The sailor tugged at his wet forelock. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady. Not used to speakin’ wiv quality ladies, am I?”
At last Josephine located a spool of what appeared to be silk thread. A flannel needle case and small sharp scissors were in the back of the drawer. She threaded the curved needle and knotted the end with shaking fingers, trying to ignore the idea of piercing flesh with it.
At last she turned to the injured man and removed the wad of blood-soaked linen. Thankfully the flow seemed to have slowed considerably.
“Do you wish for the leather strap to, ah, bite down upon?”
“No need, milady. Don’t feel no pain on that side o’ me face since I was knocked wiv an axe here.” He pointed to a thick scar at his hairline.
“Oh. How…convenient.”
The man grinned, and she realized she hadn’t asked his name, but the thought of making anymore conversation was simply too much. She took a deep breath and stabbed the needle through the gaping edges of skin.
That wasn’t so bad, she thought as she drew the length of thread through. She was about to take a second stitch as she would when mending a rent in fabric, when the sailor spoke up.
“O’Sullivan usually puts a knot in each stitch, milady.”
“Who is O’Sullivan?”
“The doctor. He says that way if I pull one loose, all his work won’t go to waste.”
“I see,” she said, her stomach dropping at the thought of stitches pulling loose. “That, ah, makes sense I suppose.” With another deep breath, she knotted off the stitch and began again. By the end of the second stitch, her hands stopped shaking and she ceased to think of what exactly she was sewing.
“There,” she said as she knotted off the last stitch. “I think that should keep it closed. It seems like I should bandage it to keep it clean.”
“Bandage won’t last once it gets wet.”
Josephine frowned. “Is it still raining?” She realized she hadn’t heard it since she began treating this patient.
The man shook his head. “Nay, stopped a few minutes ago. But the sea, she’s still ill tempered, isn’t she? She’ll be casting’ up her spray until we’re further from the cyclone.”
“A cyclone? Do you mean a hurricane? Is that what the storm was?” Josephine’s knees gave way and she sat heavily on the wooden table. Why she should feel so shaken when they’d clearly already escaped the storm, she didn’t know.
“Aye, a hurricane. But our cap’n done outrun it, didn’ ‘e?” With another tug at his forelock, he left the small surgery. Jo scarcely noticed, so rattled was she still at the thought of the hurricane.
Her contemplation was cut short by another injured crewmember and over the next two hours, she wrapped sprained joints and put plasters on cuts of various sizes, none so deep as to require stitches, thankfully.
When she was asked to tend to a smashed thumb, she looked at the sheepish sailor in confusion.
“I was given to understand you sailors were a hearty lot. A bruised thumb?” she asked, sincerely confused.
“It’s only, words got out that yer tendin’ the wounded, miss. I wanted my turn.”
“But I don’t know anything about healing!”
“Aye, but yer a demmed site easier on the eyes that O’Sullivan. Ugly old git, he is. Besides, you fixed Jorge and Thompson right well.”
“That was sheer dumb luck, I can assure you,” Jo protested. Nonetheless, she put a salve on the man’s abraded knuckle and sent him on his way. She had no idea what the salve was for, but it had a nice clean scent to it and absorbed quickly.
She tidied the small surgery while waiting to see if she’d have any more “patients.” Once the room was back in order, an overwhelming weariness washed over her and she sat down heavily. She waited a few more minutes, but when she found herself nodding off, decided it was time to close up shop. She stumbled down the passageway to her cabin where she quickly shed her still-damp blouse and skirts and climbed into bed. She was asleep as soon as she tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
Josephine woke suddenly. She waited a moment, staring at the wall in front of her while she tried to discern what had woken her. The light from the window was the pale, clear glow of dawn and she could just make out the grain in the wood planks of the wall. All was silent—or as silent as a ship got with the creak of wood and rope, the constant susurrus of wind, and the slap of water against the hull.
She carefully rolled on to her back, trying to remember if she’d been dreaming before she woke. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a dark shape that made her start. She jerked her head to discover Ford, sound asleep, flat on his back. He’d removed his boots and clothes. This she could tell because the sheets were bunched around his waist and one long, bare leg was thrown out.
She studied the strong lines of his profile, allowing her gaze to trace the stubble on his neck, the prominent ridge of his collarbones, and the slope of well-defined muscle on his chest. Her entire body warmed as she noticed the flat plane of his stomach, and the line of dark hair that trailed from his navel, disappearing under the sheet.
She felt her cheeks flame as she considered where that trail led, and was shocked to discover her own hand—trembling—reach out to touch him.
She clenched her fist and tucked it up beneath her chin, lest it attempt any more forays across the narrow space of mattress between her and the sleeping Ford.
A loud snore startled her and she smiled as she realized this must have been what woke her. The sound must have disturbed his own slumber, for he twitched about before rolling onto his side facing her. His arm landed in the curve of her waist, the weight of it comforting, as if no harm could come to her. It took just the tiniest scooch for her to tuck her head beneath his chin, their bodies pressed from head to toe.
Though her pulse beat rapidly from excitement and nervousness, she soon found herself drifting off in a warm mantle of contentment.
She awoke a short time later to a large warm hand cupping her backside through the fine linen of her shift. She glanced quickly up, expecting to find Ford awake, but his eyes were still closed, his features relaxed in repose.
Feeling decidedly wicked, she arced her lower back slightly, tilting her derriere into his hand more tightly. His hand gripped her flesh convulsively and she bit her lower lip at the sensation.
With another glance to ensure he was still asleep, she pressed her lips to the hollow depression at the base of his neck. Emboldened, she moved lower, pressing chaste kisses to his chest. His skin was a rich sepia, taut over hard muscles, smooth and warm.
She spread her hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating strongly beneath her fingertips, amazed at the heat he radiated. She slid her hands across the ridges of his muscled stomach, so different from the pale, soft curve of her own. She reached the sheet bunched at his waist and took a shaky breath before tracing the narrow line of hair beneath his belly button.
Ford inhaled deeply, his eyes opening blearily. His gaze sharpened as he glanced around the small cabin, finally setting on her face. She held her breath, unsure how to feel at being caught fondling him in his sleep.
“Christ,” he finally said, sighing heavily. “I’m so sorry. I must have been more tired than I thought. I just came to bed automatically without remembering to go to the salon.” He seemed to belatedly realized where his hand was and lifted it quickly. He made to roll away, but she held his shoulder.
“It’s alright,” she whispered. “I—I’m glad you’re here.”
Even in the dim light, she could see his hazel eyes darken with heat. They stared at one another for a long moment before he whispered, “You are so beautiful.”
Slowly—oh so slowly—he brought his hand to the back of her head, cupping it gently, tilting it so her lips were at the perfect angle to meet his. He paused, his mouth a breath away. She surged forward, kissing him with all the feelings that had been growing since she’d first met him.
He responded in kind, sliding
his hand to her lower back, pressing her tightly against him as his mouth plundered hers. She met him with licks and nibbles and a sweet gentle sucking of his lower lip, drawing a low groan from his chest that acted on her like the strongest brandy. The sound made her feel powerful and beautiful. It made her want to do bold, rash things.
She slid her free hand around his waist, up the corded muscles of his back without conscious thought, only the need to be closer to him. She hooked her right knee over his hip, gasping into his open mouth as she felt the solid ridge of his manhood pressing against her soft heat. Even through the barriers of chemise and sheet, the sensation sent delicious shudders through her body.
Ford hooked his arm beneath her knee, drawing her leg up higher. As he kissed her deeply, his hips thrust against her, intensifying the delicious sensation. “Oh God,” he muttered into her mouth.
The feelings and emotions racing through her body were almost overwhelming. Her physical experience with Kent had been at first merely awkward. As the years had gone by and she’d not conceived, they’d become even more uncomfortable and occasionally even painful.
But now…now she was a siren: a gorgeous, powerful creature. Now everything felt right, felt more. She wanted to know if the actual act would be as transformative, wanted to know if she could achieve physical fulfillment with this man who’d brought out these powerful feelings.
As their kisses grew more frenetic, she tugged at her chemise until it was wadded around her waist. The sheet proved harder to dislodge. She pushed against his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. She stripped the sheet away and climbed atop him, straddling his hips. His erection slid between her tender folds, rubbing against her crest, inciting her passion until she felt like a woman possessed. Suddenly it was too hot. She tore her chemise over her head, tossing it heedlessly to the floor.
His hands immediately went to her breasts and while Jo had always considered them to be too small, the groan that escaped Ford’s throat as he gently squeezed them made her feel perfect. She leaned down to kiss him again, sliding back and forth against his hardened length. She wanted—needed more. Reaching between her legs, she grasped him, positioning him at her opening.
As she began to ease down, Ford gasped, his eyes flying open. He grasped her hips and lifted her up so that he slipped out.
“I’ll not risk you getting pregnant,” he said hoarsely.
The heat that had saturated her body drained away, leaving her feeling cold and unwanted. “I—” she began, but she had no idea what she was going to say.
He drew her down to lay on his chest and kissed her lips. “Not until we’ve cleared your name, until you can freely decide who to spend your life with.”
“I can decide—” she started, but realized that he was implying that he might be part of the rest of her life. Just as quickly as the heat had left, it surged back through her veins. When she spoke, she scarcely recognized her hoarsely seductive voice.
“But I can’t wait that long,” she protested. “And besides, I don’t think I can get pregnant. I was married for four years, after all, and never once—” she stopped, realizing that while she was trying to use her infertility to convince him to make love to her, if Ford wanted a family, he couldn’t possibly want to be with her long term.
Her constantly pivoting emotions felt much like the ship had on the edge of the hurricane, climbing one great wave, only to plummet down the other side in a matter of moments.
He chuckled softly. “That was no doubt due to the vile man you were unfortunate enough to call husband. Should you and I wish to have a baby, it will not take us four years.” He nuzzled at her neck as his hands kneaded her backside, urging her to resume her rocking, sliding motions. When her thighs began to quiver with the effort, he fluidly rolled her onto her back and continued the erotic friction though he did not enter her.
Jo dug her heels into the mattress and pushed her hips up to intensify the pressure in just the right spot. Long moments of deep kissing accompanied the building fiction and she felt the explosion of pleasure begin, rippling out from her core, drawing a keening wail from her throat as she threw her head back, her fingertips digging into his back.
Ford uttered a guttural groan and she felt a warmth flood the skin of her belly. He collapsed against her, bracing his weight on his forearm even as his head rested solidly on her shoulder.
After a few dreamy moments he shifted to the side, cleaning her off with a corner of the sheet. Some part of her brain insisted that Jo should feel ashamed or at least embarrassed for acting in such a wanton manner. It was the same small voice that had urged her to be a good wife and remain with Thomas Kent even after he’d blackened her eye that last time. Jo promptly ignored it, rolling to her side to watch with satiated delight as Ford’s chest rose and fell as if he’d just run a mile. As his breathing slowed, she traced the lines of his chest, stomach and legs more confidently than she had when she’d been asleep. His manhood, though depleted from their pleasure, still lay heavy against his leg and she cupped it in her hand.
“Careful, you’ll wake the beast again,” he teased.
“It’s not a beast. It’s—it’s—well, it’s not a beast.” She might be ignoring the voice championing shame, but she was rather inexperienced at the seductive arts and she had no idea how to describe the way his body made her feel, even now after their desires had been satiated.
He chuckled low in his throat and gently smoothed her hair off her forehead.
“About this,” he began, gesturing to the bed and their sprawling nakedness.
A pounding on the door to the captain’s saloon, where Ford had taken to sleeping, was followed by a shouted, “Cap’n! Sorry to bother ye, sir, but Mr. Odysseus need ye on deck!”
Ford leapt out of bed and made sure the door was locked before turning to the built in wardrobe and pulling out dry clothes.
“I’ll be up directly!” he called out.
There was a pause before the voice answered, “Yes, sir! I’ll tell Mr. Odysseus.”
“I’ll just explain that I was fetching clean clothes, that you were already awake and dressed,” he said as he quickly pulled on pants, shirt, and boots.
“You’ll get blisters, putting on boots without stockings,” she said idiotically.
He grinned at her as he tucked his shirt in his breeches. Leaning his hands on the bed, he kissed her soundly on the mouth.
“I’ve got to get on deck. Sleep more if you can.”
And with that he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Ford’s day was taken up overseeing one repair after another. His men pieced together a new mizzen and rigged it with a smaller sail. Several torn sails needed stitching, and the hold needed to be inspected for leaks, Appleton’s raw sugar checked for water damage.
Through the decisions and orders and repairs, however sweet thoughts of Josephine teased at his mind.
He’d been exhausted early this morning when Odysseus had finally relieved him at the helm. He had no memory of going below deck, or stripping and climbing into bed.
Waking up next to Jo had shocked him as much as it must have shocked her. What had followed had been—
“Cap’n, you want we should replace the shrouds now?”
Ford answered, his thoughts returning to that searing encounter. Thank God he’d retained a tiny shred of sense and not taken her fully. It had been all he could do not to surge into her when she’d climbed atop him.
But he would put no woman in the position his mother had been in. Even with their course correction from the storm, they only had a perhaps a week to Havana where they would sell Appleton’s sugar and pick up those supplies he knew he could sell to the merchant’s of Basseterre, but most importantly, where Pallet would shortly arrive, hopefully with word from Josephine’s brother on whether it was safe for her to return. He had to make sure nothing happened that would force her to make choices she was not prepared for.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n,” said
one of his crew as the man bumped into him coming down from the rigging. Ford realized he was more of a hazard than a help, so lost was he in his thoughts.
He climbed up to the quarterdeck and approached Odysseus at the wheel.
“I’ll spell you. Go get some food,” he urged.
“Aye Captain,” the man said.
Once at the wheel, Ford’s thoughts returned to Havana and Josephine. He’d used methods to prevent conception many times before. Surely he could locate French letters in the city. One lady with whom he’d enjoyed a year-long affair had used a pessary, a smooth, flat stone which she inserted to block a man’s seed from taking. But no method was foolproof.
In their clandestine picnics and beach walks, they had spoken of many things, shared things they’d never told another soul. But they’d not discussed where their relationship was headed before they’d had to leave St. Kitts so abruptly. He thought Jo reciprocated his feelings, but would she want to subject herself to the ridicule she would undoubtedly meet in many English circles for marrying a black man? Would her brother approve or would he seek to prevent such a union? Perhaps Ford would do them both a favor if he made sure they kept their distance from one another from now on.
He saw her emerge from the hold, her hair in a long, girlish plait, the red dress he’d bought her swirling about her ankles in the wind. A smile curved her lips, widening when she spotted him and he knew any attempt on his part to stay away from her would be pointless. If she would have him, he would make this woman his and spend the rest of his life protecting and worshipping her.
She joined him on the quarterdeck and he gripped the wheel to keep from reaching for her. Why was it that he could remember all the reasons they should keep their distance when she was not present, but as soon as he laid eyes on her, those reasons disappeared like a sand drawing at high tide? The challenges they would face were they to attempt a public relationship seemed like insignificant obstacles next to the way she made him feel, the way he hoped he made her feel.
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 87
