Pennyroyal Green: The Legend Of Lyon Redmond Part 29

"Spain," Digby said shortly. "It's but a day or so across the Bay of Biscay."

Spain. Of course.

She wondered what she would find there.

And suddenly she was certain she knew. And a tiny, rogue, inappropriate filament of joy snaked through her.

"And Digby . . . what did you mean by 'revolutionary'?"

Digby paused, considering.

"Miss Eversea . . . You're aware your name is on the s.h.i.+p."

Olivia's mind blanked in astonishment. "It's on . . ."

"The s.h.i.+p is called The Olivia."

Olivia was speechless.

Digby must have seen something in her expression for her own softened.

"Men do have their romantic fancies, Miss Eversea. If he says you're worth his time, then I'll believe him, and reserve judgment. I've come to like you, but my opinion matters not. And I'll leave it to him to tell you what he's been doing since you last saw him."

"Very well," Olivia said softly.

"I will tell you this, Miss Eversea. The captain never did want anything more from me than my loyalty, more's the pity, and that's the honest truth. Though what woman wouldn't be willing to give him anything he wants? He's a remarkable man. Now come with me. You'll want sleep."

HER TRUNK HAD magically appeared in the cabin while she was on deck.

She snorted at that. He'd been confident he'd be able to get her onto the s.h.i.+p, that much was clear.

But then, he did know her.

Tempering her anger at the elaborate deception was the reminder that the only reason it had been at all successful was because he did, indeed, know her. Better than anyone ever had.

And it merely emphasized how truly lonely she'd been since he'd gone, even surrounded by friends and loved ones.

And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had managed to glean a bit about how she felt about him, too.

She almost smiled at that.

Had he been lonely, too?

Olivia was certain she wouldn't sleep at all.

But what seemed like moments later, she woke with a start, with the sense that a good amount of time had pa.s.sed. When she saw Lyon simmering in a pot across from her on the wall, she remembered where she was.

She rolled over and peered down.

A chamber pot was thoughtfully situated next to her bed, and a message was folded and propped like a little tent next to it.

She leaned over and read it.

In case you must puke.

It was tidy, even, ladylike printing, nothing like Lyon's. Digby must have been in.

Thoughtful of her.

She rose tentatively then took a few steps on the gently heaving floor of the s.h.i.+p. She didn't seem to be afflicted with seasickness, thankfully. She took a few more steps, and she still felt quite steady.

There wasn't a mirror, so she felt about the back of her head and smoothed her hair as best she could, patted her dress, and then opened the door a few inches.

She leaped back with a gasp as an enormous man glittering with metal-in his ears, at his hip, and, alarmingly, in the hook where his hand ought to be-turned to her.

"Ah, ye're awake now, are ye, miss? Stay here. Ain't safe on the deck. I'll get the captain. Lock yer door."

He shut the door emphatically.

If a man like that said it wasn't safe on the deck, she would take his word for it.

What kind of world did Lyon live in now?

She locked the door.

A few minutes later she heard footsteps outside, and then several smart raps on the door.

"Olivia, may I come in?" Lyon's voice.

And her heart, the traitor, gave a leap at the very sound of it.

She slid the bolts and pulled open the door.

He filled the doorway Large, hard, and shockingly beautiful, particularly since he was wearing what amounted to evening clothes.

Apart, that was, from the sword.

Most of the men she knew didn't wear swords to dinner.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"It's nearly dinnertime. Accordingly-" He raised a bottle of wine in one hand and a sack in the other, which she suspected contained some kind of food. "We'll reach harbor by late afternoon, perhaps closer to sunset, tomorrow."

He withdrew a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a knife, a plate, and two gla.s.ses, all of which he arranged without ceremony on the little desk.

She sat on the foot of the bed, hands folded primly, while he settled in at the desk.

She watched him slice away at the bread and cheese and arrange them somewhat artfully on the plate.

"Why is your s.h.i.+p called The Olivia?"

"I had to name it something, and The Mrs. Sneath hadn't quite the same ring."

She laughed.

Before she remembered how angry she was with him.

His head turned toward her quickly, and his expression was almost hungry.

But then her smile faded, and silence settled in again.

He placed the bottle of wine in the center of the little desk and extracted the cork with alacrity, then glugged a bit into two gla.s.ses.

He handed one to her.

He lifted his. " votre sante, Olivia."

She took a sip. A shockingly excellent wine that launched her eyebrows.

"Spanish," he said shortly. "I export it."

A fascinating sentence to be sure, and it inspired a thousand more questions.

"How did you come to have a s.h.i.+p?"

"I bought it."

She stared at him. "It's going to be like that, is it?"

"Like what?"

"Curt, petulant answers that tell me nothing, really."

"Petulant?" The word seemed to amuse him.

"It's precisely the right word. You can do better."

He inhaled, then exhaled gustily. "Very well. I bought it with money I earned by working on this very s.h.i.+p. Supplemented by money I won from men foolish enough to play five-card loo with me. I worked, gambled, and invested."

He leaned back to study the effect those words had on her. His arms were crossed before him. There were faint lines about his eyes.

How had he gotten those lines?

Five years without him. He'd gotten older, bought a s.h.i.+p, exported wine. And now he had lines about his eyes.

And she had seen none of it.

The muscles of her stomach tightened with something like panic, for all that she'd missed. All that he'd done without her.

The panic subsided and became that unspecific, simmering anger again.

"But what made you . . . want to buy a s.h.i.+p?"

"From Pennyroyal Green I went to London and got work on a s.h.i.+p, because I wanted to go as far away as possible from England."

They both knew the reason for that, and the statement rang by itself in the silence for a moment.

"And . . . did you?"

He hesitated.

"I went very far indeed." He smiled slightly. It wasn't the most pleasant smile. It contained memories of things he'd seen and possibly things he'd done.

And, in all likelihood, women he'd made love to.

He'd been doing this while she was in Pennyroyal Green deflecting suitor after suitor and instructing the footman where to put flowers delivered by men who hadn't a prayer of gaining her attention.

Because they weren't Lyon.

Once they'd been able to talk about anything and everything, endlessly. He needed only speak about anything in order for her to find it fascinating.

But another chasm of silence opened up. There were too many things to say. And they had lost the knack of talking to each other.

"You were a member of a s.h.i.+p's . . . crew?" Someone of his refinement and breeding would have been painfully conspicuous.

Then again, Lyon had won the Suss.e.x Marksmans.h.i.+p Trophy and more than one fencing compet.i.tion.

"They'll take any able-bodied man willing to work on a s.h.i.+p, Olivia. They taught me. I learned. I worked. I fought. I won. I didn't need to know how to do anything that I didn't already know how to do."

He said it very deliberately. Very evenly.

But it was very much a reference to that night in Suss.e.x. What do you know how to do?

In five years he'd risen from menial labor on the deck of a s.h.i.+p to owning and commanding one.

But then, she didn't suppose she ever truly doubted him.

She was quiet. She had a million questions for him.

She dismantled her bread, then realized what she was doing and put it in her mouth instead.

He watched approvingly. "Eat more than that. You've gotten thin."

Her eyes flared wide.

His voice was gruff.

He'd likely been pondering how thin she was while she was wondering about the lines near his eyes.