"I'm going to bed, Captain. My bed," she said with stiff hauteur, and she pulled it off superbly, even standing there na**d. "I would appreciate it if you would arrange other quarters for me in the morning."

"So we're seeing the true George at last, are we, complete with a formidable temper?"

"Go to the devil," she mumbled as she came around the bed, swiping up her clothes as she went.

"All this huffiness, and all I did was pay you a compliment ... in my fashion."

"Well, your fashion stinks," she said, then added as an afterthought that was laced with contempt, "sir."

James sighed, but after a moment, as he watched her march across the room, her dark brown hair swishing about that cute little backside of hers, he was grinning, almost laughing. What a delightful surprise she was turning out to be.

"However did you manage a full week of meekness, George?"

"By biting holes in my tongue, how else!" she called back at him.

He did laugh this time, but softly, so she wouldn't hear. He turned on his side to watch her antics as she threw her clothes down in her corner in a demonstration of feminine pique. But almost immediately she realized what she'd done and retrieved her shirt to put on. That done, she started to get into her

hammock, but hesitated, and after a moment, retrieved her breeches and yanked them on, too.

Apparently satisfied that she was properly covered for the moment, she rolled into her hammock. Her ease with which she did so, however, recalled to James's mind that she'd never really had any difficulty with that precarious bed.

"You've sailed before, haven't you, George, in addition to your jaunt to England?"

"I think I have proven, quite adequately, as you put it, that I'm not a George."

"So humor me, dear girl. I rather like you as a George. And you have sailed—"

"Certainly," she cut in, then turned over to face the wall, hoping he'd take the hint. But she couldn't resist adding, "I own my own ship, after all."

"Of course you do, dear girl," he humored her.

"I really do, Captain."

"Oh, I believe you, indeed I do. So what took you to England, hating it as you do?"

She was still gritting her teeth over being humored. " That is none of your business."

"I'll get it out of you eventually, George, so you might as well tell me now."

"Good night, Captain. On second thought, I hope your headache returns ... if you even had one, which I'm beginning to doubt."

She heard his laughter this time. He simply couldn't prevent it when it occurred to him that her display of temper tonight would be as nothing in comparison to how she would feel if she ever learned that he'd

known she was a female from the start. The next time he got bored, he might just tell her, merely to see what would happen.

Chapter Twenty-three

James stood next to the hammock a long while the next morning, watching the girl sleep. The moment he had awakened, he had regretted not bringing her back to his bed last night. A man of strong drives, he very frequently woke in an amorous mood, and any female found snuggling at his side was treated to more of what she experienced in the night.

It was for that reason, several days ago, that he'd been so sharp with Georgina for being up and about before him, for he then had no excuse not to have her dress him, as was her supposed duty. He'd had one hell of a difficult time getting his body under control at first, but somehow he'd managed.

He smiled at the thought that that problem would no longer be a problem. He no longer had to hide the fact that he found the wench extremely desirable. Yes, he most definitely regretted his decision last night to give up sleeping beside that soft little body, to allow her her one night of pique. There'd be no more of that. Tonight she'd share his bed again, and stay there.

"Show a leg, George." He kneed her hammock, setting it aswing. "I've decided not to announce to our little world at sea that you're other than you've been appearing to be. So get those lovely br**sts tucked away again, and go fetch my breakfast."

She merely stared at him, eyes only partly open.

She yawned, blinked up at him, then came fully awake with a widening of those velvety-brown eyes.

"I'm still to act as your cabin boy?" she asked him incredulously.

"Excellent conclusion, George," James replied in his most obnoxious dry voice.

"But . . ."

She paused as the idea of going on as she had been really set in. She wouldn't have to tell Mac, then,that she'd been discovered. She wouldn't have to explain what had happened—as if she could. Even she wasn't sure what had happened, but she was positively sure she didn't want anyone else to know about it.

"Very well, Captain, but I want my own quarters."

"Out of the question." He held up his hand when she started to argue. "You've been sleeping in here for a week, dear girl. To move now will give rise to entirely too much speculation. Besides, there are no other quarters, as you well know. And don't think to mention the fo'c'sle, because I'd put you under lock and key before I'd allow you to return there."

She frowned at him. "But what difference can it make, if I'm still thought to be a boy?"

"I deduced the truth easily enough."

''Because of that silly confession of mine that was so embarrassingly naive," she said with half-disgust.

The smile he gave her then was one of the tenderest she'd ever seen. It made her catch her breath, it was so heartwarming.

"I thought that confession of yours was rather sweet, my darling girl." The back of his fingers brushed her cheek. "You wouldn't happen to be feeling, ah . . . nauseous now, would you?"

His touch had a powerful effect on her. Well, that smile had really done it. But she wasn't going to make another mistake like the one she'd made last night, to leave herself wide open for his derision again.

Besides, what had happened last night couldn't happen again. This man was not for her, even if he did

make her pulses race and her insides quiver. He was an Englishman, for God's sake, and worse, a despised aristocrat. Hadn't his country just put hers through four years of hell? And even before the war, her brothers had been railing against England's highhandedness. That couldn't be ignored, no matter how much she might wish it could be. Why, her brothers wouldn't even let the man in the house! No, James Malory, lord of the realm, was definitely not for her. She had to keep that in mind at all times from now on, and make sure he knew it, even if she had to lie through her teeth.

"No, Captain, I'm not feeling a bit nauseous. You promised a cure and it apparently worked, for which I thank you. I won't need any more doses."

That he was still smiling told her he wasn't buying her attempt to put him off even a little. "A pity," was all he said, but that was enough to make her blush.

"About those quarters . . . ?" she prompted as she crawled out of the hammock and put a little distance between them.

"No longer under discussion, George. You'll stay here and that's the end of it."

Her mouth opened to argue again, but she closed it just as quickly. She could give ground on that, aslong as he understood she wasn't his to command in every way. Actually, if she couldn't have a room to herself, then his cabin was preferable to any other quarters. At least here she would be able to remove her bindings and sleep more comfortably for the duration of the voyage.

"Very well, as long as the sleeping arrangements remain the same." That was putting it plainly enough.

"And I don't think I should be scrubbing your back anymore . . . sir."

James almost laughed. How prim the little wench was sounding this morning, and entirely too demanding.

He wondered again what kind of life she led when she wasn't sporting breeches. He supposed he had to rule out dockside doxy after last night.

"Need I remind you, George, that you're the only cabin boy I've got. You put yourself in that position, so you'll stay in it until I tell you otherwise. Or have you also forgotten that I'm captain around here?"

"And you intend to be difficult, I see."

"Not at all. I'm merely pointing out that you yourself give me no choice but to insist. But you aren't by any chance thinking I mean to take advantage of you just because you were so accommodating last night?"

She eyed him narrowly, but his expression gave away nothing. Finally she sighed. Until he gave some indication that he might force his attentions on her, she really had no choice but to be fair and assume the man wouldn't bother her unless invited to do so.

"Very well, we'll go on as we did before . . . before last night, that is." With the concession, she even offered him a tentative smile. "And now I'll dress more thoroughly, as you suggested, sir, then fetch your breakfast."

He watched her scoop up the rest of her clothing from the floor and head for the concealment of the leather screen. He had to bite his tongue to keep from making some comment about her modesty after she'd marched gloriously na**d across the room last night.

He remarked instead, "You don't have to keep sirring me, you know."

She paused to glance back at him. "Sorry. It just seems appropriate. After all, you're old enough to be my father, and I've always given my elders a measure of respect."

He looked for the twitch of her lips, the triumph in her eyes, anything to show that she was deliberately trying to insult him. And it was a direct hit. Not only did he feel indignant, but his pride and vanity were also seriously wounded. But there was nothing in her expression. If anything, she looked as if the comment had been entirely casual, even automatic, without any forethought at all.

James gritted his teeth. For once, his golden brows didn't move even a miniscule amount. "Your father?

I'll have you know, dear girl, that that is an impossibility. I may have a seventeen-year-old son, but—"

"You have a son?" She turned about fully. "Have you a wife, too?"

He hesitated in answering, only because she surprised him with her crestfallen look. Could it be disappointment? But she recovered during his hesitation.

" Seventeen? " she practically shouted, sounding totally incredulous, then added quite triumphantly, "I rest my case," and marched on toward the screen.

James, for once at a loss for a proper rejoinder, turned and left the cabin before he gave in to the urge to throttle the saucy chit. Rest my case, indeed. He was bloody well in his prime. How dare the wench call him old?

In the cabin, behind the screen, Georgina was smiling—for all of five minutes. And then her conscience began to prick her.

You shouldn 't have attacked his self-esteem, Georgie. Now he's mad.

What do you care? You don't like him any more than I do. Besides, he deserved it. He was entirely too smug.

With reason. Before he reverted to form last night, you thought he was the greatest thing God had ever put breath in.

I knew it! You just couldn't wait to gloat because you think I made a colossal mistake. So what if I did?

It's my life to make mistakes with, and I'm not denying it. I gave him my permission.

He didn 't need it. He'd have taken you with or without it.

If that's the case, what could I have actually done about it one way or the other?

You were too complaisant.

I didn't hear you complaining very much last night . . . Oh, God, I'm talking to myself.

Chapter Twenty-four

"Brandy, George?"

Georgina started. He'd been so quiet, sitting there at his desk, that she'd almost forgotten James was in the room. Almost, but not quite. He was not, in any way, shape, or form, a man who could be easily ignored.

"No, thank you, Captain." She cast him a saucy smile. "Never touch the stuff."

"Too young to drink, are you?"

She stiffened. It wasn't the first time he'd made a remark that implied she was a child, or childish in her thoughts, or too young to know better, and this after he knew very well she was a woman full-grown.

And she knew very well he was only doing it to get back at her for implying he was too old for her. But she hadn't let him rile her, not yet anyway. He had been, after all, quite courteous to her otherwise, coldly courteous actually, telling her plainly just how offended he really was by her remarks about his age.

Three days had gone by since that fateful night of her discovery, and although he had said that they would go on exactly as before, he hadn't asked for her assistance at his bath, didn't flaunt his na**dness before her anymore, and even wore his pants under his robe before he retired, as he was doing now.

Nor had he touched her again since that morning he tenderly brushed her cheek with his fingers. Deep down, where she was honest with herself to a fault, she admitted a certain regret that he wasn't even going to try to make love to her again. Not that she would let him, but he could at least have made an

effort.

She'd finished her chores early tonight. She'd been lying in her hammock, gently rocking, and biting her nails short so they more resembled a boy's. She was prepared to sleep, with everything removed except her breeches and shirt, but she wasn't the least bit tired.

Now she glanced sideways toward the desk and the man behind it. She wouldn't half mind an argument to clear the air, an opportunity for him to get his resentment off his chest. On the other hand, she wasn't sure she wanted the other James back, the one that could melt her with a look. Better to let him nurse his chagrin for the remainder of the voyage.