That was laughable. Escape where? Through the rectangular windows all she could see was water. There was land out there somewhere, but it was miles from where she was in the middle of the ocean. And she couldn’t go traipsing about the ship on her own. She’d only ever been on a ship once, for a pleasure cruise on the Thames. That had been a small vessel compared to what she remembered of this one.
She knew nothing of ships or sailing or pirates—except she was married to one. She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. Since she and Maddie—poor Maddie, where was she now?—had embarked on this journey, Ashley hadn’t had but a few moments to contemplate the ramifications of the choice she’d made to accompany Maddie. Someone had to look out for Maddie when she decided to elope. It had taken Ashley no more than five seconds to realize that dog-breeder—what was his name?—would probably weep like a babe if the couple encountered any sort of trouble, like highwaymen or angry fathers. Maddie had needed Ashley, and it wasn’t as though Ashley was doing anything interesting at the time. An elopement to Gretna Green was infinitely more exciting than Josie’s wedding breakfast.
But what Ashley had not considered was the possibility Maddie’s adventure might take a wrong turn. In fact, Maddie’s adventure had taken several wrong turns, one so wrong it meant Ashley was now wed to Nick. But even before the ridiculous farce of a wedding, her life had been irrevocably changed. One day into the trip, and she’d realized she would never be able to return to her old life. In a way, she was glad, but she was also beginning to mourn what she would no longer have.
She missed her family—her blustering father and her tired mother, and most of all, her five boisterous brothers. Would they ever live under the same roof again? Would they ever be together as a family? What of her clothing and her favorite books and paintings and gifts she’d received and treasured over the years? They were all safely put away in her room at home. Would she ever go home? Would she ever see her things again? She was eighteen, almost nineteen, and she’d thought she was ready to strike out on her own. But if that were so, why did she wish so desperately that she was once again a little girl with nothing more to fret over than which game she would play that day.
She supposed things might be worse. She might be seasick or there could be a storm battering the ship. She took a deep breath and forbade herself of thinking about storms any longer. The last thing she needed were visions of sinking ships and herself at the bottom of the ocean.
She needed out of this room. She stood and crossed to the wardrobe, opening it enough to examine herself in Nick’s mirror. She had to stand on her tiptoes to see, and what she saw did not please her. She’d never been vain. She didn’t think much about what she looked like most of the time. She didn’t have to. As the only daughter in a family with five sons, she’d been petted and doted on. Plus, she knew she was pretty. She’d been told so every day of her life—except one.
She did what she could to tame her hair and pinch color into her cheeks so the circles under her eyes were not so apparent, and then she sat on the berth again and pulled her skirts to her thigh. Other ladies wore sheer silk stockings that were risqué and expensive. Ashley always preferred coarse, heavy cotton stockings. They hid her deformity completely.
She loosed the garters holding the ugly and, after the events of the last few days, quite shabby stockings and rolled them down over her right leg. The scarred skin looked redder and angrier than usual. She massaged it, which only seemed to make it ache more. If she’d been home, her lady’s maid would have brought her a calming compress. Even though she’d been burned years before, the injury still pained her the morning after a ball or after she’d physically exerted herself a bit too much. Her leg hurt now, but there was nothing for it. She would rather die before asking Nick for anything to help.
He knew about the injury, of course. He had to know. He’d never asked her about the ugly scar covering the length of one thigh and extending down to her calf. And that had to be why he’d rejected her after the night they’d spent together. He’d been disgusted by her. He couldn’t bear the thought of touching her again.
The scar was ugly, and she had no one to blame but herself. She’d been fourteen, old enough to know to be cautious around fire. But she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been teasing her younger brothers George and Devlin. She’d grabbed something away from Devlin and had been holding it so he could not reach. They were only a year apart, but she was taller than he—at least that year. She’d been having so much fun with her game, she’d not realized how close to the fire she stood, and when she twirled around, like the silly ninny she’d been, her skirts had caught fire.
The boys and one of the footmen had quickly doused the flames, but the thin muslin gown had not protected her skin from damage. She’d been in unbelievable pain for months and forced to stay in bed. Her family had kept the disfigurement a secret, and when she’d finally been healed enough to dress and resume her normal life, her mother had been the one to say what Ashley had been thinking.
“It’s too bad. You were such a pretty girl.”
She’d floundered after that, lost some of her confidence, but then she realized that no one need ever know or see her secret shame. Everyone would go on treating her as though she were perfect. No one need ever know how twisted and ugly she was underneath the beautiful skirts.
There were days she forgot about her imperfection. When she and Maddie had been running from the Duke of Bleven’s men, she’d done the only thing she could think of to distract them—run naked out from the woods. But, of course, it had been dark, and no one had been looking at her leg. When Nick had found her, he’d wrapped his coat around her until they located her gown. As they walked through the forest, she’d thought they might have time to speak alone of what had happened between them all those months before, but then Mr. Dover—that was the dog-breeder’s name!—had appeared, and everything had remained unsaid.
It wasn’t unsaid now, although he still hadn’t mentioned her scar. And how foolish had she been to convince herself that the scarring didn’t matter? She didn’t plan to marry—leave it to Martingale to ruin that plan—and so she need never worry a husband would discover her secret. And then she had been naïve enough to believe that if a man truly loved her, he would love her regardless of her imperfections.
Nick Martingale had disabused her of that fantasy. She’d given herself to him, given him her virginity, and the very next day, he’d discarded her. She should have never believed he truly loved her. What was more, she should have never believed he would not care that she was not perfect.
She would not be that stupid again. She would never let a man see what she really looked like or who she really was.
A tap on the door sent her scrambling to tug her stocking into place and toss her skirts over her offending leg. She needn’t have rushed as no one barged in. When she was suitably covered, she said, “Who is it?”
“Mr. Fellowes, miss—er, my lady.”
“Oh, good. Come in, Mr. Fellowes.”
The man was short with blond hair and sun-darkened skin. He had a round head and a round form, making him stand out somewhat as most sailors were quite lean and hungry-looking—Lord Nicholas aside. He stood in the doorway and doffed his hat. He gazed at her warily, and she did not blame him. She had been less than cooperative the day before. But today she thought sweetness might serve her better. If Nick intended to employ his barbaric manners, she would have to rely on charming his crew in order to achieve her goals.
Today her goals were quite simple: a bath and out of the cabin.
“I am terribly sorry for my rude behavior, Mr. Fellowes,” she said with a dimpled smile she knew few men could resist. Unfortunately, Nick was one of them. “I was not myself and quite distraught at my new...situation. You understand, don’t you?” She fluttered her lashes, and Mr. Fellowes’s eyes widened. He swallowed.
“I understand.”
“Oh, good. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you. Can you find it in your heart to fetch me warm water so I might bathe?”
He frowned, and she almost sighed. She hadn’t charmed him quite enough to make this request, obviously. Hot water on a ship like this was probably no easy feat. Obviously, Mr. Fellowes was not eager to go to the trouble.
“A very little water will suffice,” she said. “It would be a luxury undreamed of if I could strip off these clothes and soak, naked, in a tub of water.”
His gaze rose to meet hers, his look quite shocked. Even hardened sailors were not immune to a lady speaking of undressing then. She continued, “The feel of clean water on my skin would be simply heavenly, and I can image sitting on deck to allow my hair to dry.” She paused to allow him to picture that for a moment. “But if that’s not possible, I’d adore a small pitcher of warm water so I might clean my face and my...and my other parts.”
