Free Sparhawk's Angel by MIRANDA JARRETT Page B

remember Eliot's face, and soon, too soon, she would be his wife. Dear God help her…
    But she must not keep Captain Sparhawk waiting any longer. With a deep breath to steady herself, Rose slid off the bunk, smoothed her hair one last time and tried the door to her cabin.
    To her surprise, it wasn't locked from the outside, though she could have sworn the man Hobb had turned the bolt. Even if she hadn't been shut away in the hold the way the poor English sailors on board the
Commerce
most likely were, she had expected the Americans to be a bit more concerned with guarding her. Perhaps, thought Rose rebelliously, they should be. She was half-tempted to do something wicked on her own simply to prove their carelessness.
    Though the
Angel Lily
was a much larger ship than the
Commerce
, Rose guessed that the space between decks would be organized in the same way, with the captain's quarters to the stern, and cautiously she made her way aft. Little sunlight filtered down from the hatches into the shadowy passageway, and none of the candles in the gimbals was lit in the lanterns by day. The wind had risen and the seas with it, making the deck pitch and roll beneath Rose's feet. She braced herself by sliding a hand along the bulkheads on either side of the passage.
    She hesitated only a moment before knocking on the green-painted door to the captain's cabin. She'd been here once before, to drink sherry with her father and Captain Fotherill on the day the
Angel Lily
had sailed, and the memory made her angry all over again at Nickerson Sparhawk.
    He didn't answer.
    She thought she could hear his voice inside, quarreling with someone else, but since she was here at his invitation, she knocked again, her knuckles rapping sharply on the door.
    "Blast your impertinence, enter!" he roared, his voice as loud as if no door stood between them.
    Rose's eyes narrowed. Impertinent, indeed. She'd never met a man this rude before, and she was sorely tempted to turn on her heel and forget all about his foolish invitation. Except, of course, that he would think she'd fled from fear alone, and she refused to let him believe her a coward. With her hand firmly on the latch she swung open the door.
    And every last word she'd planned flew from her consciousness in an instant.
    He was standing turned away from her, leaning across a pewter washbowl to peer into the mirror on the bulkhead while he shaved, and he wore absolutely nothing except the breeches slung low on his narrow hips. Rose stared; she couldn't help it. Her only experience with undressed males was the plaster casts taken from antique statues that the gentlemen in Portsmouth brought home as souvenirs from Rome, and those white, lifeless forms were nothing like the man before her.
    He kept his legs angled, effortlessly adjusting to the ship's motion with an ease that riveted Rose's attention to the broad, muscled planes of his back and shoulders. Little droplets of water trickled down from his wet, sleek hair along the shallow valley of his spine, and helplessly Rose followed their course to the neat bow at the back of the waistband of his breeches.
    "Speak, man," he ordered, deftly sweeping the razor's blade along his jaw to the edge of his throat, "or did the Britishers take your tongue, eh?"
    "Oh—oh no, indeed not," she stammered in confusion. "That is, it's not possible, is it?"
    He swiveled around to face her, clearly surprised but not shocked to find her there. "Not possible, nay," he said as he reached for a cloth to wipe away the last of the soap on his jaw."Even you British can't take what you already have."
    She nodded as if this made perfect sense. His eyes seemed greener here away from the sunlight, and she felt her cheeks grow hot beneath their scrutiny.
    Think, Rose, think! Don't stand here like an open-mouthed imbecile!
    "You said to enter," she said, and winced inwardly at the defensive banality of it. If only the man had the decency to cover himself with his shirt so that she