CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, neither Kitty nor Rafe had much to say to one another. They each took turns at the chamber pot and wash basin, and then they had sat down across from one another for breakfast, all with little more than mumbled courtesies exchanged. Kitty tapped her fingertips against her plate until she found orange slices and nibbled on them quietly, trying to listen for any hint of reaction from Rafe. He had not mentioned what had happened, and she certainly had not, but she suspected from his uncharacteristic silence, that he remembered only too well.
Who is Isabel? she wanted to ask him. She had lain awake long after he had returned to sleep, still reveling in his impassioned advances and wondering for whom he had really intended them. Was Isabel his betrothed, a fiancee awaiting him in Madrid? A long-lost love who yet held sway over his heart? It had nagged at her, in part out of curiosity, in part out of something more. Was she jealous of this woman, resentful of the fact that Rafe still harbored some apparently passionate feelings for her?
Do not be ridiculous, she told herself firmly. I do not give a whit about Rafe Serrano Beltran. Why should I bloody even care who he is in love with, if anyone?
“I am sorry,” Rafe said, his quiet words offered in a hoarse voice drawing her attention. He paused, but she knew from the way he had left the last syllable hanging somewhat that he wanted to say more. She said nothing, directing her eyes toward the sound of him, waiting.
“I drank too much last night,” he said at length, and sighed heavily. “You were right before when you said I make a habit of it, and I am sorry. I hope that I…” His voice faded and he hesitated again before continuing. “If I behaved in any fashion that might have offended or…disrespected you, then I apologize deeply, sincerely. I give you my word it will not happen again.”
“I…I do not know what you mean, Rafe,” she said, once she had managed to choke down a mouthful of orange. “You did nothing last night except take my side of the bed and then snore somewhat.”
He did not say anything. He was looking at her; she could feel his gaze as he studied her, trying to decide whether or not she was telling him the truth. Whether he believed her or not, he seemed relieved for her proffered escape, and seized upon it. “Oh,” he said. “I…well, then, I am sorry for that.”
Kitty flapped her hand and managed a nonchalant laugh. “Nothing for it.”
He remembers, she thought. He remembers everything. He is just hoping it is a dream. I am sure it seemed that way to him―some horrid, drunken nightmare, to come to his senses and realize it was me he was kissing last night, not his precious bloody Isabel―my body he had his hands all over, not hers.
She felt inexplicably insulted and stuffed an entire wedge of orange in her mouth, sinking her back teeth deeply into the spongy rind lest she snap out some inappropriate retort. Gather your wits about you, Kitty, she scolded herself. You are behaving like some scorned ninny. This is not some eligible noble son shunning you for another. He is the bloody pirate who kidnapped you―the man who has sworn to kill your father!
Never mind how wondrous it all seemed last night…