She carried the basket toward the open porthole, as if to see better in the light. Passing the crock of consommé through, she let it fall. Before the splash of its hitting the water could be heard, she had consigned the bowl of chipped beef to the same watery fate. “Dear me,” she said, “how clumsy.”
Moving back toward the bunk, she reached for what appeared to be tea cakes wrapped in a clean dish towel and placed on a silver platter. Elizabeth sprang to her feet, snatching the basket from under Lorna’s hand, holding it against her. “You shan’t do it, you … you sailor’s whore!”
Lorna tilted her head. “How distressing for you to have to lower yourself to use such a word. But then, the way it came so readily to your tongue must make a person wonder how familiar you are with the occupation.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth cried. “Are you saying that I—”
“You can’t talk to my sister like that,” Charlotte said, jumping to her feet.
It was Peter who reached to take the arm of the younger girl. “Come, kitten, I don’t think you are ready to take on a lioness.”
“But, she—”
“—Is quite within her rights, you know. Permit me to escort you back to your carriage. Elizabeth?”
As Peter paused, waiting, the older girl sent Lorna a venomous look, then whirled in a wide fluttering of skirts and went before him from the room. The footman, his face wooden, exchanged a look with Peter, then bowed, indicating that he would follow after him. Their footsteps echoed along the passage and up the companionway, then faded on the deck overhead.
The enormity of what she had done rushed in upon Lorna. She glanced at Ramon. Her tone stiff, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Come here,” he said softly.
His face was stern, the expression in his black eyes unreadable. She swallowed on the tightness in her throat as she moved to the side of the bunk. He took her hand, turning it so that his thumb caressed the sensitive center of her palm.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and she raised her lashes, holding his slumberous black eyes with her own clear gray ones only by an extreme effort of will. His voice was deep as he spoke again. “Tell me about these men who are amorous not only at night.”
A pulse began a frantic beat in her throat. “There is nothing to tell. It was … only something to say.”
“A formidable weapon, experience; you routed those poor girls with it. But, I am intrigued. Why that experience? Did you, do you, enjoy love in the light of day?” He carried her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to the palm, flicking it with the warm tip of his tongue.
How was she to answer? She could not think for the images conjured up by his words, his touch. She swallowed hard. “I … I suppose so.”
“Lorna, ma chérie,” he said with a wry shake of his head as he drew her firmly down beside him. “If you only suppose, then there is nothing to be done except try it once more to be certain.”
18
The days slid past one after the other. The repairs to the ship continued at a furious pace as the ship’s officers and crew, plus a full complement of carpenters, worked to get her ready for the next dark of the moon. Ramon, shrugging off suggestions that he rest, supervised the reconstruction and saw to it that the materials were available. The latter was no easy task. So great was the need for lumber and tools, in that fast growing town where every nail, screw, and foot of decking had to be brought in by ship, that stockpiled stores disappeared if not closely guarded. And, as Slick put it, if a feller set down a hammer and sack of gold eagles together, when he came back it would be his hammer that was gone.
In truth, Ramon seemed to recover quickly from his injuries. According to Cupid, it was thanks to le bon Dieu, the constitution of a lion, the capitaine’s satisfaction with his nurse, and good food that had effected the cure. That Ramon was happy to have her with him could not be denied. He kept her beside him, taking notes of measurements and supplies as they were needed, discussing with her the work in progress, such as the new deck cabin that was being grafted onto the old deck, a lower silhouette almost like a turtle back; and the open position of the wheel, without the danger of splinters and flying glass from a wheelhouse. At night she slept against him, in the time he allowed her for rest. There was no mention of her returning to the hotel, though her room was still there, waiting.
Lorna was content. She did not think of the future, refused to consider it. Her position as Ramon’s woman, a widow with a less than pristine past, would have troubled her if she had allowed it to gain purchase of her mind, but she did not. She could not help the things people said, could not control the direction her life had taken. Wisdom, pride, and the standard of morality in which she had been reared dictated that she leave Ramon and never see him again; she had no wish to be wise, proud, or moral. She was where she wanted to be, with the man she loved. What else could matter?
The news of the war brought by the returning runners was both gratifying and disturbing. In the last days of May, “Stonewall” Jackson had inflicted heavy casualties on the federal forces at a place called Front Royal, then chased General N. P. Banks out of Virginia, back across the Potomac. There had been rumors that he was threatening Washington yet again, with much ensuing uproar and movement of men and arms on northern railroads. The result had been the sending of forces under Generals Fremont and Shields into the Valley of Shenandoah to harry him, trying to catch his fast-moving brigades in a pincer strategy. There was no word of how successful they had been.
Another topic of conversation among the runners was the tales of ships being built specifically for the Confederate navy. There was one just off the slips at Birkenhead, near Liverpool, that had been christened the Oreto. It was claimed that she would be brought to Nassau to be armed as a commerce raider, then sent out against federal shipping as well as the cruisers in the Gulf Stream. Another ship was under construction by the Liverpool firm of John Laird, himself a venerable gentleman who was a member of the House of Commons. Called simply Ship Number 290, it was due to be ready by the end of July. The scuttlebutt was that Raphael Semmes, a thirty-years’ veteran of the federal navy who had resigned his commission to offer his services to the South, had already left for England to take command of her.
Ramon had known Semmes, had served under him for a short while in the Mediterranean. His respect for the man was boundless. He argued that a fast steamer, well-armed and under a captain who knew what he was doing, could disrupt federal shipping and strike fear into the hearts of the Yankee merchants who had, so far, been unmolested in this war. Enormous strides were being made in the design of ships. The “290” was supposed to have a screw-propeller, eliminating the clumsy paddle wheels and increasing the speed to twenty knots and more, twice as fast as some of the steamers now making the runs.
Ramon’s black eyes were bright as he spoke, his gestures swift and positive. Lorna, watching him, knew a moment of unwilling fear. It would be a dangerous job, commanding a commerce raider, more dangerous than running the blockade, since it was inevitable that the wrath of the North would be aroused and a force sent out against the Confederate ships. They would, then, be so few against so many. What now of her tirades about the southern cause and the men needed to aid it? With shame she realized that she would rather have her lover, warm and vital beside her in the night, than to see him deliberately set out to risk death as a southern patriot.
Finally, the Lorelei was finished, her new paint dried, her cargo gathered in the warehouse ready for loading. In celebration, and by way of relaxation, Ramon borrowed a small sloop, had Cupid pack a lunch, and took Lorna sailing.
It was a brilliant day. The sun was hot, the air humid, the water like broken bits of blue mirror, dazzling to the eyes. The owner of the boat was a fisherman by trade, and the lingering smell of his last catch was a vivid reminder of the fact. Ramon set the sail to take them to the east, along the coast to the tip of New Providence Island, past Fort Montagu and the spire of St. Matthew’s Church, and then around th
e end of Hog Island toward another small, low-lying patch of land. They did not try to reach it, but dropped anchor. Ramon secured the sail, then reached beneath the thwart to bring out a small wooden box. He held it up to show the open top and pane of glass that was set into the bottom.
“A water box!” Lorna said in delight. She had heard much talk of such things since she had been in Nassau, but this was her first look at one.
“Correct.” He held it out to her. “Ladies first.”
She took the box, saying frankly, “I’m not certain what to do with it.”
“Sit in the bottom of the boat, so you can lean over and hold the box down in the water. Just keep the top clear, so the water doesn’t get into it.”
She did as he said, hanging over the side of the boat. The moment she let the box down into the water, it was like having a window on the sea. She could see the white coral sand of the ocean bottom, the waving of fingers of coral, and, darting here and there, the bright blue and gleaming yellow of fish. She also saw long pieces of gray planking with coral and barnacles growing on the sides.
“There’s something down there. Wood. Is it—?”
“The wreck of an English merchant ship driven onto the reef during a storm twenty years ago.”
It was strange to see it, the wreck lying there so plainly. She thought she could make out round openings in the planking where portholes had been, and a piece of the keel. “I suppose the wreckers took everything of value.”
“Before she sank,” he agreed. “You are looking through something like fifty feet of water.”
He moved to crouch beside her, watching over her shoulder as he told her the names of the fish she saw: a dark turquoise blue parrot fish, a huge gray grouper, a red snapper, and many others. He helped her to identify the low-growing, convoluted forms of brain coral, the waving lavender beauty of sea fans, and the spread fingers of starfish. It was marvelous, an unforgettable experience. Lorna could have watched for hours, if the ache in her neck and shoulders from bending over the side of the boat had not forced a halt.
Leaving the site of the wreck, they passed a man in a dinghy, cleaning fish he had caught and washing his knife over the side. He lifted a hand to them, the only human being they had seen since they had left New Providence. They then set a course for a distant island and held to it with the wind straining and snapping their sail while they narrowed their eyes against the sun’s glare.
The island drew near. The surf caught them in its surge, carrying them over the reef. The boat grounded on the sand and Lorna, in sudden exuberance, leaped out with Ramon to pull it higher on the beach. When she waded ashore, her muslin skirts were sodden, flapping around her. The island was deserted, he told her; there was no one to care if she wanted to take off her gown and wear only her underclothing, or nothing, while it dried.
It was impossible to resist, and Lorna did not try. She stripped off her gown and hung it on the branches of a sea grape tree to dry, then removed her corset and slung it up beside the blowing muslin. When she looked up, Ramon had removed his shirt and boots, and flung them down on the coral rock. He took her hand, drawing her with him toward the beach.
“Have you ever bathed in the sea?” he asked, his black eyes alive with laughter and something more that left her breathless.
“No,” she answered, holding back a little, though she was willing enough. The water looked so inviting, like liquid jewels, aquamarine and turquoise and amethyst, a priceless and promising elixir.
“It’s time you did,” he said, and took her splashing into the cool, clear, salty water.
They could see their toes on the coarse sand of the bottom, so crystalline were the depths; see the tiny fish that swam here and there, and the white crabs that scuttled from their approach. The surf, its strength broken by the reef, was gentle, caressing near the beach. Nudging, beneficent, it pushed them against each other. Ramon, his chest bronzed in the sunlight with the exception of the scars, which were still an angry red, cavorted around her. He swam away a few yards, offering to teach her the way of it, grinning when she refused in distrust. He returned, gliding past her, touching her under the surface in artless, familiar intimacy.
The thin, wet lawn of her camisole molded itself to her breasts, hugging their proud contours, lying cunningly over the contracted peaks. Her pantaloons clung to the gentle curves of her hips and thighs. Through the transparent material, the pink and cream of her skin glowed with the bloom of health and enjoyment and vibrant feminine awareness.
She was waiting, expectant, when Ramon came to his feet before her, drawing her to him. His mouth tasted of salt and the sweet mastery of desire; the surfaces of his lips were smooth, adhesive. His hands cupped and kneaded, clasping her against the hard strength of his body. She stood on tiptoe, twining her arms about his neck, pressing herself against him, moving with sinuous grace to the ebb and flow of the water that lapped about her shoulders.
He unbuttoned her camisole, easing the edges apart, his head bent as he studied the rose-pink peaks straining upward with the lift of the water, gleaming in the sun rays slanting through its limpid depths. He pushed the garment off her, slinging it toward the beach, then slipped free the knot that held her pantaloons.
Her thighs gleamed white, marbled with the refracted light from the water’s surface. His own were a deeper gold as his trousers went bobbing in the surf. They drifted together as gently and naturally as the first man and woman to couple under a pagan sky.
Lorna felt the strength and surge of him inside her, the strong support of his arms as she was lifted against him, her legs positioned around his body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, moving, ever moving, their peaks burrowing into the hair that furred its planes. Their mouths clung, while the world swung slowly, the horizon turning. The sound of the sea was in her ears, the taste of it in her mouth, the feel of it both upon her and inside her. She was a part of it, and it a part of her. It was right, an elemental pleasure that mounted so that her hands upon Ramon’s shoulders tightened and she moaned, a soft sound that was lost in the flow and suction of the water.
Slowly, relentlessly, the tension increased, until her blood thundered in her ears and the water was cool against her heated skin. She was helpless in its grip, uncaring for where she was or who might see them there. With a need that bordered on desperation, she wanted to take the man who held her deep inside and hold him there, fused, inseparable, the two of them one with the sea.
The molten run of the ocean’s current burst within her, flooding, flowing. She lifted her lashes and stared into the black eyes of Ramon Cazenave, her own gray gaze stark with love and wonder. His pupils widened and his indrawn breath was sharp. He bent his head and took her mouth, then holding her to him, plunged deep into the turquoise waves.
They glided, revolving in sweeping turns, their hearts near to bursting. The sea took them, caressing, cradling them in that moment of supreme ecstasy. Disembodied, caught in the ancient magic of the sea, they lingered, the emotions that held them more clamorous than the need for life. Then with a powerful thrust of his shoulders, Ramon rose to the surface. With her tucked against him, he found his feet and lifted her, gasping and laughing, in his arms. His dark eyes unshadowed, he smiled down at her, then hoisting her higher, carried her slowly toward the beach.
While Lorna’s rescued underclothing and Ramon’s trousers dried, they spread their lunch on a tablecloth laid over a blanket that smelled faintly of fish. Naked and splendidly unaware, they ate, though Lorna had to keep pushing back the long strands of wild silk hair that wafted around her where she had taken it down to dry in the wind. Afterward, they wrapped what was left in the cloth and put it in the straw basket they had brought it in, then shook the crumbs from the blanket. Replete, pleasantly sated with sea and sun and love, they stretched out to doze in the shade.
“Lorna?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know that tomorrow is the new moon.”
She knew. It did not seem poss
ible that it could be time, that the phases could have changed from full to quarter, and back to the dark of the moon again. Her voice low, she answered, “Yes.”
“You will have to go back to the hotel.”
The words had a reluctant sound, as if he did not want to say them. That was some comfort. She moistened her lips. “Couldn’t I go with you?”
“The risk is too great. Even if you weren’t wanted by the federals as a courier, there are fewer women making the runs these days.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. I have to; should anything happen to you, the responsibility would be mine to bear.”
“I absolve you of it,” she said, her voice tight with disappointment.
He rolled to face her, heaving himself to one elbow. “You can’t. It’s not in your power.”
“I wish … I wish you didn’t have to go.” She kept her lashes lowered, staring at a gray-black lizard that had scuttled out onto the rock beside the blanket to bask in the sun-dappled shade, showing his yellow throat.
“Chérie,” he said, his voice low, shaded with a peculiar uncertainty. He reached to touch her face with his strong brown fingertips. She looked up and was caught in the dark mirrors of his eyes, aware of a sudden breathlessness in her chest.
His attention moved beyond her, sharpened. Abruptly, he lunged over her, snatching the blanket edge and pulling it across her as a covering. In the same movement, he came to his feet. “If you will stand now,” he said, his tone resigned, “you may have time to duck out of sight and get dressed before he passes by here.”
She swung her head to see the fisherman they had passed earlier in his dinghy. He was just rounding a point of the island, the square brown sail on his clumsy boat taking him slowly over the water just outside the reef. No daring seaman, he was keeping close to land as he navigated toward an island lying no great distance beyond the one on which they had landed.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 38
