Jennifer Horseman

by GnomeWonderland

  "What, love?" He lifted a plait of her long hair and brought it to his face, drinking the sweet maddening scent of it her. "What am I doing to you?" She searched his face, trying to ascertain if he teased or no. "You're scaring me so ... ."

  "Yes, I know. I know why, too, though I doubt if it's common knowledge between us." His hand fell to her waist with a caress as light as a breeze and yet her entire consciousness centered on the gentle knead of his fingertips through the cloth of her shirt. The movements of that hand suggested he toyed with the idea of untying the ribbon of her frock. She imagined it, briefly, against her better judgment; she closed her eyes and imagined the frock coming off and how he would kiss her as he changed her with the touch of his hands ....

  "Why do you think I scare you?"

  The thought vanished with his question, leaving a warm surge and a tightening constriction in her throat. He looked amused now, but she could no more stop what was happening than she could stop the sun from rising on the morrow. "I can't talk now. I want ... I want very much for you to let me go."

  Emotions passed through his eyes as he considered it, seeing at last she was putting him to a test. What a high price she wanted for her trust, too. He wanted her badly, in truth, he did not think he would last much longer even if she were to go to a faraway place on earth. Yet he wanted her trust as much, he kept having to remind himself over and over and over again. Clearly, he could not have both now.

  "I'll give you less than a minute to put some distance between us, love. Go on, get up." He cursed when he saw he had to say it twice. "Go on, love, before I change our minds."

  Within that minute, she had put herself through the door.

  With increasing irritation, Garrett saw the situation as playing court, Juliet was the princess and his men her knights, ever eager to pay her homage and surround her feet with their prizes. A daily roll of the dice determined which man would escort her on her daily walks, giving a sailing lesson as they went. Then came her endless questions: "Why are the fore and aft rigs hoisted on standing string lines?" "That's stay lines, love. Because—" Or, "Every one of your men, Garrett—the gunners, the top-men, even the boatswain and their mates—they each swear they have the most dangerous task. They said I might cast the final say during the next battle .... Over your dead, what?" Or, "What exactly does head mean, and where is it? Cosmo said it's the darkest place on board, that I shall never see the inside, and he thanked God for that. But then when I asked Gayle he said it was the quickest way to send a man to heaven, that I should be asking you about it. He thought you might show me if I asked nicely. Will you, Garrett? Why, he thought it was funny too!"

  Then in the afternoon, beneath a wide-rim sun hat, she adjourned to a chair on the main deck, with ten grown men vying for the prize of her attention. The odd thing of it was that nine voyages out of ten he brought a woman with him—the exceptions being when it was too dangerous to do so—but never had any of his other women solicited more than polite stares from his men. There she was each day, helping Pots cook, climbing the masts, ringing the ship's bell to the wild applause of his men, shouts that it was, "the best darn ring we ever had heard," learning stuff stitchery or chalking and scraping oakum and pounding it into the sides of the hull, all the while listening to the most outrageous sea stories.

  Today proved no different. As Garrett stepped out onto the quarterdeck, arguing with Kyle, he stopped, hearing the sound of her laughter. He stepped to the rail and looked down onto the main deck. She sat in her chair with a sail draped over her lap, laughing as Bailey, Heart, and Wilbur taught her to mend a sail with roping stitches, using the seam rubber. The girlish sound of her laughter went through him like the caress of a siren's song, holding him for a moment mesmerized by the pull it made of his desire. She had changed. Freed from Stoddard's cruel abuse, and given Gayle's secret to happiness, she blossomed beneath the touch of the wind and the sun, the lull of the waves, the friendly attention of his men.

  He cursed, turning away. It was becoming alarming, this thing, and he was getting tired of it. Interrupting Kyle's argument midsentence, Garrett jumped down to the main deck and picked up the horn to yell to the topmen, hanging midair to hoist a sail, "I said square rigging!"

  "Aye, but-"

  "One more 'aye, but' from my sergeant marines, and I'll see if I can do without them! And who the hell is that in the lubber's hole up there? Johnson? Step smart, man! Jesus! I ought to strip rank for that pansy foot I see there." He stormed off, heading for the hold, Kyle jumping down to follow.

  "I'm only asking for you to give him a chance—"

  "Christ, he's not yet twenty, four voyages from green and you want to see him as armorer? Hell, he's lucky he's on board, yet alone climbing my ranks . . . ."

  "What's wrong with him?" Juliet whispered as Garrett and Kyle passed. "He seems so upset about things lately. Argumentative and, and upset."

  The men stared at her, sharing the same knowledge. With a wink at his friends, Bailey thought to explain: "He's sufferin' from ah ... ah, an affliction."

  "An affliction?" Juliet looked all concern. "What affliction?"

  "Ah . . . blue balls. Aye. Blue balls, that's it."

  "Blue . . . balls? I've not heard of that before."

  " Tis a man's complaint, lass. Garrett's never had it before, not that any of us have seen, but he's got it now and bad."

  Juliet studied the faces around her, waiting for more to be said. All gazes seemed distracted. "Well, what does it affect?"

  "Affect? Well . . . ah, it affects his reasoning and his tempers, as you just saw. Can't see through the—"

  "Pain?" Juliet supplied anxiously.

  "Aye, can't see through the pain."

  "Oh my! Is there a cure?"

  Bailey pretended solemnity. Heart found a sudden need to quit the gathering. Wilbur found the top sails an object of fascination. "Aye, there's a cure, an age-old one that's been workin' since the dawn of time."

  "What is it? Why doesn't he take it?"

  "Well . . . You see, he's got it in his mind that the cure would be worse than the affliction."

  "Oh . . . some cures are terrible—jalap root or any of the demulcents, really. Poor Garrett," she said with genuine concern. "He's never said a word to me .... Does it last long?"

  "Well now, that depends . . ."

  Oh, all ye gallant sailor lads, don't ever be dismayed,

  Nor let your foes in battle think that you're afraid, Those bastard sons do tremble when our cannon

  they do roar, We'll take or fight or burn them all and drive them onto shore, And a privateering we shall go!

  Gayle kicked open Garrett's door, following Prince and Juliet inside. Juliet stopped singing last, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkened space she saw what the two young men stared at. A single candle set on the floor lit the room. Wearing only loose breeches, Garrett sat in an unusual cross-legged position on the floor, staring off at the candle.

  "What are you doing?" she had asked the first time she had seen him doing that, several days ago.

  "Meditating."

  "Meditating? What is that?"

  "A method of clearing your mind of unpleasant or disruptive thoughts. It's a practice of certain religions in the Orient and India. Would you like me to show you how?"

  The practice had seemed vaguely suspicious, like the use of occult medicines, and she had shaken her head.

  She was certain it was un-Christian. The very air surrounding him seemed to crackle with a force, an energy, a thing she didn't understand but a thing that made her ask: "Is it magic?"

  "Yes, magic indeed."

  She felt it now. A strange energy, emanating from his person, wrapped around her like flame circles a log. An unspoken understanding passed between Gayle and Prince. They set the dinner tray down and without a word left her alone in the room.

  Ridiculous, she was being ridiculous. Swallowing her fear, Juliet quietly went about setting the table as Garrett rose, placed the candle on the t
able and went about lighting the lamps. Pots said they were to dine alone tonight. Why should that alarm her? Especially considering that she wanted to be alone with Garrett to ask about the things Pots had told her. They were not often alone together, as if they had both agreed it was not a wise idea. She had nothing to fear anymore, though—

  "Ah, I see we're alone tonight," was all he said as he came over, holding out her chair.

  Juliet met his gaze, trying to ascertain the sentiment behind the casual comment. He seemed to speak without words, the way he stared, as if he could see right through her skin to her very soul. How very strange she felt! Nervous and strange, her heart and pulse signaling alert and—"Garrett, how . . . how did you do that?"

  "Do what, love?"

  "Light the candle without . . . with, with the touch of your finger?"

  "Indeed? Don't tell me you believe in magic, do you, love?"

  His gaze laughed at her confusion and she blushed. He was teasing her, she told herself. A clever trick, though she could not for her life guess how 'twas done.

  "Love, you're blushing again."

  "Am I?" she asked too quickly, as she sat in the chair he held out for her. As Garrett sat down and began serving, she tried to calm down, feeling confused. She should be used to feeling confused around him, alone or not. If only there was someone she could talk to about the confused tangle of her feelings for Garrett, someone to help her make sense of it. "I'm thirsty."

  He poured her some water and she drank it greedily. Anyone would be confused, she supposed. Not long ago—a handful of days, really—she felt an anger for him so fierce the emotion could not be separated from hate. She had dwelt upon all the injustices and abuses she endured at his hands, the things he did and the things he said, to a point of near madness. Yet since the day he changed his mind and, therefore, her fate, her animosity had disappeared, vanishing in a moment, and now it was gone.

  How could it just disappear like that?

  The apparent capriciousness of her feelings drove her as mad as the anger once had. She tried to remember the worst: the knife and his strength, and when he cruelly— nay, viciously—used her outburst to force her to his bed again, but while she felt a montage of sensations upon remembering this—plenty of shame, embarrassment, and humiliation—there was no longer any anger.

  "Who do you belong to? Say it, love, I want to hear you say my name. . . ."

  Her gaze shot to Garrett, as if he had spoken the words in her mind out loud again. The handsome face seemed impassive but his eyes were smiling. He could not know what she was thinking! He could not.

  She tried to swallow but couldn't. She reached a hand to her face to brush back stray wisps of hair before reaching for her goblet again. "I feel so ... so warm," she said, and adding credibility to the complaint, she fanned her face.

  Again that look, the knowing smile in his eyes. He motioned with his head to Tonali, that was all, a slight nod of his head. Tonali rose and obediently went to the door. Juliet stared in astonishment as Tonali slipped his paw between the door and door frame, pushing it open.

  A warm gentle breeze blew through the open door.

  "How . . . how did you do that?"

  "Do what, lpve?"

  She just stared until her gaze fell to her bowl of soup. What was the matter with her? The cat was smart but not that smart. Tbnali was just an animal. Tonali did not understand words or read Garrett's mind. Why, Tonali was the only living soul on board who didn't obey Garrett's commands! He had just been hot himself and had opened the door, that's all. A coincidence . . .

  She tried to settle her mind. Impossible. All she could think of was that they were alone, dining by candlelight, that it frightened her, the way he looked at her, that at any moment he might reach over and kiss her, and when

  he kissed her—

  She touched her lips, shifting with discomfort, only to hear Garrett suddenly chuckle. "Why . . . why are you laughing?"

  "Do you really want to know, Juliet?" Their eyes met and locked, the key tossed away. She had no idea how the soft-spoken question was a threat, but it was. She did not want to know what he was thinking. She shook her head, certain now she was going mad. It was just that she was so conscious of him, his nearness, the strange, taunting light in his eyes.

  Think of Tomas! Think of how he smiled, of how easy it was to read his thoughts. Why, she never once had to guess what he was thinking! Think of getting married, the warmth of Tomas's arms, of their lovely home and the children they would have—

  Garrett swore softly under his breath as he set his goblet down with an angry clink, startling her. Her eyes shot up. The look on his face instantly subdued her. She reached a gentle hand to him. "Oh Garrett, is it bothering you?"

  Conscious of her touch, his gaze fell to her small white hand gently laid against his forearm. That poor mangled finger would always remind him of her harsh reality, a thing rarely straying far from his consciousness and the only thing that could temper this monster made of his desire. The only thing that could break the spell. "Is what bothering me, love?"

  "Your affliction?"

  Abruptly, the air lightened and though he looked at her with curiosity, he simultaneously called Polly to his shoulder. The bird came immediately, and as he served the stew he watched her break a piece of the bread for his bird. "What affliction?"

  Concern appeared in her eyes. "You don't have to pretend for me, Garrett. Bailey and Heart told me all about it."

  He looked at her curiously. "All about what?"

  Juliet's voice came in a soft whisper of sympathy, "Your blue balls."

  The ladle dropped with a clatter to his plate. "My what?"

  "Your blue balls. Are you in very much pain now?"

  Garrett stared for a long incredulous moment. A widening grin spread across his features, followed by a hearty chuckle, but as his mind's eye produced the echo of her concern—her sincerity and sympathy—his laughter became a great long-winded roar.

  She stared, dumbfounded. "Why . . . what could possibly be amusing about your affliction?"

  He tried unsuccessfully to stop laughing. At least Leif wasn't here to hear this, he'd never hear the end of it. "Ah, love, it's hard to explain . . . exactly."

  "Are you?"

  He tried to calm down a bit. "Am I what, love?"

  "Are you in pain?"

  "Not as much as Bailey and Heart will be."

  Alarm quickly replaced her concern. "Oh, please don't be mad that they told me about-it. I practically forced it out of them. But oh, Garrett, why don't you take the cure?"

  "The cure?" A dark brow lifted with interest, a smile followed. "Just what did they tell you about the cure?"

  "That it always worked, but that you had it in your mind that the cure was worse than the affliction—"

  "I think I've heard enough. Believe me, love, I'll be more than willing to take the cure when the elements are, ah, favorable. Let's not dwell on it now. It can only make things worse."

  She nodded, then found herself returning his smile, an amused, somehow tender smile that—if it were possible—felt like a warm caress. Silence came between them, broken as she felt enough at ease to ask, "Pot's says we'll be in port on the morrow, the next day at the latest."

  "An optimistic but possible prediction."

  He offered nothing more. She knew better than to inquire further about how long after port before they would set off for England again. Garrett seemed so ... so uncommunicative tonight. Normally he was an arresting, ever so engaging storyteller and conversationalist. Should she wait to ask him?

  Pots had told her Garrett had been married before. "Garrett's a widower?" she had almost gasped.

  "Aye, that 'e is lass."

  "Oh my ... he never spoke of it before—"

  "Lass, let me tell you something about Garrett. The man has as many different facets as the Canterbury Tales. You could spend a lifetime studying him, finding a different angle, discovering a new piece to the puzzle of his life
each time you turn a page. God's teeth, but half the crew—nearly all learned men," this point was emphasized with a wave of a long shiny carving knife —"well, half of them swear Garrett has magic, that he's, deny it or not, an honest-to-God sorcerer—"

  "Oh honestly! That's just silly. He's just like anyone else."

  "Aye, perhaps, but I've seen with my own eyes . . . Ah well, never mind. Anyway, the point is ..."

  Realizing she stared like a simpleton, she looked away, abruptly self-conscious. She took another sip of water, her curiosity tickling her unmercifully. "Garrett, Pots told me you're widowed?"

  He nodded. There was no surprise; it was as if he had been waiting for her to ask. "Yes, it's true."

  "I'm so sorry. You never told me."

  "Ah, love, it's a sad thing to lose someone you care for like that. And then Lucinda was a tragic person. It's still hard to talk of, though I've pretty much put it behind me. My grief and anger have turned to understanding, and now, finally, only the fond memories paint my feelings."

  Compassion filled her eyes, followed by irrepressible feminine curiosity. "What was she like?"

  "What was she like? Dear Lord, what can one say about Lucinda? May her soul rest in peace, though peace and Luce are like oil and water; they simply never mixed. She was wild and I was young. Only in retrospect do I see how awfully I would have regretted my marriage had she survived."

  Surprise lifted on her face. "You were unhappy?"

  "Not in the beginning. I was only nineteen then and I suppose even wilder than I am now. She was many years older, twenty-seven when we met, but I fell in love the moment my eyes found her, and I think I was forever changed. Our marriage had been arranged by my mother long before I met her—"

  "Really?"

  "As it is with most young people, as it probably should be. And it did look like a good match on paper. Lucinda had a pedigree going back to the Tudors and crossing the Hanovers, a thing that in those days pleased my mother. Luce had married the duke of Windsor, a man forty years her senior, who soon—predictably—left her a widow. She inherited a wealth of lands but almost no income properties. So she desperately needed my money."