She spun around, delighting in her lighter costume and spied the breeches on her bed. She held them up to her waist and determined that they would fit—if she ever had the courage to don them. She shook her head as she quickly folded them up and placed them on the bundle of her gown. She couldn’t imagine a time she would need such a garment.
Making her way up the stuffy passage, she climbed the steep staircase easily. She was relieved to have regained her sea legs so quickly. On the voyage from London, she’d been a stumbling clutz for nearly a week.
Once on deck she saw that they were well out to sea, Antigua just a speck behind them, only open ocean to be seen in every direction. Again, she was reminded of the trip from London. Then the knowledge that their tiny ship was surrounded by fathoms of cold, dark water had had her on edge the entire time. She had always been conscious of being such a fragile spot amidst the endless miles of unforgiving sea.
Now, however, the sight filled her with a sense of freedom, of promise. She looked around at the ship, a vessel much smaller than the one on which she’d sailed last year, wondering why she should feel so different.
Her gaze landed on Ford and she realized the answer instantly: he was the reason. She felt safe, felt invincible, really. From the moment he’d found her in his warehouse, she’d known no harm would come to her.
She watched him as he conferred with Odysseus at the wheel. He’d removed his jacket and necktie and his crisp linen shirt billowed in the wind. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms rippled with muscles. His shirt was open at the neck, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of throat and chest. The rippling fabric was tucked into close-fitting breeches, slung low on trim hips.
Josephine felt a delicious tightness suffuse her body. She felt pulled to this man like she’d never felt drawn to anyone or anything in her life. She wondered if he would kiss her again, desperately hoped he would. She didn’t know if she was bold enough to initiate such an embrace, but she vowed that if the opportunity presented itself, she would take it. She’d left one vile man and shot another, for heaven’s sake. Surely kissing a good man should take less courage.
Chapter Eleven
Ford knew the moment Josephine stepped on deck. It might have been the flash of red at the corner of his eye, or the way Odysseus glanced up with raised brows, but Ford suspected he simply sensed her presence in his very skin.
He turned slowly, anticipating the moment he saw her. When he did finally see her, he felt the breath leave his body.
The wind had picked up and it tugged strands of her inky dark hair loose from the low knot at the back of her head. He envied the silken strands as they licked at her jaw, her lips, the long, elegant sweep of her neck.
It was then that he noticed the clothes he had bought her. The wind also tugged at the blouse and skirts, molding them to her body, outlining curves normally confined and molded by a corset and petticoat, and all the other restrictive trappings of English fashion.
The soft curve of her breast, so clearly outlined by the soft muslin made Ford’s mouth go dry and he forced himself to turn back to Odysseus to finish discussing their course. He had no idea what the first mate said, however, and after a moment the normally taciturn man surprised him by smiling.
“I like her,” he said in his thick, Slavic accent. “You should go to her before I decide to steal her from you.”
Odysseus’s words were as surprising as his rare smile. He and his first mate had sailed together for more than four years and Ford wasn’t even quite sure the man would refer to him as a friend: Odysseus had never admitted to liking anyone, much less implied a flirtatious inclination toward the fairer sex.
Ford wanted to make some witty remark about Odysseus’s romantic streak, or say something that downplayed his own obvious attraction to Josephine, but instead, he found himself nearly leaping from the poop deck to the main and crossing in rapid strides to reach her.
He should have offered a greeting, inquired after her health; for those who rarely sailed, seasickness was often worse on the second day. He should at least compliment how well she looked and ask if she liked what he’d chosen.
Instead, he simply gazed at her. She returned the look steadily, a shy smile curving her mouth. He felt a grin tug at his own lips and he suppressed the urge to lean down and kiss her there in front of everyone. Finally, after what would have been an awkward silence with anyone but her, he said, “You were right.”
Her brow crinkled in confusion.
“Red is your color.”
“Oh!” she laughed. “I don’t know about that. I’d just never worn it before and I just…wondered, I suppose.”
“You should wear more bold colors. They suit you,” he finished. It was true. With her dark hair and light blue eyes, red was a perfect counterpoint color. He could also imagine her in brilliant purple, perhaps emerald green.
She chewed on her lower lip a moment before saying, “I think I fell into the habit of wearing more muted colors so as not to draw attention to myself.”
He suspected he knew why she had wanted to disappear, but before he could say anything, she continued.
“It didn’t work, of course. Trying to hide from him. From Kent.” She said his name as if it were a bitter pill in her mouth. “I could have worn a gown of the same fabric that covered the walls of the sitting room and he would have found a reason to…criticize me.”
Ford knew the word “criticize” had a wealth of meaning.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It—I, I know,” she said, her gaze dropping, her voice low.
He frowned and reached to touch her arm before stopping, letting his hand drop.
“Josephine,” he said, infusing as much urgency into his voice as possible. She looked up, surprised.
“Nothing you suffered at the hands of that man was your fault.”
“I know. He was so exacting, I never lived up to his expectations. I tried at first—”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you were perfect. A man like that uses criticism to control others. To exorcise his demons on someone more vulnerable.”
Jo stared at him wide-eyed, tears welling in her eyes. He watched her blink rapidly to dispel them before they dropped.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said as fiercely as he could without raising his voice.
A startled sob escaped her and she took a deep breath before saying, “Thank you. I—no one else has told me that. I knew it, or I wanted to believe it, but hearing someone else say it seems to make it real. Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does.” He guided her to the gunwale, positioning his body to block her from the curious gazes of his crew.
“Didn’t your brother—”
“Oh, Theo welcomed me with open arms! He was horrified, of course, to hear of the treatment I received at Kent’s hands, but he seemed to feel that it was best to avoid discussing it.”
He could hear the edge of resentment in her voice. “Perhaps he was ashamed.”
“What?” she exclaimed.
“Perhaps he felt guilty that he did not protect you from Kent. Perhaps it is easier for him to avoid thinking about it.”
He could tell she had considered the idea. He also knew that though such knowledge might ease her feelings toward her brother, her own wounds were still raw, and he continued, “Nonetheless, he should have thought of you first. He should have assured you that you were brave and strong to survive years with that man. He should have told you how proud he was of you to come through on the other side.”
A look of wonderment crossed her face. “He should have!” she agreed.
He smiled at her, the urge to swing her up in his arms so strong that he had to clasp his hands behind his back.
“I would like to kiss you.”
The words were so exactly what he’d been thinking that it took him a moment to realize that he hadn’t said them. When she clasped a hand to her mouth, he realized she had uttered the words. It was like
a match to the kindling of his desire.
He took her hand and said, “Come with me.”
She followed easily and he led her below deck to the cabin that served as his study, planning room, and meeting salon. It was located next to his personal cabin and it was in fact where he’d slept the night before, for those few hours he’d been able to stop his mind from racing with thoughts of Josephine and the fact that she was a thin wall away from him. In his bed.
She crossed to the wide bay of windows and turned to face him. Backlit as she was, he couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t tell if she was regretting her impulsive words on deck. He moved to stand beside her so that when she turned to look at him, he could at least see half her face.
A wry smile curved her lips. “I’ve never said anything so forward.”
He chuckled softly. “No?”
She shook her head slowly, her gaze going distant.
“But then I’ve never shot a man or fled the law on a pirate ship either.”
“I’m not a pirate,” he said with a frown.
“Shh,” she admonished, her gaze still unfocused. “I’m making myself sound as outrageous as possible.
“Ah,” he said. “A pirate ship it is, then.”
She laughed and her gaze returned to his. Their smiles faded and Ford felt as though the temperature in the stuffy room increased by ten degrees. He was acutely aware of everything about her, from her windswept hair to the flush of pink high on her cheekbones, to her walking boots, clearly visible beneath her shorter hem.
They gazed at one another in silence, but there was no awkwardness or hesitation: they simply enjoyed looking their fill. As if by mutual consent, they slowly drew closer. When they were toe to toe, their lips continued closing the distance until they met in a kiss that was as comfortable and natural as their silence had been.
As it continued, the kiss intensified, as flicks of the tongue and nibbles of the teeth joined the dance of the lips.
Ford drew Jo closer to him, the softness of her uncorseted body melting into the hardness of his torso. She entwined her arms around his neck and pressed herself tighter still to him. He ran his hands up and down her back, dipping lower each pass until, quite without conscious thought, they were cupping the roundness of her derriere, lifting her up, the hardness of his desire nudging against the apex of her legs. Though muffled by skirts and trousers, the sensation was like a lightning bolt through his body, pulling a groan from low in his throat. Her hands slid to his shoulders and she gripped them tightly as her head fell back. She rose up on tiptoe to increase the friction and Ford feasted on the soft skin of her neck, laving it with kisses and gentle nibbles. His mouth moved down her bare skin until he reached the edge of her blouse and he released her backside in order to loosen the drawstring, tugging the fabric off one shoulder.
Josephine’s hands were doing their own exploring, trailing ceaselessly over his chest, his back, leaving a trail of smoldering sensation in their wake.
He smoothed his own hand over her arm, bare shoulder, and then across the fragile silk of the skin of her chest. Her blouse clung to the curve of her breast and Ford cupped the fluid weight reverently, gently rubbing his thumb over its crest, feeling his arousal tighten at her fevered gasp.
Jo lifted passion-dazed eyes to his, her kiss-swollen lips beckoning him back for another taste. This kiss was barely contained emotion, their tongues trying to taste everything, their lips seeking to devour the other’s.
Ford froze when he felt her hand slip from his waistband, down, down, until she cupped his hardness through his trousers. She pulled back to glance at him in question.
“God, yes,” he groaned, eliciting a siren’s smile from her as she resumed her caresses, tracing the outline of his bulge, which Ford thought had never been harder. He pressed closer to her, trapping her questing hand between them, stilling its movements. He didn’t think he could take much more of her caresses without losing himself in his trousers. He gripped her shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers, his lungs working like bellows.
“We need to stop,” he rasped.
“Why?” Josephine’s voice was equally husky.
He drew back slightly, cupping her face in his hands and caressing her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He studied the flecks of light in her eyes. When one saw her from a normal distance, they were simply pale blue, striking for their lightness. Up close, however, they had the depth and iridescence of moonstones, with shards of darker blue, flickers of silver, even streaks that appeared periwinkle. How he knew the name of that color, he wasn’t certain, but he was glad he had it in his vocabulary when he gazed into her eyes.
Her lids were heavy with passion, her inky lashes casting light shadows on her cheeks. Her brows were two dark slashes above her eyes and his thumbs moved to smooth their silkiness. He could gaze at her for hours, he decided. Forever.
“Now is not the time,” he finally said.
“When is the time?” she demanded in a tone that made him smile.
“Certainly, after you’ve recovered from your shock. I don’t want you to do something simply because you’ve had a narrow escape, only to later regret it.”
“I’m not in shock. I—I won’t regret anything that happens between us,” she said.
The look of entreaty in her eyes was nearly his undoing. He wanted her with a fierceness, an intensity that rattled him. He could so easily cast away his concerns and lose himself in her. He even went so far as to glance around the room to determine a comfortable horizontal surface. It was in his survey that his gaze fell upon the leather-bound copy of Hamlet his father had given him shortly before he died. The sight acted on him like a bucket of cold water. He remembered that he had always wondered if his mother had wed his father willingly or if it was simply a better situation than being a former slave and housemaid. As soon as he learned what could occur between a man and a woman, he’d vowed he would not lay with a woman who felt indebted to him in any way.
He gently disengaged from Josephine’s embrace, easing her blouse up onto her shoulder, tightening the drawstring at her neck. He allowed himself one more caress of her velvety cheek, dropped one more kiss on her upturned lips. He bit back a smile as she saw awareness return along with disappointment that their interlude was over.
“I really need to get back on deck,” he explained, though which of them he was trying to convince, he wasn’t sure.
“How long will it take us to travel to Havana?” she asked as he made sure his shirt was tucked in and readjusted himself in his pants. Her voice was shaky but he didn’t want to look at her.
“About five days. A week if the winds don’t favor us.”
“And how long will your passengers work there before returning to their families?”
Ford looked up quickly.
“Odysseus told me who they were. I hope you don’t mind. I—it’s terrible they are not paid enough at home,” she replied, clutching her hands nervously in front of her.
“There are worse things,” he said shortly, refusing to allow the memories of his father’s slaves--men, women, children who looked like him-- to come pouring out just then.
She nodded shortly and Ford took a deep breath. The abrupt turn of the conversation had effectively cooled his ardor and he was able to focus on the work at hand. There were some repairs to the ship that hadn’t been completed when they made their abrupt departure and he wanted to oversee them.
He looked back at Josephine. She was holding herself rigidly, a faint frown marring her forehead. His abrupt mood switch must have alarmed her. He crossed the few steps between them and ran his hands up and down her arms soothingly as he bet to kiss her brow.
“Would you like to come up on deck? It gets a little stuffy down here, I know.”
She nodded and smiled at him.
Once on deck she went to check on Bodega, who seemed to be wearing a clumsy bandage around his head.
He watched her laugh and chat animatedly, the sight d
oing the strangest things to his chest. It felt full and tight, his heart rate rapid. It was not unlike how he felt a few minutes ago when they were locked in an embrace and yet this feeling was not purely a physical arousal.
He knew what the feeling was, had known it for a while, though he’d not allowed himself to express it, even in the most private recesses of his mind.
“Cap’n is this the lank you wanted replaced?” a young crewman’s question was a welcome distraction from his fixation on Jo and he turned to answer the man.
From that task he was called to another part of the ship and then with Odysseus discussed ideas to trim the sails in a new configuration. A half dozen other things demanded his attention, but the entire time he was acutely aware of where Jo was in her cherry red dress.
Chapter Twelve
It had been some of the most frustrating few days of Josephine’s life. Ford had seemed determined to avoid being in her company unless there were several other people around. He was always fastidiously polite, and she’d caught him staring at her—dare she think it?—hungrily at least a dozen times. But despite her attempts to get him alone, he was rarely without Odysseus, Bodega, or one of the other crew members.
When Ford did not have need of his first mate, Odysseus would spend time with her, explaining the intricacies of ship rigging and trade winds, but he too had duties that kept him busy and Jo had many solitary hours to fill. She read Ford’s books, though except for Hamlet, they were about scientific topics that were beyond her comprehension or interest. She tried to befriend the other passengers who often milled about on deck, but the men seemed very uncomfortable in her presence and after a couple of attempts, she reserved her interactions to smiles and “good mornings.” She didn’t know if it was because she was a woman or because she was white.
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