Sea of Ruin

by Pam Godwin

  If I succeeded in bedding him, I would be betraying the husband who betrayed me. The thought made me sick because, God confound me, I still loved the king of libertines.

  But if I did nothing, I would hang. I would die. It wasn’t the best option.

  If Priest were here, I knew what he would say.

  The crazy son of a bitch would tell me to lie, steal, cheat, maim, kill, or fuck whomever I needed to stay alive.

  As I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep, I heard his growly Welsh accent in my ear.

  Survive, my love. No matter what.

  “Ow!” I yanked the needle from the pad of my finger and stuck the bleeding appendage in my mouth.

  My frustration with sewing had been mounting all day, but I refrained from tossing the nearly finished garment off the balcony.

  I’d woken this morning alone and hadn’t seen anyone except the young soldier who delivered my meals. Wherever Ashley spent his waking hours, it wasn’t here.

  But he’d been ever-present in my mind.

  As I measured, cut, and stitched in the chair at his tidy desk, I ruminated the art of intimacy. Touching, kissing, undressing, drawing him into my body… I imagined licentious scenarios in every combination of positions I’d seen performed in cities, gutters, and taverns.

  Of course, I had my own experiences with Priest and others to draw on, but I was rusty. And after Priest’s betrayal, I lacked the confidence I once had.

  Was I still desirable? If I were, would Priest have strayed?

  I powered through the negative thoughts and conceived a fantasy where Ashley devoted himself to the service of a lady pirate, where he wanted me beyond all else and became my professed lover. As my fingers worked the sewing needle, my mind erected illusions of us naked, entangled, licking, whispering, caressing, and rutting day and night.

  Immersed in my carnal imagination for hours, I allowed myself to feel every reaction—fear, trepidation, doubt, denial, acceptance, hunger, pleasure—until I became…not jaded. I could never become hardened to a man’s touch, and when it happened with Ashley, I would experience all these feelings again. But I mentally prepared myself for it as best as I could.

  I came to terms with the role I would play as Ashley’s prisoner-turned-lover.

  Now I just needed my hands to follow my head.

  Returning my attention to the garment on my lap, I finished the final touches.

  Stays were the foundation of a woman’s total look. Whether I went on to knit the fashionable undress of a servant or the stifling gown of the gentry and middling sorts, I had to start with this essential piece.

  The boned body was necessary to achieve an elongated torso, cinched waist, and encased bosom. Since I’d worn these contraptions most of my life to support my back and breasts, I’d learned how to make them from scraps.

  For the boning, I used narrow strips of pasteboard—thanks to the thick paper I’d found in Ashley’s desk. If he’d needed those drawings, he should have been more explicit.

  You will fashion a proper wardrobe for yourself before you leave these quarters.

  Every time I repeated his command in my head, I grew more irritated. So much so, I raided his armoire, too.

  The fine silk of his shirts provided a lovely exterior to cover the stays. And since he owned more gold-embroidered blue frocks than any man required, I tore apart some of those.

  The brocaded fabric, with its soft textures, voluminous pleats, and vivid blue dye, would constitute a bodice and skirt that I would later sew together.

  It was a lot of work for a single informal gown. But I refused to sit in this cabin for the next month and be petulant about it.

  Pushing back the chair, I rose to my feet and wrapped the stays over the shirt I’d donned this morning. Priest’s shirt. Since it draped my smaller frame like a shift, the folds of white linen gathered marvelously beneath the bone body.

  I left the laces of Priest’s shirt open on my chest and cinched the front closure of the stays. To achieve a proper fit, however, the undergarment required a second pair of hands. That would come later.

  Returning to the needle and thread, I tackled the skirt.

  As the lemon-yellow sun made its descent to the western horizon, I toiled away, my gaze flitting to the windows, my ears perked for the sounds of an approaching ship.

  Hope was a dangerous investment. I couldn’t control Priest’s decisions or the outcome of my faith in him. I could only govern my own actions, right here, right now.

  Woman’s work.

  I sighed. Within three or so days, I would have a functional gown and thenceforth a ticket out of this cabin.

  With my head down and another finger bleeding, I lost myself in the task. As dusk mantled the chamber in darkness, I lit the lanterns and pushed on.

  Around two bells of the first dog watch, the exterior door opened. From my position behind the desk, I glimpsed the same young soldier setting the evening meal on the table in the dining cabin.

  The hearty aroma of baked meat and vegetable lobscouse reached my nose, beckoning me to eat. And I would, after I finished this hem.

  Bent over the fabric, I wove the thread in a steady rhythm, listening to the departing footfalls of the soldier. The door shut. Silence settled in. But something niggled.

  I looked up and gasped as my gaze tumbled into the gulf of Ashley’s dark blue eyes. He stood a cabin away, watching me from the dining table, with his hat pinned beneath his elbow.

  Honest to God, he had the smoothest brow and hardest expression of any aristocrat. And with such an innocent-looking face? Remarkable.

  Perhaps it was the wide, pillowlike fullness of his pink lips. Or the large, round, ocean color of his eyes. Or that perfect, youthful skin that had not a freckle nor a blemish nor a whisker upon it.

  His black hair, trimmed by a meticulous hand, fell in tousled, windblown lengths on the crown of his head. It faded perfectly into shorter, more tamed strands on the sides, defying the expectations of his exalted rank and stature.

  Longer locks were a status symbol while thinning hair and baldness came with great humiliation. Most noblemen opted to spend a gross amount of coin on bombastic, powered perukes—yet another scheme to flaunt wealth.

  But Ashley had been blessed with thick natural hair, the confidence to show it off, and the resources to keep it trimmed.

  Today he wore a white cravat about his neck and a black waistcoat over the silk shirt. His usual blue frock stretched across his shoulders, matching the blue of the fabric I was hemming.

  As his eyes widened with the realization of what I’d done, I held my breath, anxious to finally coax a reaction from his impassive mien.

  Wait for it… Wait for it… Any second now he would turn crimson and explode.

  He slowly set the hat aside. Then his buckled shoes started moving, carrying him toward me with even, resolute steps. With a sluggish exhale, I set the needle and unfinished skirt on the desk and folded my hands on my lap, my gaze never leaving his.

  “Explain this.” He paused beside me and pressed a finger against the plundered fabric of my sewing project.

  “Have you forgotten who I am?” I tilted my head, smiling sweetly. “I raid and thieve wealthy arseholes for personal gain.”

  “Wretched pirate.” His hand twisted into a fist, and he yanked it behind him, his posture as straight as his face. “You were given more than enough fabric to complete the task.”

  “I was given coarse, unflattering worsted.” I grabbed a handful of the itchy wool he wanted me to use and tossed it at him. “I don’t see a stitch of this nonsense scratching your precious behind.”

  “You deliberately defied me.”

  “I did what you asked. Do you know how difficult that is for me?”

  “No.” He bit out the syllable, pulsing his chiseled nostrils. “Tell me.”

  I drew my head back, surprised by the command, and recovered quickly. “When I was a child, my mother wanted me to be a harpist. She thought the s
kill would invite an agreeable betrothal.” I slumped in the chair as ancient guilt crept into my shoulders. “During my first harp lesson, I demolished the elegant instrument and used the strings as fishing line.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to fish in the pond with the stable boy. That was what nourished my child’s heart. Not blindly following orders.” I lowered my eyes to the unfinished gown. “Conforming to the standards of others goes against everything that I am.”

  “I shall presume your mother never received an offer for your hand.”

  “Unfortunately, she did. Unfortunate for him. I broke the betrothal when I opened his bowels with my knife.”

  He regarded me, unblinking. Following an eternal moment, a small crease formed between his eyes. “You’re not jesting, are you?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “When we arrive in England, you can add the murder of the Marquess of Grisdale to my list of crimes.”

  “This was the lord with the unwelcome prick?”

  “The same.”

  He drifted closer, leaning over me. His hand lifted slowly, stuttering my breath. Fingertips rested against my neck, so soft, so barely there I strained to feel the ghostly touch.

  “Where did you get this?” His hand curled around the stone at my throat.

  “I stole it.”

  “And this?” He pinched the linen of Priest’s shirt, where it lay against my clavicle. “Who did this belong to?”

  “The man I stole it from. I didn’t catch his name.”

  I’d come aboard this ship wearing only two things. Something that belonged to my father and something that belonged to my husband. Sometimes I was so accidentally sentimental it was a wonder I’d survived this long.

  His gaze swept over the desk, finding the drawings I’d destroyed to make the boning of the stays.

  “Should I possess a harp,” he said, “I now know to lock it up.”

  “And the bristle brush you use on your teeth.” I gave him a toothy smile, flashing my sparkling white enamel. “Unless you don’t mind me borrowing it again.”

  “You have no shame.”

  “None at all.”

  He had no anger. No emotion. But he must have felt something. He was a thinking, calculating man of intellect. It concerned me that I couldn’t read him.

  “Now you should allow me to ask you some questions.” I raised my chin.

  “Come with me.” He turned on his heel and strode into the dining cabin.

  Curious, I padded after him.

  At the table, he pulled out a chair for me. I moved to sit, but he blocked my path, his eyes fixed on the loose ties of my stays.

  I didn’t have to follow his gaze to feel my chest spilling from the low-cut neckline. The exposure had been by design.

  As I opened my mouth to ask for his assistance, his fingers beat me to it, latching onto the laces between my breasts. Then he yanked. Hard. The stays constricted, cutting my air. He pulled harder until I thought my ribs would crack.

  I sucked in my torso and adjusted to the girding pressure, watching his expression, searching for a flush, a heated look, a bobbing throat.

  Nothing.

  He secured a knot between my breasts, making the stays impossibly close and tight. Strait-laced. Then he patted the surface of the table, willfully mute.

  I stared at the gesture, confused.

  “Bend over. Face down.” He tapped the surface again. “Just here.”

  “My lord?” My heart rate quickened. “Surely, you don’t mean to—”

  “You ransacked my personal effects, ruined my clothing, and destroyed my drawings.” He folded his hands behind him, shoulders squared. “Despite your childish games, I should hope you have arrived at an accurate conclusion.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your romantic plans to instigate my ire will not come to fruition.”

  “Yes, you’ve fallen short of expectations. But honestly, Ashley, you must learn to share your feelings for this relationship to work.”

  “What…” He breathed in, out. “What relationship?”

  “Our captor-captive relationship.” I narrowed my eyes.

  “Indeed. I was just getting to that.” He pointed his chin at the table. “Bend over, if you please. We can do this with your arms free or bound behind you.”

  “This?” My pulse rammed like a sledge in my ears. “What—?”

  In a blur, his hand stabbed into my hair, fingers clenching in the curls at my scalp and yanking my head back.

  “Listen carefully, Goldilocks.” He forced my eyes to meet his tyrannical glare, his voice chillingly absent of storm or wind. “I will not give you the reaction you seek. But I will always make good on your punishment.”

  I didn’t need the higher learning of a titled lord to comprehend his meaning. Not with my cunt still swollen from last night’s smiting.

  Reaching back, my shaking fingers closed around the hand in my hair, and I felt the trembling in him, too.

  He was shaking. I hadn’t invented that reaction nor the hunger pulsing in his gaze. He wanted this. Not just to maintain order. The thought of reddening my backside aroused him.

  A shiver ran along my spine and curled into my belly.

  “No restraints.” I wet my lips, my eyes watering from the smarting pain in my skull. “I’ll obey.”

  His hand vanished. My knees turned to liquid, and I stumbled against the table.

  The humiliation from a spanking would hurt more than the physical blows. But with his hand in contact with my arse, there would be a measure of intimacy in that. A step in the right direction.

  “How many prisoners have you spanked, Commodore?” I folded at the waist and braced my elbows on the table, holding his gaze over my shoulder.

  “None.” He stepped behind me and kicked my feet apart, staggering the rhythm of my breaths. “Arms over your head.”

  My skin heated, and a shiver of uncertainty invaded my nerves. But I did as ordered, sliding my hands across the table and bringing my chest and cheek to the wooden surface. The position prevented me from looking at him, but I felt him everywhere. His muscled heat, commanding presence, penetrating gaze on my bottom…

  He lifted the weight of my hair to the side. Then a firm finger touched the base of my skull. From there, it trailed down my spine, over the stays, and pressed low, forcing me into a deeper arch.

  His other hand rested on the back of my thigh, the heat of it seeping through the thin linen and making me quake. I didn’t want him to know how easily I responded to his touch, but my body didn’t understand the wisdom in discretion.

  My flesh rose in prickling bumps like the skin of a plucked goose. Noisy gasps heaved from my chest. Tremors danced up and down my legs, shivering the muscle beneath his hand.

  Beyond the open door of the balcony, the distant thunder of waves rumbled on the horizon. Wood creaked with the rolling of the warship. And behind me, masculine breaths grew deeper, louder.

  “Do you like what you see?” I closed my eyes and ordered my limbs to relax.

  “I never imagined,” he murmured, “that a view could pertain to the sense of touch. Yet when I look at you, I don’t just see beauty. I feel it.”

  The compliment shocked my eyes open as each word sank beneath my breastbone and saturated the spot where I was the softest and easiest to injure.

  “Seeing you like this…” He shifted, leaning along my side and taking in my form. “It’s a feeling of such…relief. Like stepping into the rain after years of drought.” His gaze strolled along the length of my body, his voice deepening. “The untamed serenity in it, soft as velvet, gentle waves of perfect beauty, glistening with life. One look is a shower that washes the senses anew.”

  I didn’t know if he was talking about the rain or me, but I clung to his voice, to the pledge in it. For a man who didn’t express his feelings, he could enslave a woman’s emotions through language alone.

  If this was a maneuver to knock me off-balance, he wasn’t failing
. Every wistful particle of my being was on its way to believing.

  He straightened and removed his frock. It fell over a nearby chair. His waistcoat followed. Then the fabric on my backside slid upward, exposing me from the waist down.

  His breathing altered, and I felt everything inside me accelerate. He was inspecting me, staring hard at my squirming bare arse.

  “Don’t move.” His hoarse command scratched my ears, restraining me without rope or iron.

  Through layers of nothing but thinning air, he rubbed his gaze against me, taking his time, stirring me up. Christ, he was a master at this—dominating a woman without so much as a touch.

  Shivers of anticipation sprung from each passing second he made me wait. I delighted in the moment, pierced with the thrill of danger as I strained to hear him, see him, and feel his punishment light up my skin.

  His patience shocked me with wonder. I imagined he fought battles at the helm of this ship with the same hard, enduring stillness. I fell so deeply entranced by it that I wasn’t ready when the atmosphere shifted.

  His strike came like deafening thunder, his heavy, unrelenting hand crashing across my buttocks and shaking the dishes on the table. I cried out, stunned senseless, breathless, and burning from cheek to bone.

  Before I could manage a gulp, he swung again, setting fire to my entire world.

  And he’d only just begun.

  Over the past seven years, I’d been beaten violently by enemies and spanked sensually by lovers. Ashley’s strikes slammed through those extremes, erased the line between pain and pleasure, and crashed straight into war.

  Most of the blows landed so hard I couldn’t squeak out a breath. Others caused my body to brutally flinch beneath the agony as a ballad of vulgarity roared from the back of my throat.

  Fewer were the hits that teased stings of pleasure. Those were the ones that made me hate myself for responding as though I were made for his touch.

  I didn’t want him, but I needed to give him a glimpse of the possibility. I needed to embed the seed in his mind and make him wonder what intimacy with me might feel like.

  It wasn’t an easy ledge to balance on, but it was easy to close my eyes and forget whose hand punished my flesh.