chapter eighteen

“Has Matt told you anything about our mother?”

Amanda shook her head. “No. Only that she’s dead.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Did Matt actually say that?”

Amanda nodded, then frowned. “No, he didn’t. What he said was that you are the only family he has. I assumed, then, that your mother was dead.”

“She isn’t,” Zeke said flatly. “Cristabel, our mother, is very much alive. At least as of six months ago, when Matt last heard from her.”

“Matt never mentioned her.” Amanda frowned again. “I take it that there is an estrangement?”

“In a way. I suppose I’d better tell you the whole story. That’s the only way you’ll understand why Matt sometimes behaves as he does.”

“I’m listening.”

Zeke chewed his lower lip for a moment, still plainly hesitant about revealing so much that his brother preferred to keep secret. Amanda gazed up at him encouragingly. She very much wanted to hear the story of Matt’s past, and she had a strong suspicion that Matt himself would never tell her.

“Cristabel—we always called her Cristabel, never Mother, on her instructions—was, according to her own version of events, the daughter of an aristocratic Southern family, the Graysons,” Zeke began slowly, shifting his gaze from Amanda’s wide eyes to the sea. “Though there are some Graysons living in Charleston, where she says she was born, I have my doubts that she is related to them. Sometimes I even doubt that her name is Grayson. But that’s what she says, and that’s the name Matt and I grew up with.” He glanced at Amanda again, noting her puzzled frown as she absorbed the information that Matt and his brother used their mother’s maiden name.

“Oh, yes,” Zeke continued, the lightness of his tone not disguising an underlying bitterness. “Cristabel never married. Matt and I are both—begging your pardon, Amanda—bastards.”

“Matt never told me,” Amanda breathed, her eyes fixed on Zeke’s face.

“It isn’t something one brags about,” Zeke returned dryly. “Does it make a difference to the way you feel about Matt?”

“Of course not.” Amanda was clearly indignant. Zeke nodded, the movement brusque.

“Good. Because that’s merely the beginning of the story. According to Cristabel, after a debut that would have put Queen Victoria’s to shame, she eloped with a handsome young man from New Orleans. She thought he came from a wealthy aristocratic Creole family. Later, when they arrived in New Orleans, she discovered that he was nothing more than a professional gambler. Again according to Cristabel, when he learned that she didn’t have any money of her own, he abandoned her. Left her at a seedy hotel one night and never came back. The next night, when he still hadn’t appeared, she went to the hotel where he had set up his games and asked about him. A lady—and I use the term advisedly—came out to talk to her upon hearing whom Cristabel had been asking for. The lady was also Paul Mareschel’s wife—that was his name, Paul Mareschel. And since their marriage was solemnized some years before Cristabel’s, obviously it took precedence. And just as obviously Cristabel was not Mrs. Mareschel at all, but still Miss Grayson. And Miss Grayson was alone, frightened, and with child.”

“Matt.”

“That’s right.” Zeke nodded. “Well, Mareschel’s wife—if she was his wife, any more than Cristabel was, is open to speculation. Apparently he was quite a lady’s man.” Zeke grinned suddenly and added in an aside, “Matt must take after him. Cristabel always said that Matt’s daddy was as handsome as the devil himself and as popular with the ladies.” Then, recollecting himself, he went on hastily. “Mrs. Mareschel felt sorry for Cristabel and took her in. Oh, not to the hotel, but to a little business she owned in partnership with an aristocratic New Orleans gentleman. They gave her a place to stay until Matt was born, and then she had to start earning her room and board. Which she did, without any qualms that I ever noticed.”

Amanda’s eyes were huge as they met Zeke’s. The implications were clear.

“You mean . . .” She faltered.

He nodded. “I mean she became a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession: a prostitute, if you’ll forgive my bold speech. And she plied her trade with talent and enthusiasm, from all accounts. I was born seven years after Matt, when Cristabel, according to her calculations, was twenty-six; I think she must have been closer to thirty. I have no idea who my father was. Some nameless fellow who bought my mother for the night. Since I don’t look like Cristabel—who is blonde and small, although she now makes up in girth what she lacks in height—I assume I resemble my father. Good looking son-of-a-gun, wasn’t he?” This last was accompanied by a flashing grin that reminded Amanda again that this man was Matt’s brother.

“Then Matt is ashamed because his mother is a . . . prostitute?” Amanda colored a little on the last word, but got it out nonetheless. This conversation was too important to leave vital points unclarified for lack of a little plain language. “I don’t really see what that has to do with why he won’t believe me when I tell him I didn’t betray him.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t think Matt is ashamed, not anymore. You get used to it, over the years. What he is, is hurt and angry—and bitter toward women. You see, despite what she was, Matt thought the sun rose and set in our mother. When I was a child, he would come into the room we shared in the attic of Cristabel’s place of employment, his face all bruised and bloody from fights with boys who’d called his mother a whore. For a long time Matt wouldn’t admit to himself what Cristabel was. He would even be angry at me when I tried to tell him.” Zeke paused to take a deep breath. “When I was seven and Matt fourteen, Cristabel was offered better circumstances. There was a man who wanted to take her away from the sordid life she’d led until then, and give her everything she didn’t deserve. She left us then. Merely kissed both of us on the forehead, said good-bye, and left us. That was the first and only time I’ve seen my brother cry: the day our mother left us. He was a big boy, tall but rather thin and gangly, and he sat there on the end of our bed and tears ran down his cheeks. It frightened me more than Cristabel’s leaving did. I’d never depended on Cristabel, but I did depend on Matt. And Matt was crying.”

Zeke’s eyes clouded as he remembered. Amanda’s heart ached at the image he was creating for her, the image of a tall, thin boy with Matt’s face, weeping for the mother who had abandoned him.

“But Matt stopped crying and went to work,” Zeke continued softly. “He supported me from the time he was fourteen until I could do it myself. He’s a remarkable man, my brother.”

“Yes,” Amanda agreed softly, her eyes misting. She thought about what Zeke had said. Matt’s mother, whom he had adored, had betrayed him, and that had led him to expect betrayal from all women. He was harboring a deep-rooted fear. She would have to be kind and patient and, most of all, loving . . .

“But you’ve had contact with Cristabel since?” she asked, suddenly remembering that Zeke had said they’d heard from her just six months ago. Zeke’s mouth twisted.

“Oh, yes—whenever she needs money. When Matt was about twenty-two, she came back to New Orleans and learned that he was part owner of the Lucie Belle, his first ship. And she thought it was charming that the son she had abandoned had done so well. She tried for a reconciliation, but her money-grubbing little claws were showing. Matt gave her some money—he has a soft heart beneath that tough exterior. At the end of their last interview, when she saw she wasn’t making headway, she gave up acting the prodigal mother and screamed about being destitute—and Matt wouldn’t leave her in want no matter what she’d done to him. Now we hear from her once or twice a year, whenever she’s penniless. And Matt always sends her money. But she’s never tried to see him again and he never speaks of her. And I think she’s forgotten that I ever existed.”

“I’m so sorry, Zeke,” Amanda murmured impulsively, sensing the pain that was as real in him as he’d said it was in Matt. She laid a gentle hand on his arm in an instinctive gesture of comfort. He looked down at her, smiled Matt’s smile, and patted her hand. And then both of them became aware of a tall figure looming behind them.

“Making advances to my girl, little brother?” Matt asked. His tone was light, but as Amanda and Zeke both started and turned a guilty look on him, his eyebrows knitted in the faintest of frowns. Those silvery eyes were keen as he surveyed them in turn.

“I acquit you of trying to steal my girl,” Matt said slowly, his eyes fixed on Zeke. “But the two of you are clearly up to something. Come on, brother, out with it. If you don’t, Amanda will. She’s the worst liar I’ve ever seen. She’s even worse than you.”

There was a taunt in his voice as he said that last. Zeke looked uncomfortable, and Amanda, feeling sympathy for a fellow habitual truth teller, stepped into the breach.

“We were deciding to be friends,” she said, tilting her chin defiantly as she looked Matt straight in the eye. “Just because you’re stubborn and mule-headed doesn’t mean Zeke has to be.”

Matt’s eyes widened fractionally. “Is that right?” he drawled as Zeke chuckled.

“She has you there, brother.” Zeke grinned, obviously not a whit disturbed by the frown Matt directed at him. “You are stubborn. And mule-headed. Only, I never thought to hear a little chit of a girl tell you so.”

Matt looked back at Amanda. She looked very small and slight as she stood there staring impudently up at him, her bright head barely reaching the top of his shoulder. For what must have been the thousandth time, he thought what a lovely thing she was, with her violet eyes and delicately carved face, pinkened now by the breeze, and the sun finding golden threads in the cascade of ruby curls. His stomach twisted as he looked at her, and his mouth was grimly set.

“You can go below,” he said shortly to Zeke, moving to take command of the wheel. “You need some sleep.”

“I’m fit,” Zeke protested. Matt silenced him with a look. Zeke pursed his lips, shrugged, and obediently went below.

“What were you and Zeke talking about?” Matt asked abruptly when he and Amanda were alone.

“Oh, nothing. Just . . . just this and that,” Amanda stammered, caught by surprise. A faint flush rose in her cheeks. She knew she must look guilty, and she also knew she could not betray what Zeke had told her in confidence. She decided to take the offensive, hoping it would throw him off the track.

“What do you suppose we were talking about, how to cause a mutiny?” she added tartly. Matt looked at her, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he retorted. “But I do trust Zeke.”

She bridled at the implication. But there was nothing surprising in that. After all, he thought she had betrayed him, made no bones about thinking so. He was a low-down, suspicious . . . She opened her mouth to tell him so, then remembered why he was the way he was. The image of that gangly fourteen-year-old crying for his mother superceded the reality of the tall, tough man who looked as though he’d never needed anyone in his life. Her harsh words were swallowed before she could speak them. She would win him with kindness, get him to trust her with love . . .

“Where are we headed?” she asked, changing the subject, although she had a fair idea of their destination.

“Home,” he said, confirming what she had thought. “New Orleans.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, wondering how best to penetrate his defenses to the man within the hard, distrustful shell. Finally she decided to ask the question that had been plaguing her for days.

“Why did you come back for me, Matt? Why are you taking me with you?” Her voice was soft, her eyes searching as they moved over his face. His mouth tightened, but the silvery eyes were mocking as they glanced down at her.

“Why do you imagine?” he asked musingly. “Because of your irresistible beauty, perhaps? Because I feared I wouldn’t be able to live without you?” He was mocking her. Amanda’s chin tilted at him, but she didn’t say anything. She was going to be kind and loving to him if it killed her. “It wasn’t either of those things, Amanda,” he continued softly. “I went back for you because we had—still have—some unfinished business. Business that I plan to finish before much longer.”

“You mean that you came for me because you wanted revenge.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That, and other things. You have a lovely body, Amanda. I had just started to teach it what pleasure’s all about. I wanted to feel it squirming beneath me, begging me to make it mine.”

He was trying to embarrass her, Amanda knew, but that did not stop the hot color from flooding her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled indignantly as she glared at him. Weeping fourteen-year-old or not, he was pushing her tolerance too far.

“Well, in that case, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I’ll never beg you to . . . you know. I don’t even like it particularly.”

His eyes narrowed, then he smiled. “Don’t you?

Well, I’ll just have to see what I can do about that, won’t I?”

Amanda fairly quivered with temper. “Chance is a fine thing,” she retorted, and turned her back on him, stalking away before he could reply. Because of course he knew as well as she did that he would have the chance, and there was nothing she could do to stop him from taking it. But at least she would make no secret about her lack of enjoyment. And as she stomped away down the stairs to the accompaniment of his low chuckles, all her good intentions of winning him to her with loving kindness were forgotten.

For the rest of the day Amanda was careful to keep well away from the quarterdeck and Matt. The weather was gorgeous, sunny and bright with just the hint of a breeze. Even to avoid Matt she refused to stay in his cabin. Besides, she reasoned, he would surely return for some much-needed sleep before too long, and she didn’t want to be there when he settled down for a rest. She had an uncomfortable suspicion that he wouldn’t think twice about taking her to bed with him.

She spent the afternoon on the poop deck, above the main afterdeck. Most of the men were sleeping, and the few who moved about ignored her. She was able to enjoy the day, at least, as long as she firmly banished any thoughts of Matt. Just imagining that tall, strong body and handsome face, not to mention the sneering smile that was its usual adornment lately, made her angry. And sad at the same time.

Without Matt’s handsome, if maddening, self to occupy her mind, her thoughts turned eventually to those she had left behind at the convent. What an uproar there must have been when she disappeared. What did they imagine had become of her? she wondered. Did they think that she had run away or perhaps even drowned herself in the bay rather than face marriage to Lord Robert? Amanda shook her head. Mother Superior and the other nuns, with the possible exception of Sister Boniface, who was always ready to think the worst of her, would never believe that she could be guilty of such a mortal sin. But Edward and Lord Robert did not know her quite so well. Amanda grinned as she pictured Lord Robert’s embarrassment if word should get about that she had drowned herself rather than become his bride. He would be furious at being made to appear so foolish. Then there was Edward. Amanda shivered as she thought of facing his anger. Fervently she hoped that he believed her dead. If he did not, he might try to find her. And the thought of what he might do to her if she came into his power again made her shiver despite the warmth of the day. How he would enjoy making her pay for ruining all his plans. But, then, she told herself bracingly, even if he did not believe her dead, he was hardly likely to look for her in New Orleans. He could have no notion that she had gone there, and with Matt . . .

Susan would be grief-stricken. Her friend knew her too well to believe that she would take her own life, but for a young woman of Amanda’s background and breeding, being on her own with no money and no one to come to her aid could be a fate almost worse than death. But she had no way to allay Susan’s fears—not now. Later, when they reached New Orleans, she would write and let Susan, and through her the nuns, know that she was alive and well. Although she wouldn’t be more specific than that. Not for anything in the world would she bring the authorities down on Matt’s head.

The sun had sunk below the horizon in a blaze of crimson glory, and a few stars had begun to twinkle in the darkening sky before at last, reluctantly, she decided to go below. She was cold and hungry now. With a start, she remembered that she had eaten nothing all day. At the realization, her stomach growled loudly in pained reproach.

The first thing she saw as she walked through the cabin door was Matt. He was stripped to the waist, turned away from her so that his scarred back was plainly visible. Amanda stared at those marks and felt a pain in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded her that, despite everything, she loved him. How had she, even for a few hours, forgotten that?

“I was about to come fetch you,” he said, turning to look at her as she leaned against the closed door. From the soap that obscured half his face, and the gleaming razor in his hand, Amanda realized that he was shaving. And if the energy he exuded was anything to go by, not to mention the rumpled bed-clothes and the half-filled hip bath.

“I was on the poop deck,” Amanda answered, glad she had learned the name from one of the sailors. The sight of that broad, hair-covered chest awoke sensations in her that she refused to analyze. Best not to dwell on them at all.

He smiled at her. Amanda stared at that smile. It was utterly charming, the sort he hadn’t bestowed on her since her supposed betrayal. Clearly he was up to something—but what?

“I know. I saw you. You don’t suppose you could disappear for the better part of a day without my coming to check on you? When I climbed up on the poop deck, you were happily engaged in conversation with Foster. I went back to work, but never think I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m surprised you bothered.” Amanda couldn’t control the caustic edge to her voice. He turned away from her, apparently no longer minding if she had an unimpeded view of his scars, and continued to shave.

“In that case you must have forgotten what I said about our unfinished business,” he replied softly. Amanda stiffened. She hadn’t forgotten, but she had hoped that he had—or at least that he’d just been tormenting her. But as she looked at the gleaming silver eyes in the small mirror he had hung from the wall, she realized that he was serious. He reminded her of a large dog eyeing a particularly juicy bone, one he had selected for his dinner.

“If that’s what you have in mind, I’ll leave,” she said coldly, and turned to suit the action to the words. But she had forgotten how quick he was. Before she could open the door, he was beside her, his hand on her arm spinning her away from it. Then, smiling at her evilly, he produced a large brass key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. Amanda heard the faint click of the lock and felt both excitement and anger as he withdrew the key and dropped it into his pocket with a mocking smile.

“No, you won’t.” Now that he had her securely trapped, he strolled back to the washstand and resumed shaving. “You’ll have a bath and then we’ll eat dinner. Then . . .” His eyes met hers in the mirror. She glared at him furiously; his eyes taunted and smoldered at the same time. He didn’t have to finish his sentence. His meaning couldn’t have been more obvious.

“I’m not going to . . . sleep with you,” she announced, the militant sparkle in eyes that had begun to darken to purple daring him.

“Not until much later, anyway,” he agreed smoothly, wiping the remnants of the lather from his face with a towel and turning to look at her. His lips twisted as he added, “What I have in mind has very little to do with sleeping.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do—but I don’t remember asking your permission. You’ll do as I say.”

“I won’t. You can’t make me.”

He eyed her lazily. “We both know I can—but I won’t. By the time I make love to you, you’ll be begging for it. And that’s a promise.”

“The hell I will.”

“Oh, you will—and don’t swear, Amanda. I’ve told you before, I don’t like it.”

“Isn’t that too damned bad?” He infuriated her. His mocking smile and air of confidence made her want to hit him over the head with the closest hard object. Unfortunately, if she gave in to that most worthy impulse, she had little doubt that he would retaliate, and that she would not enjoy whatever form his retaliation might take. So instead she chose to hurl words at him—words she knew perfectly well he disliked her to use. She hoped that her language would make him as angry as his arrogance made her.

“Has anyone ever washed your mouth out with soap, Amanda?” He was drawling, always a sure sign that she was ruffling his temper. Her eyes widened as she looked from him to the cake of soap he picked up from the washstand and tossed idly in one hand. He wouldn’t dare—would he? “I suggest you quit talking and get into the bath, Amanda. Otherwise I might be tempted to teach you who’s in charge—in more ways than one.”

There were several points in that speech that Amanda took exception to, but she decided to focus on the most tangible.

“I’m not about to provide a peep show for you. If you want me to bathe, then leave the room.”

His eyes narrowed. “We both know I could strip you in about two minutes flat and put you in that tub whether you liked it or not.” Amanda tilted her chin at him in silent defiance. “But, as it happens, I need to take a compass reading. If you’re quick, you can have your bath in privacy.”

Her muscles relaxed slightly. She had fully expected him to force her obedience. His unexpected concession disarmed her belligerence slightly, although she was still wary. He had stated that he meant to make love to her.

“Thank you.” Her words were stiff, and the eyes she ran over him were mistrustful. He was shrugging into a shirt. Perhaps he did mean to leave her alone to bathe.

He did. With a curt nod as his only reply to her muttered courtesy, he left the cabin. Amanda plainly heard the click of the lock as he secured the door after him.

Left alone, Amanda looked longingly at the bath. She felt filthy and, grimacing, realized she had not had a complete bath since the first night she had been brought aboard. And that had been nearly a week ago. More than anything in the world, she wanted to shed her clothes and slide into that warm water.

Matt might be waiting outside the door, waiting until a sound told him she had done just that before reentering, but that was a chance she would have to take. Besides, whatever else Matt might do, she didn’t think he would stoop to such a shabby maneuver. If he had wanted to watch her bathe, he would have stripped her himself and put her in the tub. That was much more his style.

It didn’t matter, anyway, Amanda told herself as she removed her clothes. Matt had seen—and more than seen—every centimeter of her skin. It was pride more than modesty that forbade her to undress in front of him. If he had loved her, it would have been different. But he obviously did not, and she refused to serve as an object for his passing amusement.

She was still wearing Matt’s shirt and breeches, and she had to struggle with the knot in the breeches before she could get them off. But at last she succeeded in working it loose; the breeches, with their too-big waistline, dropped around her feet. Amanda stepped free of them and slipped her chemise over her head. Then she stepped into the tub.

The water was faintly soapy from Matt’s earlier bath, and it had cooled until now it was no more than tepid. But still it felt marvelous. Amanda would have loved to have luxuriated in it, but there wasn’t time. Quickly she scrubbed her face, body, and hair, then rinsed off the soap. She was just stepping from the tub when the lock clicked faintly, and Matt entered the room.

He stopped for a moment on the threshold, his eyes darkening in a way that made her heart speed up. Then he stepped inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. Her hair hung around her like a deep crimson curtain, its water-darkness emphasizing the creamy pallor of her skin. Her eyes were a vivid purple as she stared at him, and her cheeks flooded with rosy color as his eyes traveled the length of her. Naked, she was more than beautiful: she was slender, alluring, graceful as a flower in the breeze. Her shoulders were narrow and fragile-looking above breasts whose girlish tautness caused them to tilt at him with natural provocation. A study in strawberry and cream . . . Her waist was tiny, and below it her hips curved in a way that was still more girl than woman but that he found utterly irresistible. He caught just a glimpse of the silky dark triangle of hair that hid the very essence of her femaleness before she snatched up a towel and covered herself. But that flimsy cloth did not prevent him from admiring the lines of shapely, slender thighs and calves, and perfectly modeled knees.

Amanda saw the blaze that kindled in his eyes as he stared at her, and swallowed, sure that he meant to catch her up in his arms and carry out his threat to make love to her. To her surprise he did not. Instead, after one final searing look at her legs, he turned away, crossing to the sea chest, where, on one knee, he rummaged through the contents. Eyeing his back warily, she dried herself as well as she could while still holding the towel in front of her, and was just reaching for the protection of her discarded shirt when he closed the lid on the chest, straightened, and turned back to her, moving toward her with quick strides.

“You won’t need that,” he said brusquely, indicating the shirt with one hand. Amanda looked at him doubtfully, clutching the shirt in one hand and holding the towel in front of her like a shield with the other. She mistrusted the look in his eyes. They were a dark gun-metal color, and they seemed to smolder . . .

“If you think . . .” she began, backing away. He shook his head, the gesture impatient, then held up his hand so that she could see what he was holding. It was a dressing gown of dark blue silk. From the size of it, it was clearly his. But somehow she had trouble picturing Matt wearing such a luxurious but unfunctional garment.

“I don’t think anything,” he said. “At least, none of the very vivid thoughts that I can see are running through your head at the moment. Put this on. I’m sure you’ll find it more comfortable—and certainly cleaner—than those ridiculous clothes you’ve been wearing for the past three days.”

Looking at him doubtfully, knowing he could read her every thought, she wondered if he had an ulterior motive in offering his dressing gown to her. But for the life of her she could not imagine what—unless it was simply that he found it hard to make love to a woman dressed in his own too-large and not overly clean clothes. She looked from the gleaming blue silk of the dressing gown, which he was holding out invitingly, to the crumpled and spotted linen shirt she still clutched in one hand—and cleanliness won out. She dropped the shirt and reached for the dressing gown.

Turning her back, she shrugged into it, not dropping the towel until she was safely covered. The silk felt cool and slithery against her bare skin. She didn’t notice how the dampness of her skin caused the thin material to cling to her in places, but Matt did. His eyes darkened even more as she turned back to him.

“Blue becomes you,” he said gruffly, eyeing her. She looked back at him, her expression uncertain as he bent suddenly to retrieve the towel from the floor. He was very close, not more than two feet away, and as usual when he was so near his sheer size took her by surprise. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. The breadth of his muscular shoulders and width of his chest dwarfed her. He straightened, towel in hand, and she took an instinctive step back. His other hand came out to grip her upper arm, not roughly but to keep her from moving farther away.

“It’s customary to say thank you for a compliment, Amanda.” His voice was grave. His eyes were grave, too, as he studied her. She was puzzled by his mood. He was no longer angry, no longer hostile, but he wasn’t the charming friend she had come to know and love, either. This man looked suddenly older, remote—except for the tiny flicker in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Amanda whispered. She looked up at him, her eyes searching every plane and angle of that handsome face. He met her eyes, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other silently. He opened his mouth as if to speak—and was interrupted by a quick knock at the door.

“Our dinner,” he said briefly, tossing the towel to her as he turned away to open the door. Amanda caught the towel, her eyes never leaving that broad back. She felt a terrible sense of disappointment, as if he had been on the verge of saying something important. His hand on the latch, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Although she didn’t know it, her eyes gleamed with hope and entreaty as she returned his look.

“Dry your hair,” was what he said, and Amanda could have cried with disappointment. She knew that was not what he had been about to say before the interruption. But it was too late; He was opening the door, allowing Timmy, the slight youth who served as cabin boy, into the room with his tray. Amanda stared at Matt helplessly as he exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the boy. Then she bent her head and began obediently to dry her hair.

There seemed nothing else to do.