, for he had never felt
especially protective toward any woman. He supposed the feeling was due as much
to Christina's femininity and gentleness as it was to the nature of their
relationship.
    * * * * *
     
    "What
was that?" Justin asked Christina the next night, hearing a