Page 44 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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Through the night, the ship plunged and rolled, its motion progressively worsening, while the rumble of thunder grew louder.
Lucrezia availed herself of the basin until her stomach was empty. With dawn not far off, she lay supine, gently moaning. Though Cecile felt somewhat unsteady, to her relief, the movement of the ship wasn’t affecting her as it had done on first boarding.
Moistening a cloth, she came round to Lucrezia’s side of the bed, pressing the coolness to her forehead. ‘You ought to eat something: toast or a dry biscuit.’
‘Grazie. Some of those ginger snaps, perhaps? And a sip of tea.’
‘Of course, tea.’ Cecile drew the flannel downward to Lucrezia’s neck. ‘I won’t be long. There’s a steward at the end of the corridor. I’ll ask him to bring some.’
‘But,cara. It isn’t safe!’ Lucrezia clutched at her, suddenly panicked.
‘The morning tray won’t be here for at least another hour or two. It’s too long to wait.’
‘You will be quick.’ Lucrezia’s eyes were pleading.
‘If I have any trouble, I’ve only to shout. Everyone will wake up and be monstrously annoyed, but nothing bad with happen.’ Summoning a brave smile, Cecile threw on her dressing gown and tied the sash firmly.
As she stepped into the inner passageway, locking the door behind her, the lights flickered. It was the storm, no doubt. Though the captain must be steering the ship to avoid the worst, the last thunderclap had been closer than the rest and the lightning flash hadn’t been far behind.
The passageway seemed longer than usual, the crimson flocked walls barely illuminated by the lamps running each side, but she could see the steward’s chair, positioned at the far end.
It was empty. He must have stepped away for a moment, to pay a call, Cecile supposed. No matter; she’d simply wait until he returned.
The rolling pitch of the ship obliged her to grab at the rail and, for several moments, she held fast, but the floor was soon rising again, threatening to tumble her backward.
Passing hand over hand, she inched forward, battling the weightless churning of her stomach. She wouldn’t, simply couldn’t, cast up her accounts here, where anyone might open their door and see her.
With lurching steps, she did her best to keep hold but, the next moment, she lost her grip on the rail. Careening into the wall, she took the impact with her shoulder, and was spun to the opposite side, crossing several doorways before she managed to grasp the polished brass again.
Except that, it wasn’t the rail she had fastened upon but a door handle. Her tumbling had brought her to the end farthest from the steward and the door was none other than Mr. Robinson’s.
As a deafening blast of thunder rent the sky, the floor rose upward again.
The handle depressed, and she fell through.
* * *
Cecile’s face met dark green carpet as the door slammed shut behind her. She’d barely pushed herself to her knees before the occupant of the room came running.
‘Holy Moly! What the Hell!’
Strong arms lifted her to her feet. Arms that were uncovered, attached to a similarly bare torso.
‘I do beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to—’ Breathless, she squeezed her eyes shut. Not that she didn’t want to look. Of course she did!
But being in Lance’s room when he was naked—save for a towel barely large enough to cover his behind—was obviously out of the question.
The only thing to do was to leave. Quickly.
If she exited without fuss, they might be able to pretend this had never happened—but she made the mistake of opening her eyes.
He stood with feet planted wide against the movement of the ship.
His eyes— piercing blue—locked with hers, and she swallowed hard.
‘You’ve soap on your face.’ He appeared to have shaved only half.
