Free The Least Likely Bride by Jane Feather Page A

his thighs the dark shadow of his sex.
    “The human body is the greatest wonder of creation,” Anthony remarked in the tone of one instructing a pupil. “In all its manifestations, thin, fat, long, short. Every line, every curve, is beautiful.” He turned as he spoke, sponging his torso with the soaped towel that Olivia had used.
    Olivia knew a challenge when she heard one. She refused to look away and indeed she couldn’t have dragged her eyes from this perfect example of the human form if she’d wanted to.
    Every inch of him had been touched with the sun. Fair hair clustered around his nipples, cloaked his sex. He stood naked before her, alone in this cabin, and yet she realized with a shock of what could only be dismay that he was not aroused.
    Her reaction, instead of the requisite maidenly horror at the sight of this naked man, was one of confused disappointment. Did he not find her in the least appealing? He hadn’t behaved as if that was the case, but maybe she was too inexperienced to understand. She felt herself blush even as her eyes drank him in.
    “Would you prefer to dine on deck?” he asked as casually as if they were in some drawing room. “It’s a beautiful night and your hair will dry in the breeze.” He turned away from her again, to Olivia’s profound relief. Shefound his back view much less disturbing. “Could you find me a clean shirt from the cupboard?”
    She still couldn’t find her tongue but shirts were a different matter and a welcome distraction. He had wrapped a towel around his loins when she turned back to him with the garment.
    “My thanks.” He thrust his arms into it and left it open as he went to another cupboard for a clean pair of britches.
    “So, the deck or the cabin?” He cast aside the towel and stepped into the britches. Olivia noticed that he wore no undergarments. Men usually wore drawers beneath their britches. That much she did know from the washing lines around the washhouse.
    He buttoned his shirt, leaving it open at the neck, and thrust the tail into the waistband of his britches. He bent to pick up his belt and fastened it at his hip again, adjusting the set of the short dagger in its sheath.
    “On deck.” Olivia finally managed to speak, now that the world had returned to more orderly proportions.
    “Good.” He went to the door and called for Adam, who appeared almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting outside the door.
    “Dinner’ll be ruined,” he grumbled. “What took ye so long?”
    “We’ll dine on the quarterdeck,” Anthony said, ignoring the complaining question. “Get young Ned to clean up the cabin while we’re above … oh, and we’ll drink that ’38 claret, Adam.”
    “Oh, aye,” Adam muttered, entering the cabin. “It’s celebratin’, are we?”
    “We have cause for celebration,” Anthony responded.
    “Oh, aye?” Adam repeated with a skeptical eyebrow. He glanced rather pointedly at Olivia. “You’ll not be needin’ yer clothes, I see.”
    “I borrowed these,” Olivia said with an attempt at dignity. “But when I leave the ship, I’ll need my own c-clothes.”
    “And when’ll that be? I ask meself,” Adam muttered, taking a bottle and two glasses from a cupboard. “ ’Ere, you want to take these up.” He thrust bottle and glasses at Anthony, who took them meekly.
    “Come, Olivia.”
    “When
will
it be?” she asked, going past him through the door, holding up her voluminous skirts as she stepped over the high threshold.
    “When will what be?” He followed her, leaving the door open to the sounds of Adam banging around in the cupboards, collecting plates and cutlery.
    “When I leave
Wind Dancer,
” she said impatiently. “When you stop kidnapping me.”
    “Oh, is that what I’m doing?” he said as they climbed the companionway and emerged on deck. “You tumble down the cliff and fall unconscious at the feet of one of my watchmen. We succor you and minister to your wounds, and that’s called