I Married the Duke Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Never?”
    “No’ a one, lass. Ye must have a way with persuasion.” He offered his arm. “Nou, allou me to see ye to yer quarters. ’Tis a sennight’s trip ahead o’ us at least, an’ it’s smelling like rain. Ye’ll want to be comfortably settled afore that.”
    “Rain?”
    He patted her hand upon his arm. “No’ to worry ye, lass. ’Tis a fine strong vessel.”
    Her mother had probably thought the same of the ship upon which she put her three daughters to sail to England.
    Arabella walked along the deck, averting her face from the open water beyond the busy port and restraining herself from clamping on Dr. Stewart’s arm like a frightened child. The farther she moved from the gangplank, the more her stomach clenched.
    Everyone else aboard seemed at ease and active. A boy leaned against the deck house, whittling a stick. The others all worked at ropes, planking, and sails, most of them laboring at a massive pulleylike device, hauling barrels from the dock to the deck. They chanted a song that matched the rhythm of their footfalls. Weathered like Dr. Stewart and dressed simply, to a one they looked like ruffians, with missing teeth and scruffy whiskers. But they worked diligently as the breeze sheering off the channel snapped at ropes and sails. Each cast her a quick glance and some tugged at cap brims in greeting then returned to their tasks. Only one young man did not; his attention never wavered from the pile of canvas he was stitching with bony hands.
    Dr. Stewart guided her down a steep stairway onto a deck lined with enormous cannons: silent waiting warriors. At one end a narrow corridor gave off onto small curtained chambers to either side and one door directly ahead.
    Mr. Miles threw open the door. “Captain, your guest,” he said primly.
    Captain Andrew sat at a writing desk, his left shoulder to a window, his brow bent to his palm and fingers sunk in his hair. In his other hand was a pen, and upon the desk an ink pot and ledger opened past the first folios. The scents of cheroot smoke and salt mingled with the decidedly masculine furnishings of a dining table, chairs, and a single sitting chair. Beside a mounted sword and a brass mechanism of some sort, only two pictures adorned the walls, one of a ship flying the British flag, the other a charcoal drawing of a boy standing in the corner of a dark chamber.
    He turned to look over his shoulder at her. His jaw was darker with whiskers than the night before.
    He frowned.
    She lifted her chin.
    “Ma’am.” He stood, the top of his head brushing the ceiling beam. “Good day,” he said in a perfectly flat tone. He wore a loose-fitting coat with a waistcoat and plain neck cloth, a pistol strapped to a sash across his chest and a sword at his side. His hair was tousled and a scowl lurked at the corner of his very fine mouth.
    She walked toward the lion in his den.
    “Good day, Captain.” She extended her hand. “Here is the fee I agreed to pay you.”
    He looked briefly at the purse dangling from her fingers then at Mr. Miles. The steward came forward and took it.
    The captain’s attention fixed on her again. “Welcome aboard, Miss . . .”
    “Caulfield.” Her cheeks warmed. Cretin .
    “Caulfield,” he murmured. “I see you’ve met Dr. Stewart, whom some of my crewmen believe is also a man of religion.”
    “An’ those gadgies in Rome,” the Scot mumbled with a grin.
    “I have,” she said, feeling befuddled and like a complete fool for it. She had dined with heiresses, dressed baron’s daughters, and schooled future countesses in comportment. It was idiotic to be tongue-tied in the presence of a rough, crude merchant ship captain, even if the daylight enhanced the wolfish glint in his eye and he looked at her as though he knew her thoughts. “He has offered to make me acquainted with my quarters.”
    He gestured toward a door to his right. “Be my guest.”
    Mr. Miles darted forward with a clippity-clop and opened the door. The