Marrying the Royal Marine by Carla Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

feeling her face grow rosier. ‘They are supposed to be kind.’
    He laughed at that. ‘So is mine,’ he confided.
    She didn’t mean to look sceptical, but the Colonel seemed to be sensitive to her expression. ‘Here’s how I see it, Brandon—you’ve made a tedious voyage more than usually interesting.’
    She couldn’t imagine that tending a female through seasickness qualified as interesting, but she wasn’t about to mention it. She knew she should just curtsy and wish him goodnight. She would have, if some imp hadn’t leaped on to her shoulder, and prodded her. ‘I…I…most particularly like it when you call me Brandon,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Some of the other students at Miss Pym’s had nicknames. I never did.’ She stopped in confusion. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’
    ‘Never crossed my mind, Brandon.’
    She held her breath as he lightly touched her cheek.
    ‘Goodnight, now,’ he told her. ‘If you need help with your hair tomorrow, I’m just across the wardroom.’

Chapter Four
    H ugh couldn’t say he had any power to encourage the wind and waves, but he considered it a boon from kind providence that Polly Brandon did need his help in the morning to kneel at the pot and wash her hair, while the deck slanted. They decided that his firm knee in her back would anchor her to the pot, and she had no objection when he lathered her hair, and rinsed it using a small pitcher.
    The entire operation involved another pot and pitcher, which led him to comment that between pots and pitchers, women were a great lot of trouble. If she hadn’t looked back at him then with such a glower, her hair wet and soapy, he could have withstood nearly anything. He had no idea a woman could look so endearing with soap in her hair. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, of course, which meant she held her eyes open wider than usual, perhaps seeking more depth and more clarity. The effect jolted him a little, because her nearsighted gaze was so intense, her eyes so blue. The shade reminded him of a spot of deep water near Crete where he had gazed long and hard when he was a younger man.
    When not coated in vinegar, her auburn hair was glossy. Hugh was half-tempted to volunteer to comb the tangles from her hair, but he had the good sense to strangle that idea at birth. To his surprise, he was finding her uniquely attractive.
    Even after two decades of war, he knew enough about women, having bedded them in all seaports when occasion permitted, no different from his navy brethren. By common wardroom consent after one memorable voyage through half the world, he and his fellows agreed that the most beautiful women lived on the Greek isles. He knew at least that he had never seen a flat-chested female there. So it went; he was a man of experience.
    But here was Brandon—why on earth had he started calling her such a hooligan name?—who, even on her best day, could only stand in the shadow of the earth’s loveliest ladies. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, and he had seen her at her absolute worst. No woman could have been more hopeless than Polly Brandon of two days ago, but here he was, wanting to devise all manner of subterfuges to keep her talking to him. It was a mystery; he had no clue what had happened in so short a time.
    He sat down at the wardroom table, hoping to keep her there with him while he thought of something clever to say. To his dismay, she went into her cabin, but came out a moment later with her comb. She was getting more surefooted by the hour, timing her stride to the roll of the ship, but she did plop unceremoniously on to the bench and laughed at herself.
    She fixed him with that penetrating gaze he was coming to know. ‘You have my permission to laugh when I am no more graceful at sea than a new puppy would be.’
    ‘I daren’t,’ he said. ‘Suppose some day you find me in desperate shape—say, for example, at Almack’s? I would hope you would be charitable, so I will be