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He must be concealing his thoughts well enough, he realised. Anusha was blithely answering his question. ‘By reading the classical texts, of course. And studying the pictures and talking to our mothers and sisters. Why? How did you imagine we might learn?’
‘I was attempting not to imagine,’ Nick said. He could picture her, lying in silks on heaps of cushions, idly turning the pages of some illustrated text. Those long limbs would stir restlessly in the heat with her imaginings, those full lips would curve into a sensual smile as she propped her chin on her hand and...
‘I am sorry to mention such a subject,’ she said penitently. ‘I was forgetting that it must be many days since you lay with a woman.’
‘Anusha—’
She slanted a glance in his direction. ‘Do English ladies not discuss sexual matters?’
‘No! At least, unmarried women do not discuss them. Unmarried girls are not supposed to know anything about such things.’
‘So their husbands are supposed to teach them?’
‘Yes.’ He tugged off his neckcloth and opened the neck of his shirt. It was hot, that was all.
‘That might be rather nice if the woman is in love with the man,’ she mused. ‘But if not it must be a dreadful shock.’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Nick said, trying to keep the edge from his voice. She looked at him, lips parted. Something in his face must have given her pause, for she lowered her lids and stayed mercifully quiet. I couldn’t say because my wife obviously did not love me. I thought I could make her love me, teach her to love. But then, you see, I doubt I am very lovable. Though I am skilled enough in bed if I am matched with a woman of experience...
Stop it. He caught at his bitter, unravelling thoughts. Hurt pride is all it is. Hurt pride and a valuable lesson. He made his voice firm and matter of fact. ‘Anusha, I beg you, when we get to Calcutta, do not say anything about illustrated texts, or pleasuring men or bed.’
‘Very well, Nick,’ she said.
Anusha turned to look out over the water and he caught a glimpse of her eyes, thoughtful and with all the teasing gone. She guessed he had been thinking about Miranda. Nick felt a sudden urge to tell her everything, share the pain and the anger and the sense of failure, to break through the self-sufficient loneliness. Self-indulgent weakness. He stared at the sun-dazzle on the water until he was certain the blurring in his eyes came from that alone and the impulse was beaten back where it belonged.
* * *
Anusha woke in darkness. It felt very late and the air was finally cooling. A little breeze brushed over the bed, which was strange because she always closed her door properly at night. But now she came to think about it, she was never as hot and uncomfortable as she might have expected in a closed cabin. The door, she realised, was ajar. Had someone opened it every night? Silent as the breeze, she slid out of bed and went to look. The door had been wedged open, but Nick’s door was closed.
As she stood there in her shift, puzzling over it, there was a faint sound from the deck, a grunt, as though someone had stubbed a toe and was suppressing the exclamation of pain. Anusha reached for the dagger that lay on her pile of clothes and climbed the ladder to the open hatch.
The moon was full, lighting the wide sandbank where the blanket-wrapped forms of the crew surrounded the banked embers of their fire. The silver light washed across the deck and the man who sat cross-legged, his back to the mast. Nick.
Anusha froze, her eyes just above the rim of the hatch. There was a pillow and a blanket on the deck, a musket by the side. She knew him well enough now to guess what this meant—Nick was sleeping on deck so he could leave the hatch and her door open to let the cool night air below decks for her, while he slept on the hard boards to guard her.
But why was he not resting now? As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw him clearly. He was barefoot, bare-chested, wearing only light pajama trousers and he was unwinding the bandage from around his torso.
I had forgotten his wound, Anusha realised with a stab of guilt. How could I have done that? But he had seemed so unaffected by it that after the first day she had ceased to worry and then, unforgivably, had managed to disregard it. He was a man, a warrior—of course he would not mention it until he fell flat on his stubborn, proud face.
Nick finished unwinding the bandage, but he was still twisted round, doing something to the dressing on his shoulder. In the stillness she heard his hiss of pain and was up on the deck and running to his side before she could think about it.
As he got to his feet she laid her hand on his uninjured shoulder. ‘Nick, your wound—I am so sorry, but you should have said it needed redressing. Let me see.’ She tried to press him back down to sit on the hatch. He resisted.
