Humbled

by Renee Rose

  She lifted her delicate shoulders. “She and my father were in Bourges when the revolution began. I have no word of their safety.”

  “I see. And so you decided to marry Citizen Armand and set sail for La Nouvelle-Orléans?” When she did not answer, he turned to Armand. “You made the ring?”

  The young man gave a single, wary nod.

  “You have the muscles of a blacksmith, not a silversmith,” he observed.

  Armand’s lips curled at the edges. “Is it idle curiosity that motivates your interest, or do you have another game to play out?”

  He returned the smile. “My game is finished. And I suppose I am indulging idle curiosity. Were you her father’s blacksmith?”

  “Silversmith,” the lady interjected.

  “Yes. I believe he made the ring,” he said slowly, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “Have I guessed correctly?”

  Armand gave a single nod.

  He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “You will find the social classes in La Nouvelle-Orléans to be more mobile than those in France. It would be easy for a man with ambition to position himself at a silversmith, no matter what his background.”

  He saw the glint of interest in Armand’s eye and the lady sat up straighter in her seat.

  “And while I cannot say with certainty, I doubt the same terrorizing of aristocracy will occur there. A silversmith with an aristocrat for a wife would do well.”

  Armand appeared troubled.

  “Unless you are not actually married?” He watched closely. They both sat and blinked at him, rather than dismissing his guess. “In which case, a recommendation from a known member of la noblesse would go far in securing a new silversmith’s reputation.”

  The lady’s eyes darted to Armand’s.

  “Either way, I recommend you declare yourselves at port in the manner you wish to be recognized by society. Do not disembark as a married couple if you wish to marry in the future. Give your real name so you may use your aristocracy to your advantage—and I do believe it will be of great benefit in La Nouvelle-Orléans. There will be no revolution there because of the social mobility I already mentioned.”

  Armand stared at him. “If only I knew whether your advice can be trusted.”

  He grinned, liking the young man.

  * * *

  True to his word, Moreau offered them their own private cabin, where he had left a trunk of various articles of lady’s clothing. The fashions were several years old, but they were of fine quality and there were even hoops to wear under Corinne’s skirt.

  “I do not like it,” Jean-Claude said, pacing the room. He gestured at the gowns. “You are nothing but a puppet on a string to him. First he wants to see you grovel like a dog, lowered from your station, now he gives it all back to you, as if he were the King of France, conferring a title. I do not trust him.”

  She took the dresses out of the trunk and laid them on the bed, one by one, examining them with a critical eye. “What do you think about his advice for when we arrive? Is it a trick?”

  Jean-Claude sighed and sank on the bed, running his hand through his hair. “I know not,” he said miserably. “It sounded reasonable. Yet I cannot see his game, and that worries me.”

  Finding a comb in the trunk, she unwound her hair from its knot and began to run the teeth through her long tangles. When she turned, she found Jean-Claude gazing with a wolfish expression. She recalled the way he had stared the night they had spent at the inn, the last time she had combed out her hair.

  She stood and walked toward where he sat on the bed. “You like my hair down, do you not?” she murmured in what she hoped was a seductive tone.

  In a flash she was on his lap, his hot open mouth dragging across the pulse at her neck as he held her by her nape. His teeth found her earlobe, his hand kneaded her breast. “Do you tempt me, Corinne?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “I can hardly be gentle. You have been a torture to me. How do you think I stood it, lying next to you, night after night, pretending to be your husband and never taking you?”

  She panted, lifting her chest to press her aching breasts into his hands. “Then take me.”

  He said nothing for a moment, his breath rasping hot in her ear. She trembled in his hold, every nerve alive and firing, hungry for his touch.

  “You could find a gentleman for a husband in La Nouvelle-Orléans.”

  She stiffened. “And you could become one.”

  He took her earlobe into his mouth, sucking, sending a fresh flush of heat straight to her sex. “If I were a gentleman,” he said when he lifted his lips, “would you marry me?”

  “Would I have to obey your every demand?” she asked, a smile curving on her lips. She had thought many times about their “pleasure in pain” discussion at the inn, trying to imagine the relationship he had described with his wife. She found herself more and more desperate to experience what they had, to be that intimate with Jean-Claude.

  His hand dragged up her leg, tugging her skirt with it. “You would obey,” he said in a husky voice, “…or suffer the consequences.” His hand connected with her bare skin, stroking the outside of her upper thigh, his hardened cock pressed against her leg.

  Delicious anticipation mounted as she parted her legs to give him access. “Worse consequences than I have already experienced?”

  His fingers stroked up to her bare bottom, then back down her thigh, caressing her knee and following the inside of her leg until his thumb brushed her sex with a shocking sensation. “Not worse, but perhaps different.” The hand at her nape shifted to grasp the back of her hair, as he had done the night at the inn. He tugged her head back. “I would take you any way I liked, any time I liked.”

  The muscles of her sex lifted, squeezing hard at his words.

  “I might find pleasure in giving you pain. Can you imagine such a thing, Corinne?”

  “No,” she gasped.

  “No?” His hand connected with her sex, again sending a jolt through her entire body. “If I were a gentleman, I might make you call me monsieur.”

  Her giggle strangled into a gasp as his finger parted her lips and rubbed over her wet sex. “Oh!”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Oh…?” She writhed under his touch, her trembling thighs clamping around his wrist.

  He lifted her to stand, keeping her skirt lifted at her waist. When his gaze travelled to her sex, she squeezed her legs together and brought her hands in front to shield it from his gaze.

  “If I were your husband, you would not be allowed to ever cover what I wanted to see,” he said, his voice deepened. “I will show you what would happen. Lift your hands.”

  “No,” she protested, trying to take a step backward.

  He upended her over his knee, his hand connecting with her bared bottom before she had even touched the floor with her outstretched palms. “Ouch!” she squealed.

  He stopped, rubbing the sting away. “Naughty little girl. If you were my wife, I would teach you an important lesson about who you belonged to.” He slapped her bottom again several times, the sound echoing in their small cabin.

  “Jean-Claude, please! The other passengers will hear!”

  “Yes,” he mused. “You are probably right. I could use a rope instead but I fear you would resent the results.”

  “No rope! No rope! Your hand will do.”

  “Monsieur,” he corrected.

  “What?”

  He delivered another four quick spanks. “You will call me monsieur.”

  “Yes, monsieur!” she giggled.

  He spanked again, much harder this time. “Do you find that amusing?”

  “No, monsieur!” she cried, twisting to avoid the punishing blows.

  He stopped and rubbed her bottom. “Good girl.” He slid his finger down the cleft of her buttocks until he reached her back hole.

  Horrified, she tightened her cheeks around his finger.

  He delivered severa
l sharp slaps. “No hiding from me. If you were my wife, it would all be mine. Even this little rosebud here.”

  “Jean-Claude,” she whimpered, more embarrassed than she had ever been with him, even as a drop of her arousal trickled down her thigh.

  He pushed the fingertip against her entryway. “Let me in, Corinne, or I will fetch a rope, and I assure you, it is far worse than a strap.”

  She gave another whimper but did not fight him when he breached her hole. Bracing her hands on the floor, her legs fell open on his lap. As he eased his finger in and out, winding her up, she both wanted him to go on and stop at the same time. “Please?” she heard herself mewling.

  He rubbed her dripping sex with the fingers of one hand, while continuing to press his finger deeply into her bottom. “Please, what, darling?”

  “Please, monsieur!”

  He laughed, a warm, rich sound that entered her body, melting her resistance to his ministrations. She followed the overwhelming sensations, her keening cries growing louder until she gave a sob and climaxed under his hands.

  * * *

  His cock strained against his trousers, but he ignored his own need, wanting to give Corinne every pleasure he knew. Lifting her from his lap, he stood and washed his hands in the basin, then returned to her, sliding her peasant gown off her. He sat down and stood her between his knees. Gripping her thighs to steady the trembling he sensed, he let his eyes roam up the gentle slope of her belly to her peach-nippled breasts. They stood wide, falling open as if in invitation, the nipples pebbled up for his suckling. She shrank under his scrutiny, slouching her shoulders as if they might hide her. He landed a slap to the back of her thigh. “What did I tell you about hiding from me?”

  “But I am not your wife yet, am I?” she retorted.

  “Fresh, mademoiselle. Too fresh. I should fetch that rope…” he said, stroking circles with his hands over her round buttocks, squeezing them. He stood, keeping her in place so her naked body pressed against his. Turning, he laid her back on the bed, trailing his flicking tongue down the flat of her belly, parting her legs to taste her honeyed sex.

  She wrestled with him, her thighs trying to clamp closed, as if overcome by shame at having her treasures exposed to his view.

  “Open for me, Corinne. This part is only pleasure. No pain—I promise.”

  “I am not afraid—I’m just—” She looked uncertain. “Overwhelmed?” Her eyes swam with tears and he sat up, startled. “No—” she shook her head. “Please do not stop. Please. I want you.”

  He pushed her thighs open, holding her gaze and slowing his movements so she understood what he intended. He ran his thumb over her slick minou. She jerked in a spasm of pleasure, her nerves sensitized to touch. He continued stroking, making his movements slow and predictable until her panting breath slowed and her knees fell open.

  “That is it, love,” he encouraged. “You do not want to arrive too quickly. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  She licked her lips, and the sight of her little tongue made him groan. He slid one finger inside her, holding her pelvis down with the other hand as she wriggled and cried out at the sensation. In and out he worked his finger, nearly reaching his own premature climax at the sound of her cries. Stretching her opening further, he pressed two fingers inside and worked her into a frenzy of need. Withdrawing his fingers, he used his thumb on her swollen bud of pleasure as he tasted the sweet nectar of her juices.

  “Jean-Claude!” she cried with alarm.

  He pressed two fingers inside her again, working them at a faster pace. He repeated the pattern—using his tongue and thumb on the sensitive pearl at the fore of her sex, then plunging his fingers deep within her. She kicked and thrashed, nearly weeping with need until she exploded with a scream, clutching his head, pressing his face into her eager sex as his fingers continued their penetration. She tore at his hair as her climax went on and on, her muscles tightening around his fingers like a fist.

  “Quelle belle chatte,” he murmured when she finished, slipping his fingers out and stroking her outer lips as he had when he began.

  Corinne collapsed on the bed, seeming still incoherent from her bliss.

  He rolled her back to her belly and stroked down the length of her back, around the curves of her buttocks, the pink of his spanking already faded. He slapped her tempting orbs, loving the sight of their dance under his hand. “A beautiful derrière, as well.”

  He settled beside her on the bed.

  “What about your pleasure?”

  “I had mine in the medic’s cabin when I should not.”

  “I was willing,” she protested.

  “I know, love, but I should not have spent inside you. If we are to disembark as an aristocrat and her silversmith, it would not do if you were pregnant.”

  She rolled to her side and leaned on one elbow, her breasts bobbing.

  Unable to resist, he leaned forward and nibbled one taut nipple with his lips.

  “So you think we should follow the captain’s advice?” She grasped the back of his head and made an encouraging noise.

  “Yes, I think so.” He stroked the back of one finger up the graceful arc of her throat. “I should like to become a gentleman for you.”

  While she may have given herself to him willingly, he doubted very much Corinne could be happy married to a blacksmith, and he hated to think he had stolen the possibility of a better future from her. He could not raise himself to be a silversmith without the commendations of a fine lady, and if she married him now, her commendations would mean nothing.

  She looked at him, her gaze open and trusting, her face relaxed from her climaxes. “All right.”

  “So I think I should not share your cabin. If you do disembark as Mademoiselle de Gramont, your reputation would be damaged if you were sleeping with your companion.”

  Corinne frowned. “You have defended me as your wife on this ship. Everyone knows you as my husband. We will change our identities when we disembark, not sooner.”

  He pushed her hips down and delivered two sharp slaps to her tantalizing bottom. “Just because you are sleeping in a cabin now, does not give you the right to give the orders.” He leaned over to kiss the offending cheek.

  “Oui, monsieur,” she murmured, laughter bubbling in her voice.

  * * *

  In the morning, she found Jean-Claude had already left their cabin. She climbed out of bed and tried on the elegant gowns until she found one that fit. Combing her hair until it shone, she piled it on the top of her head, tying it up with bits of ribbon and the few hairpins she found in the trunk.

  She wanted Jean-Claude to see her. Instead, Moreau noticed and came to her, offering his arm for a stroll on the deck.

  “I am glad you found something that suited you,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you for leaving those for me.”

  “The pleasure is actually all mine. Having beauty on my ship always brightens my outlook.”

  She shot him a nervous glance, but he did not appear to be leering.

  She sensed Jean-Claude’s irritation before he arrived at her other side, holding out his arm. She took it and dropped Moreau’s, slightly frightened by the black look on her companion’s face.

  Moreau chuckled. “Will you learn to be a gentleman, Armand? You only have a short time left to become the man you wish to be in La Nouvelle-Orléans.”

  She cringed at the captain’s interference, though she knew he was right. If they planned to introduce Jean-Claude as her father’s silversmith, he would need to improve his manners.

  “Would the ship still arrive if I threw you overboard, Captain?” Jean-Claude kept his tone light so it did not sound like a threat, but she sensed real feeling behind it.

  Moreau merely chuckled again. “It might, but you would not. I have a rather loyal crew of sailors.” But it appeared he did possess tact when he chose to use it, because he departed, leaving them alone to their walk under the stars.

  “I ought to p
unish you for making me jealous.” Jean-Claude grumbled.

  “Do not excite me,” she murmured in reply.

  The angry lines on his face softened and his face split into a grin. He covered the hand looped through his elbow with his other hand. “Am I doing this properly?”

  She giggled. “Yes. But if I were in heels, you would have to walk more slowly.”

  “What else requires adjustment? My table manners, I suppose. I saw you looking at me at dinner.”

  She felt her face grow warm. She had been embarrassed by his lack of proper table manners, though it shamed her now to admit it. “I would be happy to help you,” she said, not quite meeting his eye, half afraid he would scorn her.

  He lifted her hand from his arm and pressed his lips to the back of it. “I accept your offer.”

  She stared at his lips, still unable to meet his gaze, her heart thundering, moisture pooling between her legs. How had it happened the man she had shared so many nights with had become the sort of stranger who reduced her to blushes and trembling legs?

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Join me in the saloon?”

  * * *

  He sat beside her, ordering tea and porridge for both of them. They received several stares, though Madame Roux, who ran the saloon, seemed unsurprised by their change in status. When the tea came, he put in a spoonful of sugar. “So when I stir, I must lift my pinkie finger like this?” he asked, mimicking her gesture on their first day of the ship.

  She giggled. “Only if you plan to wear the gown.”

  He feigned giving it genuine consideration, then shook his head. “I suppose not. It probably would not look the same on me.”

  She smiled, a soft curve of her supple lips, making her look angelic. “It is simple, really,” she said. She lifted the napkin from her lap. “Napkin goes on the lap as soon as you are seated. Elbows do not rest on the table until the meal has been cleared. You only use your fork with your right hand—if you use your knife to cut, you must switch the utensils when you finish.”