He withdrew a length of cotton cording from a drawer in his wardrobe, folded it in half to find the middle, and began crisscrossing it in a wrap around her braid, starting at the top, and tied it off at the end.
He was reluctant to move away but could think of no other excuses for staying in such close proximity if he wasn’t actually going to try seducing her. “Tea’s getting cold,” he said, his voice harsher than intended, and he moved to the table.
She brought the braid over her shoulder to examine his handiwork as she sat, and stroked a finger over the cotton cord. “Oh, lovely,” she said softly. “This will keep the braid neat longer and protect my hair from breakage. Thank you.”
He grunted a reply as they filled their plates and cups and got down to the business of satisfying hunger.
Hunger for food, at least. Nick repressed a sigh.
Several minutes passed while they ate, and Nick was reaching his breaking point. A drop of peach juice at the corner of her mouth was nearly his undoing, as she caught it with the tip of her tongue to keep it from running down her chin.
He shifted in his chair, willing his anatomy to obey, to not embarrass him like a schoolboy in the throes of adolescence. “You’ve acquired another skill,” he choked out, desperate for a distraction.
She had picked up her teacup but set it back down without drinking. “Pardon?”
“Marrying.”
She blinked, her expression blank.
Yes, maybe he had indeed lost his mind. “Rope. When you join the ends of rope together, it’s called marrying.”
Her lips rounded in a silent Oh. She picked up a biscuit and began crumbling it. “I was looking for something to do, and Winston was kind enough to teach me. Smitty let me borrow a marlinspike from the slop chest so I could do a long splice as well as short splice.”
“You should have your own.”
She gave a little shrug. “I don’t want to run up my bill too high.”
“If you’re doing ship’s labor, you can borrow ship’s tools. I’ll tell Smitty.”
“Thank you. I did enjoy our work session on the deck, before the Polly Ann was sighted. Tucker, Winston, and I, all plying needle and thread and rope.” She sipped her tea. “Reminded me a bit of a sewing bee.”
Nick laughed. He pictured his tars sitting around a parlor, drinking tea and sewing on a quilt, and laughed harder.
Though Miss Chase did not join in his laughter, her generous smile told him she was pleased at provoking such a reaction from him.
He drained his cup. “Please don’t tell them that. Not sure they’d see the humor in it.”
“Is sewing an insult to their masculinity? But isn’t sail-making a specialized form of sewing? And what about tailors?”
“Sewing is inherently neither masculine nor feminine, and is a valuable skill. It’s good to know how to put a button back on or sew up a rip in your draw— ah, shirt. But we both know how society at large views certain skills.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment and tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.
Nick glanced out the cabin window. Stars twinkled on the black backdrop of the night sky. “I’m going to check our position. Why don’t you turn in early? I’ll take the tray so you’re not disturbed.”
“Thank you. It has been an … interesting day.”
As Nick dropped off the tray in the galley and climbed to the quarterdeck, he reflected on the women who had made him laugh. A short list, indeed.
The women with whom he’d wanted to share physical pleasure. A considerably longer list, though not nearly as long as society rumors would suggest.
And how little those two lists overlapped.
Miss Chase was on both.
Chapter 13
Two days later, luck and the tide were with them, and they were able to maneuver from the Atlantic, past a treacherous sandspit, and into the Douro River. They followed the harbor master’s instructions to a slip on the quay, steering clear of the rabelos , small flat-bottomed boats carrying crates and barrels from the wineries farther upriver.
