Page 22 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
She saw then that there was crimson in his hair, and more dripping down, onto the collar of his pyjamas.
‘You’re hurt.’
‘I’m fine—no thanks to that varmint.’ He looked at her again, no doubt taking in the hastily tied dressing gown. ‘You’re not dressed for out here.’
’Neither are you.’ At least Cecile had slippers on her feet; his were bare—and two of the buttons on his pyjama shirt had been torn off, revealing an expanse of lightly haired chest. She pulled her dressing gown tighter. ‘Do let me in. It’s perishing!’
Glancing up and down the deck, he nodded before stepping back.
It was gloomy within, but Cecile remembered there was a lamp immediately along the wall.
Turning it on, she saw the room was in shambles—the table overturned and a vase broken upon the floor, its contents scattered over the rug. One of the curtains had been snatched from its rail.
‘What happened?’
Wincing against the light, Mr. Robinson latched the door behind them. ’The first I knew was an arm across my throat. I managed to roll over the side of the bed.’
‘And hit your head?’
’Uh huh.’ He touched his brow tentatively. ‘After that, it all happened fast. He came at me again. We wrestled. He got in some good punches before I landed mine.’
‘You’re still bleeding.’
His brow was cut and the eye already swelling.
‘I’ll fetch the doctor. You ought to have stitches.’
His hand upon her sleeve stayed her, but he withdrew it just as quickly.
‘There’s no need. Come morning, I’ll be sore but it’s only a few scratches. Besides which,’ he looked sheepish, ‘I’m not over-fond of needles.’
With his hair rumpled, he looked quite boyish.
‘Let me bathe it at least, and—’ She got no further before he swayed on his feet. Instinctively, she grabbed around his waist. He staggered and the weight of him was heavy upon her shoulder, but she managed to guide him towards the chaise.
Landing on it heavily, he groaned, letting his head fall back against the cushions.
‘You’re dizzy. It’s the shock, I expect. Stay right there.’ Cecile looked about her. What was it one was supposed to do? There might be some brandy in one of the decanters. Or was that a bad idea? Perhaps it was safer just to give him water.
She stepped through to the bedroom, turning on another lamp. Here, the mess was worse—the covers pulled from the bed and various items knocked to the floor.
Pulling open drawers, she located handkerchiefs, then filled a glass from the tap in his bathroom, and a small bowl with more.
On her return, he was looking better.
He drank the water dutifully, while she dabbed at the wound. To her relief, the bleeding was already abating. Wadding a piece of cloth, she pressed it to the gash, and used the largest handkerchief to secure it.
He sat quietly all the while, and very still, with eyes closed as she wiped at the crimson streaked down his cheek.
His skin was warm but rough with the day’s growth of stubble, and there was a pale line to the side of his mouth—an old scar long-healed. Bringing the cloth to his ear, she wiped a smear from his lobe, then drew the linen down his neck.
She had a compulsion to stroke her fingers through his hair, and was aware, suddenly, of his breath, of the pulse in his neck, and the aroma that was singularly his, though stronger than before. The scent of a man not long from his bed.
She was leaning over him, so close that, if he turned his head… Abruptly, she stood upright, her heart thudding.
She was no longer thinking of Mr. Robinson as a suspect in the senhora’s death. She didn’t believe he could harm anyone.
The true culprit had been here—though for what reason, she couldn’t guess. If the man were intent on stealing, wouldn’t it be easier to enter the rooms while the occupants were elsewhere?
