Humbled

by Renee Rose

  He scanned the area, blood rushing in his ears.

  There it was. The plank had been pulled, and the ship sat anchored several hundred yards out in the ocean, ready to set sail on the morning tide.

  He found a man with a rowboat and paid him to take him out to the ship, calling for a rope ladder to climb aboard.

  * * *

  She had been blinking back tears all evening. She should not feel the loss of Jean-Claude so strongly. She had only known him little more than two weeks. She should mourn her parents, her friends, even her servants from Gramont. Not him.

  She could even concede he might have been right about her plan to go to Louisiana. England would have been safer. Now she was trapped on the ship for two months with a captain who knew her secret and planned to make her suffer for it. Not to mention that she had to live and sleep in dirty, crowded surroundings, working as a servant.

  She had been given the task of serving at dinner, and as she left the kitchen now, exhausted and morose, one of the sailors grabbed her around the waist.

  “Hello there, sweet thing! You look good enough to eat.”

  She struggled in his grasp. “Let go of me!” she snapped, twisting to free herself. “Get off, you swine!”

  A deep voice boomed, “Get your hands off my wife!”

  She spun around, her heart fluttering like a bird.

  Jean-Claude gripped the sailor by the throat, looking more menacing than a bear roused from hibernation. The sailor released her, holding up his hands in surrender.

  “You came!” she said, blinking in happy confusion, then corrected her mistake. “It is about time you returned, husband!” she snapped, her hands at her hips.

  Jean-Claude still looked furious, though he released the unlucky sailor. “Do not touch her again,” he growled.

  “I did not know she was married!” the sailor protested.

  Jean-Claude stalked to her side and took her arm, tugging her toward the servants’ quarters.

  “Do not speak so disrespectfully to your husband in front of others,” he growled without any hint of teasing.

  She stopped in her tracks, resisting his hold on her. All gratitude at his timely rescue dissolved into ire. “May I remind you, I did not beg your escort for this leg of the journey. I am no longer subject to your orders,” she challenged, throwing her shoulders back.

  The tension in Jean-Claude’s face eased, and a trace of humor returned. “Yes, but we are known as man and wife here, and a husband has a right to discipline his spouse when she offends him.”

  She took a step back, taking advantage of his eased grip on her arm.

  “Again, I did not ask for your companionship. You have no right, imaginary or otherwise.”

  “Who will stop me?”

  She ground her teeth, realizing he was right. If she protested a spanking, at best she would gain an audience, at worst one of the sailors like the one who had just accosted her would “rescue” her, leaving her vulnerable to his sexual demands. She would rather choose the known evil of discipline at Jean-Claude’s hands than the unknown fate of another man’s will.

  She swallowed. “You mean to punish me now?” she asked, cursing the waver in her voice.

  He did not miss it. His lips curved around the edges, but he surprised her by saying, “No, ma cherie. I had not intended to chastise you. I was angry with the lout who had his hands on you, that is all.” He closed the distance she had put between them, cupping her chin in his large hand. “But I meant it when I said not to speak disrespectfully to me in front of others. It was one thing to make a show for the official in Rennes. But you will not make a henpecked husband of me on this ship, no?”

  Her face warred between a smile and a scowl.

  Jean-Claude pulled her closer with the hand at her jaw, reaching behind to slap her backside. “Understood?”

  She stomped her foot, then caught the merriment in his eye and exhaled with a little giggle.

  “There are no switches here, but there is plenty of rope. I will not hesitate to thrash you with a loop if you goad me, woman.”

  “Just so long as you do not exercise your other husbandly rights.”

  She had no fears of such, as she had just traveled over a fortnight without his forcing himself on her, yet something in Jean-Claude’s reaction to her demand made her stop and stare. His eyes had darkened and his expression looked hungry. Or perhaps haunted. He released her chin abruptly, giving her a gentle shove which he followed up with another slap on her bottom.

  “Go on. It is late.”

  They walked down to the steerage. She was grateful for Jean-Claude’s companionship, as she had been dreading her night there. The room stank of bodies and stale air, and though some were already nestled in their hammocks, voices were raised to a boisterous pitch.

  She shot a sidelong glance at Jean-Claude. He strode over to a woman as if he were perfectly comfortable and inquired which hammocks were available. The woman pointed to a dark corner where the ceiling pitched so low Jean-Claude had to bend at the waist to enter. A woman and a girl who looked about eight years old swung in their hammocks nearby. The girl was clutching her stomach and moaning softly. She experienced a moment of pity for them. At least she was not troubled by seasickness.

  Jean-Claude stretched one of the rope beds wide and gestured to her. She approached it cautiously, sitting first before she tumbled abruptly into it, lurching to the side and almost falling out the other end before it swung back and cocooned her.

  Jean-Claude smothered a laugh. She glared at him, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible. How was one supposed to lie in a swinging cradle? She tried to sit up, only managing to spill herself from the bed entirely. Jean-Claude snickered as she stood up, dusting off her skirts.

  “It is bad enough to bed with the peasants, but how does he expect me to sleep in this?” she hissed in a low voice so the woman and her daughter would not hear the slight.

  Rather than commiserating, Jean-Claude withdrew, his face closing, his expression remote. Like an idiot, it took her a moment to understand the cause. Jean-Claude was a peasant. Why was it she did not think of him so?

  “I beg your pardon—” she began, but Jean-Claude had turned his back on her, climbing into his hammock and closing his eyes as if she were not there.

  “I did not mean you…”

  She trailed off. Did it make it better or worse to admit her prejudice but excuse him from it? Probably worse. She closed her mouth in fear she would continue to alienate the only living soul on this ship who halfway cared about her.

  Curling up on the hard wooden floor underneath her hammock, she blinked back tears as the rocking of the ship lulled her into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  His work assignment was relatively light. The captain had not really needed extra servants; he had just wanted to make Corinne suffer. She worked the saloon, serving the merchant class. After the remark she had made the night before, he was inclined to enjoy her suffering. Never had a woman made him want to throttle her in one moment and tear her clothes off in the next.

  His choice to accompany her to Louisiana, while easing his conscience about her safety, made him aware of his growing feelings for her. And yet, she was not a woman he could have. Certainly it would be easy enough to take advantage of her in her weakened and lowered state, but he considered himself an honorable man. He would not see her maidenhead taken when it was one of her few remaining assets. No, her chances of success in the new world lay in her beauty, her nobility, and her innocence. She would find a noble, or at least upper class, husband and her future would be secure. His only obligation was to deliver her to La Nouvelle-Orléans with her virginity intact.

  He did not see her more than in passing for most of the day, but in the evening, he worked on deck as the dinner arrangements were made for the wealthy merchant travelers. Because the weather was fine, he was ordered to carry tables and chairs out from the saloon to the lower deck in front of the captain’s of
fice where they’d had coffee the day before.

  He saw Corinne carrying food out to the passengers, who were mostly men. The men at the captain’s table gave her a hard time, sending her back for things and amusing themselves with her humiliation.

  The man across from Moreau purposely spilled his wine, then chided her to hurry and mop up the mess.

  “Come, now. You missed it over here. Faster! You are such a clumsy girl.”

  He gritted his teeth and watched the scene unfold with a growing sense of dread.

  Corinne mopped the spilt wine on her hands and knees, rising with her dress stained dark red. The look on her face held the stubborn expression with which he had become familiar. She left for the kitchen and returned with a fresh decanter of wine, which she promptly dumped down the front of the man.

  Jean-Claude spun into action, darting to the scene just as the man slapped Corinne across the face. He caught her shoulders and pulled her behind him.

  “Please excuse my wife. She is extraordinarily clumsy. I will punish her for it.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair with amused speculation. “Will you?”

  Moreau surely guessed Jean-Claude was beneath Corinne, perhaps even assuming he was her servant. He probably thought it a bluff.

  “She knows I will,” he gritted with a harsh look of censure. The look had its desired effect—Corinne paled and tried to twist out of his grip.

  The captain inclined his head in the direction of his office. “I have a strap in my office. You may take her in there and deliver the punishment.” His smug satisfaction made Jean-Claude want to break his nose.

  He inclined his head. “Thank you, citizen.”

  He tugged Corinne to the office and shut the door.

  She whirled to face him. “I hate you!” she hissed.

  “Would you rather be whipped by me or one of them?”

  Her jaw thrust forward and her eyes flashed, but she threw herself at him—smacking her forehead against his breastbone and leaving it there. He took it as a request for an embrace and wrapped his arms around her, though she did not return the hug.

  “Come,” he said, spying the leather strap hanging on the wall. He retrieved it and sank onto one of the wooden chairs, pulling her over his lap.

  She gripped the legs of the chair in her fists and glared at him over her shoulder.

  “The sooner you cry, the sooner this will be over,” he said, knowing he could not walk out of there without Corinne looking properly chastised.

  “I will never cry!”

  He sighed. “I feared you would say that.”

  Lifting her skirt up over her back, he clamped her legs under one of his own and brought the leather strap down across her two cheeks. The sound reverberated through the room, and he imagined the men out on the deck could hear it as well. Corinne did not make a peep. He was not surprised. He struck her again and again, landing even stripes across her bare bottom, down to her thighs, then back up again, then repeating the pattern. He kept a steady, rapid pace.

  “I admire your pluck, Corinne. I truly do. But I have doubts as to your ability to appropriately assess risk.”

  She still did not utter a cry, but her body writhed and danced across his lap, even with his leg holding her in place. He knew she must be experiencing pain by now, even if she was furious.

  “We are at the mercy of the captain for the remainder of this trip, and we have only been sailing for one day! Do you think you could have held your temper?”

  “No!”

  “No,” he sighed, still spanking steadily.

  The door opened and he threw Corinne’s skirt down to cover her bare flesh, glaring at the intruder. The captain stood in the doorway, a wide crocodile grin spread on his face.

  “Did you not give me leave to use your office?” he asked peevishly. It was bad enough to whip Corinne in hearing distance of the voyeurs, but allowing Moreau to watch was out of the question. He fixed the man with a challenging stare. “Or do you deem her punishment to be fulfilled?”

  “No, you may continue,” Moreau said, his eyes glittering as he stepped back out onto the lower deck. “I just wanted to be sure you found the strap.”

  The door closed and he rubbed his hand over Corinne’s covered bottom, the heat evident even through the muslin.

  “How are you taking it, Corinne?” he asked in a voice too low to carry outside the room.

  Chapter Four

  She gave a frustrated wiggle. “Terribly. How am I supposed to answer such a question?”

  “Tears, Corinne. Tears will end it,” he reminded her.

  She felt him lifting her skirt again, and too soon, he resumed the whipping, each new weal igniting a searing flame across her throbbing bottom.

  “You could at least make sounds. A scream or two might help.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Wrong answer,” he said, applying a little more force to his swings.

  Unable to keep silent, she grunted with the pain, although in truth, her anger kept her from acknowledging much of it.

  “I am not your enemy, Corinne, although I would have spanked you, regardless, for endangering yourself.”

  “And I am not in danger now? From you?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. You are in danger of being whipped all night long because you are too stubborn to shed a few tears and look remorseful.”

  “They don’t deserve my remorse.”

  “I agree.”

  His agreement surprised her. He stopped the steady leathering and lifted her to stand, then pulled her onto his lap. Sitting on her swollen flesh made her gasp.

  “I hate you,” she repeated.

  He did not answer, merely pulled her head against his shoulder, stroking her back. Even though exhausted by the pain and her emotions, curious flutters of excitement flitted in her chest at his embrace. She marveled at how easily he handled her; no one in her life had been so intimate, so infuriating, and so understanding all at once. Was this what it was like to have a husband? Somehow she didn’t think so. She doubted her parents’ marriage held any moments like this. No, Jean-Claude was something unique.

  “When you go out there, you must apologize to the pompous ass.”

  “I will not!”

  “Corinne, my arm is not nearly worn out, and as it is, I doubt you will sit comfortably tomorrow.”

  She drew her head from his shoulder, feeling blood rush to her face as she glared at him. He returned her gaze steadily, his hand at her nape, thumb drawing lazy circles in the tendrils of hair. She expected him to look stern, but instead she found sympathy.

  “You don’t have to mean it, but you have to say it. You may look as angry or as scornful as you like.”

  She hesitated. She hated the idea of apologizing, but now that she was sitting upright on Jean-Claude’s knee, she did not want to be turned over it again. Especially when he had shown her the small measures of kindness. He was right—he was not the enemy.

  “Very well.”

  He helped her to stand and guided her out with a hand at her low back. He led her to the table and stood next to her, moving his hand to her shoulder in what felt like a gesture of support.

  She kept her face devoid of emotion—to show anger or resentment would only allow them to win. “I apologize for spilling your wine, monsieur,” she said with a curtsy.

  “Citizen,” he corrected sternly, but his friends did not play along with goading her this time, as if everyone was in agreement she had suffered enough.

  The captain studied her with his hawk-like interest, but even he seemed finished with the game—at least for the night. He gave a flick of his hand. “You are dismissed. Citizen Roux will take care of the rest,” he said.

  She gave a deep curtsy in his direction. “Thank you, Captain.”

  He did not correct the title, nor did he answer. Jean-Claude gave a gentle tug on her shoulder to lead her away.

  Exhausted, she stumbled toward the stairs to steerage.

  �
��I believe I need to carry their tables back into the saloon. I will be down when I am given leave.”

  She nodded and headed down to her dank quarters. It smelled even worse than before, and she realized the mother and daughter near their hammocks were both seasick now and the stench came from the bucket of vomit between them.

  Dear God, how disgusting. She closed her nose, breathing through her mouth to keep from retching herself. Spreading Jean-Claude’s cloak on the floor, she curled up on it, closing her eyes to pretend she was somewhere else. Except she was not somewhere else. She lay in the stinking belly of a packet ship with a throbbing backside and no semblance of pride. Her gay vision of Louisiana seemed so remote now. How would she even survive the passage?

  She felt grateful for Jean-Claude, despite his brutish ways. He was on her side, and considering he was the only one, it was something to be valued.

  Tears smarted her eyes and leaked out down her nose. She sniffed. She heard the creak of wood behind her but did not turn around, not wanting Jean-Claude to see her crying, if it was him. To her surprise, she felt him nestle his body behind hers, curling his long form around her as he had done on the nights she was cold in the forest.

  She sniffed again, the tears falling more rapidly. He wrapped an arm around her and brushed at her cheeks with his fingers.

  “I still hate you,” she choked, interlacing her fingers over the tops of his and drawing his hand into her chest.

  “I accept it,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair. She shivered at the gesture, a creeping of heat warming her neck with the sudden awareness of the way their fingers tangled together. Her breath grew short.

  “Corinne.”

  “Yes?”

  “This floor is filthy, and I think I hear rats.”

  She scrambled up to her feet with a shriek.

  He chuckled and followed her to standing. “Why not give the hammock another try?”

  Because I enjoyed lying next to you.

  She drew in a breath. “Do you think it could hold two people?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest. She did not dare look at Jean-Claude, but she sensed he stopped breathing.