Wicked by Susan Johnson

Author:Susan Johnson [Johnson, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780307575395
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2014-08-13T21:00:00+00:00

When Beau finally walked back into the cabin, all residue of the battle had been cleaned away. He’d showered quickly under the seawater pump, dressed in fresh clothes, had the doctor stitch the cut over his eye. He’d sent his steward down to see that the glass was swept from the cabin floor so when he arrived the only evidence of their fight at sea were the canvas patches on the windows.

“We should be in Minorca in a few hours,” he said, entering the room. “Did they bring breakfast down for you?” he asked, shutting the door, thinking her color was much better.

“Yes, thank you.” Serena set her book down, although her attempt at reading to pass the time hadn’t been too successful, her concentration still distracted by the tumult of recent events. “How are the wounded men?” she inquired. “I was wondering if you needed help, but I …” Her voice trailed off. The ragged gash over Beau’s eye, pulled together with a half dozen stitches, was visible as he moved into the cabin.

“We didn’t need any help … the men are fine.” He sank into the soft cushioned chair near her. “Only two were seriously hurt,” he said, his fatigue evident in his sprawled form, “and McGuane tells me they’re both going to recover. I was hoping,” he went on with a soft sigh, “we’d avoid the French so you wouldn’t have to experience this ordeal.”

“I knew there was a risk when I decided to sail to Italy.” Serena smiled ruefully. “Or at least in theory I did. I hadn’t actually considered the reality of battle. I apologize for my lack of courage.”

“No one expects you to join in,” Beau replied. “And now that you’re blooded,” he murmured, “the shock should lessen.”

“You anticipate more?” She tried to speak casually but her pulse accelerated violently.

“We should be safer now. The run to Palermo from Minorca is short.”

“How often does this happen?”

“It depends,” he vaguely said.

“On?”

“On where you are, darling. Boney is slipping through the blockade every day.”

“Perhaps I should polish my prayers,” she said, only half in jest.

He grinned. “No need, the Siren’s fast. And I’ll take care of you.”

She experienced not only comfort but joy at his words, although she warned herself not to instill too much meaning into a casual phrase. So she responded with what she hoped was equal casualness. “I like your confidence.”

“I have my share of luck,” he simply declared—and vast experience, his crew would attest. “I was thinking,” he went on, wishing to talk of less fearful issues, “we might take advantage of our stay in Minorca and spend some time at a small beach villa I know. How does that sound?”

“On the heels of my first battle experience, like heaven on earth. I’ll even wash your clothes and make your meals,” Serena facetiously said, “to express my lively sense of gratitude.”

“I was thinking of some other ways you could spend your time,” he murmured.

“Like painting your portrait?”

“Not exactly,” he said, hushed and low.

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