Free Stronger Than Passion by Sharron Gayle Beach Page B

truth.
    Her first reaction was to cry. But she refused to give way to the illness and exhaustion of her body, and concentrated instead on her anger. Even as dry heaves forced her to lean her head over the side of her bunk where a soiled pan had been thoughtfully placed. And especially as she realized someone had removed her lavender gown as she slept, had in fact removed all of her clothes, and put on her some sort of large white shirt.
    She didn’t even want to think the name of the man who had probably done all of this. Who had interfered with her life, disrupted it unbearably . . .
    But when he entered the cabin, she had no further choice.
    Michael Brett was now dressed casually, in heavy trousers and billowing shirt - one remarkably like the one she wore. A blue jacket was flung over his shoulder. He was hatless, his hair wind-tousled, and he was gun less, too.
    The smell of sea salt blew in with him. He closed the door behind him and came towards her, dropping the jacket, his face curious and unrepentant. His bluish eyes raked her.
    “Unfortunately, one of the side effects of drinking too much of that drug Julian concocted is sickness when you wake up. You’re probably seasick, too.”
    “I’m never seasick!” she croaked.
    “I’m glad to know that, since we’ll be spending a lot of time in the near future on ships. I’d hate to have to nurse you all the way to America.
    “I don’t want you near me! And I won’t go to America!”
    Ignoring her, he reached for a cloth laying on a table near the bunk, dipped it into a basin of water, and bent down to wipe her face and mouth, muttering, “At least you managed to miss the bed.”
    There was nothing she could do but accept his casual ministrations, closing her eyes against the sight of him. She gritted her teeth against the nausea.
    “Your dress is folded in the chest over there, along with your jewelry. I thought you’d be more comfortable without them.”
    “Go to the devil,” she spat.
    “You took care of me, Señora. I’ll take care of you. It’s only fair. And you’ll find, when you get back on your feet, that the door to this cabin is locked. Does that sound familiar?”
    “I hate you. You have no right to force me to go anywhere with you, to do anything - ”
    “Oh, yes I have. The right of war. You can help me, Señora. You can help my side, and you’re going to do it.”
    “You can drug me or kill me, I don’t care, but I will not help America! Even assuming that I could, when I don’t know anything . . .”
    “Shut up.” He had finished bathing her face and neck, and even, despite her futile squirming, her chest as far down as the fourth button. Now he pulled the coverlet up to her chin and stood. “I want you to rest quietly until the sickness is passed, and that means no screaming. It wouldn’t do you any good; we’re on a British man-of-war and the captain is a friend of mine. In a while, I’ll come back and feed you something. There’s water on the table if you’re thirsty.”
    She looked up at him in hatred, deciding that any speech on her part would be wasted and futile. She must, somehow, retain some sense of dignity.
    He watched her bite back her vituperative words, and smiled, thinking she was certainly arrogant, in her way. Probably the most intrinsically proud person he had ever met, which was saying a lot. She and his mother would get along fine, were they ever, God forbid, to meet.
    “Since you have nothing to say, I’ll see your later, Chrissie.”
    *
    It took the HMS Lady Jane sixteen days to reach Cuba. Days which seemed, to Christina, like months.
    She remained locked in the cabin and had no contact with anyone else on the ship, except for Brett, of course, and the assistant ship’s steward, a boy named Mark who always brought her food.
    At first, Mark was timid and uncommunicative. Yet by the end of her stay on the Lady Jane , the two of them were friends. Christina was desperate for conversation, for