would assume those to be the legs of a gentleman. Mind you, your build made the task far easier than if you possessed a more feminine form …”
James ignored Dupont’s observations and simply watched Clarissa revolve. He had to agree with Dupont—the binding worked, as did the breeches. If he were to encounter her on the street, James would not look twice. Even her hair, tucked up beneath a hat, was passable, though they would have to cut it off before reaching England. But he
knew
her—remembered every intimate detail of her body, which made the moment that much more bizarre.
“If you two are done, I’ll need some assistance with the boots.” Clarissa turned on her stockinged heels andreturned to her room. “Dupont,” she called after the tailor.
“The remainder of the clothing is downstairs. Please make sure that it is carefully packed,” the tailor requested of James, then joined Clarissa, closing the door behind him.
“Are you comfortable?”
Clarissa swept the dark, dank ship’s cabin with a critical eye, then looked at James. “Not in the least. Did you specifically request the most inhospitable of ships or was it merely my luck?”
James took one step toward the scarred lattice-backed chair where Clarissa sat, the planked floor creaking ominously under his boots. Then he stopped, uttered some sort of oath, and turned abruptly toward the captain’s bed situated along the wall of the low-ceilinged cabin.
This would be the first significant amount of time they would spend in each other’s company since their unexpected reunion. Clarissa had insisted James accompany her on horseback rather than ride in the carriage. And then she’d shut herself up in her room for the entirety of their stop last night. Clarissa couldn’t help but miss the distance that had so conveniently separated them until now.
“There is a blockade in effect, Clarissa. Besides, it is important that we not be seen. Our presence will draw less attention in a ship of this nature rather than a more ‘hospitable’ vessel,” he said tightly.
“By nature, I assume you refer to the fact that it is piloted by common criminals?”
Clarissa sat straighter in order to gain some relieffrom the tightly wound fabric about her chest. Unwanted emotion churned in her stomach. Anger? Fear? Certainly, though there was something else. Something she didn’t want to consider too closely.
“Are you well?” James asked, leaning against the opposite wall and folding his arms across his chest.
Clarissa breathed as deeply as she could, the binding fabric chafing against her skin as she did so. “Why would you ask such a question? No, of course I’m not well. You’ve placed my mother in danger, forced me into service, and torn me from my home.” She rose from the chair and leaned her head against the wall, the wood rough beneath her forehead as she attempted to draw another, deeper breath. “Really, James, you’ve grown lack-witted in our time apart,” she added caustically, her head beginning to spin.
Dimly, she heard the sound of footsteps, then his hands were upon her, ripping the linen shirt from her waistband, before slipping them beneath the soft fabric.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, batting at his hands as she tried to escape his hold.
He spun her around and yanked the bindings loose, quickly unraveling her with deft skill. “When I asked if you were well, I was referring to your physical state. This,” he paused, holding a fistful of the bindings at her eye level before tossing the length of fabric on the floor, “was slowly suffocating you.”
Clarissa stared at the length of soft white fabric on the floor, drawing in welcome draughts of briny sea air while she caught her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, unable to look at him.
“For what, Clarissa?” he asked, gently catching her chin and turning her face up to his.
His touch was just as she remembered. Firm, yet gentle. “It’s