Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress by Louise Allen

had every reason to be uneasy. His feeling of calm control vanished, leaving him wanting nothing more than to reach out for her, take her, lose himself and the darkness in her softness and light. Bury himself in her, make her scream with needing him…
    ‘Good morning,’ she remarked with caution. ‘You slept well?’
    ‘I slept.’ He felt like a randy bear with a sore head. ‘I am getting up today.’ Let her protest, then they could argue to clear the air.
    ‘Of course.’ Meg slid down to the end of the bed and disappeared behind her curtain. ‘A little light exercise will help your leg now.’
    ‘Aren’t you going to wait for the hot water?’ Ross thought about his preferred form of exercise, then caught a glimpse of himself in the scrap of mirror she had propped up on the trunk to help her plait her hair. Now there was an effective antidote to lust. No wonder she was wary of him—Beauty and the Beast just about summed it up. Last night she had been frightened andneeded some affection—that was all. The last thing a woman like her wanted was a maimed, ugly killer like him.
    ‘No. This is fine.’ There were sounds of splashing and the curtain billowed. Ross closed his eyes and endured. For some reason his body would not give up as easily as his mind. ‘I’ll get dressed and go up on deck until you are ready—if you come and find me we can take breakfast together.’
    ‘You do not want to check my bandages?’
    ‘Not unless the discomfort has become worse. But I can if you like.’
    ‘No.’ He had only asked so he had fair warning to get his unruly body under some sort of control before she laid hands on his bare flesh again. ‘No, thank you.’
    They were both speaking as though that kiss had not happened. Perhaps that was for the best. He was not used to living with a woman, and he did not understand this one’s moods and the way she dealt with awkward situations. But Meg was used to living with men—two, at least. She had been a wife and a close companion, so perhaps she understood him a lot better than he understood her. Or thought she did. If Meg could see inside his head, she would take her bag and go and sleep on the upper deck for the rest of the voyage, he was quite certain.
    Is he feeling any better or is he just learning to hide from me? Meg walked up and down the deck, pretending a lively interest in Signora Rivera’s children and their characters, fads and charms. José, who was being made to suffer for his accident, was held firmly by the hand and his constant whining had given Meg a headache half an hour since.
    Ross, seated on a hatch cover, continued the systematic assault he had begun that morning on the pocket books of any of the male passengers who would play piquet with him. Fortunately he set low stakes— chicken stakes, one man had grumbled before proceeding to lose hand after hand. He had stopped complaining about the stakes after the second hand.
    Winning did not, however, seem to please Ross any more than the sunshine on the waves, the occasional school of dolphins playing in the bow wave or the blue sky. His play was ruthless, efficient and merciless. Meg began to wonder if he insisted on the low stakes because he expected to be accused of cheating if he played for anything higher.
    James had tried to teach her the game, but her incomprehension of the complex strategy involved would always drive him to frustrated irritation with his inability to drum even the essentials of discards into her head.
    ‘Repique,’ Ross called as the ladies’ strolling walk brought them past once again.
    ‘Your husband is an excellent player,’ the Spanish woman observed.
    ‘Indeed. I think piquet appeals to him because it is so strategic.’ Meg watched Ross’s narrow-eyed concentration. The good players in the regiment had been the strategists, she recalled, and the major was fighting each game as though he were commanding troops in battle.
    Playing cards was never going to be a